“What?” Cal shouts and Tommy has the biggest grin on his face. He’s right. When we step out the van, there’s screaming, shouting, calling out of our names. I don’t understand it. What the hell happened in the last few days for us to get this kind of reaction? It can’t be down to the radio shout-outs we’ve been getting or the attention from across the pond. At least I didn’t think so. I can only assume this is local support more than anything else.
When the second vehicle pulls up, Max and Brett receive an equally impressive reception.
“And you said I wouldn’t lose you to the world. Well, I guess you got that wrong,” Cal shouts in my ear. “I don’t stand a chance,” she laughs, but I’ll make sure I hammer home how much it won’t happen when we get some alone time.
Once through the VIP gated area, the walk to the press tent is relatively short. I stick my head through the tiny gap to see what’s going on before we fully dive in. I’m a little blown away to see more people and cameras in there than I expected. There are also one or two TV cameras and those giant muppet-like microphones. This is the moment I spot Ruby Tyler from Sky and John Erickson from the BBC. Holy crap, this is big, but what really freaks me out are the faces at the back of the tent. Guitar legends Chris Heinz and Rob Bracket are mulling around while Jim Combs from the band, Extreme Voltage, is talking to a reporter. My nerves kick in, big time and I pull back, wide-eyed and bricking it.
“What gives?” Tommy asks.
“You’re not gonna believe who’s in there, in fact, don’t ask.” Of course, Tommy, Brett and Max all scramble to see who’s inside while Bernie stands back with a very smug look on his face.
“Time to move it along boys, we should get in there. We’re already late,” Dani snaps.
“Wait a minute,” I tell her then turn and give Cal a lingered kiss, to which the other boys wolf-whistle and call out. I may be making a point.
“Wow,” Cal breaths out when she comes up for air, her eyes still closed. “What was that for?”
“To make sure you’re still here by the time this is done. If any hot rock stars approach, you can tell them you're taken.”
She laughs, “You think too highly of me, and that will never happen.”
“Oh Cal, if you only see what everyone else sees when they look at you. You’d realise how beautiful you are.”
“Stop.” She turns me around, pushing me toward the entrance to the tent. “Get in there and enjoy the limelight. There’s only one rock star I’m interested in, and he’s currently wasting time out here with me when he has a job to do. Go—be amazing.”
I do as I’m told, following the boys while Bernie and Dani are behind.
An electrically charged atmosphere fills the air as we’re led to the tiny, staged area. Once we get to the table in front of the press pack, the energy level is off the scale. My heart rate is going nuts, so I focus on one thing at a time. On the table, is a nameplate for each of us, so we take our places. I look towards the single document in front of me. We’re signing this one for show, and it’s a far cry from the hugemound of paperwork they presented us with the other night. My stomach churns a little when I think back to the hoops we had to jump through to get here, but more so because this is the first time we’ve faced the press.
We take questions, and I’m not gonna lie, I’m shitting it. The turnout is bigger than any of us expected—or rather, more than the band expected at this early stage, but it’s not a surprise to Bernie or Dani. Thankfully, they had prepped us on how to respond to the press a couple of days ago. It doesn’t make the experience any less nerve-racking.
Luckily, the questions aren’t too challenging. They ask about our sound and what to expect from our forthcoming album; the album we’ve yet to record. A tough one but we were ready for it.
Thankfully, the questions get easier from there. One guy asks how we started, so I explain how we met at uni and gelled from there. We’re doing great now, battling questions from every corner, until one journalist shouts out, “They say you’re going to be bigger than the Foo Fighters. Care to comment?”
I answer, “No one is bigger than the Foo Fighters,” to which Tommy shouts, “Amen to that.” It causes a ripple of laughter, then a cute-looking girl with short lilac hair asks, “Boys, did you know they’re calling you the prettiest new boys in rock? So, I want to know, do you all have girlfriends?”
Tommy takes this one. If anyone in this band is pretty, it's him and women seem to fall at his feet.
“We’re fully focused on the music right now. We’ve got an album to concentrate on.”
“But if you wanted a girl by your side…?” She twirls a few small strands of her short hair at the base of her neck while some of the press catcall. Her flirting act causes more laughter around the tent.
“Hey, what’s your name babe?”
“Sadie,” she smiles while a blush of red forms over her cheeks.
“Well Sadie, I’ll be in touch and let you know,” he winks. More laughter ensues, so I take a second to catch a glance at Cal, her smile lifting my heart out of my chest until I’m caught off guard.
“What about you, Ash?” the inquisitive Sadie girl asks. This is where our briefing from management really kicks in. I know how they want us to respond when it comes to women in our lives, and on this point, I’m sure Cal feels the same. I catch her worried brow, but there’s no need for her to panic. Her privacy is safe with me. “Who knows what the future holds?”
“What kind of answer is that?” the girl pushes, but Bernie takes over.
“The only one you’re going to get right now,” he tells her firmly. “Does anyone else have any last questions which might feature the music at all?” A show of hands goes up while Bernie picks the journalists to answer, and I chance a quick glance again at Cal. She wipes her brow and mouths “Phew,” my way, letting me know I did exactly the right thing. If the band really takes off, I can’t risk Cal being followed by the press. She has a life of her own to live on campus. I don’t want anything to interfere with her studies, because the sooner she’s done with uni, the sooner she’s with me permanently. I hope.
Once Bernie has stopped the questions, we take out the pens Bernie gave us and sign in unison to a chorus of clicking shutters. Then a cheer goes up, I’m sure, orchestrated by oneof Bernie’s team, and the ‘official’ deed is done. We’re now part of Election.
We have the rest of the afternoon to ourselves before we take to the stage early evening, so Cal uses the opportunity to head out. “I’m off to meet Angie and Scott,” Cal says while we stand around the VIP tent, drinking a few bottles of Dutch courage.
