“Play together.”
“As in… creating a band?” Chris tilted his head to the side.
“Yeah.” Marc nodded, showing a full, perfectly white smile. “But don’t think of putting on gigs that’ll cost us an arm.” He waved a palm dismissively. “Just meeting others who want to scratch that itch and jam some days after work.”
“We’d also need a drummer, no?”
The roles were clear with them. Marc played the bass and Chris was in love with his four guitars—had eaten rice for an entire month to buy the last one. Yet they still needed the backbone of every band.
“Yeah, sure.” Marc tucked a lock of his long black hair behind his ear. “We need someone to complete the rhythm section and control us. I bet you’re a messy asshat when playing, too.” He smirked.
“Fuck you.” Chris flashed him the middle finger as he took another sip of his drink.
Marc wiggled his brows, smile widening. “Anyway, in this city, with the amount of music shops, rehearsal places, nightclubs and shit… If we put ads everywhere, I bet we can find someone that will click with us faster than you say beer.”
A lightning bolt of hope crossed Chris’s chest. Stupid that this idea, something that one couldn’t even touch, made him so happy.
“You’re serious, right? Like, you’re not saying this because you’re drunk or anything?”
“Iamdrunk, but fuck it, dude. I wanna play again, and I think we would work amazingly together. We just need a timekeeper.”
Chris couldn’t hold his grin back.
Music had been his love for years. Sure he’d liked pinning chicksa lot; had gotten called a manwhore more than once. But this? The way holding an instrument in his hands and making magic with it made him feel, was unparalleled. Nothing he’d ever experienced had matched the rush of dopamine it gave him when he closed his eyes and imagined the world around him sinking into the melodies.
While they would never perform in the biggest venues, they could build a place where nothing would disrupt their thoughts. A safe space to just be themselves; stripped hearts and souls, free of the judgmental rules that thwarted their creativity and most primal needs.
“Let’s fucking do it.”
1. Born For One Thing
July11th,2017
Syracuse, New York
Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll.
That was all there was in a musician’s life, according to the stereotypes. To some extent, it was true. The stories about the wild 80s hadn’t been created from smoke. Something about being in a band made you more attractive in certain social circles, as if bragging about sleeping with you gave people some prestigious badge. It had become a tradition; one that would probably never die, even if it wasn’t as bizarre anymore.
However, no matter how much Chris liked that part of the deal, being up on stage as Buried Alive—theirband—was what made the sleepless nights and penniless months worth it.
The way Marc closed his eyes, losing himself to the rough touch of his bass strings, relishing the vibrations of the music they were making. The permanent wrinkle between Erik’s brows and the smile adorning his face while marking the intricate rhythm of this song. How Leah moved on the stage without failing to deliver one growl after another. The air and the chant of their fans swirling around Chris as he strummed his guitar.
Here, on the other side of the Atlantic, with the crowd waving German flags at their feet, under the heat of the sun threatening to dehydrate them… This was fucking Heaven.
Holding a stringed instrument, having a powerful voice, or being able to beat the crap out of a drum kit was all some people cared about—the facade. What they didn’t realize was that to get here, you’d have tripped and fallen several times. Frustration. Heartache. Disappointment. The mixed feelings of wanting to continue and calling it quits. Trial and error. Fighting until you made it. It all depended on how big your dreams were, and if you were stubborn enough to chase them.
“I’m sure you guys are familiar with the next song we’re gonna play, because it became viral a little after it came out,” Leah said into her mic before gulping down some water from her bottle. “So I wanna hear you sing with me…” She panted, beaming as the crowd cheered and whistled. “Sick devotion!” she roared, and jumped up on the platform in front of her at the same moment Chris and Marc played the first chords.
This last year before making it to the States had been nerve-racking for the four members of Buried Alive and their crew. After their manager had signed them up for the Battle of the Bands, allowing them to come to the Burn to Rise festival, they’d made it halfway to the top.
Only a few bands hit the jackpot right away—multiple offers, contracts, their photos on magazine covers, recognition—but at the end of the day, it really came down to the amount of money you represented. For some, it took a while. For most, it never happened. And while they hadn’t started this project to become the next big thing, it felt insanely good seeing their hard work and perseverance paying off.
The images of a night they’d shared drinks and cannabis were foggy, yet Chris would never forget how they had all agreed that music wasn’tjusta hobby anymore. Music was their way of expressing, of feeling the things they didn’t let themselves feel otherwise, of facing their problems. It was oxygen to their lungs and the pulse that sent blood rushing through their veins. Music was life. And now, a dream they’d all been afraid to dream was slowly becoming reality.
Leah hopped off the platform at the edge of the stage and shifted from clean vocals to gutturals, striding towards Chris with a smile on her face.
“Hanging upside down
