One
Kevin
We’re playing a sold-out show in Denver, which is my favorite city to play.The three original members of my band are all from Wyoming, and Denver was our closest big city with a music scene, so this is where we got our start. Some of the fans here have been with us for years, and others only heard of us when we got big a couple years ago when “I’llTake You Back” climbed to the top of the charts. But the energy is live and the audience is excited. No matter how many times we play shows like this, I can never get enough of it.
JT, our singer, looks over his shoulder at Shane, our bassist, and grins. He just got flashed by a couple girls in the front row, and I know what they’re thinking.They’re trying to decide if they’re going to invite those girls to the after-party. It’ll be invaded by groupies regardless, but sometimes Shane and JT like to handpick the girls they’ll hook up with out of the crowd. It’s not really my thing—something Shane still razzes me about, even though he ought to be used to it by now.
Shane shrugs. Either he hasn’t seen anything he likes, or he’s holding out in case he sees something better.
I shake my head at both of them. Lando, our drummer, starts up the next song, “Still Falling.”The crowd doesn’t know this one as well yet, because we just launched our second album, but when we hit the first verse and JT belts it into the microphone, I see a few people singing along.This song has a crazy-fast guitar riff, and I’m killing it. It’s one of my favorites, weirdly sad even though it’s one of our fastest and hardest songs, about continually falling for someone who’s long ago moved on.
Not that any of us would know. Neither JT or I have ever had a real relationship—JT because he’s way too into whatever girl has most recently flashed her tits at him, and me because while I’m in my element up here on the stage with all eyes on us, I’m far less comfortable if I’m expected to actually carry on a conversation. Both this album and our last were supposedly written about Shane’s high school girlfriend, Anna-Marie, but that’s a pile of crap. Shane staged the whole thing to get back at her for running off to LA and forgetting about him. Anna-Marie was my friend, too, and I’m ready for Shane to drop it already, but he writes all our lyrics, so it’s not like I really have a say in what our albums are about.
I’m not about to confront him on it, either.
We hit the bridge, which is where I really get to show off. Shane backs me up on the bass, and we both rock out. If our sorry high school asses could see us now, they’d be shitting bricks. We always said we were going to be rock stars, and here we are. It’s not without its problems, but it’s pretty awesome, all the same.
We finish the set. I’m sweating under the lights, and I step behind the drums and take a long drink from my water bottle while JT works the crowd. I swear he sounds like he’s going to lose his voice by the end of the night, but he never does. He’ll hit the after-party still shouting too much and too loud until Shane tells him to shut his mouth and JT yells back at Shane to shut his.
That’s the thing about playing with the same guys for more than a decade. Lando’s only been with us for six months, but from Shane and JT, there are never any surprises.
I think they’d probably say the same thing about me.
I return to my microphone and tune up for the next song.The girls in the front row have their shirts back on, though I don’t expect that to last, especially since word has gotten around about how exactly women get backstage invites at Accidental Erotica concerts. I saw a whole thread on a fan forum a while ago, which labeled me as the hardest to impress and postulated that maybe I’m not into white girls, a theory I’ve heard before.
I may be the least social member of the band, but that doesn’t have as much to do with me being black as with me being shy. A surprising number of stage musicians are, I’ve learned.There’s a big difference between performing and interacting. Not that I haven’t been with my share of groupies, even if my bedpost has significantly fewer notches on it than either Shane’s or JT’s.
And it’s not, as Shane frequently reminds me, like groupies actually require us to talk.
JT asks the crowd to give it up for my solo during that last song, and the audience goes nuts. I like to underplay my reaction to the crowd—a reviewer once wrote that I’m the perfect understated foil to JT’s manic energy, and I like that better than a lot of things I’ve been called over the years.
Lando starts the next song, and one of the girls in the front row strips her shirt completely off and throws it toward the stage. It’s caught before it reaches us by the girl sitting next to her—a black girl who’s dressed more straight-laced than most of our fans, and a hell of a lot less skankily than her friends. She throws her friend’s shirt back to her and sits down, shaking her head like she disapproves.
Her friend shrugs and then throws the shirt right back up on the stage, where it lands at Shane’s feet. Shane laughs.
This girl, though—the shirt catcher—crosses her arms and shakes her head and glares up at the stage like she can’t believe these shenanigans. I rarely see this much disapproval except from the protesters who sometimes picket our concerts, claiming that we promote “riotous living” and “free love,” which I’m pretty sure isn’t a term anyone cool has used in the last fifty years.This girl doesn’t appear to be one of those people, though. First, because she’s sitting in the front row instead of outside the venue, and second because she’s actually dancing a little to the beat of the song, though not as much as her friends. She looks over at her now-shirtless friend and says something, and they both laugh.
And then she glances up at me.
Damn, she’s gorgeous. She’s got more going on than anyone else in the audience, and that’s with her shirt buttoned all the way up. She’s got deep, dark eyes and a heart-shaped face, russet-brown skin and the kind of smile that’s effortless, even if it has to be earned.
She catches me staring at her—not difficult, since I’m up on stage under spotlights—and raises her eyebrow at me, like she’s not sure what I’m looking at.
I want to meet that girl, I realize. I want to know if she really is that difficult to impress, and if we’re managing it anyway. She’s still staring at me when I look back over at her, and this time I wink.There’s the glimmer of a smile on her face, like she likes what she sees but isn’t willing to admit it yet.
And that’s when I decide. During the next break between songs, I wave over one of the stage assistants, describe her—not hard, since she’s the black girl sitting next to the girl who’s lost her shirt—and scribble a note for them to take to her, inviting her backstage.
When I turn back to the band, Shane is smirking at me. “Nice,” he says.
He probably thinks I’ve invited the shirtless girl, who will no doubt come backstage too, since I sent enough passes for her friends.
Let him think that. It’ll keep him off my back for not indulging in all the perks of our rapidly growing success.
I just want to talk to this girl and see if she’s anything like I’m imagining. It’s possible her personality is intolerable, but if so, it’s not like I can’t slip out of the after-party and leave her to have fun with the rest of the band.
Wouldn’t be the first time—or the fiftieth.
Two
