I walked across the pub and ducked through the crimson curtain into the venue. A sizable crowd had begun to murmur, restless for the show to start. I hurried past them, down the short back hallway, past the rear-venue shower—for traveling bands—and knocked on the door to the greenroom. No one answered, so I pushed inside.
Every good metal venue had a greenroom, an inner sanctum. At the Iron Horse, its walls were covered with graffiti, signatures of musicians who’d played here, and dozens of photos—Henry in each one, smiling as proudly with unknown bands as he did in asigned photo with Led Zeppelin, who Henry claimed had played their first show here.
Being where the greats had played in their early days was probably as close to church as I’d come since I was a kid. Always made me feel a bit reverent. I shut the door, blocking out the crowd noise. Across from me was the rear-stage entrance covered by a black curtain. Leaning against the wall next to it was the old dreadnought we left here as a spare. To the left, on a low couch with busted springs and covered with band patches, including one from the Hounds, sat a girl, maybe twenty-five. She wore thick-soled boots, a goth-style skirt, and a black corset. Her long, dark
hair hung from a head bent over shaking knees. “First gig?” I asked.
She nodded, head dipping lower. “You any good?”
She sat back and looked up. “Piss off.” Sallow light fell across her arms and wrists. From beneath leather wristbands trailed the hint of cutter scars. I glanced at the hair ties I wore on my own wrist.
“Can yousing? I mean hit the notes?Holdthe notes? Do it like you mean it?”
She nodded, her knees steadying a bit, as the tones of her guitarist soundchecking his amp rumbled back from the stage.
“You playing original songs?”
“Yeah, nine of my own tunes.” Her weak smile seemed an attempt at being proud.
I went over and sat down. “There’s nothing like playing your own material in front of people.” It was the truth, too. For a musician, even sex couldn’t compete.
She rolled her eyes sidelong at me. “This meant to cheer me up?”
I ignored that and pointed at the picture of Zeppelin, Robert Plant holding a glass of bourbon and reading a lyric sheet. “Didyou know that when they played here the first time, he sat on this same grimy sofa with the same doubts you’ve got right now?”
For a moment, she seemed to be preparing something snarky to say.
But it faded. Maybe because we all bow to the godfathers of metal.
Then her eyes suddenly widened. “You’re Jack Solomon.” She pointed at my face. “Hounds of Winter is playing the festival at Wembley next week. Bloody hell. You’re opening for Sabbath.”
“Yeah, that’s us,” I said. Not the right time to tell her I’d gotten the boot. “I heard your demos when you were coming up through the LA scene.
Good stuff. Especially ‘They Always Go Away.’ That song kills.”
Ironic, since I’d never considered the song finished. I waved off the compliment. “Look, when you go out there, your only defense against nerves is to get inside your songs. Play them the way you heard them in your head when you wrote them. Trust that sound.”
From the stage, the muted sound of her drummer tuning a snare drum drifted toward us. Her knees started to shake again. “I’m not feeling it.” I hunkered down next to her the way my dad used to do when he wanted to talk to me about important things. “Your songs,” I said. “Give
me your favorite lyric.”
She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at me. “There’s one”—she hesitated—“when the cold steel pulls, the warm blood feels like an invitation you can’t stop. But don’t give in. Live another day. You’re more than what others thought.”
Holy crap. Those words were a kick in the face.
“What’s your name?” I asked. “Angela DuFresne.”
“Angela, that lyric, the picture it paints, and whatever experience gave it to you . . .” I looked her dead in the eye. “Go out there and play the hell out of it. Make them feel it the wayyoufeel it. That’s what you owe them. That’s what you owe yourself.”
There’s a look every musician gets when they’re ready to play. Really play. It’s a belief that the music matters. It’s the most powerful emotion I know. It sparked in Angela’s eyes.
She nodded, stood, and headed for the rear-stage entrance. But she stopped at the black curtain, turned her head back. “Thanks, Jack.”
I threw her the horns, as we called it—a fist with index and pinkie fingers pointed up. She ducked through the curtain.
In the sudden quiet, decades of metal history—on the walls, in the furniture, drifting through the air—reminded me of what I’d just lost. I shifted on the old couch, found the Hounds of Winter patch, and punched it again and again and again, dust pluming around me. When that wasn’t enough, I tore it from the couch.
For years I’d chased this dream and now the Hounds would play Wembley Stadium without me. The dread of being left behind made me feel sick inside, and every pulse of my heart pounded like a bass drum behind my eyes.
