Page 2 of Jude

He played the bass guitar like a boss, too, baked like a dream, and was our secret resident nerd.

Levi was our violinist, our philosopher, and our spiritual guide.

A deep thinker, he was also an amazing lyricist, and many of our most beloved hits were because of his songwriting genius.

With locs and jewelry to die for, he was black British with Jamaican roots.

His parents settled in Sydney years ago when his mum came to work as a nurse down under.

He was the ‘dad’ of the band, always fussing over us, feeding us his mum’s jerk chicken and rice and peas whenever we were home.

Reign was our dirty blonde, shaggy-haired drummer who could make you weep with his runs.

His solos were legendary, as was his love for motorcycles and fixing cars.

I was grateful for all five men; we’d been through thick and thin together.

They’d been my backbone over the years, helping me cope with my anger at losing my dad so young, and working through the guilt of my misspent youth.

However, my past still haunted me.

At 34, I played every set like I was trying to outrun my own shadow.

Maybe I was.

‘You good, man?’ Reign asked, throwing a clean towel over my chest as we walked down the dressing-room corridor.

‘Yeah. Just spent,’ I muttered, my deep voice scraped and hoarse.

I was an introvert at heart and couldn’t wait for some downtime alone.

‘Jude, you comin’ for a burger?’ Levi asked, his hand on my shoulder.

His eyes, though tired, held their usual twinkle. ‘Spread & Co have the most sublime patties and fries in all of freakin’ Austin.’

Levi had a thing for scoping out the best restaurants in whatever town we were playing at.

‘Nah, mate. Got an early flight to catch. I’m headin’ to Vermont for my mom’s birthday. Dudes, I’ll see y’all back in Nashville on Monday, latest Tuesday.’

Reign nodded, clapping a hand on my arm. ‘Give your old man our best. Tell the Sheriff we’re keeping out of trouble.’

‘Will do,’ I muttered, clearing my throat.

It was burning after belting out ‘Fire and Brimstone’ and ‘Race like the Wind’, two of our greatest hits so far.

‘Your voice is hurting brother,’ Bishop called out.

‘I’m aware,’ I rasped with a wince. ‘My vocal cords feel like buggery, throat’s a fuckin’ sandpit.’

Deacon clapped me on the back.

‘Take loads of lemons, do your warm-ups, and get some rest. We’ll see you next week.’

‘Go on, get outta here,’ I rasped, shooing them off with a grin.

They were off to kick back with a meal and good wine, then it’d be home to spend our weekends with family, or, if not, in our studios, lost in lyrics and music.

No wild after-parties for us.