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I crack my neck right, then left, doing the same to each of my knuckles, and bounce a bit on the toes of my boots.
There’s no room for this sort of “poor me” mindset where I’m going in a few short minutes. This is the first show I’ve ever done of this size and I’m not about to let anything weigh me down; especially not myself.
But then again that’s always been my problem, hasn’t it?
I’ve hid long enough though, and I’m fucking done with it. This is my time for me to put my name, my face, my voice, to the lyrics I’ve written and sold to other artists for years when I was too scared to do it for myself.
This is my time.
I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing in and out, counting to myself as I do so. I settle into the breaths, letting them wash over me with a wave of cool calmness, imagining it kissing my skin and receding.
When I feel my body relax from the tips of my toes to the individual strands of hair on my head, I open my eyes and am immediately met with a piercing stare. Walker’s eyes look almost black in this light. Either that or his adrenaline is high and it’s showing itself through his pupils swallowing his eyes whole. The guys have broken their circle apart, leaving Walker to be the lone one standing backstage.
Maybe I should be bothered that neither Boone nor the rest of the band are seeming to stick around to watch my set, but I’m not here to perform for them.
My sense of peace is disrupted, and I divert my gaze, instead turning to look out toward the stage, seeing almost all of the stagehands have left and I expect to see the lights dimming any second now, which will be my cue.
And just as that thought crosses my mind, the lights flicker off and the crowd begins to scream. I inhale their exhilaration, feeling my fingertips begin to tingle.
God, this is a feeling I’ve been craving my entire life.
A tall woman comes rushing to my right, wordlessly handing me my microphone and I take it from her with a nod of thanks while I put my ear monitor in on my left ear. The opening chords of my first song fade in, the guitar slowly building, my spliced vocals preluding into the first verse. With one final shake of my hands, I step out onto the stage that I spent my whole life working toward and welcome the blinding lights and deafening roar.
A light layer of fog covers the stage as I walk across, my boots scattering wisps of it in their wake. I adjust my in-ear, listening for my cue.
The stage setup for my set is fairly simple. I have a piano to the left for a stripped-down version of one of my songs, but otherwise I just have a microphone and my usual DJ setup behind a small booth with an LED panel on the front for graphics to flash across.
Although for this first song, I don’t need to be behind the booth.
No, for these first opening notes, I stand open, exposed onstage. Nothing and no one is blocking the crowd’s view of me. I scan the arena and heave a small sigh of relief that besides the people pressed up against the rails, I can’t really see anyone’s faces clearly. All I see is flashes of phones directed my way, cameras recording as I start my set.
A pit of nerves sits in the center of my chest as the final few counts ring through my ear, signaling it’s almost time for me to begin.
Steeling my spine, I lift the microphone in my hand to my mouth, knuckles gripping it so tightly I hope the audience can’t see they’ve long since turned white. A breath in and out, and I begin.
My first note is shaky, and I curse myself, quickly fixing it and infusing the next lyric with more confidence. As the song builds toward the chorus, I feel myself falling into the familiar rhythm of the song, finding comfort in the words I wrote and letting them carry me across the stage. I feel the audience’s attention follow me, waiting to see if they are going to accept me. If I’m worthy to be opening for two such huge artists.
And as I move from one song into the next, getting behind the deck to mix them together, I feel them coming over to my side. I feel them becoming invested, liking what they are seeing and hearing. My confidence grows, allowing myself to shed my jacket partway through the set, letting my body breathe as the heat of the arena and the rush of adrenaline spike my temperature.
My hair sticks to my neck and shoulders, a light sheen of sweat coating my skin. As I look at my track list, I realize I’m already close to the end of my set, even though it feels like I just started. Disappointment fills me, but I sweep it away with a shake of my head in time to the beat, knowing that this is only the first of many shows.
I get to experience this feeling, right here, right now, standing on a stage in front of thousands of people, moving them to the music I’m creating, the words I’m singing, for the next four months.
As the final chords of my last song ring out, I stand up on the decks, arms open at my sides, head thrown back toward the ceiling and close my eyes. The crowd cheers, clapping and yelling their appreciation, their approval, their joy.
I can’t help the smile that crosses my face, reveling in the moment.
7
WALKER
A bump that just about sends my head crashing into the ceiling that is dangerously close to my face is the greeting I get coming out of a deep slumber. A vicious throbbing behind my eye settles in as I open them and take in my surroundings, clearing away the fog of sleep and a few too many tequila sodas. I toss off the blanket that is covering my lower body, a light sheen of sweat already coating my skin.
Goddamn, this bus is toasty.
Before pulling back the curtain that gives a semblance of privacy in this not-so private space, I strain to listen above the noise of the bus chugging along to gauge if anyone else is up and moving around yet. Hell, I don’t even know what time it is and none of the bunk beds have windows so I can’t tell if the sun is up or down.
Where the hell is my phone? I blindly feel around the narrow space and come up short. I just hope it’s somewhere on this bus because Arun will kill me if I left it behind at the venue last night. We’re on a tight schedule, places to go and people to play for and all.
