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3
Luke
I stared out into the crowd, not wanting to admit that I was scanning for a certain pair of inky-black eyes and mile-long legs. I didn’t see them, but I did note that there were a lot more people out there since I’d last popped my head out of the band room. The Basement was typical of the kind of place we’d played up and down the country, basically a dive bar with a “stage” and a makeshift dance floor. Still, grotty as the place was, it was an iconic music venue, and I had the feeling that the unkempt look of the place was now more for effect than lack of funds. It was almost as though being a hole was so woven into the place’s identity that they now couldn’t smarten it up, even though they probably had the resources to do so. It kind of just was what it was.
The room was filling up nicely, though I wasn’t as surprised by that these days as I used to be. Not only had we been starting to pull decent crowds at all our gigs around the country, but we’d decided to make this a free gig as a homecoming treat for our local fans. I still struggled to get my head around the fact that we actually had fans, and not only that but ones who were prepared to part with actual cold, hard cash to see us play. Not that we were about to fill Madison Square Garden or anything, but the fact that we could even partially fill any room bigger than our garage was still kind of mind-boggling.
The four of us—Stevie, Jake, Ryan and myself—played the intro to You Can’t Save Me, the track that DJs and music journalists were calling our breakthrough song, building the drama on the stage, dark except for a spotlight soon to be filled by Arlo. I scanned the room again. Just before Arlo strutted onto stage, a tightly woven ball of tension, rage, and free-flowing testosterone, I saw her.
She was sitting at one of the raised booths that bordered the now crammed dance floor, side-on to the stage. She appeared to be alone, which, while not the norm, wasn’t the most unusual thing about her. Not only was she flying solo, but she was wearing ear buds and looking at her phone, the color bouncing from it projecting moving light onto her face in the gloomy room. Was she watching TV? The look of focus on her face as she stared at the illuminated screen seemed to confirm this hunch.
As Arlo started singing, the melodious chords of his pitch-perfect, yet raw and rough voice rang out across the room, and he had everyone’s full attention. Actually, we had everyone’s attention. I was noticing more and more as we toured and played that we were able to command a room, to hold the crowd’s focus, and take them on a journey of discovery with our music. Arlo in particular could grab and hold people, not letting them go until he was good and ready, though that had always been true, on and off stage.
Everyone was locked in with us—high when we wanted them to be, low when we didn’t. Nothing fired the adrenaline coursing through my body like the power our music had over a room full of individuals, united as one cohesive mass, because of us. The feeling of knowing that for those ninety minutes we played, we were in control, we were Geppetto to the audience’s Pinocchio was like nothing else, not even sex. Tonight was no different. We were rocking the joint and everyone was loving us. Except her.
I wasn’t sure if anyone else in the band had noticed her, but I couldn’t focus on anything else for the rest of the set. It was as though she was illuminated by a spotlight, obliterating every other rapt face in the room. I watched her for that hour and a half while she watched her screen, barely aware of our existence. Suddenly, for me, the gig became about nothing more than commanding her attention, wooing her, impressing her, having her see me the way I saw her.
I played and sang harder than I ever had. Every word, every chord, every note took on new meaning, now that I was directing them at her. When I stepped forward to sing Fight Mode—one of the few songs where our roles reversed and I took center stage, singing lead vocals and playing lead guitar while Arlo backed me for once—it was as though I truly understood the lyrics for the very first time.
Never knew I was searching til I found
You in my world, making my heart pound
Every day you deny, every day you fight
Yet deep in your soul, you know it’s right
Why are you running scared that you may
Feel something for me you can’t brush away
Don’t get me wrong you’re not under attack
Give me your love and you got mine right back
I wailed my heart out with a depth of feeling I’d never experienced before when singing that song, or any other, for that matter. As I serenaded the side of her head, I willed her to look my way. She didn’t, and as the final notes of the song rang out, I found myself inexplicably deflated, until it happened.
The audience erupted into mad, riotous applause, the volume of which must have been enough to make it through the sound in her headphones. She looked up like a startled rabbit, as though she had forgotten she was in a packed-out dive bar with a loud indie rock band playing on the stage a few feet away.
I watched as she quickly drew her gaze away from the screen. She scanned the room in slo mo, once, twice, three times, as if she was searching for someone. Then in one heart-pounding moment, her eyes found mine, and she stopped, almost as though it had been me she’d been looking for all along. I knew that wasn’t the case, but still, as she stared back at me, the activity in the rest of the room seemed to wind down and fade into the background. Everything was blurry, submerged in darkness, except her.
In contrast, in my mind’s eye, she was bathed in a halo of light, like the spotlight that often shone on Arlo while he stalked around the stage. As my heart thudded, I wondered what to do next. Then in a move inspired by my a-hole brother, I winked. Shit. She blinked myopically, but seemed to look right through me. Double shit.
Moments later the house lights went off, the whole room was pitch black, and she was gone. That was our cue to exit. As we left the stage and walked back into the tiny band room, laughing, joking, and dissecting the gig as we always did, Arlo addressed me at the top of his voice.
“Jesus, Douchey, what the fuck was that?”
I feigned nonchalance. “What was what?”
“Don’t give me that shit. You sang and played like your life depended on it. I’ve never heard you bring it like you did today. It’s like your chops just kicked up a gear overnight, like you just activated Beast Mode. Either that, or you’ve been holding out on us all this time and you’ve secretly always been a monster.”
The other guys muttered their agreement.
I shrugged, noncommittal as ever.
“Nah man, same old me, same old chops.” I was hardly about to admit that I’d been playing and singing harder than I ever had trying to earn the attention of a complete stranger who didn’t know, or care, I was alive.
“Bullshit. It’s like you went to be and woke up a motherfucker.” In this context mofo was a compliment—the highest level of musical attainment. “I swear, after you finished Fight Mode, there wasn’t a dry pair of panties in the room.”
Except TV girl’s. She had been completely oblivious to, and therefore unmoved by, my performance.
