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I push out the door before he responds. Before he gives me that questioning look with the penetrating eyes which will force me to reveal my hand. When you're in a band together as long as we have been, everyone can read everyone. That I've been able to keep this a secret for this long is a shock.
The post-concert buzz fades, replaced by growing anxiety. I'm doing it for the band. I deceive myself with the lie. The truth ricochets through my head. I'm doing it for me.
Chapter Two
Ariel
My guilty feet navigate the chaos of the backstage. Roadies and staff pull wires in every direction. Men on ladders removing colored light filters, equipment carts being pushed through the narrow halls toward the stage area.
I steal a glance out to the auditorium. Only a few souls remain, standing at the front of the mosh pit as if expecting us to return to perform an encore just for the two dozen of them. Security waves at them to keep it moving, and I duck down a narrow set of hidden steps to an unmarked door in the back balcony.
I don't bother to knock. I deliver no preamble. "Did you get it?"
Two heads spin in my direction. Two familiar faces with smiles that hint my secret plan may just work. "We got it!" Calvin pumps a fist as if he's cheering for his beloved hometown baseball team, the Boston Red Sox. Calvin is one of the top music producers in the business, and I'm still in disbelief. He dropped everything on his insane schedule and committed to doing this. If ever there was a time for me to call in a favor, it was for tonight.
Calvin slaps hands with his good friend and fellow music producer Marshall. When I told Calvin what I needed, he recruited Marshall as another set of hands, eyes, and ears. Two of the top twenty music producers in the country right now, hidden in a tiny room in Ohio, all because I asked.
The two of them could be brothers. Both African American in their late twenties with short, neat afros. I've known Calvin for years; he and I go back to my early touring days. The two of us bonded at a farmland barbeque dinner in Kansas after a charity concert.
Marshall and I met for the first time a year ago in Oregon, of all places. He reached out a few months ago and flew me and most of the band to Boston to appear on a track for one of his artists.
"Do they know yet?" Marshall's excited tone sounds like that of a parent hiding a Christmas gift under the tree. At least according to the Hallmark Channel, that's the behavior of a parent. It's not like I have a point of reference.
I pump my hands, palms down, in front of me. "No. I wanted to check with you guys first. Remember, this is all on the down-low." My idea is either brilliant, or it will become an expensive side project I'll toss into the heap and joke about years from now. Since I'm bankrolling it, I strongly believe in the former.
Two weeks ago, I had this epiphany. Tonight, might be our last show together as a band. I needed some way to memorialize it. Something better produced than shakily held phone footage uploaded on TikTok and YouTube.
I convinced myself I'd be doing it for posterity. As a keepsake for the band to listen to years from now and reminiscence. I reached out to Calvin to brainstorm how I could get a local crew in Ohio to record the concert, and he immediately came up with a dozen reasons why I was thinking too small. To capture the sound I was seeking, it would involve a host of equipment upgrades, professional sound boards, and a host of things I didn't understand, but he did. He volunteered to do it. All of it.
"You guys sounded incredible." Calvin's tender voice reminds me of the importance of this evening. "Never better."
Warm tears build behind my eyes, and I blink it away.
"And I know you said it's just a side project, just for you and the band," Marshall steals a glance at Calvin as if seeking permission. When Calvin nods, I lean toward him. "We've recorded across sixteen tracks. Microphones on every member of the band and a half-dozen others in the audience, so we have the option of formats such as FLAC, AIFF, ALAC…"
I nod, not because I understand him, but because it's the polite thing to do.
Calvin smirks and gives Marshall a playful shove at this shoulder. "What my too technical brethren is attempting to say is that it's studio quality."
My breath hitches, and I connect the dots. "Are you thinking?"
"Your call." Calvin doesn't miss a beat.
"Wow." The guilt I felt when I entered the room dissipates. I didn't have the concert recorded to share with the band years from now as a reminder of what we once were. I was going to use it in a few months once they settled into the routines of their new lives and weigh their life's decisions. Visions of a not so impromptu listening party where I would use the recording to tip that scale and remind them of the magic we have together. To get them back out on the road with me.
But this.
This might be even better.
"Every great band releases a Live Album." Marshall adds to the pile, and I realize this might have been Calvin's intent all along. The reason behind his expensive equipment upgrade and access to the venue four hours early.
The two of them have some of the sharpest ears in the industry. If they both believe in this, why shouldn't I?
"I'm going to need a minute," I mumble. My head swirls with the possibilities. "I'm still fighting the reality that this might be the last performance for Devil May Care."
"Manuel's moving to Texas. He's out. Santiago's helping him move—who knows, he might decide to pitch a tent and stay too. The only time we'll play together now is when we all visit him or when he brings the family to Ohio." I hear the longing in my voice. "I'm not ready for our band to break up." The emotions of the night let my truth slip out. I press my lips together and fear I've said too much.
"And you want to continue on?" Marshall surprises me with the question, but not as much as I do with my response.
