I nod my head as my heart pounds in my chest. My hands feel cold and clammy and a nervousness that makes me weak and shaky takes over. Doubts race through my head and I’m questioning if he’s going to make it through this. A vague awareness that something bad could happen has been kicking around in my mind, and I can’t shake it. The Wilde Ones are doing a sound check onstage and Zane’s not on his game.
It’s July and the weather has been brutally hot. But today it seems cooler. Maybe it’s the California weather. Maybe it’s the excitement of being home. The Beautiful Lies tour bus finally rolled back into our home state of California after six months away. While we’re in town, I have a laundry list of shit to do—meet with the accountant for the band, catch my assistant, Ena, up on changes to upcoming stops, and stoke some fires in the publicity department at the label to ease the questions about the lead singer transition. I’m actually thinking some of the more mundane tasks of my job are suddenly looking better and better. On the road my day is always the same, but never the same—posting dailies and arranging rehearsals are automatic, but the rest evolves with the location, the people, and the needs of the band.
When the bus eased into the amphitheater, we could see tanned kids in board shorts and bikini tops already lined up at the will-call window. Security guards in polo shirts directed us to the artist parking lot, and we were officially home. Tonight we’ll be headlining our biggest show to date. We’re on tour without my brother, and still more than half of the shows are sold out, including tonight’s. River quit the band—touring just wasn’t for him—but even so, the album is on its way up the charts. Who knows—it may even hit gold status. The songs on the album were written and sung by River, but are performed in concert by Zane. Having him as my brother’s replacement has been the key to our successful transition in a world where replacing leads is normally unsuccessful—simply put, we’re lucky as hell to have him. However, River did promise to make a surprise appearance at our next stop. It’s going to be epic.
But tonight is all about the arena—Mountain View and the Shoreline. “That’s enough,” I yell to the band and call rehearsal. This place is the biggest outdoor venue we’ve played, and I couldn’t be more stoked—or more nervous. A sold-out show and a rocking opening band—what a combination. But a lead singer with another cold and a weakened voice that can’t be heard throughout an amphitheater scares the shit out of me.
I head straight for the bus and spend the next few hours hashing out a song with Nix that he calls a jumbled mess of muscular sense and big-riff sunshine—whatever the hell that means. All I know is that it needs help and that’s why he’s turning to me. I hadn’t played guitar since I was eighteen, but for some reason, I’ve picked it back up over the course of this tour. At first I played on whichever guitar was lying around, but last month I had my mother mail my old one to me, and it feels like home. It’s a light blue and brown Gibson—it’s the same guitar that Slash uses. Playing again seems to help pass the time and brings a sense of calm to me that I haven’t felt in a while.
Hours pass, and before I know it, it’s almost showtime. We make our way over to the amphitheater, do the typical festival schmooze fest, and then settle back until it’s our turn. Waiting for the band to take the stage is always the most nerve-racking time. I’m sitting in the practically vacant makeshift meet-and-greet area backstage and sipping a beer in a worthless effort to calm my nerves when a voice travels through the sound system. It’s a powerful and emotive mezzo-soprano range that is nothing short of explosive. She sounds unlike any singer I’ve ever heard before—with only one exception: Ivy Taylor. I push back the memories and emotions that her name evokes; they are just too painful. I can’t see her onstage, but I know that the voice belongs to Jane Mommsen. Her band, Breathless, is playing right before the Wilde Ones.
A hand on my shoulder startles me. I twist and glance up as Amy sits down beside me, crossing her legs. “Hi, Xander. I thought I saw you earlier at the hotel.”
She’s a beautiful woman—long, wavy dark hair, petite figure, very natural-looking. She’s wearing jeans, a blue shirt with some kind of foil design, and silver sandals. Grinning at her, I say, “Finally we catch up. Can I get you a drink?”
“I’d love that. How’s life on the road been?”
“You know, it has its ups and downs, but actually not bad. You?”
“Jane’s been going full force for a while now. But the tour ends with the summer and I’ll be glad to be back in LA.”