“Forget it.” Shit happened. That was why Schoolboy Choir was out here this morning checking everything. They’d kick off the festival tonight with a big show, then do another set Saturday afternoon. The festival officially ended Sunday at midday, but Friday night and Saturday were the big events.
Zenith was one of Noah’s favorite festivals. This stage and the two smaller stages to the left and the right, open fields between them, were the only “buildings” around for what appeared to be miles. People brought their own tents to camp in, and the city supplied sanitation and medical facilities, while food trucks were plentiful.
Unlike other festivals that often descended into mud and alcohol-fueled fights that messed with the music, the organizers had done a great job of keeping Zenith wild—sometimes crazy wild—but trouble-free year after year.
Part of it had to do with the fact the festival was out in the middle of nowhere, which tended to create more of a tight atmosphere. The other factor was that it was a long haul to get here—the only people who made it this far were the true music fans. And they came in their thousands.
The grounds wouldn’t open for another four hours, but long lines had already formed at the gates as people waited to grab the perfect spot for their tents and catch some of the warm-ups.
“Yo, Noah,” Abe called out from where he stood by the keyboard. “You ready to try a run-through?”
“Yeah, let me just check this is good first.” This time it was pure, raw music that poured out of the speakers.
A cheer came from the direction of the far-off gates.
He smiled. “We got an audience boys, so let’s make it good.”
“I always make it good,” Fox said with a slow grin, cupping his hands around the microphone but keeping his head turned so his distinctively gritty voice wouldn’t carry. “Always.”
“All talk,” David said from the back, playing a quick beat that ended with a clash of the cymbals. “You know the quiet ones are the doers.”
“You white boys keep on talking.” Abe ran his fingers over the keys of his keyboard. “Meanwhile, the brother over here will smoke your asses.”
“Who you calling a white boy?” David said before bringing down the sticks in a fury of sound that cut off abruptly as he did that thing where he could simply shut down the drums.
Noah came in with his guitar right on cue, Abe flowed in, and then they all stopped and Fox’s voice roared out over the microphone.
It was like they’d never had the post-tour time off, the meld was so flawless. Over a month they’d gone without playing a proper set, and now it felt like coming home. He caught Abe’s grin, heard the sheer joy in Fox’s voice, sensed it in the flourishes David threw into the beat, felt it in the way his own fingers caressed the strings.
It was blood in his veins, the music, the energy that made his heart beat. Up here, with the music burning up the air and his closest friends in total synergy with him, there was no pain, no anger, no hopeless rage. There was just the sweet, pure beauty of music in every cell of his body, making him pure too.
Fingers moving over the strings, he let the music fill him. He used a pick occasionally when he was going to town on a seriously hard rock number, but even then, he’d been known to use his fingers. He liked the direct connection to the strings, and his fingertips had long ago become callused enough to take it.
Today he brought the song to an end with a guitar solo that had Fox grinning and calling out, “Hell yeah! Noah is in the house!”