Rocked Up

“Breathe,” Brad says and I look up to see him staring at me with a bemused smirk on his face.

I try and breathe but all I can do is gulp for air. Does he even realize that he said that exact thing to me all those years ago in this exact same place?

It’s hard to tell with Brad sometimes. He keeps mainly to himself, even at rehearsals, and while he’s not stingy with the praise and has been pretty encouraging, it usually stops at that.

“I’m trying to breathe,” I tell him. “God, weren’t you this nervous for your first show?”

He shrugs. “Maybe. I hardly remember it.”

“How can you not remember it? I think this will be branded in my brain for the rest of my life.”

He scratches at the stubble on his chin. Sexy stubble, I might add. Brad’s dressed pretty low-key for tonight’s show: a black t-shirt that shows off his muscles, black jeans just tight enough to show off his ass. His hair is pushed back off his face, his eyes are dark and smoldering as always. Sometimes I wonder how I’m able to play my bass, let alone talk to him, without drooling.

But I have an image to obtain and that’s one of being a consummate musician and a total professional. Of course I feel like I’m failing at both right now. Because, you know, wanting to vomit and everything.

“I’ll tell you that I remember playing the first show ever by myself. I opened for Iggy Pop…somehow.” He grins at me, flashing me his pearly whites that make me weak at the knees. “The stars aligned that day. My birthday. Anyway, that show I’ll never forget. But all the rest of the shows kind of blend in with each other.” He gives me a sly look, leaning in closer. What little breath I have hitches in my throat. “I’ll tell you something. Before every show, I go into a zone of sorts. It’s probably why I don’t remember them all so well. But it gets the job done.”

“Are you in the zone now?” I ask quietly, conscious of how close we are to each other.

“I will be in a few minutes. So don’t take offense if I seem a bit standoffish.”

“I would never. You do what you need to do…I’ll…just try not to throw up.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. I feel waves of mild current flow through him to me, heating my skin. I know it’s all in my head but I’m feeling so alive right now so who knows. Everything is heightened for good or bad.

“You’re going to do great, Lael,” he says to me. “Trust me. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe in you. You want to know the trick?”

“What?” Yes. Yes, give me all the fucking tricks.

“Show them no respect.”

I frown. “Ummm.”

He explains. “The reason you’re nervous is because you care too much about what they think. The audience. The crowd. This isn’t about them. They’re here to see you but you’re not here to see them. Give them no respect. Play for you. Don’t worry what they think. You have a story to tell and a show to give and you’ll do it because they’re here for you. Don’t forget that.”

“It sounds a little crude.”

He shrugs casually. “Rock and roll is crude, baby.”

I smile at him, feeling some of my nerves wash away. “That it is.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says with a wink, “I’m going to go into beast mode. I’ll see you on the other side. And remember, you’re going to do fine. Just be yourself.”

“And show no fear.”

“No respect, but that works too.”

Then he turns and walks off toward the back wings of the stage.

Oh shit. Oh shit, does that mean it’s almost time? What do I do?

I catch Arnie walking past me, his face furrowed in concentration, staring down at his phone.

“Arnie,” I call out, running beside him. “Where do I go? When do we start?”

He glances at me briefly. “Oh, it’s you. Just find the rest of the band.”

“Brad already went on stage.”

“He’s in the zone.”

“I know. So what do I do? How much time till we go on?”

He glances at the phone. “Two minutes, love.” Then he walks off.

“Two minutes!?” I shriek.

Just then the dressing room door opens and Switch and Calvi and one of the guitar techs step out.

“Hey, you didn’t run off,” Calvi says with a smirk.

“No, I didn’t,” I tell him, narrowing my eyes. “I’m ready. At least I think I am.”

“You’re ready as you’ll ever be,” Switch says, patting me on the back and turning me around toward the stage. “Come on, the stage is this way.”

Fuck. I’m not calm, not even in the slightest. The minute Brad went into beast mode and walked off, all my confidence went with him. I have to repeat to myself over and over again, as crude as it sounds, show them no respect, show them no respect.

By the time I’m waiting in the wings of the stage beside Switch and Calvi, Brad off in his own world, looking like a madman, I’m practically shouting the mantra to myself.

Show them no respect!

And yet there they are. I can see them, the audience. They are loud and the show is sold-out and absolutely crammed full, from the fans being squished against the barricade to the line of photographers between them and the stage, looking bored out of their mind as they wait, to the people up in the rafters practically leaning over the railings. This is utter madness.

This is my dream.

A mix of adrenaline and anxiety and pure fucking joy courses through my veins until I’m sure I might just explode right here and all that will be left will be Lael pixie dust. Something I’m sure Calvi would snort up his nose right away.

“You ready?” Switch asks as one of the techs goes out and starts adjusting Brad’s microphone, saying, “Check one, check two, check, check” and the crowd goes absolutely wild.

I shake my head, biting my lip though I can’t tell if it’s because I’m trying not to puke or trying not to smile.

This is unreal.

This is so unreal.

“Ready or not,” Switch says, “it’s show time.”

He glances across the stage where Arnie is standing, arms folded across his chest, and he nods, giving a signal.

“We’re not going to huddle or something?” I ask Switch in a panic, pulling on his sleeve. His t-shirt already feels soaked in sweat and he hasn’t even started drumming yet.

“Huddle?” he says, then his eyes turn salacious. “I’ll gladly give you a private huddle, darling.”

I put my hand on his shoulder and push him out of the way. “Pass. You go drum your drums.”

“You go rock that bass.”

And then Calvi stalks off onto the darkness of the stage, almost in a huff, and I know I have no choice but to follow and find my mark and my instrument, just as we went over during sound check.

It’s surreal.

That’s the only way to explain it.

I walk through the blue dark of the stage over to my bass while the crowd gets louder and louder. I try not to look at their faces, I try to pay attention to just the bass strap going around my shoulders.

But I can’t help but glance at the crowd. Harsh blue light shines down on them and I know they can’t really see me but they’re waiting. Waiting for when Brad walks on stage, when the main lights go on, when we launch into “Fuzzface” our first song.

I’m waiting too.