felt when I wrote the stuff I wrote. And then, once I’ve found that girl, I pretend I'm in love with her.
But as we took the stage that night, and I lifted my guitar strap over my head, things weren't looking good.
The faces in the front few rows looked like sorority girls grown up—blonde hair and surgically-straightened noses and so much makeup they looked like mannequins. It always struck me as cruel irony that the types of girls that mocked me in high school were now the types of women who came to our shows. And it had been that way ever since our first chart-topping appearance on the Billboard Hot 100.
I looked down at the pedal board between my feet, watching the tuner light glow green as I plucked each string. I had the set list duct-taped down beside it—printed out that day in bold 30-point font by Bernstein.
Behind me, I heard Joey going through his drum set, striking each head to check the pitch and the feel. Sergio's bass blurted a quick four-note line, the sound solid and warm even through the club's beat-up monitor speakers. Micah strummed a few minor chords, testing his levels, and Sara dropped a two-handed chord of her own on top of it, the resulting sound seeming dense and oppressive.
The first song on the list was "A Heart's-Blood Oath." I looked up at the crowd, a sinking feeling in my stomach, and then glanced back at Joey. He gave me a big two-thumbs-up, his toothy grin glowing in the dim blue light. And then he clicked his sticks four times, setting the pace, and Sergio and Sara came in, laying down the foundation of the song. The crowd responded immediately, raising their voices together in a single, wordless roar. They quieted just a moment later, when Micah's lead part began—eerie arpeggio notes that made me think of a spider walking a frozen web.
I closed my eyes, feeling the music flowing into me, the melody nearly as familiar as my own pulse. This was our first major hit, a song I'd written when I was nineteen years old and so brimming-full with dark passion that I sometimes felt I was drowning in it, and music was my only way to breathe.
I could almost feel it now. Almost. The feeling was there, just beyond my reach—a withered nerve buried beneath scar tissue that had grown leather-thick.
With my eyes still closed, I could tell the lights were shifting, growing warmer and brighter, unveiling the stage. The crowd cried out again as their view of us cleared. I heard women's voices, calling out my name. But I didn't open my eyes, not yet.
I brought my left hand to the guitar's neck, squeezing it, feeling the metal strings cutting into my fingertips. I raised my right hand, clashing the pick over the strings, falling into the rhythm, letting it carry me along.
One bar left before the vocals started. I opened my eyes, suddenly desperate to find her, to find the girl that could bring me the rest of the way into the song. The girl who could make the words feel real again.
My eyes searched the crowd. A tall blonde with pearl earrings—pearl earrings at a Belletrists show?—winked at me and licked her lips. Another blonde threw both her arms in the air, whipping her head around, putting on a show of her own. A dark-haired woman with a Betty Page cut cupped her hands around her red-glossed lips, screaming my name so loud I could hear it over the music.
I was starting to feel a subtle prickling in my chest, something like panic. None of these girls were the right one, and there were only a few beats left in the measure. I'd have to start singing soon, but without the right frame of mind, the words would be a lie.
And then an abrupt motion off to the left caught my attention. A familiar-looking girl in the front had a pair of panties in her hand, and she was waving them in the air like they were on fire and she wanted to put them out. A group of taller women stood around her, arms crossed over their chests, their faces twisted into
But as we took the stage that night, and I lifted my guitar strap over my head, things weren't looking good.
The faces in the front few rows looked like sorority girls grown up—blonde hair and surgically-straightened noses and so much makeup they looked like mannequins. It always struck me as cruel irony that the types of girls that mocked me in high school were now the types of women who came to our shows. And it had been that way ever since our first chart-topping appearance on the Billboard Hot 100.
I looked down at the pedal board between my feet, watching the tuner light glow green as I plucked each string. I had the set list duct-taped down beside it—printed out that day in bold 30-point font by Bernstein.
Behind me, I heard Joey going through his drum set, striking each head to check the pitch and the feel. Sergio's bass blurted a quick four-note line, the sound solid and warm even through the club's beat-up monitor speakers. Micah strummed a few minor chords, testing his levels, and Sara dropped a two-handed chord of her own on top of it, the resulting sound seeming dense and oppressive.
The first song on the list was "A Heart's-Blood Oath." I looked up at the crowd, a sinking feeling in my stomach, and then glanced back at Joey. He gave me a big two-thumbs-up, his toothy grin glowing in the dim blue light. And then he clicked his sticks four times, setting the pace, and Sergio and Sara came in, laying down the foundation of the song. The crowd responded immediately, raising their voices together in a single, wordless roar. They quieted just a moment later, when Micah's lead part began—eerie arpeggio notes that made me think of a spider walking a frozen web.
I closed my eyes, feeling the music flowing into me, the melody nearly as familiar as my own pulse. This was our first major hit, a song I'd written when I was nineteen years old and so brimming-full with dark passion that I sometimes felt I was drowning in it, and music was my only way to breathe.
I could almost feel it now. Almost. The feeling was there, just beyond my reach—a withered nerve buried beneath scar tissue that had grown leather-thick.
With my eyes still closed, I could tell the lights were shifting, growing warmer and brighter, unveiling the stage. The crowd cried out again as their view of us cleared. I heard women's voices, calling out my name. But I didn't open my eyes, not yet.
I brought my left hand to the guitar's neck, squeezing it, feeling the metal strings cutting into my fingertips. I raised my right hand, clashing the pick over the strings, falling into the rhythm, letting it carry me along.
One bar left before the vocals started. I opened my eyes, suddenly desperate to find her, to find the girl that could bring me the rest of the way into the song. The girl who could make the words feel real again.
My eyes searched the crowd. A tall blonde with pearl earrings—pearl earrings at a Belletrists show?—winked at me and licked her lips. Another blonde threw both her arms in the air, whipping her head around, putting on a show of her own. A dark-haired woman with a Betty Page cut cupped her hands around her red-glossed lips, screaming my name so loud I could hear it over the music.
I was starting to feel a subtle prickling in my chest, something like panic. None of these girls were the right one, and there were only a few beats left in the measure. I'd have to start singing soon, but without the right frame of mind, the words would be a lie.
And then an abrupt motion off to the left caught my attention. A familiar-looking girl in the front had a pair of panties in her hand, and she was waving them in the air like they were on fire and she wanted to put them out. A group of taller women stood around her, arms crossed over their chests, their faces twisted into
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