collar out of hers, however, and snipped it just right so that it hangs casually off her pretty right shoulder.
I can see that she’s wearing a bit more makeup than she does at school. Her black eyeliner is swept up at the corners, giving her beautiful, liquid blue eyes an exotic, cat-like appearance. Her perfect, full lips are shining with clear gloss.
I can’t take my eyes off her as she stands with her hand on her hip laughing with a group of her friends. For a moment I lose my train of thought—I’m in full daydream mode as Cody walks up behind me and gooses me in the ribs with his drumsticks.
“Let’s go, dude. Let’s rock this mother!” He commands, twirling his sticks like mini-batons.
I shake my head and come back to reality. I ask Cody if he knows my mystery girl. He tells me her name is Sophie. I put my head back in the game, whip my Les Paul around like a Wild West gunslinger. I hum Pantera’s tune, “Cowboys From Hell,” move my fingers across my chest in the shape of a cross, even though I’m not Catholic, and cruise in coolly from stage left.
As the boys and I man our positions, the crowd goes nuts. Stepping up to the mic , I scream my usual, “Are you ready to roooock ?” Electricity crackles in the atmosphere around the illuminated stage. The guitar amps squeal. Cody snaps his drumsticks together, beginning what is to be our band’s best set ever.
During the show, I’m totally mesmerized by Sophie's presence. I find myself singing and playing to her in the crowd. Her rocking skills are more than impressive. She even knows how to head bang like a pro. Her soft, layered blonde hair gets disheveled as she flings it under the smoky colored lights. She sings every word to each song right along with me. Every time I look her way, I feel like I’m floating over the stage. Our eyes lock several times during the show—there’s a definite connection between us.
I’m now sure that I want to get to know Sophie—the girl in the marching band drum line—better. She seems way cool.
After the show, our merch table is a madhouse. T-shirts are being slung around as Jake, Randy, Cody, and I sign autographs and our cheap demo CDs for at least thirty minutes. I usually stay longer than the other boys. They inevitably became antsy and go backstage to sneak cigarettes with the older musicians. I know the boys think it makes them look cool and adult-like, but every time I surprise them in a smoke hole, I have the opposite vision. To me they look like children playing “grown-up.”
I had decided early on that I didn’t need cigarettes to look cool. Besides, skipping the smoke breaks gives me more time for the fans. I absolutely love visiting with them. If there’s even a single warm body waiting at our table, I’ll be there.
As the crowd at the table dies down, a Joe Dirt look-alike approaches me for a picture. The fan’s girlfriend snaps the shot with her camera phone, and he leans in. “Hey man, I got some weed, dude. You cool? You need a hook up, my man?” the avid rocker whispers on the down low. The sharp smell of alcohol mixes with his words.
I smile wide and give him the usual. “No thanks, man…I got Jesus!”
“Oh cool…cool, man. That’s awesome, dude!” he stutters, pumping my hand one last time. “Hey man…that’s great! Stay that way! We’ll see ya at your next show. Seriously, man, you rocked it!” he returns with nervous sincerity.
“See ya , dude! Thanks soooo much for comin ’ to the show,” I say gratefully, before he retreats back into the smoky shadows.
As unbelievable as it is, on occasion, I’ll get approached by adults offering me beer, liquor, marijuana, pills…you name it. I think it’s difficult for a lot of the fans to comprehend that I’m just a sixteen-year-old kid, and yes it’s just a part of the music lifestyle, but I always have the same response when asked to partake. It’s a straight forward answer to a straightforward question. I always
I can see that she’s wearing a bit more makeup than she does at school. Her black eyeliner is swept up at the corners, giving her beautiful, liquid blue eyes an exotic, cat-like appearance. Her perfect, full lips are shining with clear gloss.
I can’t take my eyes off her as she stands with her hand on her hip laughing with a group of her friends. For a moment I lose my train of thought—I’m in full daydream mode as Cody walks up behind me and gooses me in the ribs with his drumsticks.
“Let’s go, dude. Let’s rock this mother!” He commands, twirling his sticks like mini-batons.
I shake my head and come back to reality. I ask Cody if he knows my mystery girl. He tells me her name is Sophie. I put my head back in the game, whip my Les Paul around like a Wild West gunslinger. I hum Pantera’s tune, “Cowboys From Hell,” move my fingers across my chest in the shape of a cross, even though I’m not Catholic, and cruise in coolly from stage left.
As the boys and I man our positions, the crowd goes nuts. Stepping up to the mic , I scream my usual, “Are you ready to roooock ?” Electricity crackles in the atmosphere around the illuminated stage. The guitar amps squeal. Cody snaps his drumsticks together, beginning what is to be our band’s best set ever.
During the show, I’m totally mesmerized by Sophie's presence. I find myself singing and playing to her in the crowd. Her rocking skills are more than impressive. She even knows how to head bang like a pro. Her soft, layered blonde hair gets disheveled as she flings it under the smoky colored lights. She sings every word to each song right along with me. Every time I look her way, I feel like I’m floating over the stage. Our eyes lock several times during the show—there’s a definite connection between us.
I’m now sure that I want to get to know Sophie—the girl in the marching band drum line—better. She seems way cool.
After the show, our merch table is a madhouse. T-shirts are being slung around as Jake, Randy, Cody, and I sign autographs and our cheap demo CDs for at least thirty minutes. I usually stay longer than the other boys. They inevitably became antsy and go backstage to sneak cigarettes with the older musicians. I know the boys think it makes them look cool and adult-like, but every time I surprise them in a smoke hole, I have the opposite vision. To me they look like children playing “grown-up.”
I had decided early on that I didn’t need cigarettes to look cool. Besides, skipping the smoke breaks gives me more time for the fans. I absolutely love visiting with them. If there’s even a single warm body waiting at our table, I’ll be there.
As the crowd at the table dies down, a Joe Dirt look-alike approaches me for a picture. The fan’s girlfriend snaps the shot with her camera phone, and he leans in. “Hey man, I got some weed, dude. You cool? You need a hook up, my man?” the avid rocker whispers on the down low. The sharp smell of alcohol mixes with his words.
I smile wide and give him the usual. “No thanks, man…I got Jesus!”
“Oh cool…cool, man. That’s awesome, dude!” he stutters, pumping my hand one last time. “Hey man…that’s great! Stay that way! We’ll see ya at your next show. Seriously, man, you rocked it!” he returns with nervous sincerity.
“See ya , dude! Thanks soooo much for comin ’ to the show,” I say gratefully, before he retreats back into the smoky shadows.
As unbelievable as it is, on occasion, I’ll get approached by adults offering me beer, liquor, marijuana, pills…you name it. I think it’s difficult for a lot of the fans to comprehend that I’m just a sixteen-year-old kid, and yes it’s just a part of the music lifestyle, but I always have the same response when asked to partake. It’s a straight forward answer to a straightforward question. I always
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