give them a very firm handshake and tell them, “No thanks, man…I got Jesus.” It’s not a judgmental statement or a holier-than-thou attitude. It’s just how I feel.
Surprisingly enough, it always warrants respect and a smile from the person offering—even from the most hardcore, tattooed, in-a-smoky-haze musicians. My response is usually a shocker to them, but I think most of the time, they’re glad to see a teen refuse what might otherwise dominate a large part of their own life.
The rock world is, I guess, a bit of a backward world, when I think about it. Good grades, going to church, and keeping your nose clean is what normal society pushes, but in the music industry, it doesn’t mean a hill of beans. It’s a crazy world. But, I don’t care if I get called a Jesus freak or not—my faith in God is my rock.
I know one thing—I’m sure glad I don’t need drugs or alcohol to perform. I get my high from the music. I get my high from life.
In the midst of all the hustle and bustle at our crowded merch table, I suddenly realize I didn’t get a chance to talk to Sophie. I’m sure thinking about her though, and am hoping I’ll see her in the hallway at school on Monday. I can thank her for coming to my show. Yep, that’ll be my ice-breaker.
I think it’s so cool, and yes, a bit flattering, that Sophie loves the music into which I put my heart and soul. A beautiful, shy girl like her that likes to get rowdy to my hard rock music. What a concept…very different from prissy, particular Heather.
After the crowd at our merch table dies down and the last band of the night finishes its set, the partying patrons flood out onto the ballroom parking lot, some still bouncing to the music, some weaving from one too many libations. I’m glad to see lots of taxi cabs lined up at the curb.
Dan Manning, the big shot record exec, makes his way confidently over to the boys and me. The suspense is killing us.
Dan’s suntanned face has serious business written all over it as he begins to speak.
" Boys, that was a fantastic show—absolutely phenomenal. I definitely got to see what all the hype was about," he compliments us, and ignores the annoying buzz coming from the iPhone in his tweed blazer pocket. Dan makes his way down the line, shaking each of our nervous, clammy hands. He takes a step back toward the neon green exit sign. Our hearts begin to sink as he hesitates. He rubs his chiseled chin as if in deep thought.
"Well, young men—I’ve already made a call to Los Angeles. Our label will be sending you lads a manager next week. His name is Frank Turner. He's a great guy—a pro. He’ll get you set up in a local studio here in Tulsa to record your single. We really dig the song "Rocket." I believe that will be the one we want to get to the stations first.
“ Frank’ll be working on some other projects and appearances for you as well. Good luck, boys—you are the real deal! I’m truly impressed," Dan ends earnestly, with a flash of his gleaming, oversized Hollywood smile.
When Dan finishes, Jake, Randy, Cody, and I practically tackle him with an out-of-control group hug. Dan regains his balance and begins to chuckle. He shakes our hands one more time before exiting the club. The music mogul is laughing all the way out the door as he steps out into the black night. The Cain's Ballroom sign glows orange and red above his head like a midnight sun. Dan’s phone buzzes once again. This time he picks it up.
“Hey, Frank! I'll give you a shout in the morning. I’m taking the red eye back to L.A.— Yeah , they are amaaazing !" we overhear just as the ballroom door closes behind him.
Randy strips off his shirt and begins running in circles. Jake, Cody and I fall in behind him, also using our shirts as celebratory flags, swinging them over our heads. I guess it’s official—my Led Zeppelin tee is good luck!
"I wonder if this is how most rock bands celebrate getting signed? " Mama questions, as she and the
Surprisingly enough, it always warrants respect and a smile from the person offering—even from the most hardcore, tattooed, in-a-smoky-haze musicians. My response is usually a shocker to them, but I think most of the time, they’re glad to see a teen refuse what might otherwise dominate a large part of their own life.
The rock world is, I guess, a bit of a backward world, when I think about it. Good grades, going to church, and keeping your nose clean is what normal society pushes, but in the music industry, it doesn’t mean a hill of beans. It’s a crazy world. But, I don’t care if I get called a Jesus freak or not—my faith in God is my rock.
I know one thing—I’m sure glad I don’t need drugs or alcohol to perform. I get my high from the music. I get my high from life.
In the midst of all the hustle and bustle at our crowded merch table, I suddenly realize I didn’t get a chance to talk to Sophie. I’m sure thinking about her though, and am hoping I’ll see her in the hallway at school on Monday. I can thank her for coming to my show. Yep, that’ll be my ice-breaker.
I think it’s so cool, and yes, a bit flattering, that Sophie loves the music into which I put my heart and soul. A beautiful, shy girl like her that likes to get rowdy to my hard rock music. What a concept…very different from prissy, particular Heather.
After the crowd at our merch table dies down and the last band of the night finishes its set, the partying patrons flood out onto the ballroom parking lot, some still bouncing to the music, some weaving from one too many libations. I’m glad to see lots of taxi cabs lined up at the curb.
Dan Manning, the big shot record exec, makes his way confidently over to the boys and me. The suspense is killing us.
Dan’s suntanned face has serious business written all over it as he begins to speak.
" Boys, that was a fantastic show—absolutely phenomenal. I definitely got to see what all the hype was about," he compliments us, and ignores the annoying buzz coming from the iPhone in his tweed blazer pocket. Dan makes his way down the line, shaking each of our nervous, clammy hands. He takes a step back toward the neon green exit sign. Our hearts begin to sink as he hesitates. He rubs his chiseled chin as if in deep thought.
"Well, young men—I’ve already made a call to Los Angeles. Our label will be sending you lads a manager next week. His name is Frank Turner. He's a great guy—a pro. He’ll get you set up in a local studio here in Tulsa to record your single. We really dig the song "Rocket." I believe that will be the one we want to get to the stations first.
“ Frank’ll be working on some other projects and appearances for you as well. Good luck, boys—you are the real deal! I’m truly impressed," Dan ends earnestly, with a flash of his gleaming, oversized Hollywood smile.
When Dan finishes, Jake, Randy, Cody, and I practically tackle him with an out-of-control group hug. Dan regains his balance and begins to chuckle. He shakes our hands one more time before exiting the club. The music mogul is laughing all the way out the door as he steps out into the black night. The Cain's Ballroom sign glows orange and red above his head like a midnight sun. Dan’s phone buzzes once again. This time he picks it up.
“Hey, Frank! I'll give you a shout in the morning. I’m taking the red eye back to L.A.— Yeah , they are amaaazing !" we overhear just as the ballroom door closes behind him.
Randy strips off his shirt and begins running in circles. Jake, Cody and I fall in behind him, also using our shirts as celebratory flags, swinging them over our heads. I guess it’s official—my Led Zeppelin tee is good luck!
"I wonder if this is how most rock bands celebrate getting signed? " Mama questions, as she and the
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