The Rush
Backstage at a university club somewhere in Ontario. Ten minutes to showtime.“I’ve got to pee,” I announce as I stand to leave the room.
“Again? You just went!”
“I’m nervous. Right now I’ve got the bladder of a 6-yearold schoolgirl.”
“Why are you nervous?” asks the drummer.
“Because there are about five hundred people in this bar tonight!”
“Do you like our music?” he asks me.
“Yeah.”
“Do you know how to play it?”
“Yeah.”
“Do we sound good?”
”Yeah.”
“Do we look good?”
”Well, ...I do.”
“So you’ve got nothing to worry about. They might not like us, but it’s not because we’re inept. It’ll just be a style thing, so who really gives a shit” suggests the wise man-who-hits-things-rhythmically.
I pee anyway.
***
“5 minutes to go. Do you need anything?” asks the head that appears in the doorway.
I look up from my gin & tonic and shake my head as I pop a Camel Light between my lips.
I’m pretending to be cool, calm and collected. In reality, I can feel my testicles climb up into my torso. It’s a good thing that in 5 minutes there’ll be a guitar protecting them.
***
On the staircase leading up to the stage, we’re in total darkness.
The stage lights are down, the tiny lights from our amplifiers glint playfully off the drummer’s cymbals. I can faintly see faces at the foot of the stage, but most of the audience is hidden by the speaker system. Blaring from the speakers is a strange electro track with a forlorn woman softly talking over it.
I take a deep breath, my last one of the evening, and climb the stairs. As my first footstep brings me into view of the audience I accept that there’s no turning back now.
I enter what I've come to think of as 'the killing floor' in my emotional abbatoir, better known as The Stage.
I cross the stage, forcing myself to walk slowly and confidently, masking the spastic freakshow bouncing in my chest. Ignore the faces watching every move.
Lifting my Fender P-Bass from it’s stand, I slowly drape it over my shoulder and flick the volume knob. Up-Down, fast. A high-pitched squeal chirps quickly from the amp. It works.
I wander over to the drum kit, hunching above the high-hat and directly in front of my gigantic amplifier. I crack my knuckles, making sure my fingers haven’t frozen in fear.
I can hear an intense silence. I can feel the heat of a few hundred bodies crammed into a sweaty bar.
“click”
The drummer taps the high-hat. This is the signal to our sound tech. She’s had her hand on the Mute button since the drummer walked onstage, waiting for this sound. She has to work quickly – she’s got about a second and a half to shut down the intro music and turn on the PA.
“click”
That’s two. Now I’ve got the tempo. It’s certainly a lot slower than my heartrate now, but I’ve got to concentrate. I’m starting the show, and if it’s not right I’ll never hear the end of it.
“click.”
Three. The pinky finger on my right hand is resting on my guitar's volume knob. The instant I turn it up, it will feedback horribly as I’m standing directly in front of 9 large speakers powerful enough to make my pant-legs flap.
“click.”
GO!
A deafening wave of sound bursts from behind me as I jump away from the drums.
***
I really miss that adrenaline rush. There’s nothing like it. Maybe skydiving, but certainly nothing that I’ve ever done. I’ve spent the last 3 years chasing that type of thrill, but in the context of my new lifestyle. I don’t remember where this particular show was, but I remember every detail as if it was yesterday.
Ed.note: It may sometimes seem like I’m living in the past, writing about my old music so often. This period contained my happiest, scariest, hardest, most volatile and frustrating years of my life. Being so extreme, I think I reference it more than any other.
I just thought this was an interesting piece.
posted by St. Dickeybird @ 7:52 AM
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