The cheers
going up, the whooping and screaming, ear-drum blasting noise, wasn’t for the
headlining band. It wasn’t even for the second support. That lung-fuelled
anarchy, rocking the room to the very foundations was for my band - Storm. The
guys I managed. Every single person in that huge, sold out venue cried out for
one more song, one more moment, a chance to wring out the last drops of magic
as though clinging to a lover in the morning light.
This was what
fame felt like: rapturous, loud and hungry.
The guys had
just done the last song of their set, the reverberations still ringing from the
cymbals on Spud’s drum kit, when the tour promoter gestured for them to stay on
stage. When you’re the opening band, the first ones up on stage, normally you
get to play to a bunch of bored faces of the diehard fans there to mark their
territory for the headliners. Most people are still circling around the car
park. No one cares about the opening act.
But, since
this tour started a few short weeks ago, Storm’s star had blasted through the
skies. Through word of mouth and careful promotion, their fame had risen, not
in a nice steady curve but exponentially.
As the band
travelled from town to town, the number of punters waiting when the doors
opened increased and the proportion of bodies in the crowd wearing Storm
tee-shirts grew larger. Those people sang along with the guys, knowing all the
words and even called out their favourites. Of course, there were no hit songs
to scream out because Storm hadn’t even released a song as yet, just a few demo
CDs they’d sold at their concerts and some songs available online for download.
Angie had told me that the downloads had been going nuts. Not viral, but as
close to viral as you can get without actually being viral, is what she said.
And we were
about to hit the next level. Right after this gig finished, well maybe after
some time for partying and unwinding, they hit the studio to record their first
album, the ink still wet on the contract they’d signed.
Back when I’d
found out the only asset I’d had in this world was a crappy management company
with a few has-beens and a surly, disagreeable rock band on their roster, I’d
never dreamed we’d get this far. I’d wanted to get rid of that company as
quickly as possible and get some fast cash.
With all the
buzz from this tour, the deal I’d struck for the guys had more zeroes than
they’d ever thought they’d see and a lot more creative freedom. Those labels
who’d not even answered my calls once had wooed me like a superstar. Taking me
to dinners and cocktail parties just to put their offers forward. One of them
had booked out suites at a fancy hotel for the guys for this final leg of the
tour. Another had sent a crate of booze. And one had sent a massive bouquet of
flowers.
“Knob
jockeys,” Spud had said. “Flowers. Phhht. You can’t eat them, you can’t snort
them and you can’t screw them. Who the hell would want some sissy flowers?”
That was Spud
for you, though I could see his point for once.
I leaned on a
crate at the side of the stage wishing I had Angie beside me. She’d been with
me since the start of this adventure. I’d probably had been living in the
gutter if it wasn’t for her - pushing me in the right direction and taking over
all the promotion. But Angie and her mates were busy filming this gig. Her
first fully professional job she’d been offered, because the Monkey Bride team
had been so impressed with her efforts with filming at the beginning of the
tour.
Jack Colt
swaggered off stage. Jack, he never walked, he always swaggered. He’d been a
god on stage. His voice had sent shivers through my body the whole night and
his hips had moved in a way that made me glow with the knowledge that I’d be
the one in his bed tonight. I felt sorry for every other woman in the crowd
because they’d just be imagining that it was Jack Colt humping them while I had
the real thing.
His
sweat-soaked tee-shirt clung to his body, defining every bump of his body and,
boy, did that man have some nice bumps. His hair stuck to his face where he’d
thrown water over his head to cool himself down and his bottom lip pouted. He
locked eye contact with me and my heart pounded louder than the screams of the
crowd.
“What are you
doing?” yelled the tour promoter. “Get back out there.”
“Hold on a
moment,” Jack Colt snapped.
He swept me
into his arms, crushing my body against his. His mouth hit mine and my body
writhed as emotions swirled through me, lifting me up to my toes. I savoured
his bourbon soaked lips. He kissed me hard as though searching for something
that would give him the energy to go back on stage. He must have found it
because he pulled away as quickly as he’d started. He ripped off his shirt and
sprung back on stage. The roar of the crowd intensified.
“I’m going to
have to watch these guys,” said a voice in my ear. I turned to see Bastian, the
leader singer of Monkey Bride, standing beside me. “They’re going to steal the
final night right out from under me.”
Behind him,
the members of the second support glared at the stage with a mixture of envy
and hatred. This extra stage time meant their set would be cut short. They’d
had their chance on this tour but they’d not been able to step up to the plate.
The adoration they thought they’d receive washed right over them and settled on
Storm. Sure, they could keep working at it but every band has a moment where
they can either prove they have the chops to move to the next level or settle
for playing to a small group of regulars until they get too old and too tired
to keep trying.
I laughed as
the band began their encore song. At that moment, it did seem like Storm had
the world at their feet. They were headed for the top and they were
indestructible.
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