James Pt 04

James - Part 4

I am not used to the month of December being cold, though, I have to admit it adds a certain extra something to the Christmas build-up that just doesn't quite happen in the other hemisphere. London is lit up like, well, a frickin' Christmas tree and the whole world seems to be shopping.

As predicted, my father has deemed my unnecessary demands on the London office to be a stroke of genius. I know this crunch end of any deal is what he relishes the most. The period when we really start to choke the other side, but I'm not feeling the same elation, despite my early distaste for the staff here. I can't shake the ugly feeling that seems to be constricting my chest tighter with each passing day. My new best friend, Michaela, is bouncing and extra attentive. So, that not only increases the pressure points I am silently batting away but also serves to intensify the focus of the other women in the office. I desperately hope she hasn't said anything about my hasty deal with her, but I feel like I could have my paper clips individually polished right now if I asked one of them to. Shutting the door is automatic as soon as I walk into my office. I sound like a tool, even to myself, when I say that I can't take any more women just... stopping by.

First world problems.

I don't possess any actual Christmas plans beyond playing with the band on those three special dates. It was enough for me; Christmas has never amounted to much in my world since Mum died. Dad typically booked an exotic holiday instead of sitting through the heavy weight that blanketed our undecorated home without Mum's over-the-top preparations.

By some stroke of luck, I manage to book into Ana's diary for us to spend New Year's Eve together. I have big plans. I know she's not the kind of girl to be impressed by expensive extravaganzas, but I want another night to remember, hopefully for more than the fireworks over the Thames. We haven't physically seen each other since we went to the jazz bar, but she remains ever so coolly and sweetly in touch, in a truly refreshing way.

Ana also promised to make it to at least one of the support gigs. I suspect she is more a fan of the main act, but either way it would be incredible for her to be part of the experience. Finally, it is impressing on me what a truly amazing phenomenal thing it will be: I am going to play in a huge venue, one that has seen some of my favourite bands grace the same stage that I am going to play on. This wasn't some seedy gig in one of the degenerate bars that Emily hated so much back home. There would be thousands of people.

Thousands. Hell, actual professional drummers dream of playing a gig like this, and here I was, a hack lawyer getting the opportunity by fluke.

A real taste of being a professional drummer.

My father would flip if he found out. I grin to myself at the childish sentiment, knowing that a grown man really shouldn't think that way, but relishing my quiet rebellion anyway.

I stand and blow warm air into my cupped hands. After one last glance over the lights of London, I walk back to the maintenance door on the rooftop to make my way back down the stairs to the practice studio. It's the night before super gig number one, and we are running through our planned set. The vibe is supposed to be a relaxed '

we've got this'

kind of energy, but the tension is high. I know the band has a lot riding on these dates. Practices consist of lots of nervous conversations between the original members, so I choose to leave them to it when we have a break. Welcoming as they all are to me, I definitely feel like an intruder at times.

Walking back into the room, I find the guys huddled on the sofas, crammed into the corner of the space, with one extra person I haven't met before. His face is gaunt with an almost grey pallor, and I sense the beanie pulled low on his head is positioned to hide the effects of his treatment.

The stranger stands slowly and takes a few steps towards me, stretching out his hand. I cross the gap between us quickly to grasp it in mine, masking my flinch at the coldness of his skin.

"Nice to meet you, man." His smile is warm and welcoming. "You're keeping my seat warm."

"Absolutely, just for the time being." I grin back at the frail guy in front of me.

Damn

, he is in his thirties but looks about sixty right now.

He nods at me, his pale eyes full of sadness.

I talk for a living, right? Meetings, court rooms, debates, whatever. I find absolutely zero words to say right now, when it actually matters.

My hand reaches up so my fingers can rub the back of my head, teasing the hair that I wear a little longer these days. My heart aches for the man in front of me who just wants to play the music he loves with his buddies. The drums that I too love--what would I do if someone took that away from me?

The thought sits uneasily in the pit of my stomach.

"OK, take a seat before you fall down." Harvey says in a light tone as he motions his friend to sit back on the sofa as the rest of the band quietly drift back to their instruments. They resume their easy banter and diffuse some of the tension in the room as I follow suit and head over to the drum kit.

His drum kit.

This just feels awkward.

I cringe inwardly as I sit down and flex my head from side to side, not participating like I usually do with the group's chatter, suddenly feeling more like an outsider than ever.

"Isaac is going to listen to the rest of the set; let us know where we are stuffing up." Harvey winks at his friend from his position in front of him.

"I know you assholes are going to make complete dicks of yourself; you don't need me to point that out to you." Isaac retorts drily in a thin voice from his seat.

His eyes shine a little brighter now, and I recognise the emotion more clearly. It's pride. No matter what shit he is going through and that he can't physically join his old friends on stage, he is still with them. My chest squeezes, and the awkward sensation washing over me turns into a resolve that I must live up to what this man and his mates have worked so hard to build.

And so we play for him.

Whatever emotions previously derailed this session, the '

we've got this'

vibe happens, and by the end of the set, even Harvey is confident that the band is ready to take on the three super gigs. As we pack up, Isaac heads my way, his gaze drifting over his kit with a longing expression that I can relate to.

"Seems like they produce some pretty awesome drummers where you come from, man," he grins at me as I zip my sticks into their case. "Your band must be missing you; do they play similar stuff?"

"Oh, I'm not in a band back home." I respond. "I just play on the weekends with some mates--the odd gig at a bar, you know?" I smile at him over the drum kit.

"No way, fancy that; you're not a drummer!" His thin eyebrows shoot up. "Kudos to you then; you're doing well keeping up with this lot."

His words slam into my chest as if he raised his frail arms and physically shoved me.

Not a drummer

.

I know there was no ill intent in his words; he was just talking, but, damn, that stings.

"Ah. No." I blush, fighting the urge to wince. "I'm a lawyer, just here on a project for a few months." The words are thick, hard to get out, and I suddenly feel like an imposter.

Not a drummer.

Those three words make my heart ache. Am I an imposter lawyer or imposter drummer? Or worse, both? Who am I kidding, am I Warner or James? I shake my head lightly, wondering what the hell has happened to me lately to make me even acknowledge that thought.

Isaac sighs heavily, and his fingers graze one of his cymbals.

My mind turns from my selfish existential identity crisis to the very real life crisis of the man standing before me, and shame floods heat across my cheeks.

"You know, man, I think you could be a drummer if you wanted; you've definitely got skills. I was watching you; you were totally into it. You

need

to be totally into it for these guys; this may not be your life, but it is theirs... Ours," he corrects himself and ruefully glances around.

I pathetically shrug my shoulders, unsure how to respond; the revelation that he didn't see me as a drummer at this point was proving tough to swallow. For all my efforts to impress him, that one revelation about my life has clearly threaded some doubt in his mind.

The guy is not even a drummer,

I imagine him saying to the band.

"Life's too short, man; take it from me." He gives me a tight lip smile before he turns and walks back to his friends.

I stare as his thin frame is engulfed into the loving group as they relax and enjoy a beer, as they should before their milestone occasion.

Collecting my stuff, I quietly slip out the door and leave them to it--the original band following their dreams, commending their achievements, and most importantly, celebrating their friendship.

***

Up until this point in my life, soundchecks consisted of making sure that no cables were located in or around areas where drunk revellers might trip over them, or worse still, pull them out of their socket. Followed by a guy turning on the mic, tapping it with two fingers while simultaneously shouting, '

Is this thing on

?'

I never fully comprehended how much went on behind the scenes at major music events or how many people frantically buzzed about to make magic happen. I thought our call time was ridiculously early when Harvey put out the schedule. There was a hell of a lot of waiting around, but it was fascinating watching the lighting, visual, audio, equipment, and anything else you can think of get meticulously tested.

The real bonus was the food--an all you can eat, open all hours incredible buffet for our sustenance, whilst all we did was sit on our asses. The main act came and said,

Hi

, I am completely awestruck, and make a mental note to brag about it to Ana later. While I turn in slow circles on the huge stage, the main act band members nonchalantly go about their business like it's their second home. Which I guess it is. When I go to work I sit in a nondescript glass box on the 16th floor and people try to pretend that I don't exist. These guys go to work, and thousands of fans start cheering. That is a crazy level of cool, and I realise that my heart is singing because I get to be a small part of it.

When it's our turn to tune up, I sit behind the drums that are very coolly situated on their very own platform at the centre of the stage.

Holy crap

.

I run my fingers over the smooth edges of the rims and shift nervously on the stool. The kit is the stuff of a drummer's wet dream, but it's nothing compared to my reaction when I lift my head and look out into the venue, all set up for a concert that can hold almost 5000 people.

Five. Thousand. People

.

Don't pass out James

. I can't even comprehend what it will look like to see that many faces out there. My heart speeds up as I take in the rows upon rows of seats and rigs of lights all trained on the stage that I am sitting on. All those people looking at us, expecting to be entertained. Not a pub full of drunks, people who pay good money to see the music they love played live. OK, it wasn't strictly us they are paying to see, but the enormity of it comes crashing down. This blows every deposition, every court case, and every deal I have ever made in my whole career so far clean out of the water. I have never felt both this excited and simultaneously terrified, or just plain inspired by anything like this in my so-called day job.

I fish my phone out of my pocket and snap a picture of my viewpoint and flick it to my sister, a few friends from home, and Ana.

"And the drummer... Hey drummer, can we check your levels?" The sound engineer's voice echoes from the speakers, shaking me out of my dumbstruck gawking and into a heady moment of realisation.

Drummer, he thinks I'm a drummer.

Urgh. Now I have an acute sense of imposter syndrome in addition to the pinch me, I'm dreaming moment.

I play a quick fill across all the drums before shifting into a steady beat until he unceremoniously yells at me to stop.

I think that means I passed the first test, and completed a sound check. Just the rest of the night to get through. No pressure.

The engineers get us to play approximately half of our opening song, then deem that they have all the information they need for us to open the show, and eject us from the stage. This time we head to our allocated dressing room and find even more food on platters waiting for us. They certainly know how to keep a group of musicians from complaining; just keep feeding them!

Flopping onto a sofa, I pull some work out of my bag--documents I need to review before Monday, knowing that we still have a few hours of downtime before the doors open.

Harvey leans over and picks up one of the bound paper stacks and slowly flicks through the pages.

"Phew," he half whistles the word. "That looks like some heavy stuff there," he says, tossing it back down on the coffee table. "You must love it."

"It pays the bills, I guess." I mumble.

He cocks his head to the side and looks at me. I notice a flicker of sadness pass over his face and hastily tilt my head back down, but I struggle to read the familiar words that I have been reviewing my entire adult life.

I don't love it; I know I don't, but it's just...

How would I finish that sentence if I said it out loud to him?

Expected

.

It's the only word I can settle on in our imaginary ongoing conversation, and in complete contrast to how I felt just ten minutes ago on stage, my heart feels heavy.

Even ensconced in our room, we can sense the hectic setup process that is ongoing outside. People pop in and out with various updates and requests; a final trip to the stage to set some levels takes place before they instruct us to get ready and wait for our call time.

It is really happening. As our time draws closer, the energy in the room picks up. We take unplanned turns to sanity check the set list; where and when people are going to be; everything has to be perfect. I gradually feel like part of them again, part of their journey. I will forever be part of their growth, albeit a small part, but who knows where this may take them?

The anticipated knock on the door arrives, followed by a cute young woman with fantastically bright coloured hair and a headset on that she has pushed back from one ear. She pushes the door wide and props it open with her arm.

"Ready?" She questions, and we all fall silent, listening to the general melee of background noise, people filling the venue, chatter, and the occasional cheer.

Like baby ducklings, we follow her to the wings of the stage and listen to the compère as he warms up the crowd. Peeking around a huge speaker, I can see that the venue is approximately two-thirds full. A sea of faces is already forming, predominantly wearing band t-shirts emblazoned with the main act's logo. I swallow and look down at my hands, noticing the slight tremor running through my fingers. I ball them into fists and crack my neck from side to side.

It's just like any other Saturday night playing at the pub with your mates. You've got this.

Except this isn't anything like that at all.

For a group of relatively unknown musicians, as soon as the announcer's voice booms the band name through the speakers, the energy of the crowd instantly amplifies. My heart pounds as my feet move themselves forward. I don't dare to look to my right, at the audience who are cheering wildly, until after I climb the step onto the drum platform and settle myself behind the kit. Then I take a look.

Holy fuck.

There are people sitting, standing, filing in, and clapping as far as I can see. My mouth dries up as I squint into the lights and feel the weight of expectation wash over me. I rub the back of my head for comfort and shift my focus, scanning the stage for my bandmates and mapping their locations to anchor me. Each one illuminated as they lift guitar straps over their heads and fiddle nervously with their equipment.

Harvey bounces up and down on his toes, pumped and ready to go. I keep my focus on him, not wanting to miss my cue, and admire the way he steps up his presence to rightfully own this stage with effortless grace. His opening words are met with a roar of approval, and then he spins around, catching each of our eyes in turn, a mischievous glint in his eye, and a primal energy radiating from his body as he nods at us.

I lift my sticks, like so many times before, and cue in the opening song. It is happening. The guitarist unleashes his torrent of riffs, which is all it takes for the crowd to buy into the sound from that moment on. They surge forward as Harvey's voice soars out into the venue. I am already sweating, even before I made my first cymbal crash or my first roll on the drums, but it sweeps me away: these people--this beautiful sea of people--are listening to us.

Fucking Unbelievable.

We are producing some sort of irresistible energy in a tidal wave of music that is drawing these people into some sort of collective frenzy. At least that's how it seems to me. As my gaze sweeps across a chorus of adoration from the crowd, disbelief washes over me. This is surreal; I am a lawyer; this isn't supposed to be part of my existence.

Except it was; like a pure shot of dopamine, my brain latches onto the validation, to the affirmation. I have never experienced it before, not properly. I swallow, cutting through the dryness in my mouth, as my brain mulls over the idea that, like any good addict, after this fix, will I be able to resist its siren call and go back to the office? I don't have a choice, do I?

Cut the puppet strings.

Fuck it.

I am having this moment. I close my eyes as I thunder my sticks across the drums, surrounding myself in the energy of the crowd, surrendering to the music I was part of creating.

Stop thinking, James

, and as I surrender to my imagined music demons, I feel myself finally allowing that nagging to strike through the centre of my very being.

This is where I am supposed to be.

By the time we finish our set, the venue is full, and my shirt is wet with sweat and stuck to my skin. As Harvey tells the crowd who we are once again and conveys the band's thanks and gratitude, he finally turns to us, grinning from ear to ear. I step down from the drum platform, white knuckling my sticks in my hand, and join the band at the front edge of the stage to bow deeply. The roar the audience rewards us with is humbling.

I'm sad to leave the stage, but comfort myself that I get to do it all over again, twice more. The band leaps and crashes with excitement as we jostle our way back to the dressing room. We glance at each other as we hear the crowd's volume increase tenfold as the main act is introduced.

"That will be for us one day." Harvey calls out with a whoop as he opens the fridge and pulls out a large, chilled bottle of champagne.

In true rock star, or formula one style, he shakes it, opens it, and then lets fly, spraying bubbles everywhere. We take turns making nonsensical toast after toast, long into the main band's set, their muted sound the background to our celebrations. The moment immortalised as the band laugh, recount the highlights, compare notes, and generally just be in absolute awe at what we have just experienced. We gave everything on that stage for all the world to see, and they liked it.

After a shower and clean clothes, I call an Uber to go home. I don't want to lose this feeling; I want to go home and savour every part of what just happened. I may only get three goes at this, and I don't want to mess with my memories by going out and getting wasted. Not this time anyway.