Page 9 of Backstage

I look at the others and see the same smile I have planted on my face. We dodged a bullet that could have killed our career with this contest.

Their original song is the one that makes Evan fall. You can tell he wants to sign them and take them under his wing. It’s got mature, sometimes raw lyrics, about a woman who betrays her man. Unlike their rendition of “Jude,” “Give Me Back My Heart” is a rock song in the real sense of the word, with overbearing drums that get inside your stomach and make it vibrate. The guitarist gives free rein to his fingers that look possessed by speed flying along the neck of that guitar. The sound is clean, there are no smudges despite the fast rhythm. With the corner of my eye, I notice Michael pleasantly impressed by the young guitarist and Simon holding his hair tightly, his eyes grainy with surprise, his gaze fixed on the girl.

The bass player is something portentous. During the first song, I appreciated the sweet touch only a woman’s fingers can give, but now I’m amazed at the impressive strength she brings to those strings. She’s not using a pick, as you see younger bassists do more and more. She’s using the index and middle fingers of her right hand to torture the strings of her bass guitar with a violence and precision that makes the sound rumble through the chest until it vibrates. Her long fingers move with agility on the neck slightly wider than usual to accommodate the six strings. Few times in my career have I seen a bassist use a fretless bass with more than four strings. Together with the drummer, she creates the frenetic rhythm that makes you want to jump up and shout the song at the top of your lungs.

In the final verse, when the young kid sings, “With one hand you ripped my heart out of my chest, while with the other you waved at me smiling. Give me back my heart. Give me back my heart,” we’re all standing, excited, like we’re in the front row at a concert.

The few seconds of silence that follow are almost surreal. From the expression on my friends’ faces, I realize that none of us expected a band of this level.

“I’ll go get them and bring them to the office. You guys go break the news to the others,” Evan announces.

“Why do we have to tell them the bad news?” I protest like a child throwing a tantrum.

“Because you’re the one who started this mess.” He raises an eyebrow in a way that doesn’t allow a response.

I curl up in my chair, feeling like a schoolboy who’s just been lectured. I take a look at the others who invite me to lead the way and handle the matter in an unkind manner. I get up unwillingly and approach the waiting room with a funeral step, followed by my friends at a safe distance. As soon as they see us, the boys jump up with their faces full of expectation. I feel like an asshole for destroying their dreams.

“There’s no easy way to say this, so...we chose the third group,” I say bluntly. How do they say? Better a tooth out than always ache, right?

“Jesus, ‘tact’ is your middle name,” I hear Michael laughing behind my back.

I’d like to turn around and give him the stink eye, but the lead singer of the first band, the one with the lacquered toupee on his head, saves me from the embarrassment.

“You picked those losers? What kind of losers are you?” he spits, disgusted, and annoyed.

“Insulting someone who might give you a job in the future is not a great move, genius,” the other singer jokes and then turns to us and smiles. A sad, disappointed smile, but still sincere. “Thank you for this opportunity, really. It’s already been an honor to have reached the top three and play in front of you,” he adds, extending the hand I’m happy to shake.

I smile. I like this guy.

“You know what? You may not be ready for an international tour yet, but you certainly have potential. Leave me your number, maybe there’s a chance to set something up here in New York,” I tell him by pulling out my phone.

The blondie seems like he might faint at any moment. Still, he handles the situation better than the singer of the other band who, indignant, marches straight to the exit, trying to slam the door behind him but failing miserably, because it’s one of those automatic ones that slows down to prevent the glass from shattering in a moment of anger. I know because I’ve tried several times without succeeding. His bandmates are so embarrassed by what happened that they disappear in total silence.

*

On the way back, we find Evan in the hallway motioning us to one of the offices used for meetings—an anonymous room with a vast window overlooking Manhattan’s spectacular view. Madison Square Park’s trees extend below us, and the Flatiron building stands just beyond the park. If I approach the window, I’m sure I’ll find a bustle of tourists with their noses up and cameras hanging around their necks, their eyes dreaming, and their mouths wide open. Because that’s what New York does to you: fills you with wonder and amazement every time you turn the corner and discover a glimpse you don’t expect.

Once inside, we find ourselves in front of the four young people who stop their conversation as soon as we open the door. They sit next to each other and are clearly embarrassed, not knowing whether to stand up like when the principal enters the classroom or sit down and be less afraid than they are in reality. We try to subdue their discomfort by sitting across from them.

I look at them carefully. They are all in their twenties and have that mixture of disbelief and hope in their eyes that makes me smile. They’re lucky. I had already learned by their age that life can be a real bitch, and that it can take away so much, too much, without giving you anything, making you sweat for every single breath. Everybody’s excited except the girl who, lowering her hood, looks like she’s about to throw up. I watch her for a few seconds too long, and lose myself in those delicate features that look almost doll-like. It’s absurd how a girl like that can handle the bass with a force that rips your insides out when you listen to it. My eyes rest on her hands, on her tapered fingers that are now closed in fists so tight her knuckles have turned white.

“As you may have guessed already,” Evan begins with a half-smile, “our choice is you. You will be the band to open the concerts for the Jailbirds’ American tour if you read the contract and accept the terms,” he says without much preamble, leaving them speechless and dazed.

I’ve read that contract, and it’s a great piece of paper that protects both them and us, no musician in his or her right mind would refuse such conditions. Which is why I’m completely stunned when the girl bursts into tears, jumps up and drops the chair on the floor, and runs out like we just killed someone in front of her eyes.

“Lil,” the singer’s whisper comes out muffled as he follows her with his eyes, undecided whether to go after her while the others look around in dismay. I look at my companions, who are as confused as I am.

What the hell just happened?

The recording room is empty, and it’s the first place I can think of to take refuge while the tears keep rolling down my face. I hate myself for it. I’m not used to crying, especially for things that aren’t exactly sad. It’s the fear that takes over, and I can’t control it, manage it in this foreign environment. That stresses me out so much that I run away like a little girl. I’ve been overwhelmed by emotions, like a wave threatening to drown me, ever since agreeing to take part in this damn contest, and our name appearing in the top hundred.

“Hey, come here,” Luke says as he grabs me by the wrist and pulls me in a firm, comforting embrace. Luke, my Luke, I don’t think he’s gonna get me out of this mess this time.

“What do I do now?” I ask him in a whisper.

My friend breathes deeply and holds his breath for a few seconds. “Let’s figure something out,” he says in a tone a little lighter than mine.

“What, Luke? What?” I raise my voice and pull myself away from his grip. “You told me to do the video, and I did it because there were thousands of bands to compete against. When we entered the first hundred, you told me the chances were still slim. When we entered the top three, you told me to wear a sweatshirt and cover myself and imagine I was in the rehearsal room... Now what do I do? Brad started wearing me out as soon as he saw our name. He’s not gonna stop, and you know it. I don’t want to go back to being fifteen again, Luke! Now he’s got hundreds of thousands of followers worshipping him like he’s the god of sarcasm and witty banter.” The panic is evident in my voice.

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