Page 10 of Paparazzi

“Your working day must be really hard, all those smiles, the cameras. A real ordeal.” It’s so natural to talk to him that I become brazen in making fun of him. Of course, I don’t typically restrain myself when it comes to being ironic and sarcastic, but I do it with Emily, a person I’ve known for years, not a stranger.

Luckily for me, Thomas laughs. He seems really comfortable staying here chatting with me, and I can’t help but gloat a little bit.

“Don’t get me wrong, I like it, just sometimes I don’t know if these people are here to take a picture with us or to really listen to our music. Every time we release a new song, I get a lump in my stomach because I think, ‘What if people think it sucks?’ Having an idea of the public’s reaction before being thrown into the lion’s den helps me to be more prepared, that’s all.”

“You’re a perfectionist.”

Thomas crinkles his nose. “Not exactly. I like to be aware of things to solve problems when they arise. Having some of the information in advance helps me better cope with what life throws at me.”

I smile at his response. It’s clear that he wants to have things under control, and I honestly understand. It must not be easy to live at his level of fame. Something gets out of hand, and everything is immediately magnified to the point of crushing you.

“If I had won the contest, you could have read the review on my blog. Too bad I didn’t win.” The words slip from my lips before I can connect my tongue to my brain. I don’t want him to know what I write. But it’s too late to pretend I said nothing. His eyes seem to light up.

“You have a blog?”

There was no chance he would miss that part. “Yes, I like music, so I thought I’d take advantage of living in a city where I can find it until I get tired and write about what I like. Concerts I go to, up-and-coming bands, album reviews...nothing different from what everyone else does.” I try to downplay it. I don’t want to make a big fuss about a successful blog; it’s certainly not comparable to an industry magazine.

He nods, looking me in the eye as if he really cares about what I’m saying. “Are you a journalist? Who do you work for?’

“No, I’m not a journalist. I’m a simple music lover who was lucky enough to build a following online, that’s all.”

He nods, and, luckily for me, he doesn’t investigate any further. “And have you tried to enroll in the contest?”

I look down, a little ashamed. Why did I say anything? Looks like I’m whimpering because I didn’t get what I wanted. “Yes, but I’m not worried about it. I’m going to write a blog post about the event. I came here to take some pictures, so I could put out original content instead of the usual old photos from the internet.”

“What’s the name of the blog?”

“Rocking in New York, why?”

He pulls out his cellphone, and I watch him type something on the screen. “Man, you’ve got a lot of followers. Are you sure you’re not a journalist?”

I burst out laughing and shake my head. “I am not, trust me. I don’t earn anything from that blog.”

Thomas looks at me, puzzled. “Really? With that following, you should be able to monetize.”

“I decided to keep it without ads or affiliations. I don’t want to feel tied up because someone pays me to review a certain product or band. It was born out of my need to talk about music, and I want to have the freedom to say what I think.”

Thomas nods and smiles. He seems to think about it. He looks at his cell phone, scrolling in search of something. He motions for me to stay where I am. And why would I move? I don’t think my legs would hold me for two steps. I’ll have to sit here for the rest of the day to recover from this second meeting. If I was thrilled to see him in the first place, I’m on cloud nine for sharing something so personal with him. This goes way beyond knowing things about him through his public image: this feels profound.

A few seconds later, a smile brightens his face, highlighting two small dimples covered with a few days’ beard scruff. He grabs his earphones from his pants pocket and hands them to me. I stay still, puzzled for a few seconds at his gesture.

“Do you or don’t you want to write the review of these singles?”

It takes several seconds, staring at him like a complete idiot, before I realize he’s actually proposing I listen to their music. “Are you serious? Look, my blog isn’t a magazine. I don’t have any credibility in the industry... I’m not someone who can give you visibility or anything...I mean, you don’t get anything out of what I write... I’m just a loser who has a blog and zero social life.”

Thomas’s thunderous laugh makes me stop my inconclusive blabbering and utterly embarrassing stuttering. “We don’t need publicity, trust me, for that we have legions of agencies. But it would be nice to have an opinion from someone who listens to music out of passion and not just for work.”

“Considering that I liked ‘Sunshine’ from your very first album, I may be biased when it comes to your music.”

Thomas looks at me wide-eyed, with such surprise he almost seems speechless. “But we didn’t even put that song on the album for the label. It was part of a demo we recorded in the beginning so Evan could represent us!” he exclaims, stunned.

I raise my shoulders and smile at him. “I’ve been following you for a while.”

He shakes his head with an incredulous smile and invites me to listen to the new pieces. I grab his earphone with trembling hands, take the notebook and pen from the bag, open them, and motion for him to hit play.

The first one out of the earphones is so overwhelming I find it hard to sit back and take notes. I want to get off this stool, move to the beat, and sing along—even if I don’t know the words. It’s a rhythm that overwhelms in every sense, and it shows how much they’ve grown and matured musically since the last album. It’s hard rock, sometimes a bit dirty. Damian’s voice is dreary and scratchy. It gets into your gut and holds you in a grip. The rhythm is hectic, overwhelming, does not let you breathe. It’s that classic concert song that gets you up, jumping frantically and falling, exhausted, at the end, burned of all the energy in your body. I can’t wait to hear it played from a stage, with Thomas’s arms frantically beating on the drums, sweat dripping from his forehead and gluing those dark curls to his face. I want to see Simon and Michael’s fingers flying all over their instruments in the frenzy of the moment, setting and breaking the rules with every refrain. I want to see Damian wriggle on that stage as if possessed, unleashing a hormonal storm in every single woman in the stadium.

The second song is slower than the first. Still, it vibrates inside you, dragging you to the underworld with low tones, and leaving you there to agonize under the lashes of Damian’s voice accompanied by dry, almost violent drum shots. It’s a march that guides you into the darkest corners of the soul and brings out agonizing emotions. I have never heard Simon go so violently on the strings of that bass; he’s usually the quiet one, the one who almost softens the rough sound of their music. Not this time. He seems to want to destroy the instrument, to emphasize the rawness of the lyrics of this song. It’s a song of revenge, of payback, almost of hatred toward those who hurt you.

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