Page 13 of If Not for My Baby
Six. Thousand. People.
You think you know what six thousand people looks like,from movies, from going to big shows but…it’s nothing compared to staring out at a sea of them. A bellowing, blossoming mass. The sheer number of blinking phone lights and handmade signs astounds me. Six thousand people means twelve thousand ears that are going to hear me sing tonight. I’m stunned—I’mdizzy—I’m…feeling somewhere between more gratitude than I know what to do with and the urge to steal Lionel’s Skechers and run for my life.
I follow Molly to take our places behind the mics. When she adjusts her stand to her height I do the same. Grayson sits down at his keyboard and women in the front row scream his name so loudly I fear for their vocal cords. Conor gets a fair amount of love, too, and I catch a woman flash her breasts at him. Conor tips the neck of his bass toward her in appreciation.
And still, no Halloran.
But this audience…it’s not just the size of them. I’ve been to concerts. Everly and I have seen the biggest pop stars in Austin, we’ve belted stadium country, we’ve even attempted a mosh pit—I’veneverseen an audience so feral for someone before. The women especially…they’re practically foaming at the mouths.
I’ve listened to the music. I understand his lyrical gift and his angel’s voice and his outrageously tall, long-haired, indie-god thing. I’ve seen videos of women weeping before the Beatles and fainting at BTS shows. I am moved by music more than anyone I’ve ever met, and evenstill, the level of mania I’m witnessing seems a little excessive. I turn to Molly as if to say,This is nuts, right?But her eyes have fallen to stage left.
The crowd has ratcheted up to an evenhigherdecibel than I thought possible. The lights go down, drowning the theater in deep, sensual red. Artificial fog billows in soft clouds across the stage floor. Conor strums the first, bone-chilling note on his bass.
And then…Tom Halloran walks out.
Five
The ferociouseruptionfrom thecrowd at the sight of him shakes the vertebrae in my spine. Halloran hardly even reacts. He’s casual, calm, wearing a simple pair of dark trousers, those same white high-top Converse, and a beat-up brown leather jacket like he’s going to spend the day thrifting. Approaching the mic with a genuine smile, he sets down what appears to be some kind of on-the-go mug, waves once to the electrified audience, and when Conor’s chord hits the cue, begins to sing.
Then he brings. The house.Down.
With each rip of his guitar and sailing chorus from the depths of his chest, I realize more and more that Tom Halloran is the most sensual, soulful, roaringly talented musician I’ve ever borne witness to. His voice has a swaggering fullness to it—round and smooth and complex. An intimacy, though he’s playing to thousands.
Molly and I come in as backing vocals on the next song, “Halcyon,” and I’m already breathless. It begins as anopenhearted, tender ballad and when the first high note arrives, my pulse freezes—
But I hit it to a tee.
And it feels like releasing a breath I’ve held for days.
As I clap in time with Molly to the plush, swirling beat, we keep the harmony easily, and I’m surprised by the inexplicable desire to laugh. I’ve missed performing so terribly. I’ve missed the music swimming through my body. The live audience, the adrenaline, the utterly liberating and devastating realization that every show can only exist in that moment. That you are one mere thread in the luscious tapestry that is unfurling before the crowd. It’s the sharpest point of creation, live performance. And I adore it with everything in me.
I belt the next honey-sweet riff while Halloran shakes those wild curls and stomps his massive feet as the chorus breaks into a knee-quaking rock anthem. I can feel his movements in my bones. His entire sonic landscape in my chest. His pain, somehow, in my own heart.
“Halcyon” ends to raucous applause and we all suck in breaths like we’ve finished a marathon. I tear my eyes from the glittering mass of phone screens and camera flashes to peek at Molly beside me. Aside from the slight sheen of sweat across her brow she looks radiant. Poised. She offers me a single nod of approval and I return the gesture in thanks.
“C’mere, Memphis,” Halloran’s voice booms, breathless, as he addresses the rabid crowd.
C’mere.I heard him say it in the interviews I watched on the bus here. An Irish phrase meaninglisten, orlisten to me. But that accent is so thick in person, the corners of my mouthquirk up. There’s something earnest and endearing about it, despite the clear command he wields over his audience. A kind, soft-spoken woodsman who still knows his way around an axe.
Pushing hair from his face, he attempts to begin the next song but the crowd won’t let him. Not while they scream and chant his name. Louder and louder. Three syllables on repeat:Hal-lor-an, Hal-lor-an, Hal-lor-an.He can’t even hide his smile as he turns to Conor across the stage in wonder. Conor only shrugs with a devilish grin.
Okay, these boys are cute.
Fine.Fine.I’m not blind. I can admit it to myself—Halloraniscute. He’s handsome, he’s talented, he’s humble. He’s practically dazzling when he grins.Fine, I say to my mom in my head.
The crowd might have been just starting to quiet, but when Halloran bends down to grab his mug and takes a sip, they rip into another set of near-agonized roars as the long column of his neck works a swallow.
Someone in the crowd screams, “WHICH TEA IS IT?” and the whole lot of them break into shrieks of glee at some inside joke I’m not privy to. But Halloran just laughs into his mug. I quirk a brow at Molly, who’s fighting a smile of her own. If I squint, I can barely make out a sign in the front row held up by two young girls that readsBarry’s or Lyons?with a drawing of tea bags.
“Just pure petrol,” Halloran says into the mic softly, his voice smoother now from the hot drink. “Only way I function. I’m a menace without my morning petrol.”
The collective laughter is deafening. He chuckles along with them—his unseriousness between songs even more charming than any online clip could have prepared me for.
“No,” he adds, still grinning. “That’s not true. Don’t go spreadin’ that…” He appraises his mug, one hand still on his guitar. “Don’t you think it’d ruin the fun,” he asks the crowd, voice deep and gentle, “if I told ye?”
Another side effect of the accent—you, said likeyeh.More uncontrollable screaming. His sly smirk. The red lights turn hazy blue, and the next song on the set list picks up with a percussive beat.
“Just going to lighten the mood a little,” Halloran says as the beat thumps, “with a joyful ditty about freezing to death.”
