Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  I can hear girls screaming from the crowd. Random adoration. They sing out “I love you” or song requests. I notice a girl on her friend’s shoulders, desperately waving at me to get my attention.

  “There’s a lot more of you than there is of us, so you’ll have to be gentle,” I say, wryly.

  “Don’t listen to him,” says Dylan into his microphone. “You can be as rough as you like.” He sends me a cheeky grin and winks.

  “Time to dance,” I say, and the house lights are extinguished. I turn and watch Cohen as his drumbeat leads us into ‘Last Night’. After we finish the classic Strokes song, Emerson begins the walking bass intro to ‘Seven Nation Army’ and the crowd immediately claps in unison. We then play ‘I Can’t Get No (Satisfaction)’. Then appear the monstrous riffs of ‘Richard III’ by Supergrass. My voice is drowned in my monitors. I get the attention of the mixer at the side of the stage and he turns up my vocal feedback.

  Emerson and Cohen play the opening groove of one of our newer songs, ‘It’s Nice To Know You Work Alone’. It was originally recorded by Silversun Pickups. During the slinking intro, Dylan and I swig from a bottle of red wine. Dylan is smiling. He loves having a captive audience. The bigger the better. After the Pickups tune, every light vanishes. Then a small backlight is faded up and I can glance down at my set list, which is taped to the stage just to the right of my microphone stand.

  “Thank you for coming along tonight and being a part of the Big Bang Theory journey,” I say, into the microphone. “It’s nice to be loved.” We then burst into ‘You Love Us’ by Manic Street Preachers.

  During the subsequent songs I often step to the back of the stage and face Cohen, who’s just wearing his jeans. Sweat forms on his brow and chest, the muscles in his arms knotted as he pounds his kit. He spares me a small smile through his concentration and exertion. I can tell he’s enjoying himself.

  When I stand at the microphone and sing to these people, I’m thinking about what I’m playing with my left hand, occasionally glancing down at my fingers on the neck, even though I don’t really need to look anymore. I scan the crowd but I can’t see past the first five rows of faces, all contorted and crushed against each other. It’s usually men at the front, because they’re physically bigger and can stand the force of the moshpit that pins them there. But as I look toward either end of the barricade, young females appear. Their faces are shaped in screams and sobs of unbridled admiration, hands frantically waving when I glance at them. To be loved and worshiped by strangers is an incomparable sensation. These creatures have never met me. But in their hearts they know me. They know all they need to. Music is a window to the soul and this writhing mass believes it can see mine.

  “Are you still with us?” I shout into the microphone. The crowd cheers in reply. I shake my head and, even louder, yell. “I said, are you still with us?” The crowd replies in a much higher volume, clapping, hollering and wailing back at me. “That’s better,” I smile. We play ‘The Song Remains The Same’. Big Bang Theory then rocks through Pearl Jam’s ‘Last Exit’.

  “Alright,” I say into the microphone, “we’re only going to play another song if you promise to get hectic. Can you promise us you’ll do that?” The crowd roars in response. “Okay then. I believe you. Don’t let us down.” The opening chords of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ elicit a wave of hysteria that builds and crashes inside the mammoth venue. Immediately people start leaping in the air. We then perform ‘Song 2’, a tune by a British band called Blur.

  Then it’s time for me to sit at a small piano for ‘Karma Police’ by Radiohead. Next on the set list are Neil Young’s ‘Cortez The Killer’, Ryan Adams’s ‘The House Is Not For Sale’ and ‘Moving’ by Supergrass. The crowd sings along to every song, word for word, and I get tingles throughout my body as their voices wash on to the stage. An ebb and flow of musical energy.

  We then return to some more progressive rock tracks. This long portion of the show includes Mountain’s ‘Nantucket Sleighride’, Yes’s ‘South Side of the Sky’, Deep Purple’s ‘Child In Time’ and Queen’s ‘Great King Rat’. During some of the breakdowns I’ll walk over to Dylan’s side of the stage and we’ll face each other, sharing a smile as we lock into riffs or while he solos over the top of me. Other times Dylan and I will stand on the edge of the stage, wailing away into the abyss. The coloured lights of mobile phones continue to blink in the wall of black, filming us or flashing photographs.

  Emerson is more restrained, often standing back near his stack of amplifiers, glancing over at Cohen, maintaining their tightly woven rhythms. I sometimes look over to get his attention, but he’s always somewhere else, his long brown hair cascading down over his face. He definitely gets in a zone. Some distant, dark corner of the mind.

  The stage lights die and we walk off stage. Someone points a flashlight at the stairs so we can see our feet. Dylan, Emerson and I pass our instruments to our technicians, who immediately start retuning them. The crowd screams and bays for more. They chant in unison, like an army. Clapping. Marching up and down where they stand, roaring “Theeeeeory, Theeeeeory….”

  We dash up the tunnel to our dressing rooms, past many towering security guards. In my private dressing room I go into the bathroom and empty my bladder. I then grab a white towel that’s sitting on the sofa and dry my face and hair, which has thickened since I cut it off. There’s a fridge in the room that is stocked with alcohol. I grab a cold can of beer and open it. I then return to the corridor and walk back to the auditorium.

  In the darkness behind the stage, where I find Cohen and Emerson, the sound of the crowd is deafening. The mass of people claps in time and creates thunder beneath their stomping feet. The seating is steep and rises high into the air, stopping before it reaches the metal beams of the ceiling. Those beams seem a mile away.

  A few more minutes pass and I see Dylan appear next to me. He’s wiping at his nose. He throws an arm around my shoulder.

  “Ready to change someone’s life?” he asks.

  “Always,” I reply.

  Someone shines a small torch on the stairs again and I ascend them on my own. In the dim light I walk across to the small piano next to the drum kit and sit down. Some people in the crowd have spotted my silhouette and a wall of cheering hits me as the encore begins. A single white downlight appears above me and I perform a song originally written by a group called Blitzen Trapper called ‘Heaven and Earth’. It’s an apt song to open an encore, though its ironic significance is known only to me.

  The rest of the band reappears and the crowd greets them with a roar. A guitar technician brings me my red neon electric guitar as I return to the centre microphone. We then perform ‘In The Evening’ and ‘Black Dog’, both Led Zeppelin songs.

  Before we play our final song, I take a moment to introduce the band. Each of them receives a rapturous applause. “And I’m Jack,” I say, and the crowd responds with their trademark appreciation. “You’ve been beautiful,” I add. “Thank you for making this such a romantic evening.” I give the crowd another opportunity to cheer, before I say, “We’ve been Big Bang Theory. See you again soon.”

  I begin the intro to ‘Stairway To Heaven’.

  In my dressing room I walk into the bathroom, peel off my sweaty clothing and take a cold shower. I lean against the tiles, the water cascading down my aching body. We’ve played for almost three hours and I’m exhausted. After I turn off the water, I dry myself with a large, fresh white towel and pull on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that hang on clothes hooks behind the dressing room door.

  I then walk to the table at the side of the room, which has been stocked with my personal rider. I pour some hot water from the electric jug into a metal cup. I add milk, honey and two shots of spirit. My throat feels like I’ve been chewing and swallowing wads of sandpaper.

  Drink in hand, I leave my dressing room and walk up to the larger communal room where the band and some of our road crew are drinking. I’m introduced to a few random peop
le. One of them owns this auditorium and he’s brought his son with him, who is a big fan. There are also some people from one of the drink companies that sponsor the venue. I pose for some photographs and sign some merchandise. t-shirts and posters and albums. I’m too exhausted to really engage in any deep level of conversation, but I try very hard to smile and be polite. Then I’m greeted by a few people from a national radio station that is a media partner of the tour. One of them is a presenter that I did a live interview with a few days ago. More photographs. More autographs.

  I see Gillan on the other side of the room, chatting to Emerson’s bass technician, drinking a beer. Gillan is waiting to drive us back to the hotel in a hired people mover. I excuse myself from the surrounding conversation and walk over to him.

  “How soon before we can get out of here?” I say, quietly.

  “Want me to try and round everyone up?” he asks.

  “I don’t know if the band’s ready to leave yet. But I am. I feel like I’m still on stage.”

  I return to my dressing room, grab my shoulder bag, and head back to the communal area. I say goodbye to everyone as quickly as I can. Emerson taps me on the shoulder.

  “Are you escaping?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I smile.

  “Good. You’re taking me with you.”

  Emerson and I follow Gillan towards the rear of the venue, the grey concrete walls curving until we reach the raised roller door of the load-in area at the rear of the auditorium. We walk down a small ramp and cut between two of our giant semi-trailers. A few roadies come up and shake my hand, their palms like scourers. A cigarette invariably sits precariously beneath their moustaches.

  “See you tomorrow morning,” I smile to the members of the crew. There is a buffet breakfast scheduled for tomorrow morning at the hotel. They wave a farewell and continue their heavy work.

  Gillan jumps into the front seat of our mini van. Emerson and I load into the back seat as our driver fires the engine and rolls us towards the security exit of the large outdoor load-in area. As we round some more vehicles and the perimeter fence comes into sight, we’re greeted by about two hundred fans camped outside on the footpath and road. I can see the flashing lights of some police vehicles. Officers are attempting to disperse the crowd. There’s a tall security gate with a small guard’s post just inside it. Security personnel are standing in a row behind the fence, arms behind their backs, trying to intimidate people into staying outside.

  Gillan stops the van in its tracks. “Looks like we have ourselves a party,” he says.

  Through my window I can see the crowd has noticed our van. We have tinted windows. While that hides our identity it’s also evidence that we’re someone worth protecting. The horde electrifies with the realisation that there are band members present. Young girls push themselves against the mesh of the security fence. They won’t get through or over it. The fence is twelve foot high with barbed wire looped across its top. The women are holding signs. I can see one, on pink card with hand-painted writing. It says, ‘I love you Jack!!’ It is clear that hours of thought have gone into it.

  “Ex-lovers of yours?” asks Emerson, wryly.

  “It’s entirely possible,” I say, sitting directly behind Gillan. “What’s the plan?”

  “I could try to drive through them,” shrugs Gillan.

  “What if they don’t move?” I ask.

  “They won’t want to get run over,” says Gillan.

  “They might,” I say.

  “Yeah,” agrees Emerson. “Amelia has stressed on many occasions that we’re not allowed to cripple our fans.”

  “Well, let’s loiter here for a few minutes and see if they give up,” says Gillan.

  “They’ve spotted the van,” I say. “They’re not going anywhere.”

  “So what’s the plan?” asks Emerson. “There’s got to be another exit.”

  I stare through the windscreen at the baying herd. They’re pulsing with infatuation. They’re no longer individuals but a multi-cellular organism.

  “Fuck it,” I say, quietly, and reach into my shoulder pack. My hand snakes towards the bottom and I find a small plastic envelope. I pull it out and reach inside with thumb and index finger to find a pill, which I place on my tongue.

  “Seriously?” asks Emerson. “We’ve got an early flight tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be on the flight,” I say. “I’ll be flying wherever I want.”

  I produce a metal flask of spirit and use its contents to wash down the pill.

  “What’s going on back there?” asks Gillan, looking in his rearview mirror.

  “Jack’s gone,” says Emerson. “He left us.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I chuckle. “Gillan, I need a favour.”

  “Yes…?” he asks, with palpable trepidation.

  “I’m going to need a guitar, wireless lead, wireless headset and one of the amplifiers. Could you get the roadies to throw it together and bring it over there to the fence?”

  Gillan is silent for a moment, and then turns to me. “You still got energy to play for these people?”

  “I’ll find the energy,” I reply.

  Gillan smiles. “Okay, fuck it.”

  I open my door. Emerson opens his too. “I’m coming with you,” he says.

  “Gillan, you better bring his bass and amp then,” I say.

  I grin at Emerson, then open my van door and step out into the white floodlights. Emerson does the same. When I peer over the door, across to the security fence, a pause precedes an almighty roar as the crowd screams and pushes against the boundary. Emerson and I approach them, their volume rising with every step. The security guards notice us and alarm crosses their faces. One of them, who seems senior, marches towards me, waving his arms.

  “Sir, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says.

  “It’s fine,” I smile. “That’s a very big fence.”

  Emerson and I brush past him, the lights of cameras washing over us as we arrive at the gate. People push their hands through the mesh and we shake them and sign pieces of merchandise. The young men and women against the fence are being crushed as they wave their arms desperately through the metal bars. Emerson and I walk briskly back and forth, signing as much as we can, smiling into cameras as we try to shift the weight of the crowd. Minutes pass and I hear vehicles behind me. Gillan’s van and a second people mover cruise toward me and pull up about twelve feet away. Some of our roadies pour out of the second van holding equipment.

  “Put the amp on the top of Gillan’s truck,” I say.

  “It might not be steady up there,” says the roadie.

  “It’ll be fine,” I smile. “I think there’s electricity in the guard’s post.” I point to the small structure next to the gate.

  A few of the roadies manage to lift the amp on top of Gillan’s van. Then one of them runs a lead over to the post. I’m handed a microphone headset and my guitar. I plug in the wireless lead. With the electrified guitar in one hand, I step on to the front bumper bar of the van and up the bonnet and windscreen, until I’m standing on the roof. The metal makes a slight crumpling sound under my weight, but doesn’t seem to dent too aggressively. The amp has been propped against one of the metal roof racks. After checking to make sure the guitar and vocal channels are both working, I toggle a few knobs and then turn around to address the crowd.

  “Haven’t you kids had enough?” I yell.

  The crowd howls in response.

  “Alright, well I’m going to play you a few new songs. But you have to promise to stop pushing forward because there’s some people on the fence getting crushed. So move back or I won’t play a single note. Deal?”

  They cheer again and the pressure on the front fans eases.

  “Alright,” I smile. “This is a brand new song that I’ve never played to anyone before. It’s called ‘Hey Joe’.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Even after I wake, my heart thumps in my chest. I focus my mind to distinguish
between reality and the nightmare. A giant blur. The sheet beneath me is wet with sweat and my hair is matted to my pillow.

  There are other beds around me in the homeless shelter. I can see them in what little light there is. Other drifters. I slept here last night instead of the abandoned newspaper building. I followed a vagrant, out of curiosity. To get some tips on life without an address. He came here where they served warm meals. Upon a brief inquiry I was told that there was a spare bed if I needed one. It beats the hard carpet beneath an office desk.

  I quietly ease my bare feet to the cold floor. Whispers and snores fill the air. It’s the early hours of the morning. I think I hear a low growl. I crane my neck, looking around. Something scurries. Possibly rodents. Instinctively, I return my feet to the mattress.

  One side of the room has high windows and I can see a glow beyond them. The promise of rising suns. I reach under the wiry mattress, find my jacket and then depart, moving quickly towards the rear exit. Stepping quietly between the rows of beds, I arrive at a rickety door. The aged wood makes a shrill squeak as I join the unfolding morning.

  The receding darkness suits my escape. I’m in a gravel parking lot. Dumpsters and industrial scraps line a perimeter fence. I head for an open gate and then turn up the street, following the cool footpaths. Still groggy from sleep, I wind my way across the city, avoiding major roads. My clothes are more tattered and dirty than when I acquired them, so my residential status is more apparent.

  Yesterday I saw a street sign pointing towards a major park. It was called something simple. Something like “Easton Botanical Gardens”. It’s a public area. It sounds like a good place to pass time and I trust my sense of direction to find it.

  Shops are opening. Lights appear inside. Uniformed people prepare stock on shelves or arrange tables. In the cafes you can see folks firing up coffee machines. Furniture is moved to the footpaths. More cars appear on the roads too. Darting about like mice in a maze.

  On a corner I walk past a venue called the Yanque Hotel. Security guards stand silently by its entrance. I can hear dance music inside. A few drunken people loiter about on the footpath, smoking cigarettes, chatting. All of them are sweating and look pretty wired and pale. Red, bleary eyes. It must be a twenty-four place. All of the windows are tinted, so I can’t see inside. Forever night.