by Jody French
They really get into the shows. I always get tickled at Aunt Carmen. She never quite gets the “devil horns” rocker sign right. She always makes the symbol for “I love you” in sign language by adding the index finger into the equation. Mama and Aunt Carmen are my biggest fans—two cool chicks.
Randy and Cody think it’s a drag when their moms come to our shows. Instead of cool concert digs, Randy’s mom, who is a third grade school teacher, opts to wear a cardigan or denim shirt with apples on it. Cody’s mom is really loud and always says hello to us by singing our band’s name out in an operatic tone. I think they’re all just great. Heck, the more supporters, the better, and Randy’s mom always brings her blue ribbon award-winning chocolate chip pecan cookies to all the shows.
Backstage, I peek out from behind the stale, smoke-infused curtain at the growing crowd. It looks as though at least five hundred people are here, but I still feel loose and confident.
I never really get nervous before a show. Once I play the first note of the first song, I’m usually good to go. It’s the same way for me on the football field at the start of a game. One good, dead on, smashing tackle and all the butterflies disappear.
As I survey the crowd, someone catches my eye. It’s the cute chick with the runaway drumsticks from our pep assembly. I knew she looked familiar. I remember now seeing her at a couple of our shows. She looks so different without her band uniform topped off with the awkward fuzzy hat.
She’s standing in the front row of the crowd tonight. Her bright blonde hair is shining in the house lights. To my surprise she’s actually wearing the same t-shirt I am—a grey Led Zeppelin tee—my lucky charm shirt. I’m sure hoping it works its magic tonight with the record label executive. She’s cut the collar out of hers, however, and snipped it just right so that it hangs casually off her pretty right shoulder.
I can see that she’s wearing a bit more makeup than she does at school. Her black eyeliner is swept up at the corners, giving her beautiful, liquid blue eyes an exotic, cat-like appearance. Her perfect, full lips are shining with clear gloss.
I can’t take my eyes off her as she stands with her hand on her hip laughing with a group of her friends. For a moment I lose my train of thought—I’m in full daydream mode as Cody walks up behind me and gooses me in the ribs with his drumsticks.
“Let’s go, dude. Let’s rock this mother!” He commands, twirling his sticks like mini-batons.
I shake my head and come back to reality. I ask Cody if he knows my mystery girl. He tells me her name is Sophie. I put my head back in the game, whip my Les Paul around like a Wild West gunslinger. I hum Pantera’s tune, “Cowboys From Hell,” move my fingers across my chest in the shape of a cross, even though I’m not Catholic, and cruise in coolly from stage left.
As the boys and I man our positions, the crowd goes nuts. Stepping up to the mic, I scream my usual, “Are you ready to roooock?” Electricity crackles in the atmosphere around the illuminated stage. The guitar amps squeal. Cody snaps his drumsticks together, beginning what is to be our band’s best set ever.
During the show, I’m totally mesmerized by Sophie's presence. I find myself singing and playing to her in the crowd. Her rocking skills are more than impressive. She even knows how to head bang like a pro. Her soft, layered blonde hair gets disheveled as she flings it under the smoky colored lights. She sings every word to each song right along with me. Every time I look her way, I feel like I’m floating over the stage. Our eyes lock several times during the show—there’s a definite connection between us.
I’m now sure that I want to get to know Sophie—the girl in the marching band drum line—better. She seems way cool.
After the show, our merch table is a madhouse. T-shirts are being slung around as Jake, Randy, Cody, and I sign autographs and our cheap demo CDs for at least thirty minutes. I usually stay longer than the other boys. They inevitably became antsy and go backstage to sneak cigarettes with the older musicians. I know the boys think it makes them look cool and adult-like, but every time I surprise them in a smoke hole, I have the opposite vision. To me they look like children playing “grown-up.”
I had decided early on that I didn’t need cigarettes to look cool. Besides, skipping the smoke breaks gives me more time for the fans. I absolutely love visiting with them. If there’s even a single warm body waiting at our table, I’ll be there.
As the crowd at the table dies down, a Joe Dirt look-alike approaches me for a picture. The fan’s girlfriend snaps the shot with her camera phone, and he leans in. “Hey man, I got some weed, dude. You cool? You need a hook up, my man?” the avid rocker whispers on the down low. The sharp smell of alcohol mixes with his words.
I smile wide and give him the usual. “No thanks, man…I got Jesus!”
“Oh cool…cool, man. That’s awesome, dude!” he stutters, pumping my hand one last time. “Hey man…that’s great! Stay that way! We’ll see ya at your next show. Seriously, man, you rocked it!” he returns with nervous sincerity.
“See ya, dude! Thanks soooo much for comin’ to the show,” I say gratefully, before he retreats back into the smoky shadows.
As unbelievable as it is, on occasion, I’ll get approached by adults offering me beer, liquor, marijuana, pills…you name it. I think it’s difficult for a lot of the fans to comprehend that I’m just a sixteen-year-old kid, and yes it’s just a part of the music lifestyle, but I always have the same response when asked to partake. It’s a straight forward answer to a straightforward question. I always give them a very firm handshake and tell them, “No thanks, man…I got Jesus.” It’s not a judgmental statement or a holier-than-thou attitude. It’s just how I feel.
Surprisingly enough, it always warrants respect and a smile from the person offering—even from the most hardcore, tattooed, in-a-smoky-haze musicians. My response is usually a shocker to them, but I think most of the time, they’re glad to see a teen refuse what might otherwise dominate a large part of their own life.
The rock world is, I guess, a bit of a backward world, when I think about it. Good grades, going to church, and keeping your nose clean is what normal society pushes, but in the music industry, it doesn’t mean a hill of beans. It’s a crazy world. But, I don’t care if I get called a Jesus freak or not—my faith in God is my rock.
I know one thing—I’m sure glad I don’t need drugs or alcohol to perform. I get my high from the music. I get my high from life.
In the midst of all the hustle and bustle at our crowded merch table, I suddenly realize I didn’t get a chance to talk to Sophie. I’m sure thinking about her though, and am hoping I’ll see her in the hallway at school on Monday. I can thank her for coming to my show. Yep, that’ll be my ice-breaker.
I think it’s so cool, and yes, a bit flattering, that Sophie loves the music into which I put my heart and soul. A beautiful, shy girl like her that likes to get rowdy to my hard rock music. What a concept…very different from prissy, particular Heather.
After the crowd at our merch table dies down and the last band of the night finishes its set, the partying patrons flood out onto the ballroom parking lot, some still bouncing to the music, some weaving from one too many libations. I’m glad to see lots of taxi cabs lined up at the curb.
Dan Manning, the big shot record exec, makes his way confidently over to the boys and me. The suspense is killing us.
Dan’s suntanned face has serious business written all over it as he begins to speak.
"Boys, that was a fantastic show—absolutely phenomenal. I definitely got to see what all the hype was about," he compliments us, and ignores the annoying buzz coming from the iPhone in his tweed blazer pocket. Dan makes his way down the line, shaking each of our nervous, clammy hands. He takes a step back toward the neon green exit sign. Our hearts begin to sink as he hesitates. He rubs his chiseled chin as if in deep thought.
"Well, young men—I’ve already made a call to Los Angeles. Our label will be sending you lads a manager next week. His name is Fran
k Turner. He's a great guy—a pro. He’ll get you set up in a local studio here in Tulsa to record your single. We really dig the song "Rocket." I believe that will be the one we want to get to the stations first.
“Frank’ll be working on some other projects and appearances for you as well. Good luck, boys—you are the real deal! I’m truly impressed," Dan ends earnestly, with a flash of his gleaming, oversized Hollywood smile.
When Dan finishes, Jake, Randy, Cody, and I practically tackle him with an out-of-control group hug. Dan regains his balance and begins to chuckle. He shakes our hands one more time before exiting the club. The music mogul is laughing all the way out the door as he steps out into the black night. The Cain's Ballroom sign glows orange and red above his head like a midnight sun. Dan’s phone buzzes once again. This time he picks it up.
“Hey, Frank! I'll give you a shout in the morning. I’m taking the red eye back to L.A.—Yeah, they are amaaazing!" we overhear just as the ballroom door closes behind him.
Randy strips off his shirt and begins running in circles. Jake, Cody and I fall in behind him, also using our shirts as celebratory flags, swinging them over our heads. I guess it’s official—my Led Zeppelin tee is good luck!
"I wonder if this is how most rock bands celebrate getting signed?" Mama questions, as she and the other parents stand together in shock. They all begin to laugh, hug and congratulate each other on the band's big break.
Randy suddenly stops in mid-celebration. His baby fat hangs over his Levi's like a doughy muffin. "Hey, let's paaarrrty! Can we order pizza? I'm staarving!"
It’s Sunday morning—church day. Even if I have a late show the night before, I almost always find the will to rise and shine for the a.m. service at my hometown Baptist church. My first attendance there was exactly nine days after my birth. I was three weeks old at my dedication and received a blue and white checked baby quilt that Mama still has, and was baptized there at the age of ten. My church is a part of my life that always comforts my soul and helps keep my feet planted firmly on the rich, Choska Bottom soil.
A small stream of cheerful sunlight creeps through my mini blinds, gently warming my puffy eyelids. It had been a very exciting and a very late night. It takes me a minute to realize, as my eyes squint open, that the meeting with Dan had really happened; it wasn’t just a dream. My band, Cellar Door Is Gone, is going to be a legitimate, signed band! A big, smile grows over my face and doesn't want to go away.
I roll over when my Superman clock begins to shriek. It’s ten a.m—time to rise and try to shine. I slap the alarm and throw a pillow at my bud, Zane, who’s snoring in a tiger-striped sleeping bag on my floor. Zane had come knocking at my window at two o’clock in the morning. He spends quite a few nights at my house to avoid the constant, simmering tension in his home.
His mom re-married three years ago and unfortunately, he and his step-dad don’t see eye-to-eye on too many issues. Zane's mom tries her best to keep the peace in the family, but Zane is a strong-willed teenager and his step-dad considers him just another mouth to feed. The bigger problem is that his step-dad isn’t a fan of working a steady job. Zane refers to him as “Lazy Larry.” Larry spends a lot of leisurely time on the couch, playing Zane’s X-Box and drinking Budweiser, thanks to Zane’s mom, who supports all of them by working full time at Wal-Mart.
Zane finds it impossible to hold his tongue when he’s being harassed. When the arguments ensue, he usually just storms out and comes knocking at my door or window. He knows he’s always welcome, but it’s still tough for him. I can tell that he battles depression and sadness as a result of his dysfunctional home life. Like me, playing music is therapy for Zane—it’s an escape from his harsh reality at home. Zane and I jam together every chance we get.
“Hey, lazy," I groan, as the pillow I chuck bounces off Zane's head. "My mom's fixin' a big breakfast and we're goin’ to church…why don't you come with us, dude?" I ask, raising my eyebrows persuasively. "I've even got a surprise for ya, man," I continue, hoping that the meal and mystery might entice him into joining us.
"Oh, duuudde…shoot,” Zane moans as he stretches. "You're lucky your mom's breakfast smells so good, because that's the only reason I'm gettin' up," he weakly responds. We both get a good laugh at each other’s wild, bed-head hair.
After a hearty country breakfast of eggs, biscuits, gravy, and savory sausage, thanks to Aunt Carmen’s pig, Elmer—may he rest in hog heaven—we head for church. It’s a beautiful Sunday morning. Our spirits are high. We’re greeted with smiles and good mornings as we step into the foyer of the quaint, red brick Baptist Church.
Following three songs from the hymnal, Brother Aaron steps up to the podium and proclaims, in a warm tone, that I’ll be performing special music today. I can sense an air of skepticism among the elders of the church as the announcement is made. I’ve never before played for the morning service. The congregation only knows me as a teen athlete—a player for the Tiger football team—the linebacker that needs a haircut. They don’t know much about my band or the music I love to play, and our small town church is steeped in the old Baptist hymns. Non-traditional music isn’t usually the norm for the services. My youth director, however, had encouraged me to come forward and play a song that I had written, along with Zane’s help.
I rise from my pew and nudge Zane. “Will ya come with me and help me out with the song?” I whisper. “You know this one," I assure him with confidence.
I’m sure Zane feels put on the spot, but he doesn’t want to disagree in front of the expectant congregation, so he makes his way down the aisle beside me with his head dropped.
I can feel the stares of the reserved church elders. Zane and I are dressed in jeans and t-shirts. Zane’s jeans are heavily frayed on the front left pocket. I see him self-consciously place his palm over the hole. Our heavy silver wallet chains swing loose by our thighs. The congregation eyes our long, stylishly disheveled hair. My curls are shoulder-length, and Zane's fine black hair hangs like curtains across his face. I’ve always thought it helped him hide some of the sadness that was so often present in his tired and often bloodshot eyes.
I pick up my Boulder Creek acoustic guitar that I had strategically brought there the day before and hand Zane an extra guitar from the stage. I position my microphone clumsily according to my height. The speakers squeal slightly.
Zane continues to eye me with a “What the heck am I doing up here?” look. The morning sun filters brilliantly through the bright, candy-colored stained glass windows behind us. The radiating rays soak into my shirt and feel like a caring hand on my back.
I clear my dry throat. "Zane and I wrote this song this past year. It's about faith, and knowing that you're never alone if you trust in God. We just wanna thank you for letting us play this morning. Hope you enjoy it," I speak humbly.
"The song is called 'Amen.'"
Zane’s eyes light up. He gives me a knowing grin. I begin the song with a slight uneasiness; a question of rejection in my tone. As we continue I can see that any doubts that the elders may have had are beginning to melt away. Even the members of the church who usually zone out, and the ones who just pick at their fingernails for the hour long service, sit up and pay attention to the song. I can tell they are all surprised by the soulful, acoustic melody and the from-the-heart lyrics.
Zane and I finish the last note with a peaceful strum of our guitars. Amens and applause break through the reverent silence. Even the strictest elders smile with approval as they nod to each other. I feel goose bumps rise on my arms. The warmth of their acceptance envelopes us. A peaceful, pleased expression spreads across Zane’s face.
After the service, my buddy and I are met with handshakes and pats on the back. Joe the barber even offers his services to us free of charge anytime, as a joke, of course.
My dad is beaming with pride. The congregation has oftentimes given Dad kudos for his son’s great tackles or a pass into the end zone at the weekly high school football game. Today, Dad smiles
widely, as Jimmy the shade tree mechanic shakes Dad’s hand, telling him how much he enjoyed his son’s hidden talent.
“What a gem. A singin’ linebacker!” Jimmy declares boldly.
I thank Zane for helping me with the song, as Mama hugs him tightly. Tears well up in Zane’s soulful eyes. But they are happy tears—tears that don’t need to be hidden by his long, rebel locks. Dad gives us each a firm squeeze as well. He announces it’s time to head to Aunt Carmen's for fried chicken and Porter peach cobbler.
This is a morning that my good friend Zane and I will surely remember forever.
It’s been an unbelievable week for me and my band buds. Diamond Records made good on their promise to send someone to Oklahoma to manage our band. Frank Turner is a hip, smooth-talkin' dude. His style is “I’m fifty, but dress like I’m twenty.” He wears what the other boys and I call "Where’s Waldo" scarves, and is a true stereotypical music manager, spouting all the latest teen lingo. He gives us "knuks" all the time and says phrases like, “That’s how we roll,” “That’s money, baby,” and “Turn up the tuneage!”
The boys and I think his antics are on the verge of corny, but he’s a good fit for us. We’re still i
n disbelief half the time that someone from L.A. is actually in Cow-Town giving us professional guidance. Frank set up studio time for our band to make a professional CD with several of our original songs. The recording process is very exciting and educational. We learn how to mix and over-dub. We’re able to record three demo tracks in two weeks. In under a month, our first single, "Rocket," is distributed not only to radio stations around the U.S., but is also getting radio play in several foreign countries, as well.
We quickly learn what the term “royalties” means, and it doesn’t have anything to do with the Queen of England. It’s a term for the nickels and dimes that we earn each and every time one of our songs is played on a radio station, airplane, or even the juke box at our local Dew-Drop-In.