by Karina Halle
But that would have to wait. That evening I didn’t even take a single note or recording. I was going to, bringing out my notepad as Jacob and I stood at the side of the stage, but he made me put it away.
“By the end of this tour, you’ll be sick of the band and you’ll have more notes than you can shake a stick at,” he told me with his trademark wink. “Tonight, just watch and remember. Not as a journalist but as a fan. Take it all in, Rusty.”
And so I did.
I placed my notebook and pen back in my purse and looked around me. Looked at where I was. I took in everything.
When you’re on the side stage of the Red Rocks Amphitheatre, you might as well be on stage yourself. It’s that immense and frightening. All you can see is a wall of people, staring down at you, watching your every move. Behind that wall are the stars, pinpricks in the emerging darkness. You have a succinct idea of what it’s like to be wanted and adored, to have fans and music lovers alike hanging on your every action, revering you, expecting you to deliver. It’s a strange mix of adulation and pressure.
Aside from giving me goosebumps from the sheer immensity of people in Hybrid shirts, lighters waving in the breeze, the side stage also gives you an in-depth look at the band. Obviously you’d have a better view from the very front, where gaggles of groupies and long-haired boys competed for space, but from the side I got to experience the band like few were able to.
For starters, you get an inside look at that moment before the band hits the stage. You can feel that incredible build-up and tension from the crowd as they wait impatiently for the band to appear. You can see the anticipation on their stoned faces, hear the excited talking, the stamping of feet. You also get to see the band behind the stage. What they do before they step out into the spotlight. In this case, Noelle and Mickey were in an embrace, Noelle obviously overcome with nerves. Graham looked bored at the prospect of handling tambourines while Robbie rubbed his hands together, jumping from one foot to the other, like an insatiable bunny rabbit. I had to wonder how much of that energy was natural and how much was drug-fueled.
Then there was Sage. He was a strong and silent presence. He stood at the back, watching over everyone, calculating mysterious things in his head. I had never seen Hybrid live except on TV, and I knew that Sage played with the cool confidence of a cat. But at that moment, it seemed like his confidence was wavering. It was hard to tell, seeing as I had to look over the soundboard, past Chip, random people, instruments, and sections in order to get a glimpse of him. It was dark and his face was cast in shadows half the time. But, as silly as this sounds, I felt this uncertainty rolling off of him. Like I was picking up on an unsaid vibe that something was off. Something wasn’t right. Sage was worried and that wasn’t the Sage I knew.
Then again, I didn’t know Sage at all, except that he didn’t seem to want me there.
To prove that point, our eyes met at one instance. I tried to smile. He kept staring right back at me, his full mouth in a hard line, his eyes glinting dangerously. I had told myself he was only rude to me earlier because he had other things on his mind and that I shouldn’t take it personally. Now it seemed that what Chip had said about Sage not wanting a journalist among them was true. Sage didn’t like me. He didn’t want me there. It was personal.
I looked away and tried to bring my attention back to the atmosphere of the crowd, wanting to get sucked into the anticipation. The lights went dim, the audience erupted into applause, and one by one I saw the band leaving the backstage area to walk onto the stage, a spotlight shining down on each of them as they took their place.
Sage was the last on the stage, and as luck would have it, he was the closest to me, just off to the side of the soundboard and Chip. I tried to pay attention to the rest of the band, I really did. I tried to sneak glances at Noelle as she played at the keyboards, trying to hide her nervousness and shaking hands. I tried to watch Graham as he shook the shaker and beat at the bongo drums with just the required level of lightness. I tried to pay attention to Mickey as he flew through his chords with ease, each strum of the acoustic guitar rising sweetly from the stage. I tried to keep my eyes on Robbie as he struggled to keep his voice in check, his manic mannerisms to a minimum. I even tried to watch Chip as he mixed the sounds of the different mics, brows furrowed in concentration.
But try as I did, I could not keep my eyes off of Sage Knightly. I just couldn’t help myself. Seeing this man on stage was like watching a lion prowl along the crest of his kingdom. He commanded respect even when he was seated on his chair with only an acoustic guitar at his fingers, and when he got up, the Mexican textile strap straining against his neck, every eye in the crowd followed his every stride. Normally Sage was a background figure, quietly commandeering the direction of the show, but tonight, with Robbie subdued, Sage became the star. Without a doubt, you knew this was the man who made Hybrid what they were.
I watched as his long fingers expertly picked along to complex and haunting solos. I watched the intensity in his eyes as they stared off into the crowd, calling on his talent from somewhere. I watched his tall frame, his large, rounded shoulders muscling into the heavier chords. I watched his flip-flopped feet tapping to some internal metronome.
And I watched a faint shiver roll through his body. His eyes snapped away from watching Robbie belt out “She Could Have Loved Me” and his vision made a beeline to the front of the stage. There, squished up along the barricade, was a strangely familiar looking woman: long white hair, pale face, feverishly gleaming eyes. As beautiful as she was, she gave off an immense feeling of dread that gripped my bones. Sage watched her as if hypnotized. The woman smiled up at him.
And in that smile I saw fangs. Her face transformed disturbingly with black holes for eyes, an elongated, wrinkled face of yellow-white, a wide gaping hole for a mouth, teeth protruding. A long tongue slid out, crawling with quivering insects. It licked its absence of lips, curled delicately along peeling skin. I heard noises deep inside my head: the buzzing of bees, painful wails, horrific chants that built up to immeasurable volumes. I felt horror, a terror so complete that I had one thought: I was going to die there on the stage. I was going to lose my soul.
I was going to Hell.
I was all fear and only fear, and that’s what I would be for all my existence.
Then it all stopped. The amphitheater stopped spinning, the noises ceased and were replaced by an off-key guitar chord. It was Sage, losing his rhythm for one brief moment. His eyes had been too focused on the woman in the crowd, who was no longer demonic, just white-haired and ecstatic. Just a fan. Just a wannabe groupie.
I felt Jacob’s hand on my shoulder and I jumped a mile high.
“Are you okay?” he asked, eyes dancing. He nodded at my hands.
I looked down. I was gripping the barricade between us and the soundboard like I was hanging on for dear life. My knuckles were dead white.
I couldn’t speak. Jacob looked at me thoughtfully, assessing me. I couldn’t get it together to ignore what had just happened. I felt like I had just tripped on the headiest of drugs. I kept looking back at the crowd, expecting that demon face again, but didn’t see it. I watched Sage too and he was behaving off-balance, shaken. Could he have seen it too? Seen the impossible?
“You’re overwhelmed,” Jacob assured me, his eyes flitting between Sage and I. “It happens to the best of us.”
His hand on my shoulder squeezed firmly. I nodded, slowly coming out of it. Yes, I fucking was overwhelmed.
“Set is almost over anyway, do you want to head to the dressing rooms and get something to eat?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, I’ll stay. I’m just…sorry, I don’t know what happened.”
I put my hand to my clammy forehead and looked back to Sage. He was back in stride, peeling off perfect licks. The pale woman was still there, now talking to a shorter girl that had the same perfect white sheet of hair cascading down the sides of her face. Everything was fine. It was better than fine.
I was onstage with Hybrid.
“You’re right,” I told Jacob with an apologetic smile. My voice and body had stopped shaking. “I think I was just caught up in the moment. I thought I saw something that…well, that certainly wasn’t there.”
A flash of something dark went through his yellow, hawk-like eyes. Then they relaxed and he grinned with mismatched teeth. “I’d stay away from Graham’s punch then.”
I smiled uneasily back at him and focused my attention back on the end of the set. As expected, it went off without a hitch. Whatever had Sage all shook up earlier wasn’t affecting him anymore, and when I thought about it, that was probably in my head too. They were tighter than ever. For their encore, the song “Wet Lips” was played as heavy as possible, with the band knocking over their chairs and Robbie jumping about the stage, wailing and hollering, as if they were all plugged in. The crowd surged and cheered and I knew the Red Rock owners probably thought another Jethro Tull riot and extension of the rock ban was on, but “Wet Lips” ended with Robbie on his knees, singing, as the lights went down. There was an eruption of applause, whistles and lighters waving, but the barricade held, everything was contained, and Hybrid gave their appreciative waves and stepped off into the darkness of the backstage.
I turned to the crowd and soaked up the accolades as if they were for me. Then, with a newly found smile on my face, I followed Jacob backstage, giving Chip a thumbs up for a job well done as we passed him.
The rest of the night was a bit of a blur. I can say this was completely my fault, as no one forced me to drink a fifth of Jameson.
Jacob and I had entered one of the doors built into the rock face and we emerged in a lounge area that ran along the dressing rooms. Hap Starts, the straggly singer of Pretty Mary, was just leaving his band’s dressing room for the stage and gave Jacob an appreciative head nod. Journalists with media passes lingered about, picking at the spread of finger foods while normal-looking patrons, who I could only assume were friends and family, drank cheap cans of beer from the ice bins. Then there were the groupies, a gaggle of girls my age or younger who were drop-dead gorgeous—no special passes needed for them. They eschewed the food and chose to remain by Hybrid’s door. They only moved when Noelle came out, her hair wet from a shower, her eyes cutting into them like a butcher knife. I could see why Noelle was paranoid about me being a groupie. I really had no idea that so many beautiful, albeit skanky-looking, girls were after Hybrid. I mean, Jacob had told Barry that the reason I was there was to lure in more women, though I suppose he meant more women “fans” not groupies. There was a difference.
Then again, I couldn’t really blame them. When I got over the fact that they weren’t about the music, it was no wonder they were after the band. Robbie had a reputation, and I’m sure he wasn’t above turning down the occasional groupie. Same went for Graham; though he was a bit abrasive and scary in his weirdo faux-Satanist ways, some chicks would dig anything with a bone. Mickey was taken, but that wouldn’t stop some girls from at least trying, and Sage, well, once again I had no idea about him, whether he was a man-whore or not. I had heard somewhere that he had been married at some point but judging by the lack of ring, I’d say that definitely wasn’t the case anymore. Secretly, Sage’s love life was one of the things I wanted to get to the bottom of. Did it belong in Creem Magazine? No. Did I want to keep the information for myself, and possibly Mel? Hell yes.
I wasn’t sure what to do while the band was still in the dressing room. I assumed that people just sort of waited out here for them after the show and then they’d appear and everyone would party. I didn’t belong with the heavily bosomed groupies, nor did I have the casual appearance of friends and family. Normally I would have said hello to the journalists but even they all seemed to know each other and they probably wouldn’t have taken me seriously anyway. I was the odd one out and I plunked myself down on a single chair, a cup full of potato chips in one hand, and tried hard to look like I was busy.
“Rusty,” Chip called out a few lonely minutes later, appearing behind me with a bottle of Jameson in one hand and another paper cup in the other.
I turned in my seat and looked up at him appreciatively.
“Hey, Chip. Good job with the show and all that.” I know, I sounded like a total dork.
He shrugged and began to pour the whiskey into the cup, straight-up. “Went better than expected. Better than soundcheck anyway. Though I’m fucking glad we aren’t doing any more of these unplugged shit shows. I’m not big on this experimental stuff. Stick with what you know, you know?”
He took a sip of the whiskey and handed the cup to me. I took it gingerly and looked at him for assurance.
He nodded at it, his eyes twinkling. “Pour vous.”
“Oooh la la,” I replied and took a tiny bit of it into my mouth. It burned the good burn and I tried hard to swallow it with ease. “I thought you guys were going to go into more of the experimental stuff though. I mean, Molten Universe really pushed some of the boundaries of your sound, you know. In a good way,” I added.
He laughed, making himself look younger. He tipped the bottle at me. “You sound like a music critic, Rusty.”
“I am a music critic, believe it or not.”
He eyed the journalists. “You’re not with your friends.”
I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I prefer to do my own thing.”
“And you’re not with the groupies either.”
“Like I said.”
“Do I hear a hint of jealousy in your voice?”
I looked at Chip as if he had two heads. “Me, jealous? Of groupies?”
Oh, I wish that hadn’t made me so defensive.
“They make no apologies for lusting over the rock stars.”
Chip looked oddly serious when he said that and I had to wonder if he was taking a swipe at me. I wasn’t jealous of the groupies and I wasn’t lusting over any rock star. I mean, yeah I was obviously star struck—they were one of my favorite bands for crying out loud—and of course my eyes were drawn to Sage anytime I was near him, but that was different. That wasn’t about lust, or thinking about Sage unbuttoning the rest of his shirt and undoing those heavy pants, that was…where was I? Yes. My feelings toward Sage were purely the admiration of his talent sort of thing.
Chip smiled at my inner argument and switched the subject. “So you like the experimental side of Hybrid?”
I took another gulp of the whiskey and handed the cup back to him. “I do. And it’s organic, you know? It fits. No one is doing anything because it’s a fad. No one is afraid they’ll be branded hype by the corporate rock machine. You can tell that everyone is just branching out a little.”
He snorted caustically. “If by everyone, you mean Sage. The waltz-like numbers and those horns and the steel guitar and Mexican bullshit, it’s all him. If it were up to us, we’d stick with what made us big. We’re loud and heavy. End of story. Sage pushed a little too much on this album and fuck if I know why. That is, of course, just my opinion and don’t you dare quote me on that. Remember, I’m loyal, Rusty. I’m just the sound tech.”
He took a drink, filled up the cup and handed it back to me. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go make the rounds, see what kind of trouble I can scrounge up.”
He gave me a quick pat on the back and then took off toward the washrooms with the bottle of Irish Whiskey. He winked at the groupies as he passed them by and one of them responded by grabbing his ass.
I rolled my eyes. Why on earth would I be jealous of them?
And then the door to the dressing room opened and Robbie popped his head out. He did a quick scan of the room, glossing over me, then flashed his adorable smile at the groupies and quickly ushered them into the room. The door shut behind them.
Disappointment and anger competed for space in my belly. What was I, chopped liver?
I sighed, took another gulp of my drink, which was going down easier and easier, and decided if I couldn’t (wouldn’t) go hang out
with the groupies, I would try my luck with my supposed colleagues.
I got up and made my way over to two loveseats where three people with media passes were sitting. One was an older dude with extremely long and shiny hair, a photographer, judging by the bag of equipment beside him. The guy sitting right across from him had a bowl-cut and that stuffy, uncomfortable posture that told me he was way out of his element and was probably used to reviewing John Denver. The other guy had on a Dust shirt and was busy scribbling notes. None of them looked up at me until I nervously cleared my throat.
“Hi, I’m Dawn. I write for Creem Magazine.”
The photographer gave me an unimpressed look. “Oh look, another chick writing for Creem. Is it true that Kramer has all you broads in some sort of harem?”
The stuffy guy snickered at that while the Dust dude shot me a quick look, as if he could barely spare a few seconds away from his notes.
“No, I don’t even live in Detroit,” I told him, crossing my arms. It was a feeble argument. “Kramer just believes in the feminist movement, that’s all.”
I didn’t even know if that was true, but there had to be some reason why Creem had quite a few women on staff. And no, it wasn’t because they were part of his harem.
“Creem,” the Dust dude mused as he took a break from his notes. “So I take it you’re doing some sort of piece on Hybrid.”
“Actually it’s a fairly big piece,” I boasted. “Might make the cover.”
He smiled to himself in a patronizing way. It made me want to rip his balls off.
“Lady, rock and roll is dead. That’s what Creem keeps saying. Soon Creem will be dead too.”