A Different Kind of Forever(16)
“That’s pretty considerate of him, isn’t it?” she asked.
Diane nodded. She had not told Sue about their dinner. She had not told anyone. She wasn’t sure how to explain it, exactly. It was only a dinner, but he had been on her mind for a week, his smile, his kiss, and she was anxious about seeing him again. The arena was filled, the buzz of the crowd intense. The lights flickered. The screaming started, and the clapping in time. There was no opening act. The house lights went down, the stage blazed with light, and the band walked on.
The cheering was intense, a wave of sound that Diane could feel pressing behind her. Her own daughters were screaming, clapping. Diane stood with them, applauding, watching as Michael came on stage.
He was behind Seth Bascomb, a tall black man with a shaved, beautifully shaped head, in red leather pants and a white silk shirt. Michael wore jeans and a short-sleeved Sponge-Bob tee shirt. He walked up steps to the keyboards, waving once to the audience. Diane had been holding her breath. He had seemed dwarfed by Seth, who was at least six feet tall. The equipment seemed to loom around him. His head was turned, speaking to Joey Adamson, who was settling behind the sprawling set of drums.
Seth Bascomb was standing before the microphone. He held up his arms and yelled, “It’s great to be home!” The crowd roared in response. Monty Martone slipped the strap of his guitar over his head. His brother, Phil, did the same with his bass. The brothers were very much alike, slight, long blonde hair, in jeans and open-necked shirts. Seth waited as the crowd began to quiet down.
“Me and the boys are glad to be here. It’s been a bitch of a tour, but we promise tonight will be a blow-out.” The crowd started up again. Seth was grinning. He looked back at Michael and said something. Michael grinned in response and nodded. Joey Adamson, long hair flying, began a tap on the drum. Phil Martone picked up the beat. The keyboards began, and Michael began to sing.
Diane had heard the music before, of course. All three of the band’s CD’s had been copied to all available iPods and other players. They even had their own station on Pandora. She knew Michael’s voice. It was deep and pure. Seth Bascomb sang with him, higher, a rock and roll voice, rough and sexy. The band was all about good-time rock. The music was fast and furious, heavily influenced by R&B. They played their own music, of course, but covered Chuck Berry, Credence Clearwater Revival,and Springsteen. The crowd never sat down. They were up, dancing and moving, hands clapping. Diane was amazed at the quality of the sound. The performance was infused with drive and energy. Michael no longer appeared lost. The moment the music began, the blast of his personality blew across the stage and into every corner of the arena. She found, much to her surprise, that she was having a lot of fun.
There was camaraderie on stage that was a joy to watch. Seth was everywhere, sometimes playing rhythm guitar, singing solo, backing up Michael. He was the star, and everyone knew it, but Diane could not take her eyes off Michael. He seemed to be having a blast. More than that, he was obviously a serious musician who gave one hundred and ten percent of his talent to the audience.
Halfway through the concert, Seth stood before the mike, arms out, waving the audience to silence. Other members of the band drifted off-stage. Michael came back onstage with an electric guitar, and he and Seth did a few numbers together. Michael’s playing was big and bluesy. His voice and Seth’s melded beautifully. Then Michael walked offstage, and the Martone brothers came back. They did a number with Seth, a ballad, one of their biggest hits.
The second set began, Michael on guitar for most of the numbers. For their encore, Michael sat behind the keyboards and Seth sang “Great Balls of Fire”, as well as one of the bands’ first hits. Seth took a bow, and the stage lights went off, and Diane could hear the crowd chanting. The stage remained dark, but no one moved from their seats.
Diane looked expectantly up at the stage. She could hear the crowd more clearly now. Tell a story. Tell a story.
A single spotlight lit center stage and Michael stood alone. He had changed to a plaid, button down shirt, and sweat was pouring down his chest, fabric clinging to his body. He put his hands in his front pockets and said into the mike, “I’ve got a four year old niece who says the same thing every time I see her.”
Laughter, and then the crowd got quiet.
“Well, tonight I’ve got two new stories for you.” There was a burst of applause. Michael grinned. “That’s what you get for being the hometown crowd.” The applause rolled again, died down. “I’ll start with Max. I have a dog named Max. We never figured out what he was, exactly. We think part Irish wolfhound and part Alaskan brown bear. He was a gift from this woman I knew for a while.”