Love Songs & Other Lies(18)
Starting next week, the American public doesn’t just get to see our performances on TV, they’ll see footage of us behind the scenes, too. I hope they come up with something more interesting than watching me get dressed, microwave food, or write songs, because Your Future X needs to be the band that viewers want to watch. I’m trying not to let my distaste for the cameras show, even though there’s something about Tad—and his obvious obsession with Logan and Vee—that feels really off, somehow. His stupid camera catches everything. Every shared joke, each hand placed on the small of her back as she gets onto the bus or into a cab. I don’t know when Logan became such a fucking gentleman. Every playful kiss to her head and every lingering hug will be forever captured online. I could watch it all over and over, for the rest of my life, if I wanted to. If I wanted to torture myself.
It’s bad enough living it. At the same time, the thought that I’ll be able to see her in those videos whenever I want, when this is all over—it brings me a certain sense of calm.
VIRGINIA
The first two venues of the tour are small. They remind me of the local bars The Melon Ballers would play. The producers want the whole tour to mimic the reality of a rising band, so they’re all starting at mom-and-pop bars and clubs. Each week, the venues will get bigger and the productions more elaborate, with fewer bands playing each week. At the end of the sixteen-week stretch, one band will walk away with a record deal and the hearts of the nation. They actually say that in the show intro—“the hearts of the nation.” Cheesy, but true. The first two shows will be taped, so there’s no pressure of a live performance, and no bands will be cut. They’ll basically be elaborate practice runs to generate some buzz before the live tapings begin, and tickets are already sold out.
When we load into the first venue, a graffiti-covered two-story bar on the outskirts of Houston, I can’t help but be sucked into the memories of past gigs. I have missed this. In the afternoon light, everything looks dark and dirty and old. It feels wrong to be here in the daytime, when all of the imperfections are on display. The light fixtures are dulled—probably by years’ worth of smoke—and the cement walls are covered in thousands of names scribbled in a rainbow of Sharpie. Thin blue tubes run along the ceiling. I imagine what the walls will look like glowing under the black lights—a tangled web of graffiti popping off of the walls like neon signs.
The crew brings in case after case, loading in the speaker boxes and instruments, and the backstage area begins to look and feel like a storage locker. Trying to escape the claustrophobic towers of equipment, I hop onto a stool in the bar area and begin to scribble notes. The first pseudo-publicist task I’ve given myself is to update the band’s website. Their bio and FAQ sections are first up, because they’re embarrassing. Nothing has been updated in ages. Reese’s picture looks like a bad selfie taken in a bar bathroom, and Cam isn’t even listed as a band member. I jot down a list of questions I think viewers—hopefully their future fans—will want to know. I have a sheet’s worth of questions penned when the familiar hum of tuning guitars distracts me. Up on the stage, in all their glory, is my band—My Future X. I can’t help but feel a swell of love for these guys for bringing me along on this journey. Even Reese—who has made it his mission to embarrass me with his dirty jokes and shameless flirting—has assured me he wants me here (even if it’s just as entertainment value).
Up on the small wooden stage, Anders clicks off the beginning of the first song. Logan and Cam are seamless as they trade off vocals, switching from lead to backup, coming together in perfect harmonies. They’re so in sync—a well-oiled machine—like two voices that started as one and are finally being joined together again. It seems like yesterday—and also a lifetime ago—since I last saw them do this. Each of them is lit up from the inside out, happiness and joy radiating off of them in waves, as they belt out each song.
Maybe it’s muscle memory, but my eyes can’t help but lock on Cam and his guitar. He always was—and still is—like a magnetic force onstage. I watch his hands, sliding up and down the long fret of his honey gold Fender, strumming and plucking and teasing each string. His muscles tensing and relaxing as he moves around the stage, looking so comfortable. My breathing slows as my eyes trace up from his hands to his arms—the black curls of his tattoo still taunting me from the edge of his T-shirt. I want to read the tiny words penned along those twisting notes, curving up and around his hard bicep. Having his voice fill my ears again is like the moments right before you fall asleep, when it’s hard to distinguish dream from reality.
My neck heats as I drag my eyes over his broad chest, let them wander across his face, and up to his eyes. Still so green, still so sad, still so—looking at me. God, Virginia, get a grip. My chest burns hot as I turn back to my website work, contemplating something embarrassing to secretly include in his bio.
The songs drifting off of the stage are some of my favorites. One that I wrote years ago, another that Logan and I worked on first semester, before he left for LA, and a few from high school. Listening to them is like watching old family movies, like being wrapped up in a memory. When they finish the last song of their practice set, I hop to my feet, clapping and whooping, and I know I must look like a crazy person, but I can’t help it. This is it. I’m watching their dreams come true right in front of me. At this moment, wrapped in the memories, soaked in the songs, it doesn’t feel like it was that long ago that this was my dream. My someday.