Rock Dreams

Sarah El Ebiary

December 2005

You start to feel the caffeine wearing off. It happens every day at about this time, 4PM sound check. Hopefully someone will be bringing you some coffee brewing in the catering room backstage. You casually hurry to get on stage. You look down at your beat-up leather watch, and it’s 4:10. Today you’re in Des Moines, Iowa at the Grand Theater, famous for those bright yellow stairs you’re climbing up that lead to the stage of the auditorium.

"Man, these stairs are ugly," you say to yourself but can barely hear. Your ears are still ringing from the night before when the tour hit Omaha, Nebraska (the VIP room had blue shag carpeting). You’ve never seen the Paradox more packed with people before last night. The sheer noise of the crowd that burst from the venue totally over powered the music. Their energy transferred to every one on the tour, and the party after the show continued late into the bus ride to Des Moines. You didn’t go to bed until 9 in the morning just as the buses were pulling up to the venue. So far, you would agree with the rest of the guys and say that it was the best stop on the tour. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, you can see the sound engineer, Randy, looking impatient. As soon as the guitar is done, he can take off to grab a bite to eat before the doors open at 8pm.

You walk downstage toward the front of the house and squint your eyes from the glaring stage lights that nearly blind you. You reach down to pick up the long, black, guitar cable that Randy left sitting for you at the edge of the stage, just as he does every sound check.

Carrying the cable in your right hand, you walk back upstage toward the guitar rack, which was already unloaded and set up by the crew. They’re pretty much a great group of guys, except for the new tour manager, Nigel. You wonder how much longer you can put up with his demands.

The rest of the instruments, drums, bass, and mics, are also already set up, checked, and ready for tonight. The guitar is always the last in sound check, and it’s time for you to get to work. The row of guitars hanging from their pegs glisten from the reflection of the stage lights. You lift off the Gibson SG Special from the rack, and carry it to center stage. The cherry-red beauty that you hold is so much nicer than the first guitar you got when you were 13.

That was just a generic Fender Strat rip-off that your older brother, Sam, had bought from Sears. He never really learned how to play it anyway. After he turned 16, your parents got him a car and his interests turned toward going to concerts, amongst other things. He always took you along to the local shows in Bethesda, and on the way there, he blasted the album of the headlining band from custom speakers you helped him to install. As he drove, he barely held the steering wheel while he tapped his fingers and thumbs to the beat of each song. He never missed a fill, and always kept a good beat. Eventually he figured out his love for the drums was too strong to resist. He’s busy playing for The Monks now, and they’re getting pretty big. Even though you’re roommates, you hardly see each other with both of your touring schedules. Maybe one day, you’ll both be home long enough to start a family band.

For now, you’ve got an alright gig with this band, Rio Fields. They’re based around the Washington DC area and you found out about their opening last February from a flier in the coffee shop near your house. You met them on a Saturday afternoon, and as soon as you got to their practice space, they basically told you to just play. You wailed out a few scales, and their heads slowly nodded, although you pretended not to notice. The next day, you received a call telling you that you were in. You left for tour about a month later, and you got to see a great portion of the midland United States. It’s nearly summer now and you’ve adjusted to the daily routine. Although, these past couple of weeks of staying up late is starting to catch up to you and your lag is starting to get noticed.

"Glad to see you’ve arrived," sneers Nigel in a sarcastic tone as he walks the floor of the venue with one of the promoters. You pretend to flip him off, but he didn’t see. He was too busy negotiating the deal for tonight’s show. He’s got a lot of experience touring with bands, mostly in the UK. Over time, he developed a rude-boy demeanor, but least he’s honest. Nigel replaced Larry a couple of months ago when Rio Fields fired Larry for trying to rip them off. From what you heard, a lot of the funds that the band had budgeted were deposited into Larry’s personal bank account. His excuse for doing it was that he was the hardest working person on the tour and that he had earned it. This tour was scheduled to try to recoup some of that lost money.

"Whenever you’re ready," Randy says from behind the sound board.

He speaks into a microphone that communicates into the center monitor wedge. You give him a nod "OK" as you tuck in the cable through the vintage embroidered guitar strap and plug it into the guitar. You put the strap around your neck and let the guitar rest against your belly. The comforting pressure of the mahogany body feels safe and reassuring, almost reminding you of being back home in Maryland.

Ten weeks of being on the road makes those first few steps into the house, after the front door closes, truly pure. It feels as if the past fifty cities were merely a blur - like a recurring dream you’ve had every night. You’re living that dream now. You relish the thought of sleeping in your bed without having to smell the stench of nine gassy guys crammed on a bus. You can’t wait to be in your own house, and hopefully Sam will be there to welcome you when you arrive.

"Hey Nate!" you almost hear him call out.

"Nate!" Randy had been shouting for a few minutes, but you were too lost in your own world.

"Oh sorry, man," you chuckle, even though you’re not really sorry.

He knows how you become distracted without caffeine, so he snaps you back into reality at least once every sound check. You begin to wonder about that coffee you wanted.

"You alright?" Randy asks irritated, probably hungry. You better make this quick or he’ll be like this all night. "Play a G for me," he says.

Always a G for some reason. You’ve heard it was the most soothing note in the world, but you aim to challenge that notion.

A loud, crunching guitar chord rips through the auditorium. Each booming strum sends you back to the electrifying moment in your bedroom when you first tried jamming on Sam’s old guitar. Your parents used to shout for you to turn it down until their voices turned hoarse. But of course, you could never hear them because you were playing for the thousands of screaming fans in your head. You were mostly strumming as fast as you could while stage diving off of your bed. It was then that you decided you wanted to play music for the rest of your life, and after twelve years of dedicated strumming, you’ve greatly improved. Man, that sounded terrible.

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