“Who did you come to see?”
“BRIAN!!!”
“Who?”
“BRIAN!!!”
“I can't hear youuuuuu!”
“BRIAN! BRIAN! BRIAN! BRIAN!”
“Alright, then! He's got the hottest song of 1974, he's the guy you've been waiting for! Please welcome Brian Temple!”
The auditorium exploded. The high-pitched screams were deafening. Most of the audience were at an age of their most ear-splintering abilities, yet there was also applause and thundering foot stomps shaking the ground. The band was revealed, bathed in a soft blue light at the back of the stage and playing the opening chords to “This Night ”, Brian's single from last year that hit #2 on the charts. The audience recognized the tune immediately and responded with squeals that could shatter glass.
Brian Temple jolted from a daze when the announcer screamed his name. He stood just offstage, wearing his silver velvet jumpsuit, feeling so lethargic that he suspected he'd fallen asleep on his feet.
Which city was this? He thought it might be San Antonio, but also thought San Antonio had been a few nights ago. His mind was getting tour fog, making the formation of new thoughts impossible after weeks of going through the same motions, same songs, same patter, same knife-to-the-eardrums screams. He couldn't remember what he'd been doing an hour ago. Muscle memory had taken over, the body's way of ensuring quality control. He was grateful for it, but he'd need to remember to stop himself from blurting out the wrong thing. No “Hello, Cleveland!”, instead just a general, “It's great to be here!” would suffice. Not that they'd hear him over their own screeching.
He strolled out singing, a white spotlight following his entrance across the stage. Mic in hand, he smiled like he was thrilled.
“I've never had a night like this
A perfect night, a perfect kiss
I'm afraid of what I'll say
But I'll say it anyway
I want you to be my girl!”
Every time he came to that last line he felt like an idiot. He was twenty-three years old and had lots of girlfriends, and also, he could hear his back-up band sniggering. Some nights saw the guys barely able to play the notes as they choked on their laughter. They were always high. Brian wished he was too. Being so good-looking sometimes meant that people wanted to see if you were self-aware. If it were up to him he wouldn't have pouty lips and perfectly feathered blonde hair, he'd let his hair go back to its natural light brown and grow it to his kneecaps. But the record company and his management had done the research, which included questioning the editors of all the teen magazines, and Brian had fit the bill for what twelve year old girls liked on every count, like a wish list come to life. He knew all this because so many people he met in the industry had told him so. To his face. One asshole had called Brian “our best commodity at the moment.”
When he'd been introduced to Jet the guitarist, Ron the drummer, and Dan the bassist, he'd been a little intimidated. He knew who they were, each had good reputations as studio musicians and had played together before. Josh, Brian's hippie tour manager, had let it slip that they were touring with Brian only because they'd been given such lucrative contracts. As much as me? Brian was insecure being among such solid talent and actual coolness when he knew his own fame was built on his wholesome appearance, but he'd relaxed as the guys made it clear that they weren't interested in taking the spotlight. They all agreed that Brian was the only focus of the show and Jet went so far as to suggest the band play in the dark, with the spotlights only following Brian. “The children will love it,” he’d laughed. Brian vetoed that idea, feeling some resentment. Josh had remained quiet, listening as he leaned against the door frame, but later warned Brian that he shouldn't forget Jet's willingness to distance the band from Brian.
“There's always a leader in a mutiny,” Josh had said. “Think about it.” Brian hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it ever since.
“This Night” ended and Brian walked to the front of the stage to start his patter.
“Hello there! I'm so happy to see you! And-” He paused here to check if the city had come back to him. Nope.
“And isn't this a beautiful city?” He had no idea if it was a beautiful city or if it smelled like a slaughterhouse. He couldn't remember arriving here at all.
The responding squeals were like an ice pick to the head. He could have been chanting “peasandcarrots,” for all they could hear, the response would have been the same.
Behind him, he heard Jet whisper, “Hey, where are we?” Dan and Ron giggled in response. Wonderful, they’re all stoned again.
Brian took a few steps upstage and accepted a bouquet of flowers handed to him by a smiling girl whose teeth were covered in metal brackets. This, too, was deja-vu. Every city, every show, he was given flowers by smiling girls with mouths containing enough metal to build an electric fan.
“I'll bet you know this one!” Brian proclaimed, and the lights went out on cue. Jet strummed the first chord and the girls lost their minds. Dan plucked out the four chord bass line that formed the beat and Ron bounced the hi-hat. The melody suddenly roared to life and everyone was on their feet, swooning with joy as Brian belted out the chart-topper, “Dani ”.
“Dani and me
in a beat-up jalopy
we go where the wind blows
where no one ever knows
we're runaways!”
There were nights when he just held the mic out to the audience and let them sing that last wail. They loved it and it gave his voice a needed break, but he always sang that high note when they performed “This Night ” for the second time in each show, as the final song of the show. It was embarrassing. He'd argued with Canoe Records for days but he'd been overruled, just like they’d overruled his desire to play some of the guitar leads. He was a really good musician, people had been telling him so for years, but the record company said Jet was the guitarist under contract and he would do the job he was being paid for.
The record company owned Brian’s stage name, image, recordings and merchandise. So much shit with his face on it, and he didn’t get a dime.
If this tour gave him anything for himself, it was that he had a private room backstage and in a nice hotel every night. After the studio exes and magazine hacks left the after-show backstage gathering each night, it was up to him then if he wanted to be alone or not. It surprised him that the crew thought he had some control over the show. He didn't, but it was still nice that he was seen as having some power when he couldn’t even control his hair.
The band went straight on to “Linda”, #6 from Brian's first album three years ago. It was breezy fluff written by an in-house songwriter. Brian's albums were stuffed with songs such as this, using a common girl's name to illicit teen fantasies that Brian was singing right to her. “I'm Caroline's Guy”, and “Meeting Marti”, which also played into the trend of sporty girl names like Dani, as it had been explained to him. If anything would ever stick in Brian's mind when he was old and thought back to the seventies, it would be the image of some sixteen year-old girl in platform heels and a scarf around her head, telling him to sign an album “To Randi” or “To Toni”.
The show ended with the second rendition of “This Night ” and the audience screamed for more. The backlights were cut, and the band left to allow Brian a final moment of solo adoration. He basked in it the way a sparrow enjoys a birdbath. This was why he'd become a singer. Brian's face could have made him a star as an actor, but he'd consciously thrown himself into music after experiencing that gush of love coming from the stage at a high school talent show when he was fifteen. You didn't get that from being on tv, only musicians had this level of adoration. Still, sometimes Brian wondered how long the record company would have him singing these innocent songs. The Beatles had gone from “Penny Lane” to “Come Together” in just two years. He could be as big as The Beatles; he played guitar and he was actually handsome.
They may not be friends, but until now the guys had always extended the professional courtesy of waiting for him to leave the stage, so when Brian came around the curtain just in time to see the backstage door closing, he was fuming.
He tried to look unconcerned later as he sat alone in his dressing room with a plate of sandwiches. He left the door open, no need to be standoffish. He casually drank from a bottle of wine while expecting groupies, fans, record execs, reporters, anybody to come in. For the first time ever, he was alone. It worried him.
He chewed a ham sandwich and looked around the room for a sign that would clue him in on which city he was in, but the room was spotless, not even framed shots of past performers. This was also a first. For the life of him he couldn't remember what came after San Antonio. That's the last date on the tour he remembered for certain, as he’d been followed around the Alamo by a Teen Beat photographer.
He saw Josh gallop past the open door and called out. Josh appeared in the doorway, a little reluctantly, it seemed to Brian.
“Hey, man, what's going on?” Josh asked quickly, his eyes everywhere but on Brian.
“Did something happened during the show? I've never seen backstage so dead before.”
At this, Josh gave a little smirk and said, “No, man, same old, same old. Just packing up.”
He faded into the darkness. Brian threw his meal away and picked up his own stage gear from the floor even though Missy, the wardrobe girl, was supposed to do this. She must have left with Jet again, thinking that hooking up with the guitarist protected her job. It didn’t. Brian had slept with Missy weeks ago and he was still going to have Josh replace her.
He couldn't believe it. He drifted off again the next night just before the show, coming to when he heard his name being trumpeted by a radio deejay or newscaster or maybe the owner of a car dealership. Josh roped in all kinds of local big fish for the honor of bringing Brian onstage. The sound of his own name being called made Brian snap to attention. He strolled out, lifted his hand and was relieved to find that, yes, a microphone was there, and he sang...
“I've never had a night like this...”
It was a good audience, not as good as the night before, wherever that had been, and come to think of it, Brian had forgotten to ask where they were tonight, but it was a decent show. The guys weren't in such high spirits. Brian didn't catch even a smirk. All three kept their heads down and were note perfect. Brian guessed Josh had spoken to them about their unprofessional attitudes, so while they played beautifully, the songs had a cold feel, as any song will when the musicians don't enjoy the music. Brian's personality got bigger to make up for it, smiling down at the metal-mouthed girls and calling out “I love you all!”. It got a hearty response, though this turned out to be the first city in which he didn't receive even a single bouquet. Not one. Please don’t let this be the end.
Backstage, the guys must have walked off the stage and straight out the back door. Again. After taking his solo applause, Brian came around the curtain and couldn't believe they were gone already. It was another slap in the face. Had an interview been published that they didn't like? He did so many interviews but couldn't remember saying anything wrong. Being on tour had created a bubble around him, one where he was unable to get his agent or even his mom on the phone for the past days, just busy signals that told him he'd have to keep trying. It worried him, but his mother would be frantic.
He couldn't remember the last interview he'd done. Weird. Off tour, he had a rigid schedule of interviews and photo shoots every day. Just the thought of a photo shoot brought a sudden and quick image that came out of nowhere, a moving light in his face, very bright, very close, but he couldn't place it. What photo shoot had he done with such a blinding light bearing down an inch from his face? No, wait, the bright light was coming towards him onstage. So bright it hurt. It gave him a headache…the whole image vaporized before he could place it.
Brian knew he was the star and shouldn't care about the band ditching him, but he did. He liked people to like him. Everybody wanted to be liked, especially when you're sharing such a tight space. The tour bus was like living in a vault. The private bedroom in the back was all his while the guys had the whole rest of the bus. Now he suspected they had discovered he was the instigator behind a little contract renegotiation that went down just days before the tour started. All he’d said to Josh was that he didn’t want to be in the same hotel as his crew. Or the band. He wanted to unwind, there was nothing mean about it, but Josh had responded with, “I’ll take care of it,” and now the guys were staying at Motel 8 while Brian was in the Hiltons. Not his fault, and plus they got meal tickets.
Well, okay, he'd grab his big stash of primo Humboldt and go over to their hotel. He’d pay for pizza. Everything would be cool.
The third night that Brian woke upon hearing his name, he huffed in exasperation. He couldn't believe he had nodded off again. How strong was that weed? How much did I smoke?
It wasn't until the lead into “Melody ” that something clicked in his head, disturbing him like the flash of a traumatic memory. It was the realization of a void. He hadn't met up with the guys last night, didn't remember even talking to them. Or smoking weed. In fact, he didn't remember going to his own hotel room. Brian decided the tour was taking an odd turn as he looked out at the crowd. Which city he was in? Why are we in a school auditorium? It stunk of b.o. and the floor space was covered in cheap plastic chairs. They were full, but the bleachers weren’t. The crowd was lackluster no matter how much Brian gave.
On the fourth night, Brian woke with a snort when he heard his name. He stood just offstage and looked around with bleary eyes until the notes of “This Night” fell into place in his head. He frantically trotted out. The band played the whole show behind him in the shadows. Brian couldn’t make out their faces and he was only feet away. Here’s the power play, and not even halfway through the tour.
The show went on and Brian did his best to charm the crowd. There were still some squeals and a bit of foot stomping, but he noticed this audience was older than usual. Lots of people in their twenties. More male than usual, draped over their seats and actually laughing at him.
Brian guessed that this backstage lethargy had been going on for more than a week when the night came that he heard his name mumbled, heard his music playing, and walked out to find himself alone onstage. The stage was so small that he'd strode right across it singing “This Night” and found himself at the other end before he'd finished the opening line. He looked out at the crowd and found no more than fifty people in the audience, people decades too old to be Brian Temple fans. He kept singing, on automatic as he spun round. His music was coming from some kind of electronic box on metal legs that stood to the left. Replacing the eight foot tall ‘BRIAN’ in white flashing bulbs that had always been across the stage was a movie screen scrolling the lyrics to “This Night ” in time to the music. Brian tried to take all this in and couldn't help himself, he dropped the mic and stood rooted to the spot with his mouth open, turning his head from the screen that knew his song, to the machine that had replaced his band, to the silent audience that sat there watching.
Brian stood, waiting for some memory of how he'd gotten here to fall into place, but nothing came. He had no idea.
“Sing, moron.”
Brian whipped towards the voice and was relieved to see Josh leaning against the brass railing that formed a walkway to the tables in front of the stage. His arms were crossed but he still wore the official tour t-shirt with Brian's face on it.
“Josh!” It was all Brian could think to say.
“Sing.”
Brian's mind struggled like a dinosaur sinking in a tar pit. He couldn't catch hold of any thought long enough to begin a single coherent question, so he fell back on the first rule of being a teen heartthrob: always behave in public.
“I think you and I should step backstage, Josh.”
“There is no backstage,” Josh said with a sigh. “Go 'head, look.”
Brian gave Josh what he hoped was a stern look but it was an expression of fright to the audience who silently faced Brian.
“I'm sorry, folks. I'm sorry.” Brian backed up to the music machine as it continued playing “This Night ”. It frightened him. He walked to the side curtains, the way he'd walked onstage just three minutes ago but was met with solid wood paneling, which he hit face first with a loud thud. Despite everything happening, he still felt instant humiliation. Brian pushed against the paneling. It remained solid. How did I get onstage?
Brian always came to consciousness as the machine began “This Night ”. The music used to be almost note for note as his live band had played it, but over time (how much time?) it had taken on a robotic sound, the sound of beeps arranged to form a lifeless tune. It used to play through his full stage show, but bit by bit it had narrowed Brian's song catalog down to just “This Night ”. He sang it over and over. Brian sang while the audience sat unresponsive. They never blinked or sighed or shuffled their feet.
Josh was there to make sure Brian sang. There had been a small revolt, but Josh had come onstage and placed the mic in Brian's hand while wrapping his own hand around Brian's and producing a flesh-searing heat that melted Brian's palm to the microphone. He couldn't unclench his hand now and was permanently ready for the stage. Brian realized where he was. Josh wasn't Josh. This wasn't a real audience, and all of this was serving a purpose that Brian couldn’t understand.
Brian sometimes yelled out, “What did I do?” or whispered, “Tell me what I did.”
Usually Josh answered with “Just sing, moron.”
But once Brian heard “I don’t know,” from the shadows.
Brian called out, “You have to know! You're torturing me!”
Josh's voice took on a plaintive tone as he replied, “Man, you're torturing me. I have to listen to you.”
Brian always regained consciousness at the intro of “This Night ”. He didn't know if the cycle of unconsciousness and performing ran every thirty minutes or twenty-four hours or every six months. He had stopped counting how many times in a row he sang “This Night ” because it was always different, there was no pattern to anticipate. He sang until the music stopped, all the while racking his mind for some grand sin he'd committed. He couldn't come up with anything.
Pick of the Month: I finally got around to seeing Late Night with The Devil. I know. A unique plot, strange and horrifying, it checks everything on my list.
Next week: Getting older doesn’t mean you can’t be scary.