He held it for four long beats, then gave them another stomp.Vic kept time like a clock, pausing for four beats, then a heavy stomp.Then a little faster.Two beats and a stomp.Two beats, stomp; two beats, stomp.Hearing the hands of the audience begin to echo his lead, palms coming together as they began following him down the path that would lead forever forwards, towards the music.One beat, stomp, one beat, stomp.
He knew some guys would want to pull the power card on what he had going with this crowd, do something to disrupt the flow to prove they had control, but that wasn’t Vic’s way.When the mob picked up on the shit he was pounding out like they were right now, he would feed them all day long.That interaction nourished something inside when everyone was participating.Even him.
Maybe especially him.
One beat, stomp, snare, stomp, repeat, and effortlessly they moved with him to the new rhythm.
Seamless.
Flawless.
Powerful.
Both feet, both drums pounding out the measures that led into their radio classic, the intro to the song that reliably got everybody up and moving.The tune that got the crowd jiving in the space they occupied, making them lose their shit, andGod...he loved to watch that.Nothing worse than someone who fought their ass off to get to the rail and then simply stood there, taking up space three feet from the stage and giving him nothing.Standing there like they were at a bus stop, not invested in the music, not giving a single shit about the sound.No energy feeding back to him so he could turn around and throw it back a thousandfold.He needed the exchange, ate it up like candy, looked through the crowd for the people who dug it, who got it, real and right, and he fed from them.
Power.This was his power, and he craved it.When he wasn’t onstage, he dreamed of it, longed for it.A drug as potent as anything on the market, and he had it every night they played a gig.
Pounding, head up now, he was watching the crowd closely, seeing the heads and hands jerking and bobbing to his beat.Bodies twisting to him working the toms and snares, cymbals and bass.Music.Power.
A chick at the rail had her horns in the air already, stiffly extended arm moving as her torso plunged forwards and backwards, her pink-tipped hair flinging all around.Energy.Life.Feeding on her feelings, he caught her eye and grinned, and she repaid him with an open-mouthed howl.
Power.
His power.
***
“Holy fuck,” Dom said, glancing back over his shoulder, scowl firmly in place.He and Vic were pushing past a massive crowd of people standing at the side of the merchandise table.“Can’t you take your fucking groupies elsewhere, man?”
These were the people who’d already laid down their cash for a CD or a poster, some of them picking up bracelets and beanies, or other bits of shiny merch they had for sale.They would come around to the side, away from the crush of folks still making purchases at the front of the table, and wait for the guys to sign their swag.Dom was right—most of the folks were waiting on Vic, and since he handled teardown, he was always the last one to show up at the booth.
“Vic!”“Hey, brother!”“Killer show!”“Can I get your autograph?”“Vic, a pic?”Normal greetings from the fans sailed through the air, and he grinned widely to hear them.The next band was about ready to start, so this crush of people would die down fast, meaning he needed to get a move on handling every request.His attitude was that every fan mattered, something his old man hadn’t understood enough to teach him, but Meghan Delorio had.Snagging a Sharpie from the top of a bin behind the table, he turned and approached the throng.
Later, there were still a handful of folks who hadn’t gotten their fill of chatting with him, even if for the last ten it had been only occasional shouted comments over the music.
A fan leaned close, mouth to Vic’s ear, pointed toward the stage, and shouted, “They’re good.”
Vic nodded.
Occupy Yourself was playing, and as always, he dug the vibe they threw out.Their lead guitar and vocalist, Ben Jones, had chops, and Vic used to wonder why the band stayed pushed nearly to the bottom rung of tour life.He only carried that question until he’d both heard and witnessed an epic meltdown from their drummer.For bands to make it, they all had to be on the same page, and clearly Blake Downey wasn’t anywhere near the same page as Jones and his bassist, Danny Schraff.
A tug at his sleeve drew his attention away from the stage, and he looked down to see a petite brunette smiling up at him.Vic tilted his head, questioning, because she didn’t have anything in hand for him to sign.Then she moved, tugging at her neckline, and he knew what she wanted.Jesus, I’m tired of this shit.
Forcing a smile, he picked up the Sharpie again and waited for her to pull her shirt and bra down, far enough to give him more than a flash of nipple.Careful to not touch her flesh, he drew his signature on her tit.At least she kept her top on,he thought, smiling politely again and turning back to the stage to see the final few moments of OY’s closing song.
Benny stood on the ego box at the front of the stage, arms held out wide, chin tipped high, and Vic knew what he was feeling in that moment.Waves of sound from the crowd beating at him, pushing all their love and energy into his bones, into his veins, giving him a fix until the next time.
That was what music meant to Vic.Not the groupies who wanted their piece of you.Not the chicks who wanted to say they sucked off the drummer for whatever-the-fuck band he was playing with at the time.Not the money, little as there was.He could make four times as much doing sessions in Nashville or Memphis, and have steady work, a place to sleep every night, and abundant stability.But the magic wasn’t in any of those things.
Magic was when you fed your music into the beast and ate up whatever that beast gave back to you.When it was right, there wasn’t anything like it in the world.
Twenty minutes later, he saw Ben Jones slide sideways between the two tables that made up the merchandise area for the non-headline bands.Occupy Yourself had the lion’s share of space available, partly because it was deserved, as they were the last opener before the headline act of Squirrel Bait, but partly because Benita Owens, their tour manager, was a douche, and no one wanted to pick a fight with her.
Vic stepped behind the table and crossed through the space reserved for members and crew.Ben had a bottle of water lifted, nodding.He was smiling around the mouth of the bottle, patiently waiting for the venue manager to finish talking.Vic closed in, and Ben saw him, dropping the bottle an inch and shooting a grin his way.“Yeah, man, I got you,” Ben told the manager, who whirled to stalk out, Vic barely getting out of the way to avoid being mowed down.
“Pissed much?”Vic shook his head, watching Ben upend the water, draining the bottle.
The chatter from the Occupy Yourself fans increased in volume, and Ben cut a glance toward the front of the table, where Benita was handling purchases, swiping credit cards, and doling out cash in change.
