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I blinked the tears away quickly, and Caleb offered his hand instead of his mouth, nodding toward the door.
Inside, it was like stepping sixty years back in time. The bar at the far side of the room gleamed in the dim yellow light, its dark wood surface pocked with time but polished to a shine, ornately carved wood framing mirrors flecked with desilvered spots continuing up to the ceiling behind the bartender, who was a tall, impeccably suited black woman in her fifties, with a shaved head, tortoiseshell glasses, and warm greetings for patrons she’d clearly known for years.
On the brick walls hung signed pictures of every jazz and blues great I could think of, and a number I didn’t recognize. The conversation around us was jovial, friends meeting in a place where they felt at home, catching up, talking about Lion’s Share and times they’d seen them in the past. Everything about it felt warm, from the lighting to the mood, and I found myself struck by a sense of loss for something I’d never had.
I’d never had this kind of camaraderie with a group before. The kind of casual rapport that came from seeing the same people at something you shared a passion for over and over for years. Hell, I’d never really had much of a rapport with people, period.
As a performer, I’d never played to a crowd like this. I loved the electric crush of our arena crowds. But it was like we’d missed a step in between. Most bands started small, gained local success, and played progressively bigger gigs. We’d been the lightning strike story of getting plucked from the crowd before we’d ever played many shows, and getting a deal with a major label.
When, just two months after Ethan had introduced me to Ven and Coco and we’d become Riven, Dougal had scooped us up, promising stardom, I’d immediately disregarded it. I’d told the band that we should be careful because he was probably full of shit. They’d gaped at me and I’d realized they knew who Dougal Richter was because he was somebody in the music industry, and I hadn’t known.
Six months later and our first album was recorded; we were on the cover of major music magazines, and we were opening for Oops Icarus at arena shows. Our album went gold, we got our own headlining tour, and I began to be recognized on the streets within a year. Coco had said it felt like magic. Ven fist pumped a lot, saying, “Fuck yeah!” And Ethan burned with a deep satisfaction that he didn’t need to give voice to because it was written all over his face.
And me? I couldn’t deny that it was satisfying—amazing, even, to have people love our music so much. I was so gratified whenever I saw people touched by what we made. And the performances themselves, I loved.
But I felt like I’d waded into calm waters only to be pulled out to sea by a powerful undertow. Choked breathless, unprepared, defenseless, looking around in panic as the shoreline receded farther with each wave.
Caleb said hello to a few people as we walked in, but when we made it to the back of the room, he leaned against the brick and closed his eyes.
“You okay?” I asked, leaning next to him.
“Yup, all good,” he said. “Just a lot of past in this room.”
I slid my hand into his and squeezed, hoping to remind him of the present. He squeezed back, though he didn’t look at me, and we stayed that way, holding hands under cover of dark, until the band began to play.
Lion’s Share were masterful—the kind of musicians who felt the music so deep down in their bones, and had been playing so long, that it was like their instruments were extensions of their bodies. They were comfortable onstage, bantering with the crowd and fulfilling requests.
Their pianist played with his eyes closed and never looked at the audience; the lead singer and acoustic guitarist was smooth and accomplished, fingers and voice running up and down the scale effortlessly; the bassist played with his whole body, shimmying and swaying along with the undercurrent of the music; the drummer was younger than the rest of the band, and he executed complex changes like they were nothing, keeping an eye on everyone else in a way that was familiar from watching Ethan; their upright bassist drifted on- and offstage as he was required, having a drink here, listening from the audience there, and resettling himself behind his instrument with a little smile that said that was where he was happiest.
While their original music was good, I was in awe of their execution of some of the standards, and a few covers that twisted poppy rock into crooning, rumbling blues. When they finished their second set, I had to purposely tamp down my enthusiasm, so I didn’t draw attention to myself by how hard I wanted to cheer for them. Caleb shot me an amused look and motioned me toward backstage.
