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Before I could really decide, I was being pushed forwards by the crowd, and hoisted over the barrier by security. Just one blink and I was on the stage. Nowallthe lights were on me, and all the flashes of the cameras. It struck me how, instead of faces, all I could see stretching out as far as the eye could see was a hundred million smartphones held aloft, their cold metallic surfaces reflecting even more lights in my direction.
Reed thrust a microphone into my hand. He smirked at me unkindly, and I realized I was being set up to look like a fool in front of everyone. He was trying to embarrass me. He presumed I’d not touched an instrument nor sung a song in decades. Well, I’d certainly not played as much as I’d have liked to, but I knew my voice was still strong and I could just about strum my way through most of our hits.
I looked at the crowd, trying to see beneath their smartphone faces to the real, human faces hiding underneath. The more eyes I caught, the more comfortable I grew on stage. The tension of my silence was building. I was going to have to perform. I was going to have to prove Reed wrong.
When I finally spoke, I bellowed into the microphone. “Well hello, Chicago!”
Amazingly, the crowd went wild. They couldn’t have heard me even if I had bothered to say anything after that.
When they quietened, I almost had a genuine tear in my eye. “Thank you, thank you for my warm reception. This wasn’t planned, by the way, this was... honestly, probably an attempt for Reed to humiliate me in front of you all.”
Laughter throughout the crowd, confirming that most of the crowd wereNeedleheadfans, who knew about the drama leading up to the band’s split.
I grinned sideways at Reed, who shrugged as if to say,maybe.
“What do you say, Reed? Play one of our hits for old times sake?”
He didn’t get a chance to answer me, because the crowd screamed again.
He muttered into the microphone just loud enough for everyone to hear. “I guess that’s what we gotta do.”
We’d had a fair few hits in our time, but our most beloved single – not our most popular by chart standards, but the most beloved by fans – was a song calledThis Needlefrom our first album.
Reed played the opening melody on the guitar, and once again the noise of the crowd was all I could hear.
It was like muscle memory – or more like I was being possessed by my former self. As soon as it was time for my part, I jumped in with the exuberance of a much younger, much more rock ‘n’ roll, muchpoorerSylvester – the Sylvester I’d been before all of the stuff with Emory and the inheritance.
The crowd were lapping it up. I was dancing about the stage, I took off my shirt and threw it out into the crowd, glad I’d made it a priority to keep up my exercise routine and remain buff well into my old age.
When the song ended, the crowd cheered louder than they had done ever before. Even Reed was smiling wryly as he shook his head.
Quit while you’re ahead. Into the microphone, I announced my departure. “Thanks to my old bandmate for being a good sport and giving me an opportunity to show off. Most of all, thanks to the diehardNeedleheadfans out there for keeping the spirit alive. You probably hate me, and y’know what, I’m okay with that. Fair play, guys. Goodnight all!”
They may have hated me deep down, but in that beautiful moment they loved me. Their cheers were all I could hear.
I left the stage and found myself backstage. I’d automatically walked here. What was I gonna do, walk straight back into the crowd?
Maybe I’d be able to catch a quick conversation with Reed now I’d made myself the star of his evening. Or maybe he’d tell me to fuck off and ban me from any future gigs, which would be fair play.
I helped myself to a bottle of sparkling water and slouched onto one of the couches. After some time, the roar of the crowd indicated the band were done. Of course, the encore followed. Then, one final ear-splitting cheer, and Reed walked into the green room and folded his arms.
“Made yourself at home, huh? Don’t you have, like, twenty homes?”
“Twenty-three.” I winked.
Reed shook his head, but he couldn’t hide that wry smile that he’d had since we’d played together on stage just like old times. “You always were a fuckin’ charmer. Or were you the snake?” His sentences often sounded like lyrics.
Behind Reed, his new bandmates stopped at the entrance to the room, eyed us both warily, then turned away, muttering greetings and farewells: “Honor to play with you, Sylvester,” and, “Seeya in a bit, Reed,” and, “We’ll use the other room. Don’t mind us.”
Reed smirked. “They’re good guys. Bit newer than us old timers. Brilliant musicians.”
I nodded in agreement. “They’re all such good musicians these days, what’s up with that? Back in the day, you just needed an attitude and the possession of an instrument.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Times change.”
“They do. But not entirely. You wanted to humiliate me tonight, didn’t you?”
“I hold up my hands. My plan failed. You’re just as much as a crowd-pleaser as you always were.”
