The marshall amps are plugged in. The arpeggio is flowing through the bars of a rhyme. The bass is locked to the snare and all you can hear is a roar; of expectation.
The lights are blinding, the vodka is at the tip of your secure consciousness and the cigarette smoke is lacing your fingers as you hang on to the mic stand, oblivious of everything. This is the moment you have been waiting for. Ostracised by your loved ones, reported in by neighbours, admonished by your peers, tied in by your own fears.
But right now there is no fear. Right now there is only rage. Right now there is a microphone and a Fender Strat. Fathered by Satriani, mothered by Floyd, steeped in the grunge sounds of Seattle , harmonized by Garfunkel and nurtured in the words of Dylan, this is the moment of reckoning.
Right now you are not forsaken. Right now you are not unforgiven. Right now you are not answerable. So now you feel the emptiness in harmony. As the music and the lyrics merge together to give that emptiness an identity.
And you let it rip.
The sweat trickles, the anger ripples — a maelstrom of emotions, as you belt out the words. The crash of Zildjan cymbals, the distortion of the Stratocaster, the riff of the Ibanez, the lullaby of the Hammond — the fluidity of something so pure, that it’s the closest to heaven you have come.
The roar is deafening, the matchboxes are lit, and you feel serenity. For these few minutes this is where they accept you for who you are.
Freedom of acceptance, at your terms.
Fast forward a decade and your dream theatre now is the small study where you hooked up a makeshift recording studio to record songs on saturday’s that no one ever listen to. You have a ton of software, just that passion has long gone.
The Guitarist did an MBA and became an expert in mergers and acquisitions. His Wembley stadium these days is in the boardroom. He bought six more fenders and these days plays them in his bedroom.
The Bassist became an investment banker. These days the only “plucking” he does is with client greenbacks. He stilll plays his Ibanez, to entertain his son.
The garage mechanic turned Drummer sold his drum kit, did a rehab tour and took up a call centre job. The only thing he plays these days are call reports to cut downtime.
The singer- songwriter sold all his instruments, traded his piano and harmonica , wrote for newspapers for a while and then made peace with a corporate gig.
He uses his creativity these days to make investment cases.