when I turned the microphone on…
And really, none of that came close to the absolute ecstasy of breaking into song and seeing the entire crowd swaying with me—and even singing along, if I was covering a song they knew.
Nothing could replace this. This was what I’d been living for since I was a kid, when I first realized what I could do with a set of strings strapped to a hollowed-out piece of wood (I mean, really, that was essentially what a guitar was). And though I loved playing piano, too, there was absolutely nothing that could top the position I could take when I was on guitar. I liked looked out over the people like this. I liked standing in front of them and dancing as I sang my heart out for their entertainment.
Tonight, I had one of my best friends with me on the other mic, and we were doing every guitar duet we could think of, every piece of music that could support two guitars and two voices. And when you came right down to it, that meant we were playing pretty much every song we knew by heart, and just doing it at the same time, harmonizing all the while.
I was in Heaven, plain and simple, and judging by Beth’s face and the enormous grin I got every time I looked over at her, she was in the exact same state.
We were also nearing the end of our designated time, though, so we were starting to wind it up. Cooling it on the slower ballads and going into more fast-paced stuff as we cranked the crowd up toward the crescendo that would be the end of the show.
It might sound counterintuitive, but it was the way one of my first mentors had taught me to handle a show. You start with a bang, and then you slide into the familiar stuff that everyone likes to sing along with. And then, when you get close to the end, you start winding it up and getting faster and faster, because you’re building the crowd up for that moment when ultimately, you say thank you and goodnight, and walk off stage…
And then wait for them to start cheering again, so you can come out for your encore.
You have to leave them with that cliffhanger. Leave them wanting more. Leave them practically drooling for it.
It works, I swear. Which was why I’d been playing to a packed house for two weeks—even though I wasn’t a regular on the schedule at that particular bar, or even a regular in the music scene in Chicago. I performed rarely in the city, so I hadn’t exactly come in with an existing fan base.
But when you played good music, and you played it well, people heard about it and came running.
Bonus: Since this was a smaller venue and they didn’t have any set rules except for the length of time I was allowed to play, I’d been allowed to play a bunch of my own stuff, too. And that had been a really big hit. Like, big enough that it had me dreaming all those rainbow-colored dreams again, about hitting the road and touring the world with my guitar. The music, which had died down in my soul over the last year, was now rushing through my body with all the power of a tsunami.
And I didn’t want to let it go again. This was what came of promising myself that I was going to start going after my dream, and at this point, I couldn’t imagine going back to it. Hell, I’d even started thinking about cutting it down to part-time at the bar, just so I could start doing more gigs in Chicago and building up my resume and contacts.
We were just finishing up our last song—the one that really wound up the crowd and had them roaring for more—when I realized that I was going to throw up.
And I don’t mean I was just feeling slightly sick. I mean I was shaking-at-the-knees, sweating-through-my-shirt, having-to-keep-my-mouth-closed sick. If I didn’t get to the bathroom, stat, I was going to throw up right there on stage, in front of the entire crowd.
And I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, but I thought that throwing up on stage probably wouldn’t help me build the sort of reputation I wanted in the city. I also didn’t think it would motivate the owner of the bar to keep having me there, regardless of how much money