Red Dirt Rocker (8 page)

“To the club, James, chop-chop!”
I order, with a bad British accent.

“Excuse me, Rock Star?” Mama corrects.

“Sorry…we can go now, Mom,” I grin and salute Mama. I can hardly contain my excitement. The boys and I will be opening for the main act at the historic Cain's Ballroom in downtown Tulsa. This is going to be our biggest show to date. My adrenaline is rushing through me like the Colorado River as we pull up to the grungy, graffiti-ridden back lot of the venue.

I hustle inside to visit with Brad, the stage manager, who always gives me breaks on ticket prices and sometimes even autographed copies of band flyers when I go to concerts there. Just last month he scored me a poster from the one and only Ted Nugent. It was signed, “Good hunting Forrest—my fellow soldier of rock-n-roll!” It is the coolest.

A full twenty minutes passes before the other guys finally arrive.

“Better late than never!”
Cody announces, as he and the heavy metal posse march across the wooden parquet floor. His hair is a cool, hot mess. It’s plastered vertically into a four-inch Mohawk. He’s also added bright red and purple stripes on the spikes.

I shake my head at their tardiness, but
love
Cody’s hair. I forgive them for being late, and make a mental note to get them all watches next Christmas.

“Wow! This is
soooo
rad,” Cody’s voice echoes, as he surveys the large stage.

“Let’s get set up, guys,” I direct. The boys and I thank Brad, shake his hand like professionals, and get to work. Our families jump right in. They double as our roadies, helping us carry in the amps, guitars and drum set. Sometimes they get mistaken for the band members as they help lug equipment in. It always floors club owners when they realize Cellar Door Is Gone is made up of fifteen and sixteen-year-olds. They’re always very pleasantly surprised by the time we finish the first song of our original set list. We’ve been told many times that we sound like seasoned professionals. I take great pride in that.

With the equipment in place, I make my way out the backstage door to grab my guitar case from my truck. I look around the quiet parking lot. I can’t hide my disappointment from Mama.

“Dad said to tell you 'good luck.' His UPS route was slammed today,” she says and gives me a tight hug. We both know that Dad could have made it to the show if he had made an effort. It’s unspoken knowledge that he doesn’t quite support my dream of being a musician. I’m sure he thinks I should concentrate on more practical things—football, to be exact. Just last week, Mama tried to get him to wear one of my band’s t-shirts. Dad just said that it didn’t fit right, and opted for his Tigers football tee.

M
ama finishes hugging me and grabs my shoulders. “Now go kick butt!” she says firmly, clapping her hands together twice. I’m grateful for her support. She and Aunt Carmen always stand front and center at all my shows. Mama mans the camcorder; Aunt Carmen snaps pictures.

They really get into the shows. I always get tickled at Aunt Carmen. She never quite gets the “devil horns” rocker sign right. She always makes the symbol for “I love you” in sign language by adding the index finger into the equation. Mama and Aunt Carmen are my biggest fans—two cool chicks.

Randy and Cody think it’s a drag when their moms come to our shows. Instead of cool concert digs, Randy’s mom, who is a third grade school teacher, opts to wear a cardigan or denim shirt with apples on it. Cody’s mom is really loud and always says hello to us by singing our band’s name out in an operatic tone. I think they’re all just great. Heck, the more supporters, the better, and Randy’s mom always brings her blue ribbon award-winning chocolate chip pecan cookies to all the shows.

Backstage, I peek out from behind the stale, smoke-infused curtain at the growing crowd. It looks as though at least five hundred people are here, but I still feel loose and confident.

I never really get nervous before a show. Once I play the first note of the first song, I’m usually good to go. It’s the same way for me on the football field at the start of a game. One good, dead on, smashing tackle and all the butterflies disappear.

As I survey the crowd, someone catches my eye. It’s the cute chick with the runaway drumsticks from our pep assembly. I knew she looked familiar. I remember now seeing her at a couple of our shows. She looks so different without her band uniform topped off with the awkward fuzzy hat.

She’s standing in the front row of the crowd tonight. Her bright blonde hair is shining in the house lights. To my surprise she’s actually wearing the same t-shirt I am—a grey Led Zeppelin tee—my lucky charm shirt. I’m sure hoping it works its magic tonight with the record label executive. She’s cut the collar out of hers, however, and snipped it just right so that it hangs casually off her pretty right shoulder.

I can see that she’s wearing a bit more makeup than she does at school. Her black eyeliner is swept up at the corners, giving her beautiful, liquid blue eyes an exotic, cat-like appearance. Her perfect, full lips are shining with clear gloss.

I can’t take my eyes off her as she stands with her hand on her hip laughing with a group of her friends. For a moment I lose my train of thought—I’m in full daydream mode as Cody walks up behind me and gooses me in the ribs with his drumsticks.

“Let’s go, dude. Let’s rock this mother!” He commands, twirling his sticks like mini-batons.

I shake my head and come back to reality. I ask Cody if he knows my mystery girl. He tells me her name is Sophie. I put my head back in the
game,
whip my Les Paul around like a Wild West gunslinger. I hum
Pantera’s
tune, “Cowboys
From
Hell,” move my fingers across my chest in the shape of a cross, even though I’m not Catholic, and cruise in coolly from stage left.

As the boys and I man our positions, the crowd goes nuts. Stepping up to the
mic
, I scream my usual, “Are you ready to
roooock
?” Electricity crackles in the atmosphere around the illuminated stage. The guitar amps squeal. Cody snaps his drumsticks together, beginning what is to be our band’s best set ever.

During the show, I’m totally mesmerized by Sophie's presence. I find myself singing and playing to her in the crowd. Her rocking skills are more than impressive. She even knows how to head bang like a pro. Her soft, layered blonde hair gets disheveled as she flings it under the smoky colored lights. She sings every word to each song right along with me. Every time I look her way, I feel like I’m floating over the stage. Our eyes lock several times during the show—there’s a definite connection between us.

I’m now sure that I want to get to know Sophie—the girl in the marching band drum line—better. She seems way cool.

After the show, our
merch
table is a madhouse. T-shirts are being slung around as Jake, Randy, Cody, and I sign autographs and our cheap demo CDs for at least thirty minutes. I usually stay longer than the other boys. They inevitably became antsy and go backstage to sneak cigarettes with the older musicians. I know the boys think it makes them look cool and adult-like, but every time I surprise them in a smoke hole, I have the opposite vision. To me they look like children playing “grown-up.”

I had decided early on that I didn’t need cigarettes to look cool. Besides, skipping the smoke breaks gives me more time for the fans. I absolutely love visiting with them. If there’s even a single warm body waiting at our table, I’ll be there.

As the crowd at the table dies down, a Joe Dirt look-alike approaches me for a picture. The fan’s girlfriend snaps the shot with her camera phone, and he leans in. “Hey man, I got some weed, dude. You cool? You need a hook up, my man?” the avid rocker whispers on the down low. The sharp smell of alcohol mixes with his words.

I smile wide and give him the usual. “No thanks, man…I got Jesus!”

“Oh cool…cool, man. That’s awesome, dude!” he stutters, pumping my hand one last time. “Hey man…that’s great! Stay that way! We’ll see
ya
at your next show. Seriously, man, you rocked it!” he returns with nervous sincerity.

“See
ya
, dude! Thanks
soooo
much for
comin
’ to the show,” I say gratefully, before he retreats back into the smoky shadows.

As unbelievable as it is, on occasion, I’ll get approached by adults offering me beer, liquor, marijuana, pills…you name it. I think it’s difficult for a lot of the fans to comprehend that I’m just a sixteen-year-old kid, and yes it’s just a part of the music lifestyle, but I always have the same response when asked to partake. It’s a straight forward answer to a straightforward question. I always give them a very firm handshake and tell them, “No thanks, man…I got Jesus.” It’s not a judgmental statement or a holier-than-thou attitude. It’s just how I feel.

Surprisingly enough, it always warrants respect and a smile from the person offering—even from the most hardcore, tattooed, in-a-smoky-haze musicians. My response is usually a shocker to them, but I think most of the time, they’re glad to see a teen refuse what might otherwise dominate a large part of their own life.

The rock world is, I guess, a bit of a backward world, when I think about it. Good grades, going to church, and keeping your nose clean is what normal society pushes, but in the music industry, it doesn’t mean a hill of beans. It’s a crazy world. But, I don’t care if I get called a Jesus freak or not—my faith in God is my rock.

I know one thing—I’m sure glad I don’t need drugs or alcohol to perform. I get my high from the music. I get my high from life.

In the midst of all the hustle and bustle at our crowded
merch
table, I suddenly realize I didn’t get a chance to talk to Sophie. I’m sure thinking about her though, and am hoping I’ll see her in the hallway at school on Monday. I can thank her for coming to my show. Yep, that’ll be my ice-breaker.

I think it’s so cool, and yes, a bit flattering, that Sophie loves the music into which I put my heart and soul.
A beautiful, shy girl like her that likes to get rowdy to my hard rock music.
What a concept…very different from prissy, particular Heather.

After the crowd at our
merch
table dies down and the last band of the night finishes its set, the partying patrons flood out onto the ballroom parking lot, some still bouncing to the music, some weaving from one too many libations. I’m glad to see lots of taxi cabs lined up at the curb.

Dan Manning, the big shot record exec, makes his way confidently over to the boys and me. The suspense is killing us.

Dan’s suntanned face has serious business written all over it as he begins to speak.

"
Boys, that was a fantastic show—absolutely
phenomenal. I definitely got to see what all the hype was about," he compliments us, and ignores the annoying buzz coming from the iPhone in his tweed blazer pocket. Dan makes his way down the line, shaking each of our nervous, clammy hands. He takes a step back toward the neon green exit sign. Our hearts begin to sink as he hesitates. He rubs his chiseled chin as if in deep thought.

"Well, young men—I’ve already made a call to Los Angeles. Our label will be sending you lads a manager next week. His name is Frank Turner. He's a great guy—a pro. He’ll get you set up in a local studio here in Tulsa to record your single. We really dig the song "Rocket." I believe that will be the one we want to get to the stations first.