"It's actually happening!" There was no point trying to act cool when the excitement bubbled out in my voice.
T he VIP pass hung around my neck as the finishing touch to my outfit. Seriously, no money in the world could replace that as the ultimate fashion accessory in my book. It said, "look at me, I'm one of the important people". Well, I guess literally VERY IMPORTANT people. Not that I thought I was better than anyone else. Just more dedicated and hard working.
“Do I look okay? Are you sure this skirt works?”
Hannah stood by the door, shaking her keys.
“It’s fine. You look perfect.”
“Good. Because I want tonight to be perfect.”
See , a few years ago, I went to a bar to see this totally unknown band play. I’d just moved to the city to start university but I spent every single night going out to see bands – famous band, has-been bands, bands playing their first gig out of their parents’ garage. After growing up in a country town where the only live music was a Country band playing covers at the local pub on a Saturday night, I had years of catching up to do and suddenly, I could see all the bands I liked. Even on a Monday night!
T his band, this night, well, they hadn’t been so great musically. They were actually rough as guts. But the lead singer, he’d had rock star attitude. You'd have thought he was playing a freakin’ stadium the way he moved onstage – brash and cocky and full of “fuck me” vibes.
I seriously should've gone up and talked to them after that gig. I should've offered to be their official number one fan. But instead, I hung back at the bar that night like a nervous little freak then spent weeks, months even, raving to everyone I knew about how these guys were hot shit. I raved until everyone said, "shut up, Angie" but that didn’t stop me. And who ended up being right? That would be ME.
I didn't get up the nerve to approach them until they'd gotten bigger. Still not that big – but big in indie rock terms in this city. By that time, I was just another of the fans. I'd started a Facebook fan group and all that but it wasn't as if we hung out. It wasn't like I could call up Jack Colt on the phone and ask him if he wanted to go out for a drink or he remembered who I was from show to show. Sure, sometimes I got my name on the door for gigs and stuff but it was strictly a fan/band relationship.
Then, this totally fateful night, I ’d hung out around the band room door waiting for a glimpse of them, and this weird-arsed chick, she looked like the biggest stuck up cow you'd ever meet, like she was far too good for anyone and – well, long, long story, short, since this is my story – we're now best friends and she's their manager. I'm the social media manager myself, which is why I had the VIP pass.
And this was no normal gig – Storm opening for Monkey Bride on the first night of their tour – this was so fucking huge. I’d imagined this from the start. It was going to be the best night of my life and that’s why the normally cool-as-fuck me was acting like a skittish schoolgirl.
"Angie, are you ready?" Hannah tapped her foot impatiently.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m ready. I think. Are these shoes okay? I’ve got another pair in my bag…”
-o-
As we walked down the hall to our backstage room, I passed one of the guys from Monkey Bride. I nudged Hannah but I don't think she had any idea who he was. This place was seriously big time – it even smelt like ROCK. Well, if you figure ROCK is actually a mix of sweat and sex and duct tape and stale booze seeped into the carpet. We actually had our own backstage room, not some crappy place shared with the other bands.
Storm were on first then some crappy band that banged out shitty generic rock – I think they were called Zombie Rock Riot – then Monkey Bride. If we were lucky, we'd get about a quarter of the crowd bothering to come early enough to actually catch Storm play, maybe a bit more since we had the
T he VIP pass hung around my neck as the finishing touch to my outfit. Seriously, no money in the world could replace that as the ultimate fashion accessory in my book. It said, "look at me, I'm one of the important people". Well, I guess literally VERY IMPORTANT people. Not that I thought I was better than anyone else. Just more dedicated and hard working.
“Do I look okay? Are you sure this skirt works?”
Hannah stood by the door, shaking her keys.
“It’s fine. You look perfect.”
“Good. Because I want tonight to be perfect.”
See , a few years ago, I went to a bar to see this totally unknown band play. I’d just moved to the city to start university but I spent every single night going out to see bands – famous band, has-been bands, bands playing their first gig out of their parents’ garage. After growing up in a country town where the only live music was a Country band playing covers at the local pub on a Saturday night, I had years of catching up to do and suddenly, I could see all the bands I liked. Even on a Monday night!
T his band, this night, well, they hadn’t been so great musically. They were actually rough as guts. But the lead singer, he’d had rock star attitude. You'd have thought he was playing a freakin’ stadium the way he moved onstage – brash and cocky and full of “fuck me” vibes.
I seriously should've gone up and talked to them after that gig. I should've offered to be their official number one fan. But instead, I hung back at the bar that night like a nervous little freak then spent weeks, months even, raving to everyone I knew about how these guys were hot shit. I raved until everyone said, "shut up, Angie" but that didn’t stop me. And who ended up being right? That would be ME.
I didn't get up the nerve to approach them until they'd gotten bigger. Still not that big – but big in indie rock terms in this city. By that time, I was just another of the fans. I'd started a Facebook fan group and all that but it wasn't as if we hung out. It wasn't like I could call up Jack Colt on the phone and ask him if he wanted to go out for a drink or he remembered who I was from show to show. Sure, sometimes I got my name on the door for gigs and stuff but it was strictly a fan/band relationship.
Then, this totally fateful night, I ’d hung out around the band room door waiting for a glimpse of them, and this weird-arsed chick, she looked like the biggest stuck up cow you'd ever meet, like she was far too good for anyone and – well, long, long story, short, since this is my story – we're now best friends and she's their manager. I'm the social media manager myself, which is why I had the VIP pass.
And this was no normal gig – Storm opening for Monkey Bride on the first night of their tour – this was so fucking huge. I’d imagined this from the start. It was going to be the best night of my life and that’s why the normally cool-as-fuck me was acting like a skittish schoolgirl.
"Angie, are you ready?" Hannah tapped her foot impatiently.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m ready. I think. Are these shoes okay? I’ve got another pair in my bag…”
-o-
As we walked down the hall to our backstage room, I passed one of the guys from Monkey Bride. I nudged Hannah but I don't think she had any idea who he was. This place was seriously big time – it even smelt like ROCK. Well, if you figure ROCK is actually a mix of sweat and sex and duct tape and stale booze seeped into the carpet. We actually had our own backstage room, not some crappy place shared with the other bands.
Storm were on first then some crappy band that banged out shitty generic rock – I think they were called Zombie Rock Riot – then Monkey Bride. If we were lucky, we'd get about a quarter of the crowd bothering to come early enough to actually catch Storm play, maybe a bit more since we had the
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