Tonight, Tonight

In for a count of one, two, three, four. Hold a count of one, two, three, four. And exhale for a count of one, two, three, four, five, six. And repeat. Inhale, hold, exhale. I feel my chest expand with each inhale, and my lungs empty with each exhale. I’m lying on the forest floor, an autumnal pine forest. The yellowing leaves are rustling in the breeze and the birds are singing in the trees. And is that a squirrel burying its acorns for the winter? I’m just being, still at the heart of nature. I’m letting the forest fill my senses with each breath I take in. And out.

I’m rudely interrupted by a Scouse drawl. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty, you’re on in five.” 

The forest disappears instantly, replaced by the dim lighting of the dressing room. Us five band members are crammed in the small space, made smaller by a defunct amp collection. Rob strides further into the room, his large beer belly taking up the remaining space. I force myself to sit up and shuffle into the closest corner.

“Right, let’s get this show on the fucking road. I’ve got a full pub out there dying to hear you. I’ve even invited John Bradshaw to do a writeup” 

Oh bloody hell. Tonight’s stakes are suddenly a lot higher, with the NME watching, which can make or break bands like us. Those that, like us, started in a tiny box room listening to and studying the greats - Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, Brian May - and then all those hours spent with Ben experimenting and writing songs with our own sound. The ads for a second guitarist and a bassist. Staying in this too-small town rather than going away to university or travelling like everyone else. And tonight I’m going to be playing them not only for those who were just expecting a quiet pint on a Tuesday, or for our family and friends who know the words inside out, but the fucking NME. This is what my life so far has been building towards.

It’s too much. Instinctively, I curl into myself, hugging my knees towards my chest, trying to be as small as possible, as if that would make the situation any better. My palms begin to sweat. My breathing becomes shallower and it’s taking all I have to remain upright. 

Rob either doesn’t seem to notice, or notices and doesn’t seem to care, and carries on with his pep talk, like he’s Brian fucking Epstein rather than the landlord of this godforsaken pigsty.

“You guys are local legends. Joy Division and Oasis rolled into one. Sleeping Beauty over here could be the next Johnny Marr” Now the band turns towards me, trying to play it cool in front of Rob, but I can see the nerves written all over their faces. Ben gives me a concerned look, mouthing “you ok?”. I give him a shaky nod in return, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Rob, who strides over to me.

“What’s going on here then? Don’t tell me Sleeping Beauty is also being a pussy” 

I’m in the forest. I’m in the forest. Not two inches away from this madman, who’s breath smells of Carlsberg and pork scratchings. A rancid combination, and it takes all I’ve got to keep down the little food I’ve eaten today.

Thankfully Ben chooses this moment to come to my defence “Can’t you see he’s having a panic attack?”

“Hmph. In my day, we didn’t have panic attacks. We just got the fuck on with it”

“And where did that get you? Cocaine and alcohol addicts with high suicide rates?”

Rob pretended not to hear. “Right, so in a couple of minutes, I’m going to go out there and introduce you. That should give Sleeping Beauty enough time to pull himself together. Then you’re all gonna walk on and play those songs we like so much. And in about a week’s time, when John Bradshaw writes a raving review, you’ll all be rockstars. So go out there and show them what you’re fucking made of!”

Finally, Rob leaves. Shakily I pull myself up to my feet, trying not to let on how much Rob’s words have unnerved me. I grab my trusty Fender, an 18th birthday present from Mum. She’ll be in the front row tonight, as mine and Ben’s proudest supporter. Knowing that  makes me feel a bit better.

Outside the audience cheers as Rob starts his introduction, his booming voice filling the room without a microphone. “They’re a four piece whose influences include Teenage Fanclub, Mogwai and Pavement. They’re also a bunch of smartarses. So please give it up for “The Flying Pigs”. The audience cheers louder as Ben steps out, the rest of the band following close behind, leaving me alone in the room. 

Breathe. I can do this. I will do this. Let’s fucking do this. 

Before I can second-guess myself, I step out to the biggest cheer of them all. I take my position at the front of the stage, right in front of Mum, who gives me a big thumbs up. Behind her is a man I would recognise anywhere. John fucking Bradshaw, with his trademark tweed jacket and thick-rimmed sunglasses, even though it’s already dark in here. 

I glance over towards Ben on the drums behind me, my small nod saying what words can’t. He counts us, counts me, down.

Together we launch into our first track ‘Barnacles’, coincidentally the first song we wrote together. The crowd starts moving, forming the beginnings of a mosh pit. John Bradshaw finds himself in the middle of it, and just smiles and goes along with the strangers around him. And Rob’s in there too, moving as if he owns the place. Which in a way, he does.

People are enjoying themselves. And I’m the one making that possible. It’s a surreal feeling, and one I will never tire of. I let the muscle memory take over, as I relax into it, into the music I know so well.

All too soon, the first track is over. The crowd wants more. We give them more. We give them forty minutes of our finest material, and some that’s never seen the light of day. The crowd loves it all, lapping it all up as if it’s the best music they’ve ever heard. I’m sure it isn’t, but I’ll take whatever I can get.

There’s an encore. I’ve never done an encore before. The five of us go back into the small cramped room, give each other congratulatory hi-fives and walk back out to the biggest cheer of the night. We launch into a cover of The Smashing Pumpkins ‘Tonight, Tonight’, before finishing with ‘Wigan Pier’, our best-known track, if you can call it that. Last time I checked, it had 634 plays on bandcamp.

And then it’s finished. I remove my guitar from around my neck, and wave to the crowd. Mum’s grinning manically. I spot Rob and John Bradshaw having a very one sided conversation by the bar at the back of the room, with Rob doing all the talking. Even from this distance, I can hear him shouting “Didn’t I fucking tell you so” and “they’re going to be huge”

I hope so, Rob. This is what I was made to do. Yes, I need to try to manage my pre-show nerves a bit better. Yes, I’ll probably need to get used to critics in the crowd. Yes, I’ll probably have to deal with a few dickheads like you. But in the end, it’s worth it for this rush of adrenaline pumping through my veins, this feeling that I could move mountains.

Because in a way, I already have.