Page 11 of Out of the Blue

Remaining on the fringe of the stage, I can’t bring myself to move my foot an inch.

My band strikes up the first notes of “Hurts Good.” The crowd roars. Maybe a dozen or so have heard this song before, so it’s extra special to be met with such wide approval.

Roots have grown from the bottom of my feet.

In my mind’s eye, a gunman bursts through a side door. My head rotates, looking for him. Instead, the mass of people in the audience is on their feet. Jumping in time with the music. Our music.Get it together, Trent. It’s safe.

The tour manager touches my shoulder. “You’ve got this. Make us proud.”

Maybe it’s his choice of words, or maybe it’s his tone, but I toss him a grateful glance and start to play my guitar riff offstage. The crowd’s reaction notches up a decibel. With a nod toward Raine, I force myself onto the stage where our instruments are set up in front of a white curtain hiding Hunte’s staging. And get my first full view of the audience gathered to hear my band. I freeze next to Dwight’s drum set.

So many of them.

And all it would take is one crazy person with a gun.

Paralyzing fear seizes me, and I remain in place. Dwight shouts, “Trent Washington. Get your dopey ass out here and show them what we’ve got!”

His words penetrate the fog in my brain. With a grateful nod to my best friend, I join Joey as he plays bass. Facing each other, we warm our fingers up while I prepare for the opening lyrics. Which I wrote ages ago.

Taking a deep breath, I turn toward the crowd, approach the microphone, and open my mouth. When I start singing, my voice is low—a mere croak. I’m going to ruin this for my buddies if I can’t get my head out of my ass.

I shake the microphone as if it’s a mechanical problem causing my voice not to carry rather than my own ineptitude. Clearing my throat, I begin again and my voice resounds throughout the venue this time.Thank God.

When the song ends, a respectable smattering of approval rings out. Buoyed by their response, we start the strains of our next song, with my voice continually getting stronger. I walk from one end of the stage to the other but can’t make eye contact with any crowd members for a couple of reasons. One, the lighting prevents me from really seeing anything but a swarm of humanity. Two, my gaze keeps darting to the exits to reassure myself no one with murderous intent has entered the space.

I stroll over to Maurice at the keys and execute a rather intricate riff while he plays up his part. Strumming my guitar with a flourish, I point to our fantastic keyboardist and urge the audience to cheer him on, which they do.

Man, that’s a heady rush.

Our set continues as more and more bodies enter the arena. While I’m not exactly having fun, I am enjoying myself on the stage well enough. And the audience definitely is getting into our sound.

Right before our last song, I take the mic for the only planned remarks of our set. “Hello, Madison Square Garden!”

“Hello!” booms back at me.Whoa.

“We’re The Light Rail, and we’re super pumped to be with you tonight. We’re a bunch of Jersey boys who dreamed of hitting this stage, so thank you for making our dream come true!”

More applause.

“Let me introduce the band. On keys, we have Maurice Walker, our chief optimist!” He laughs at my inside joke—the truth being the opposite, but at least he’s never disappointed—and plays a little solo.

“Over on bass is Joey Taylor. He’s our chief jokester!” He spins around and plays his bass solo. Not lying about Joey.

“Then on drums is my best friend, Dwight Jackson!” Dwight slams his drumsticks together three times before banging out an excellent beat.

“And I’m Trent Washington.” I play a short solo before retaking the mic. “We’re going to leave you with one last song. The one you listeners of V250 might recognize. It brought us here to you tonight! Give it up for ‘Yes, You’re a No.’”

I concentrate on the tricky guitar solo entrance, then the rest of the band joins in. Looking around, I marvel at all it means to perform on this fabled stage. The band plays their heart out, and I give it my best. Soon the last note reverberates throughout the space, and the audience cheers. I’m not sure if they’re cheering for us or for the fact Hunte will soon be on the stage.

This final thought brings me way back down to earth.

We take our bows and strut off the stage. The guys are more pumped now than before we started. Surprising myself, I’m much lighter now than before as well. At least I left visions of gunmen shooting up the place behind. When we’re out of eyeshot, we double fist bump each other, congratulating ourselves on a great job.

Raine approaches us. “You killed it out there.” He extends his hand to me, which I shake. Then he does the same with the rest of the band.

He motions toward a different corridor than the one we used before. “Let’s go this way. There’s a few people back here who want to meet you.”

“Must be the V250 meet-and-greet,” Dwight says, his drumsticks pounding on his legs.

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