Page 8 of Sweet Music
3
CASH
Cash Law belted out the last note of “Snowstorm Rock” and let the rough howl of his voice fade into the roar of the crowd.
The stadium was so big that he couldn’t focus on just a single face. Instead, it was a boiling panorama of movement, screaming back at him with one voice. Pure joy blasted through his veins. For Cash, there was nothing better than making music, and nothing like sharing the experience with thousands of people at once.
He gave one last wave to the fans and let the adrenaline carry him offstage with his drummer, bass player, and rhythm guitarist following behind.
All those bodies heated up the smaller space. Sweat dripped from his slightly too-long hair and made his t-shirt cling to his chest. He felt hollowed out inside from singing, playing, dancing, and basically leaving the best of himself out on the stage.
Cash loved performing, loved letting the rhythm ofthe music slide deep into his soul and then come blasting out through his voice and his fingers on the guitar strings.
But these days, the high faded faster and faster once the concert was over. And there was something about these big stadiums that left him feeling a little empty, missing the personal connection that he’d had with the fans in smaller venues back when he was coming up.
That’s not the only thing I miss about the old days.
But that didn’t bear thinking about. He could wonder over it for the rest of his life and he’d never have an answer to that mystery. So as usual, he pushed the thoughts of his past aside and did his best to live in the moment.
The local crew smiled and nodded to him as he passed, and he smiled back. His own roadies had started breaking down the backstage equipment as soon as the final note had been played.
“Cash,” Nigel said, jogging up with a hopeful smile. “Great show. There are some girls backstage, real fans.”
Nigel was Cash’s new drummer. He was in his early twenties, a real prodigy who hit the drums like they owed him money. But he still hadn’t figured out Cash’s deal.
“Nah,” Cash said lightly. “Have fun.”
Nigel’s face fell for a second, as usual, but he plastered a smile on right away.
“Will do, buddy,” he said brightly before practically sprinting off to wherever the crew had curated a selection of eager female fans.
Cash hadn’t done that kind of typical rock star stuff in years. Really, he’d only behaved badly for a very short period of time right after…
Don’t think about it.
“Let the kid go after the girls,” Hank chuckled. “Pete and I were thinking about drinks at the bar, or maybe having a couple of people back to my room. You want in?”
“No, thanks, man,” Cash said, patting Hank on the back. “Great set though. Cheers.”
Hank and Pete were Cash’s bass player and rhythm guitarist. They had toured with him for years, and he appreciated that they always invited him to party with them, even though he always said no.
The fans would probably be pretty shocked to know that rockabilly star Cash Law sang his heart out about girls and parties all night onstage, and then usually just went back to his hotel room alone to read, even after his biggest shows.
He grabbed his duffel from the green room, pulled a jacket on over his sweaty shirt, added a hat and a pair of sunglasses, and then ducked out the stage door, flanked by some of the crew who led him past a wall of screaming fans on his way to the car that waited.
Everyone said he ought to have bodyguards, or at least ride with his manager. But Cash found that if he moved quickly, he could usually escape without too much fuss. Most of the audience was still in the stadium, basking in the afterglow, or hoping for another encore.
“Mr. Law,” the driver said, nodding to him.
“It’s just Cash,” he replied.
As they pulled away from the curb, Cash realized that Bill Monroe was wailing “Blue Moon of Kentucky” from the car’s speakers.
“Sorry about that, sir,” the driver said, reaching for the radio.
“Keep it on,” Cash said. “Please. That’s the good stuff.”
“Sure is,” the driver said, smiling at him in the rearview mirror.
