Page 4 of Bassist With Benefits
Alan jumped onto the drum riser. He stood tall, with his shoulders back, and raised his fist in the air. The crowd roared in reply, and it sparked something inside him that he couldn’t describe. The energy the audience projected filled his body with a rush of excitement faster and higher than any drug ever could.
Derek slid across the stage on his knees and shot rock and roll horns up to the ceiling. He came to rest dangerously close to the apron, which caused the fans at the railing to rush forward and house security to jump to attention. They’d better be on their A-game tonight because Bulletproof’s fans were in-fucking-sane.
Bass players were the epitome of cool, and none were cooler than Jeremy Kagan. He sauntered out from the left wing, his long hair fanning around his shoulders like a cape, and took his Spector from the stagehand. He slipped the strap over his head, walked up to his mic and rested his hands on his hips. He acknowledged the audience with a nod, and they hollered back with love for the band’s bass player.
Brandon waited almost a full minute before he graced the stage with his presence. The crowd wailed when they saw him, and even from the back of the stage, Alan could see the blue of Brandon’s eyes light up at the reception from the fans. Bulletproof’s charismatic singer raised his arms at the same time that twin mortars boomed on either end of the stage, announcing the start of the show.
Alan counted off the first song of the night with four hard kicks to his bass drum, and the heavy metal sound ofAK-47rocked the arena. At this point, during the first few minutes of a show, Alan lost himself. One with the beat of his drum and the music feeding into his ear, nothing else existed except the song. The building could have been on fire, an earthquake could have devastated the city, but all Alan cared about was knocking on his drums.
At the end of the song, Brandon greeted the crowd, and it left Alan tweaking like an addict. Given a small taste of the vice he craved, then having it taken away and forced to wait to fly high again, was torture. A trickle of sweat dripped down Alan’s temple, and he bit his bottom lip. He couldn’t sit still and bounced his foot on the floor and dusted the cymbals lightly while Brandon addressed the audience.
The presence of the camera crew put no filter on Brandon Bullet. He was riling up the fans with his usual filthy mouth and outrageous statements. A cameraman moved closer, so all eyes were on Brandon, but Alan was focused on his bassist.
As the two rhythm makers of the band, Alan and Jeremy were connected. Their bond surpassed friendship. They were tied together, bound by every facet of their lives.
“Get ready to rock your faces off, because this isZero to Sixty!” Brandon shouted.
The words were like a jolt of caffeine and supercharged Alan’s adrenaline. He hit his snare harder than expected and broke his first drumstick of the night on the second song. He flung the splintered stick over his shoulder, took a new one from the bag, twirled it between his fingers, and resumed playing without missing a beat.
They transitioned intoFully Automatic, which brought a band of flames pulsing from both sides of the stage, shooting up toward the ceiling. The heat scorched Jeremy. Perspiration covered his bare chest and back. Strands of hair stuck to his forehead. He watched his bandmates, all with hair past their elbows, and the thought of being shrouded by so much hair suffocated him. Alan’s jeans stuck to his legs while he pounded his double bass and the rough denim rubbed at the crease behind his knees. His balls itched, and he had the urge to stick a drumstick down the front of his pants.
When the song ended, and while Brandon engaged the crowd, Alan kicked off his Vans and ripped off his sweaty jeans. The audience erupted into a small fit of laughter and Brandon turned to see what had caused the commotion.
Brandon laughed into the mic. “What the fuck are you doing, Alan?”
“It’s hot,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. He knew Felix was probably shitting his pants right now, but Alan couldn’t take the heat. He would put his pants back on once he cooled off.
“Well, just keep your shorts on, man,” Brandon said.
Alan gave the crowd his biggest smile. “I’m not making any promises!” He counted off the next song on his sticks. Now free from the oppressive heat, he threw his all into hitting the drums. Several back-to-back songs with no break left his biceps tighter, his chest broader, and his thighs more solid. His limbs were heavy, but he never slowed the savage beating on his drum kit.
Alan glanced across the stage at Jeremy and isolated the bass in his ear. They were hyper tuned into one another. Jeremy followed every drum pattern with a meticulous groove. His baseline made conversation with Alan’s kick drum. Together, they were the undercurrent of the song.
Over the music, the crowd was screaming. Bodies tumbled to the front of the stage on a sea of hands. Beer cups flipped through the air. Fists pounded toward the ceiling. Through wild strikes on his drums, Alan caught sight of Brandon climbing the scaffolding that led to the overhead lights. The guy was fucking nuts! The next time Alan looked up, Brandon was sailing through the air, flying high above the crowd. With his arms stretched to the sides, his legs spread wide, and his long blond hair blowing around him like a lion’s mane, he resembled a jungle cat pouncing on his prey. Brandon finished the last verse ofLethal and Dangerouswhile floating to the stage on top of the crowd.
“Wooo!” Brandon screamed into the mic. “Thank you for always being there for me, Chicago! You fucking rock!”
The fans screamed back and pumped their fists in the air.
“Let’s hear it for my band! On lead guitar, the unsurpassed talent of Derek MacAlister!”
Derek’s fingers danced up and down the neck of his Strat. His hair flew around his face like a dark blanket as he rocked his head, and the squeal of his E string reverberated across the arena like a shock wave. The fans hollered and stomped their feet.
“On the bass guitar, Jeremy Kagan!”
Jeremy plucked out a few grungy notes. He didn’t need a fancy arrangement or showy fingering. Just a sexy low rumble was enough to exude a thunderous round of cheers from the audience.
“On the drums, a guy who’s too cool for clothes, the master of the double bass, Alan Motherfucking Delgado!”
Alan laughed at the introduction. He twirled his sticks, pounded his kick drum, beat his snare, and smashed his cymbals before standing and hurling his drumsticks across the stage.
Brandon ducked and laughed, then turned to face the audience. “I’m Brandon Bullet! Together, WE. ARE. BULLETPROOF!”
Pyrotechnics lit up the arena. Black and white confetti rained from the ceiling. A machine at the end of the stage launched rolled up T-shirts into the crowd, and the fans roared.
The after-party proved to be on point. A pair of male dancers, dressed only in tight little shorts, was gyrating on the coffee table. A cloud of pot smoke enveloped Alan as Derek walked by with a guy on each arm. Alan had been taking advantage of the bar full of top shelf liquor for the last hour, and he was flying high. The cameras were here, but there were so many people in the suite that Alan hadn’t noticed them. He tossed back his drink and dropped the glass on the bar for a refill.
Picking up his freshened Jack and Coke, he bobbed his head and sang along to the lyrics of Avenged Sevenfold’sGod Damn. It made him think of Jeremy, since the guy was obsessed with A7X. After taking a big gulp of his drink, Alan turned to scan the room and found two guys heading toward him. If it weren’t for the smiles on their faces and the mischievous glint in their eyes, he would have thought he was being ambushed, because they had their sights on him like a sniper with a finger on the trigger.
