Page 69 of Street of Dreams
The album dropped without major fanfare, but the six weeks that followed saw extensive airplay and brought a slew of promotional events which included meet-and-greet appearances and a round of television performances. As a result, the album skyrocketed. At last check, it occupied one of the coveted top ten spots on the Billboard 200.
In the Spring, a headlining tour would bring Mac and his band to 22 states and into Europe. This was mindboggling to Mac, since less than a year ago he’d never been outside of Chicago before. Right now, he was in the Nevada desert heading to the stage at the Rocktoberfest Music Festival.
He never played an outdoor festival in the desert before. He’d never even seen the desert before today. It was sand and rock with a gorgeous backdrop of mountains. Now that the sun fully set, the horizon was nothing but blackness, and the sky was alive with millions of stars.
His set was somewhere in the middle of the event’s lineup, and the audience was already on fire with excitement. With six months of touring behind him, Mac knew how to feed off the crowd and throw that energy back at them, so he knew this set was going to be killer.
He opened withStreet of Dreams,and the audience responded with a deafening roar. He knew the crowd was probably packed with a hundred thousand bodies, but he could only see the faces of the first few rows of people clustered around the stage. He sang to them, making eye contact with as many as possible. Some flashed rock and roll horns, others sang along with the lyrics.
The music echoed in the open air and sounded crystal clear. He listened to it with new ears, as if it were the first time he heard music. Every note of his guitar was bright and perfect. The deep baritone of the bass pulsed around him. The hard beats of the drums reverberated like thunder, and the soft spray of the cymbals danced on a breeze. Mac’s voice, which had been compared to the likes of Chris Cornell and Eddie Vedder, always had a hard edge and raspy grit, but the untainted desert air purified it and opened his throat. Lyrics rang out in their purest form. Mac had never heard his voice so clear and unblemished.
He strutted across the apron, his guitar heavy on his chest. The heat of the overhead lights extinguished the cool nighttime air, and his long hair stuck to his neck and shoulders. He moved in front of the oscillating air tower and let the wind refresh his overheated body. The breeze lifted his hair. And his kilt. He quickly stepped back, but not before he flashed at least the first few rows with full frontal nudity. Girls screamed at his nakedness and Mac laughed and yelled into the mic, “You wanted front row! You got front row!”
The 60-minute set flew by in a whirlwind of crazy, screaming fans. The last song on the setlist was one that Mac agonized over. He had debated on whether or not to play it a million times. When he first wrote it, he swore he’d never let anyone hear it. The lyrics and the story behind it were too personal. Too gut-wrenching. But it was the best piece of material he’d ever written. This was the song he wrote on the bus when the tour first started. He had hidden it away in his backpack, never intending to look at it again. But sometime after Skylar’s trip to L.A., he had found the strength to re-visit the song. When he first played it for Carlos and Gary, they were stunned into silence. That’s when Mac knew he had to include it in the set.
A roadie brought a stool on stage and a single spotlight illuminated it. Mac took a seat, resting his foot on one of the rungs. He pushed his kilt down between his open knees and smiled playfully at the audience. “I don’t want to get arrested for flashing my junk again.” A round of screams from the female fans roared back at him, and he laughed.
As he tightened one of the tuning keys on the head of his guitar, his anxiety skyrocketed, and he wondered if he was prepared to perform this very private song. Playing it for Gary and Carlos had been hard enough. Sharing it with this massive crowd might be too much for him to handle. He took a deep breath and stared into the audience. They quieted at this sudden lull in his lively set. Swallowing hard, he began to speak. “I wrote this next song when I was in a bad place. I never intended to share it. But I realized that Ineedto share it. I need to put this out there, in case anyone else is experiencing the same crushing, end-of-the-world feeling in their heart.” A new layer of perspiration broke out on Mac’s forehead, and his hand shook slightly as he positioned the pic over the strings. “This isBreakdown.”
The beginning of the song started out as a ballad with only Mac’s voice and guitar carrying the melody. It was slow and soft. Almost vulnerable. And Mac’s voice cracked with emotion. Then the chorus hit and everything about the song changed. He jumped to his feet and kicked the stool out from behind him. The drums came in like a sonic boom. The bass rolled in behind it with a deep explosion. The guitar blew up the melody with a series of war-like riffs that were hard and raunchy. Every chord, and the way Mac played them, were meant to punch you in the face.
The lyrics turned from sweet and melodic to angry and heart-wrenching, and Mac screamed the chorus into the mic. He felt his heartstrings break with each word of the second and third versus, which portrayed the resentment he felt at having his heart ripped in half and his world collapse because the person he loved wouldn’t speak to him anymore.
By the time the last chorus rolled around, torment, bitterness, and anguish invaded Mac’s soul and he poured it all into the song. He stood center stage, with his feet planted shoulder-width apart, and screamed into the mic with more vehemence than expected. The crowd hollered at the top of their lungs, louder than they yelled all day, and punched their fists into the air with adrenaline. Mac took in the massive reception the song received as his eyes swept the crowd. The amplifiers picked up his labored breaths while he panted into the mic, and he realized that tears soaked his cheeks.
It took him a full minute before he was able to compose himself enough to thank the crowd and take a collective bow with Gary and Carlos.
“I told you that song was sick,” Carlos said, the moment they stepped off stage. He hung his arm over Mac’s shoulder. “Let’s celebrate. Where’s the afterparty?”
Mac felt gutted and emotionally exhausted from the song and just wanted to go back to the hotel, but someone at the side of the stage overheard Carlos and ceremoniously escorted them to a tent filled with people.
“I was only joking,” Carlos admitted, with an excited laugh, as soon as they entered the party.
A group of half-dressed girls surrounded them, handing out shots of tequila. It wasn’t Mac’s choice of alcohol, but he tossed it back anyway and then took another. He wanted to get plastered so he didn’t have to think or feel anything tonight.
“Look!” Gary pointed to a group of people. “There’s Zoltan from Five Finger Death Punch. Who are the other two guys with him?”
Oh my God. Mac couldn’t believe his eyes. “It’s Ben Bruce from Asking Alexandria and Sully Erna from Godsmack.”
Carlos brought his fingers to his temples and shook his head slightly. “This is insane. I can’t believe this. Look at this place. Look at all these rock stars. The food. The booze. The chicas!”
Mac laughed at Carlos’ reaction, suddenly feeling awestruck at being at the same party as icons in the music industry. He spent the next three hours talking casually with singers and musicians that he idolized. They were every bit as inspiring and amazing as he imagined, and it just about blew his mind. By the time he left the party, he was a little drunk and on top of the world.
Two bodyguards joined Mac as he walked to the waiting SUV. There were several lights scattered around the event, but it was dark behind the huge tent that housed the on-going party and his eyes needed to adjust. No one was at this end of the festival, and for once, he was thankful that security was with him.
Halfway to the car, a silhouette became visible in the shadows and Mac tensed. Maybe he was suspicious because, in South Side, a figure lurking in the dark when there wasn’t anyone else around meant trouble. He wasn’t in South Side anymore, he reminded himself. Still, he remained cautious and stayed in stride with security.
Mac took a quick glance in the direction of the figure as they approached, but it was too dark to see more than the glow of a cigarette. He wondered if it was a fan waiting around for an autograph. But when the person let him pass without saying anything, he suspected it was probably just someone working the festival who stepped out for a quick smoke.
“Nice skirt.”
Mac froze midstride. His heart plummeted to the ground and bounced back into his chest in a split second. He’d waited so long to hear Jake’s voice again, and now he was here. In the middle of the Nevada desert. The countless hours that Mac had spent staring at his phone waiting for Jake to reply to one of his text messages, the nights he’d spend fantasizing about how things could have been and wishing things had ended differently, all came rushing back with the force of a gale wind. He spun around and blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness and hoped his ears weren’t playing tricks on him. He took two steps closer, then stopped as he focused on the figure that really didn’t look like Jake.
“Got a problem, Mackenzie? You look like you saw a fucking ghost.”
Stunned, Mac couldn’t speak or move. It was Jake’s voice, but the silhouette really didn’t fit. One of the security guards flashed a beam of light at the figure, and Mac gasped.
Jake’s hair was longer. Messy. And he had a short scruffy beard, as if he hadn’t shaved in a week. That’s why his shadow wasn’t easily recognizable at first. His hands were in his pockets as he leaned with his back against a closed concession stand, one booted ankle crossed over the other, wearing his signature black leather jacket. That damn cocky smile lit up his face with attitude and confidence, while his eyes sparkled with warmth and mischief. Between his lips sat the familiar glow of a cigarette, the smoke rising and creating a spiral of white.
