Page 23 of Freeing the Wild
Dax picks up the bottle of tequila I just set down.His brow furrows and his gel-slicked hair glimmers in the neon lights as he hands it to me.
“Here.”He nods toward the tequila.“It’ll get you up there at least, and once you’re there, you’ll fall right into your set.”
I nod and take the bottle from him, knocking back another straight shot.
“I know you’re burning the candle at both ends.”
He’s putting it mildly and we both know it.Dax has had me booked for shows in seventy-one cities since November.I spent Christmas Day at Bob Evans with my band.I’ve written and recorded almost an entire album.I’ve done more podcasts, interviews and charity events than I can count.Anything to get my name out there.Anything to get eyes on me.I don’t remember the last time I had a good night’s sleep that wasn’t on a bus or in a hotel.Or even the last time I went to bed without a few shots of something under my belt.I haven’t been to my apartment in Nashville since December.My body screams at me daily that this can’t continue, but Dax says we need to ride the wave.My first song, “Friday Night Lights,” hit the Billboard Top 100 last fall, and my follow-up surprise release “Your Truck” has skyrocketed up the charts.It’s a song Highway Radio called “moving, a tale of memories and lost love.”I wrote it in two days on the road and recorded it in October at a studio in Nashville.That song alone has seen me gain more than half a million followers on the ChordShare music streaming platform, and over fifty thousand followers on my socials.
“Two more shows and you’ll get a short break from the road.You can take some time, wind off the whiskey a little.We’ll head into the studio and finish up that album.Oh, did I tell you I heard back from Wyatt Santos?He wants to work with you on ‘A Darker Kind of Stride.’”That’s the song I just finished writing in my hotel room in El Paso.Or was it San Antonio?
I shake my head.“No, you didn’t.”
“Come on,” he says, helping me to fix my belt.I let him, raising my arms as he pulls it so tight my breath hitches.
“Deep breath, smile for the cameras, and when Luke comes out, let him have his moment.They’re replaying this wholefestival on OnAir,” Dax says, mentioning the most popular online streaming channel for concerts.I nod, pushing away thoughts of the negative things the internet could say if I mess this performance up or if my ass looks too jiggly on camera or the inevitable “is she pregnant?”comments when the natural curve of my stomach shows.
My band starts moving around me.Darren, my drummer; Cherry, my new guitarist; and Shawn, my banjo player.We gather together and say a few words, before Shawn says “One, two, three, Cassie Spencer and The Spin,” and we all echo, “The Spin.”We make our way out onstage just as the announcer calls out that we hail from bluegrass country deep in the heart of Tennessee.In truth, I come from a trailer park in Jellico but that doesn’t sound so appealing.The buzz of the tequila takes over and I pick up my Fender acoustic and grip the mic in my hand as I hum the tune to “Your Truck” in a bid to calm my nerves.
The crowd roars as I fuss with my in-ear monitors.Another flash of that night months ago washes over me.But it’s easier to forget about Haden once the tequila kicks in.Someone rushes behind me and plugs my ears into my mic pack.Reality comes rushing back again.
“How y’all doing tonight?”I ask as the crowd erupts.I see nothing but shiny cell phone lights and the hot pink spotlight that bathes me.
“Y’all ready to have some fun?”I call out before turning to my band, then back to the crowd.“I don’t normally start with a cover but, when in Cali, I say one must always, always sing ‘Hotel California.’And eat In-N-Out.Am I right?!”
The crowd cries out as I play the opening strings of the Eagles’s hit on my guitar.The air is electric, filled with the smell of weed and sweat.There are so many people it amazes me how this has been put together in a field in the middle of nowhere.Instant concert.Just add water.
Everyone sings along to the cover and, when I’m done, I begin to move through my own six-song set.They’re all tracks from my upcoming first album, and I save “Friday Night Lights” for second to last.I have tears in my eyes, as the majority of the crowd knows every single word, and I allow the music to flow through me.The light from a thousand cell phones blurs my vision as I prepare to wrap up my set and have Luke join me.
“I love you all so much!Thank you for being with us tonight!”I say into the mic, sweaty and breathless.The crowd cheers but I continue on.“As a thank you for coming out, we’ve got one more for you.”
A roadie rushes out to help me reset my mic and hand me a different guitar.I make my way to the edge of the stage and sit right in the middle, my leather-clad legs hanging over the edge.There is a group of security guards and a few feet between me and the mass of people pushed against the rail.They all wave frantically at me, smiley and tipsy.I wave back and put my finger to my lips to signal that I’m about to start.The crowd hushes and I begin the slow steady twang of “Your Truck” before they go wild again.It’s an acoustic track, so my band is silent and the spotlight floods me where I sit at the front of the stage.I strum the opening chords before I begin to softly sing the first verse.
I told you I’d play you for the whiskey,
So we let the neon be our guide,
You said “good girls drink sangria,”
So we ordered some Line 39.
I’ve seen those eyes in my dreams,
Something about them, always haunting me.
All the words you whispered were just a lie,
There’s no answer, there’s only time.
One night and your truck,
You had no heart but you left your mark on mine.
I sing the next verse with just my guitar.Acoustic always goes over well, and transforms the crowd into a sea of light.It used to fuel me.But now, I have to push down the stress of knowing there are so many phones recording me.I bring myself back to the moment as Luke enters from stage left and joins in with the chorus.The sound of the crowd at his approach is deafening.
Luke harmonizes with just a cordless mic as he saunters on with his cool, collected swagger and takes a seat on the edge of the stage right beside me.He pulls me in for a side hug and I smile at him as he finishes the chorus.This is the first time he’s hit the stage tonight, and with the crowd so close behind the rail, the atmosphere around us vibrates.My heart thunders in my chest and I can’t tell where the crowd ends and I begin as we sing the next verse together.By the time we hit the bridge and the chorus again, I’m singing from muscle memory because I can’t hear a thing.
One night and you … your truck … your heart … left its mark on mine.
