Chapter 3: The Show and Its Aftermath

With the show scheduled to get underway at seven, I arrived at the venue shortly after five-thirty. They’d given quite a bit of thought to having the event outdoors. Ultimately, they decided that gambling on good weather wasn’t a smart idea. It was a good thing, too; the sky was overcast, and I was greeted by a moist breeze of moderate strength as I got out of my car. No rain had fallen yet, but I got the sense that it would at some point in the evening.

Once the decision had been made to have the show indoors, they’d settled on a rather predictable locale: a high school auditorium. Although the auditorium itself was still closed off, a few people were already beginning to drift into the lobby. I couldn’t tell whether they were performers or spectators. Nervously, I followed them inside. I got the feeling we’d be playing in front of a good-sized audience, and I began to detect the reappearance of those old familiar butterflies in the pit of my stomach. Did we dare to think we’d be able to re-create the past, and perform up to our old standards? Were we good enough to play in front of a crowd? We’d soon find out.

Jasmine greeted me as soon as I stepped inside. “There you are,” she smiled nervously. She was just as much on edge as I, which did nothing for my confidence. “I’ve been looking for you. The others are already here. Follow me.”

It’s my turn to be late, I thought as Jasmine led the way down a corridor which surrounded the perimeter of the auditorium. At the end of the corridor, she opened a door which led to the backstage area. “You can just hang loose in here for a bit. I do need to get a few details ironed out with you guys, though, so don’t get too far away.” Always a little bundle of energy, Jasmine scurried off toward parts unknown.

Inside, a surprisingly large number of people, unmistakably performers, were milling around. I quickly found my cohorts. Dave, Paul, and Evie (who’d bummed a ride from Paul and Jasmine) were conversing in a quiet corner. Inez, displaying no interest whatsoever in socializing, stood about ten feet away, picking away at her guitar.

“You’re late!” Dave cackled as soon as he saw me, enjoying the role reversal.

“Yeah, yeah,” I sighed, more anxious than irritable. Evie picked up on it right away.

“A little nervous, Pat?” she smiled sympathetically. “Me too.”

“Me three,” Paul chimed in. “Just what are we getting ourselves into, anyhow?”

“Nothing,” I replied, forcing a grin, “nothing at all. Except for the fact that we may be about to make utter asses of ourselves in front of lots of people.”

Inez, still positioned nearby, had nothing to add, strumming her guitar, oblivious to all around her.

Soon, Jasmine reappeared. “First things first,” she declared. “They’re asking me what name you guys use for your band. You were called Activation Energy way back when. Do you want to stick with that?”

We all nodded enthusiastically. The name sounded a wee bit pretentious for a bunch of middle-agers, although it was fine for a group of college kids. But for sentimental reasons, we weren’t about to allow anyone to deny us the use of that name. I happened to catch a glance of Inez, as Jasmine uttered the words “Activation Energy”, and detected a discernible disapproving eye roll. But quite surprisingly, she said nothing, still seemingly lost within herself.

“Good. That’s settled,” Jasmine went on. “And here’s some more info for you all to digest. There are twelve acts taking part in this contest.”

“Twelve?” I blurted out, surprised. I hadn’t expected quite that many.

“Are they all rock bands?” Dave queried.

“No. A few are. But there are a wide range of styles among the twelve. There are a couple of country acts, two or three modern hip-hop outfits, one that’s into older R&B, and even a salsa/merengue act.”

“That should make it plenty hard for the panel to judge us fairly,” I remarked, imagining all kinds of inconsistencies involved with comparing such diverse musical styles.

“Have you heard any of them play?” Paul asked his wife.

“No ... but I do know that most of the acts are the same as you guys, assembled just for the purposes of this show. However, I also know for a fact that at least two of them have been together for some time, and have experience performing together in front of a live audience.”

“That will give them quite an advantage,” said Evie.

“It might,” Jasmine allowed. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. Just go out there and have fun. I heard you guys play yesterday, and believe me, you will not make fools out of yourselves.”

“Glad you have confidence in us, Jaz,” I said, with a hint of cynicism in my voice. “So, are we performing first, last, or somewhere in between?”

“I was just getting to that,” came her reply. “You guys are number nine in the pecking order. Eight before you, three after. If I were you, I’d be happy about that. You’ll get to see most of the competition before you take the stage.”

“And we’ll take the stage with our asses already kicked to the curb,” Dave remarked, his voice full of nervous apprehension.

Shortly thereafter, the show got underway. With the consent of the others, Dave and I moved out into the audience and laid claim to a couple of empty seats. We wanted to scope out the competition. The event had been well advertised locally, and although I had expected a large audience, I was surprised to find that the auditorium, which seated about four hundred, was stuffed to over ninety percent capacity. The buzz of anticipation from the crowd was loud enough to force me to practically shout as I said to Dave, “Damn! This joint is hopping.”

The first group of performers was a hip-hop act. Neither Dave nor I knew a whole lot about that particular genre, and when they were finished, we looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders.

Second on the bill was a country and western band, who ran through three songs in mediocre fashion, the last one being “Achy Breaky Heart”, which actually produced some line dancing in the aisles among members of the audience.

“That should disqualify them right there,” Dave cracked.

“Did you notice how many songs they did?” I commented.

“One more than we are,” Dave replied. “I sure hope Inez hasn’t given us all the shaft.”

Then the third group took the stage and threw down the gauntlet for all who followed. Billed as “Funk Station”, they were an outfit of seven middle-aged black men, all of whom appeared to be talented vocalists with multi-instrumental capabilities. Their sound was based on the funky R&B material from the mid-to-late seventies. I have an eclectic taste in music, and I actually like that particular genre, which admittedly skirted the outer edges of disco on occasion, but which also requires a high degree of musicianship. They opened up with songs from Parliament and The Commodores (“Brick House”) before closing with a killer version of Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Shining Star”.

“They’re damn good,” I shouted at Dave above the din as the audience roared their approval. “Way better than we are. And remind me once again ... how many songs did they do?”

Dave replied by holding up three fingers, and then added, “I sure hope you intend to bring that matter up with the Ice Queen again.”

“Count on it,” I replied. “Even if I have to do it after the show.”

Group number four tried a different approach, running through a medley of six shortened Beatles songs in half-hearted, unimaginative fashion. Keeping up my running commentary, I uttered a single word to Dave: “Next.”

“Trying to put Simon Cowell out of work, are we?”

“I call ‘em like I see ‘em.”

Groups five through seven were all rock acts. Five and six were both ragged and disorganized, neither one a threat. The same could not be said for number seven, however.

Despite their corny and pedestrian moniker, Thunderblast, they were a talented group, with an excellent lead guitarist and a skilled lead vocalist. They appeared to focus on material from the late eighties and early nineties. Their first song, “Sweet Child of Mine” by Guns ‘n’ Roses, was delivered with verve and originality. Their second song, the Bon Jovi ballad “Bed of Roses”, really drew in the audience. There was a whole lot of hand-waving, and even a few lighters pointed skyward. Bon Jovi material always goes over well in New Jersey. And much to my surprise, they called it a set after two songs, albeit two of the longer variety.

“I bet that will make Inez’s night,” Dave observed. “So, what sayeth thou, O Sage of Song?”

“They’re not bad,” I allowed. “I think our ceiling is now third place.”

As the next act, another hip-hop group, moved out onto the stage and began to set up, we left our seats and headed backstage. Activation Energy was to follow. I’d enjoyed sitting out in the audience with Dave, for if nothing else, it had kept us both loose. But now that our time was at hand, I felt the abdominal knot return in a big way. Looking at Dave, Paul, and Evie, I could tell that each was likewise somewhere in the interim between nervous and scared. Inez? She had the same sour expression as always. Who knew what she was feeling?

We heard the hip-hop act finish up their set, and then moved our stuff out onto the stage, right there in front of the huge audience. Petrified? You bet I was. Even back in the day, we’d never played to an audience this large. But we’d come too far to back out now. Jasmine, along with several volunteers for the event, helped us get set up in record time. Finally, we were ready to go. Jasmine flashed us the thumbs-up sign, mouthed “Good Luck”, and then disappeared backstage.

I really don’t remember too much of that particular two-song set. I’d like to say that we performed flawlessly; who knows, maybe we came close. I’d also like to say that personally, I worked the keyboard in a masterful manner, without a single bum note. But I really have no idea. As cliché as it sounds, when you are onstage performing, you are in another zone. You are part of something bigger. And on that evening, the one who stole the show was Inez, and we all knew it. She was as riveting as a performer as she was disagreeable as a human being. And she proved that physical attractiveness is not a requirement in reeling in an audience. When we finished up, the applause seemed thunderous; it was far louder than we’d ever heard before, though with the different vantage point, it was hard to gauge in comparison to the other performers. As we began to clear the stage, Inez continued to wear a blank and impassive expression, but the rest of us looked at each other and nodded in cautious approval. Given our considerable rustiness and limited preparation, we believed that we’d done the best we could.

Backstage, we loosened up a bit. Evie hugged each one of us, proclaiming, “It was worth the trip. When we were out there performing, I left like I was nineteen again.”

Paul chimed in, “Win or lose, I agree, it was worth doing.”

Following us was the salsa/merengue act; as soon as they finished, Dave and I once again took our places in the audience for the final two groups. The first was a country band, the second yet another rock act; neither one impressed me. Next came an intermission, during which the panel would compare notes and determine the winners.

While heading back to rejoin the others, I said to Dave, “Realistically, the best we can hope for is third place. Funk Station is the winner. Book it. I think Thunderblast should get second. I don’t think any of the other acts are as good as we are, but you never know what might happen. And the two hip-hop troupes are the wild cards. I have no ear for that kind of music. They could have been incredible, or they could have sucked donkey balls, and I wouldn’t know the difference.”

“Third place,” Dave mused. “A hundred bucks. We oughta give Jasmine a cut, since she’s worked even harder on this than we have. So, what’s that come to? A hundred divided by six, about seventeen dollars? Wow! We can each order a pizza from Domino’s, and still have a few cents left over.”

“That’s keeping it in perspective,” I laughed. “But don’t count your chickens yet. Third may be a stretch.”

Paul, Jasmine and Evie had already spotted us. Paul caught the tail end of that conversation. “So, you think we’ll finish third? Yeah, right.”

“No, I’m not promising anything. Who knows what the panel will say. But we’ll find out soon enough. Look,” I said to everyone, pointing at the stage, where the MC was standing in front of the microphone, ready to announce the results.

We all moved in closer together, anxiously facing the MC. Paul took Jasmine’s hand in his, while I draped one arm across Evie’s shoulder. It was apparent that each of us had a bit more personal investment in the result than we were letting on.

“In third place,” the MC’s voice reverberated through the auditorium, “Thunderblast.”

Amid the raucous applause coming from those involved with Thunderblast, I could feel Evie’s shoulder sag, and mine sagged along with hers. If Thunderblast had finished third, it meant one of the presumably inferior groups had been placed ahead of them, perhaps one of the hip-hop groups.

“Oh well,” I said to the others as the clamor began to fade and the MC got ready to announce the second-place winner. “No matter what, it was a lot of fun.”

“What’s a hundred bucks, anyhow?” Dave managed a grin.

“No pizza for you tonight, buddy.” I cracked.

“Hush,” Jasmine scolded, motioning with her hands for us to keep our voices down. “I want to hear the results.”

Chapter 4 »