Free Eighty Days Red by Vina Jackson Page B

and Ted were busy soundchecking. We idled the time away in the top bar, before taking our places at the front centre of the stage as the first half of the show was about to begin.
Chris was like another person the minute he stepped out in front of the crowd. Day to day he had a shy, boyish air about him, but in front of a microphone he wore a second skin, the perfect image and demeanour of a rock star.
The group burst straight into one of my favourite tracks, ‘Roadhouse Blues’, all rolling riffs with a blues melody and Chris and Ted’s husky vocals riding the sound like molasses rolling slowly down a whisky barrel. Ted pulled out his double bass for the second tune, ‘Fire Woman’, a song about hot love with more of a swing feel. It was a piece that always made the women in the audience go crazy, and tonight was no exception. Chris held the mic in one hand as if he was slow-dancing with a lover, his mouth open wide to catch the high notes.
‘Hello, London,’ he shouted out to the crowd, ‘how are we tonight?’
They leaped and cheered in response.
‘Would you like to meet our special guest?’ He stared down at me in the front row. More cheering. Maybe Viggo had agreed to make an early friendly appearance. ‘What are you doing?’ I shouted back, but my voice was lost in the screaming.
‘My girl is here, over from New York,’ Chris shouted. ‘Give her some encouragement, people, get her up on stage.’
One of the roadies raced out hurriedly from behind the curtain with an electric violin, and plugged it in with a burst of feedback. I was relieved it wasn’t my Bailly, as the sound would have been lost, even with the mic, but I hadn’t played an electric for nearly three years.
I crouched under the rope that cut the mosh pit off from the stage. The two bouncers hoisted me up and Chris grabbed my hand and pulled me alongside him. I turned to face the crowd. The energy onstage was much wilder than I was used to compared with my demure classical gigs. The room felt hot and alive, tingling with noise and electricity.
‘Just go with it,’ Chris said, as he broke into one of the songs that we used to play together, ‘Sugarcane’, a folk rhythm with a short violin solo and double-string licks punctuating the vocals, a fat, dirty sound that I hadn’t played since I first left London.
I stayed for the band’s next song, enjoying the ebb and flow of the music rushing through me like a current, forcing myself to leave them onstage alone for their finale, a heavier rock number which reached a thundering crescendo on the drums.
Fran was waiting for me in the wings minutes after I made my exit, having pushed through the crowd and flashed her backstage pass and a smile at security so that she could congratulate me. She stared at Chris as the crowd went wild, and the lights swept over the band one last time as they left the stage, fingers of green and red light gleaming against the hard wooden floors.
‘He’s pretty good,’ Fran said.
‘Chris? Yeah, I know. He’s like a different person when he plays.’
‘So are you.’
‘Really?’
‘Just more confident, I guess. And I can see you all getting into the music, like you’re high or something …’
‘We’re not. Always been very boring like that. Chris is massively anti-drugs, says he doesn’t want to upset his creative flow by fucking up his brain cells.’
‘Fair enough …’
I left her looking after our jackets in the wings, and headed off to hunt down a couple of drinks, taking advantage of the short break between acts. We didn’t get that many big acts in New Zealand, and even then they always went to the major centres: Auckland or Wellington, sometimes Christchurch. Neither of us had seen that many gigs at home. Fran seemed content drinking it all in, and staring up at the Academy’s starry ceiling which even after several visits to the venue still made me feel as though I was watching a show outdoors.
I returned just in time to see the stage lights