Not My Thing
The music is back, but at what cost?
Just one set.
Jeff stands backstage, waiting for the cue to step out in front of the crowd. He fidgets with a set of drumsticks, idly tapping out one rhythm before abandoning it for another. No matter where he strikes — the wall beside him, his water bottle, a bandmate’s shoulder — it doesn’t match the rhythm in his head, the one that’s been just out of reach since they announced this tour. It’s there, wanting to come out. He can feel it — tormenting him, keeping him from focusing, from moving onto the next song behind it — a giant traffic jam in his head, and he doesn’t know how to clear it.
“Seven,” Todd, the lead singer of the Dancing Freemasons, says.
“Huh?” asks Steve, the bassist. He bounces from foot to foot. Maybe it’s nerves, or perhaps he just has to pee.
“Seven numbers tonight.” Todd winks at his bandmates. “Lucky seven.”
“Four,” chimes in Eric, the other guitarist.
“Twelve,” says Steve.
Todd snorts and rolls his eyes. “I give you two.”
They run through this ritual before every show: predict how many phone numbers each of them can get from female fans after the show. They always overestimate, but that’s half the fun.
