OFF THE RECORD (First Person)

5. Achievements

Tomas
It was the first stop of the tour. The band and I would open for The Killers, which only gave us an hour per concert to perform. The time was more than enough to sing the songs from our first album, which had been a smash hit.

I was excited and a bit nervous. It felt strange to taste the sensation of being exposed again. I had played hundreds if not thousands of times, but never to this many people nor all over the country.

Henry, my manager, was also in charge of the seasoned band, so he introduced the idea for them to let us join them around. I was greatly appreciative to them, who didn't doubt to accept.

I was checking my microphone and guitar one last time, to be ready for the show. My guitar, Honey, had a lucky sticker, a honeycomb, which I would rub before each performance.

The rest of the band members were in their positions on the stage, being camouflaged by the darkness and a thin black veil that fell from the ceiling.

My outfit was simple. I had a long-sleeved black shirt, unbuttoned close to the middle of my chest, with my sleeves pulled up to my elbows, black washed-up jeans with a chain hanging from front to back, and a pair of black combat boots.

Adding my tousled chestnut hair, I looked like a real rockstar. I knew my tall stature, and my triangle shaped torso, added with my small olive eyes and chiseled jaw helped with my attractiveness.

The crowd was heard from the other side of the curtains.

"You are up in five." Said a woman with a clipboard in hand, looking my way.

I nodded, closing my eyes. I bounced gently in place, hyping myself up.

You can do it you can do it you can do it, I said to myself while I creaked my neck from side to side.

In one second, I was making the sign of the cross on myself, and on the next I was guided by the woman to the stairs of the stage.

The drums started the ambiance. Artificial fog covered me up to my waist. The spectators were yelling and whistling in unison, loudly enough.

I smiled. This was my environment. My place. I felt small, surrounded by the multitude of people. Yet, I felt powerful, willing to get into every individual present, one way or another, and knowing I could do it.

"How's it hanging, Portland?" I enunciated loudly, stretching the syllables of the name of the city in Oregon. I took my time to let the crowd vent. "This is Tom Leon. We are Texts from Texas. We'll be starting you out tonight. And while we all know the real reason you are here, don't disregard us just yet. Think of us as the lube, the foreplay. Yes! We do matter! We will have you hot and ready for my guys, The Killers. Let's do this, Mase!" I finished, pointing to Mason, our drummer.

The public went crazy listening to the first strings of my guitar. Full of energy, I took in all the accords with my left hand, while I pinched my plastic pick with my right hand, which moved according to the rhythm of the debut song.

I played while I let out the first notes with my husky voice in sync.

The stage lights illuminated me, giving me an intense heat. The cameras reflected me on the sides of the stage, in large screens. The people got up little by little, syncing in with the mood. The hardest part, which was the start, had been accomplished. Each song was a landing, a win. The nerves that had accompanied me in the stage had disappeared.

I played, jumped, and danced to the rhythm, walking around to my teammates. I would close my eyes when I played a slow song, feeling it, leaving everything on the stage. My guitar solos brought my breath back and would turn the crowd wild. At the end of our act, the encore resonated, asking more of us. I hoped to have reached the expectations of our fans and also gained more of them.