Author's Note: I am not affiliated with John Mayer, his music, or his lyrics, and the thoughts and views expressed in this piece of writing are not the views of John C. Mayer.
My God, he’s beautiful. She watched with an amazed smile as the man on stage strummed his guitar with an expert’s ease. He ran his hands through his hair absentmindedly before adjusting the guitar strap that hung around his neck. Sweat had long ago formed on his brow, and he paused for a second to wipe it off with the back of his hand. As effortless as he made it seem, playing guitar for two hours was more difficult than it appeared.
He gave the crowd a knowing smile as they cheered for him, even while doing these small, quick tasks. It never ceased to amaze him, the fact that so many people felt so strongly for him that they would spend hours at his show just watching him do what he loved most: making music. Screams erupted from several more rambunctious fans as he fingered the neck of his favorite guitar as he searched for the right chord. His dark eyes flicked from the audience to his long fingers, and he inhaled deeply, savoring this moment. It never, no matter how many shows he played, grew old. Not wanting to put them in any more suspense, he nodded to the crowd. “Are you doing alright, tonight?” He asked, which resulted in shrill screams that enveloped him, a sound he knew meant yes, yes, yes.
Reaching for a pic, he gave the guitar a steady strum to signal the beginning of a new song. This alone caused a few wild shouts and applause. Grinning broadly for a moment, his smile disappeared just as soon as it arrived. He pursed his full lips, looking up one last time at the crowd before beginning the song.
Many of the fans shrieked with joy as they heard the recognizable opening to his song Slow Dancing in a Burning Room. He closed his eyes, biting his lip as the twangs of his guitar filled the auditorium. Cheers were blossoming from his fans, the women shouting I love you, and the men bobbing their heads with a serious appreciation. His head jerked slightly, an involuntary movement, as he struck a chord with precision.
Stepping up to the microphone as his eyelids fluttered open, John bit his lip purposefully before opening his mouth. “It’s not a silly little moment,” He breathed, his voice suddenly filling the arena as he sang, “It’s not the storm before the calm.” Girls were yelling his name as he played, almost as if his name was the most beautiful thing in the world. John! John! John! His fans snapped pictures at an impossible pace, the bright lights surrounding him. They wanted to capture this moment, this moment of just him playing and singing. “This is the deep and dying breath of,” John paused for a moment, a mere second before continuing with, “This love that we’ve been working on.”
His lips brushed against the mike as he inhaled a breath for the next line. “Can’t seem to hold you like I want to,” John sang and again hesitated for a short second, “So I can feel you in my arms. Nobody’s gonna come and save you.” He peered at the crowd and their expectant, enthusiastic faces. Fans were singing with him off-key, drawling out the words as they rocked back and forth on their heels as if the music had taken control of their hearts and made them sway along. The pure beauty of the moment made him buzz with a stronger high than any drug or form of alcohol, the blissful looks that lingered on so many of their faces was priceless.
He continued singing the lines that they all knew by heart, and he gave them his widest smile. His eyes met with several fans; a dark haired woman with large brown eyes was waving to him from the third row, a tall man stood in the crowd singing along and smiling as John nodded to him, and an exuberant blonde wearing a shirt that bared his name was seemingly shocked by him as tears streamed down her face. He smiled at her and made eye contact while singing, which resulted in more tears and a broad grin. It was unbelievable to him, the fact that he could cause people to feel so much. They were so open to him, allowing him to see their every emotion and not holding back a thing they felt for him. It still amazed him, the connection he held with them.
John launched into a guitar solo, the sharp sound erupting in the arena as fans clapped wildly. He shook his head, losing himself within the beautiful chords. He leaned back, his veiny hands scaling the neck of his guitar – the noise so pure and sweet he closed his eyes and let the music surround him. At that point he wasn’t sure which sound was more perfect: the dip of each chord or the ecstatic screams and applause that the music caused.
Definitely the second, he decided, his eyes opening slowly as he saw his fans. They made it all worth it.
