The chord progression met with the bass' sequenced riffs, it matched perfectly and could not have gone any better.The drums were heavy and the loudest thing in your ears is you were there that night. Eric "Strype" Johnson was the most energetic vocalist we had ever played with. His neck probably ran out of cartiledge during the first song so now it was like grinding stone together in his neck, his spinal cord probably loathed his every movement, but he didn't care, so long as he had fun doing what he did best, singing.
After we hit the last B chord, the crowd roared with approval. Nylad "Def" Crilar spun his drumsticks in between his fingers, both hands, like The Rev used to do so amazingly. He was a talented one, always going as fast as he can, but knowing how to play so many genres that his playing ear was so fine tuned. When he could do progressive metal, he pulled back and did a little jazz, and we could hear a faint trace of rag-time in our setlist that night. We had never heard that before.
"Thank you all, you've been the best crowd we've played to in such a long time! Goodnight!"-Strype called into the mic. He was an alto, but he hit high tenor with a little bit of effort and his stomach sucked in as far as it could physically go. We started taking apart Def's drumkit when she came backstage.Def's drumkit was a workout in itself to bring in his car, his bass drums weren't heavy, but making sure nothing fell apart and that everything was where it needed to be was his main concern. Everything was meticulously placed with us so that we can achieve nothing short of our maximum potential.
I was putting away his rack toms as I saw her figure out of the corner of my eye. She had been taking pictures of us as we played, she was a friend of Def's, and from what he told me, she was a phenomenal photographer. So when we sent out our demo pack to a record company(we didn't know who yet), we had legitimate looking photos taken already...for free. Saves us money, so it worked for us. I didn't have time to seriously get into a conversation with her, although now me and her are the best of friends. I went to her and introduced myself. Her name was Amanda, dark brown hair, blue eyes, beautiful figure, a band's dream groupie. She wore a cross around her neck, a symbol that brought my hopes down, and probably the rest of the band's hopes too, but that urge wasn't necessary...at all.
We had to pack up and head out immediately. I wish Amanda had come with us down to Tampa.We had just finished playing Cat's Cradle in Morrisville, North Carolina. It was a hot June day also, so it was uncomfortable sweating in jeans and a shirt that apparently had to be kept on because the police here could charge you with indecent exposure. Such crap, but the law's the law I guess.
We were on our way down to Tampa when I got the call. It was 2 in the morning. Josh "Hypno" Reldson was always the designated driver, cause he stood up the longest. I was barely awake as I talked to my mother on the phone. She was a funny woman, very supportive of me and my musical endeavors, but was never afraid to set me straight, the belt helped too, especially during some bad shows where the rule "Anything goes" doesn't mean to talk to your parents like they were your friends. Bad idea, very bad idea.
She called telling me that my father had a heart attack in the middle of the night. He's in critical condition right now and the doctor says he may not make it. I was never really fond of my father though. A musician himself in a jazz quintet, he was always so wrapped around his music that his duties as a father became "optional". I can't remember the times I played football with him, but I remember him being there at the parent-teacher conferences, and him definitley being there to hit me when my mouth ran faster than an Olympic sprinter.
"I hope he makes it, I can't afford another funeral. Not right now." I said, trying to avoid showing emotion
"I'm staying here at the hospital until I here some positive news. He'll get better, he's been like this before and he's come out stronger. I'll call you telling you how it goes. Don't break a string again." My mom said, with a hit of sadness in her voice. I don't blame her for it, I really don't.
"I won't. Tell dad I love him." It wasn't out of sincere love,it was out of "I feel bad for you cause I don't feel that sick."
Hypno looked back and asked me "You alright,man? Need a pit stop?"
"Nah, I have an empty bottle I can just chuck if need be. And I'm fine, if you want me to drive, I'll do it."
He pulled over, the rumbling strips making more noise than usual. Hypno loved how they sound, cause they drove Def insane. It always made us laugh.
Thinking back to what I said about funerals, I really couldn't afford going to another funeral, not after the first one at least.
My name is David, I'm the lead guitarist for The Breaking Point, and I'm stressed the heck out of my mind right now.