arizona

Maybe it was the desert heat, or the long overnight drive into town, or the giddy anticipation that had building up in me for weeks... or maybe it was just the alcohol I'd been drinking in quantities far beyond my own tolerance, or the intense energy emanating from the crowd of people that slowly but surely filled the venue...

Or maybe it was the fact we played an extra long set, stretching out to over an hour... or maybe it was just a good old-fashioned case of nerves... then again, maybe it was the accidental fall that almost knocked me out cold as I tripped over my guitar case and landed on my ass against the back wall of the stage, still playing my bass part on time and in key but deliriously drunk and hallucinating from the unexpected impact...

At any rate, I was overwhelmed on stage with the band last Saturday night, to the point where I left the stage immediately after what I thought was our last song of the evening. I ran out without saying a word, and made a beeline for the street before anyone could walk up to me and say, "Hey! You guys rocked!" or congratulate us for what had to have been the best show we ever played.

It wasn't Stage Fright. It was Off-Stage Fright.

It was knowing that once this moment was over and done with, the return to reality would be a hard one to negotiate. After the last song's final note sustained itself for as long as it could, there was the rest of the night and then the long drive home and then... back to a home that I don't really have, or back to the job which isn't really a job, or back to my life which hasn't felt like my own life for some time now.

How could I smile and accept praise from audience members or accept accolades for the show when I knew it was all going to dissipate and fade away? How could I stick around knowing that when the night was done and I was back at my hotel, I'd be basically getting ready to make the trip home again?

Even if I'd stayed up all night and had a blast and partied until I was blue in the face, I knew deep inside that it was only going to make me feel down when I stopped being a rock star and went back to being little ol' Me.

Something about my unrehearsed pratfall jarred the fear in me awake. I have stated before that I'm never nervous when I play with Ninefinger, and I was doing fine until I fell. It was shocking to me because normally I plan my falls and tumbles. I choreograph them so that there is no real danger to me unless I lose control or miscalculate my position.

Maybe there was some embarrassment involved. Even though I still played on, and even though the people in the audience couldn't tell that fall apart from the other antics that the band and I engaged in throughout our set, I felt slightly foolish. But more importantly, I felt afraid.

It was a good kind of fear. It was the kind that impels you to scale new heights and throw all caution to the wind. It was a desperate high, a soaring crest of a wave that we were all riding at that moment.

I had never felt that with this band until last Saturday night.

It scared me. I ran out of there so quickly after nearly demolishing my bass guitar in the wake of the drum solo. I lit up a cigarette and hid behind a bush, hoping that no one saw me escape. My own sense of self-loathing and anxiety did not wish to hear compliments or positive feedback. I just wanted to be by myself for five minutes.

And then, I heard the drums.

The band was playing another song... without me!

What the fuck, I thought. We got an encore? Holy shit-- Who's playing bass?

I ran back in a hurry, trying to hear which song of ours the band was playing. I could make out someone playing a droning D on my bass guitar. I entered the club and pushed through the crowd, and when I jumped on stage and grabbed my bass back the crowd cheered.

I finished the song with the rest of the guys, and afterwards I bought the fill-in bass player a beer. He was a friend of the singer, and I thanked him for stepping up to the plate.

Apparently, in the short time I was gone a search party had been dispatched by the band. The crowd at the club started chanting my name, as the band kept calling out to me in the hopes that I would heed the call and return to the stage for at least one more number.

It was quite simply the most intense live experience I have ever had. It was what I have been seeking for so long, and yet the minute I finally got what I wanted it almost enveloped and devoured me whole.

I don't know if I will ever have an experience like that again, but I'm glad that it happened, and I'm glad that I made it through, because I needed it.

I feel closer to the guys in the band, closer than I have ever felt with any other band. Saturday night in Scottsdale, Arizona opened my eyes to new and infinite possibilities far beyond what I could ever imagine.

I am still shaken from it. I don't know if I will ever get it out of my system. It changed me and touched me to the core. I felt like I'd been struck by lightning.

I played it off and lied to everyone and said I was vomiting when I left the stage. Somehow, that story seemed to be more plausible than what really happened. Everyone could accept that I might have been sick but I didn't think they would buy it if I'd told them that I was touched on the shoulder by the hand of God and it left me frenzied and emotional.

It was real. It was so real. It was the realest I'd ever felt in my entire life.

And that's what made it scary. All of it was really happening. The crowd, the reaction, our performance, the setting... all of it was undeniably concrete and tangible.

Now that I've had a taste of that, I wonder what future shows will have in store for us. Only time will tell.

Until then, I am still recuperating from it. It's like shell-shock. I'm not sure what else to do. Is it possible that I can truly die happy now? Or is this merely the first step in a whole new direction?

I can't wait to find out.