Her Rock Star Mountain Man

Gradually, the lights on stage become brighter and illuminate the positions the band will take in a couple of minutes.

I love this moment. Everything is possible right now. This might very well be the best concert I’m ever going to attend. I might be blown away by the music. This might be a life-altering night.

I relish this anticipation just before the concert. And it’s not just me. Right now, it feels like the entire audience is with me on this.

“I’ll get myself a soda. You want any?”

Of course, a moment like this is wasted on Brittney. My sister-in-law is a good friend but has zero sensitivity for awe. Or whatever it is that I feel right now.

“Get me a water, will you?” Amanda asks. Today, she is wearing her hair in some crazy curls, like right out of a hair product ad. This should look terrible, but not with Amanda. Her confident smile makes me question my choice of clothes. Blue jeans, white shirt, and a brown leather jacket, my ash blonde hair undone—nobody would take me for a style icon. I have to look put together in my job. No way am I putting much thought into my appearance in my spare time. Only women like Amanda with their impeccable sense of style make me wish I was snazzier.

Just as Brittney squeezes past me to get to the concession stand, a member of the band appears on stage. The lights change color and start swirling, as the Black guy sits behind the drums. The audience welcomes him with applause and cheering. Very softly, he begins a solo.

Drum solos are not really my thing. I guess I’m more the melody kind of girl and that rhythm is lost on me once it is by itself. But this here is a surprise. The drummer plays that ba-dum-tss in many variations, outdoing themselves, mocking one another. I’m not sure this is a thing, but it most definitely sounds like it.

After a few minutes of blissful drum solo, another man walks on stage. He puts his horn to his lips and soon, the two instruments engage in a playful duel. I can’t stop grinning. This is so good!

“This is good.”

The seats jolt as Brittney flops next to me. She offers me a water bottle I had not requested. Sometimes, things like that make her a wonderful friend. Now, though, it irks me as it takes from the moment.

I hear background vocals, and as the light changes again, it reveals three singers standing upstage, two women in silvery dresses and a man in black pants and a shirt of that same silvery fabric. They are moving gracefully, thus emphasizing their singing. The entire stage setup is visually as alluring as the music.

“Ooh, I’d love me some drummer.” Amanda points at the young man skillfully twirling his sticks and working his drums with his entire body. Sweat makes his skin glisten in the limelight. How can he go through the concert if he exerts himself this much in the very first song?

Brittney makes a howling sound. “Okay, you can have him. I take the hornist.”

Interesting. With his long, wavy hair and his slender body, he is about as different from my brother as someone can be. I feel the need to protect Carson, and so I point out, “You’re married.”

“Yeah, so? A girl can dream.” Brittney winks at me and keeps dancing in her seat in that slightly exaggerated way, like she had to make sure everybody knew she had a good time.

I’m not comfortable with this conversation and try to focus on the music. “Who are you gonna pick?” Amanda asks. I’m about to say, “Nobody,” when another man steps on stage. He is much taller than his band mates and wears himself with an easy confidence that makes me edgy. He is broad-shouldered and looks just like the kind of man who could put a spell on me—I’ve always had a penchant for the lumberjack physique. I notice a pressure on my chest, like my heart is beating erratically.

The man wears leather pants and a shiny, see-through tunic that emphasizes his toned body more than it cloaks it. He slides the belt of his guitar around his neck. With a quick motion, he swipes some of his longish dark strands behind the ear and checks the plug.

The pulsating rhythm of the drum and the titillating timbre of the horn echo through the arena, but it is the guitarist who had not even started playing that held my attention. I just couldn’t ignore that spark of a connection.

“Ooh, somebody likes the picker.” Brittney jokingly elbows me. I wave her off dismissively, but that only makes her and Amanda break out in laughter.

Determined not to pay attention to their antics, I intently watch what is happening on stage. And yeah, by that I mean I watch the guitarist. He nods a few times to get into the rhythm and finally begins to play.

I love guitars. They talk to me. I know this sounds stupid, and I am no good at anything to do with music in the first place. My father always says that I am tone deaf, and that might very well be. I couldn’t hold a tune if my life depended on it, and I sucked at music lessons. But once I decided that I don’t care a fig about what good music is and whether people laugh at me enjoying it, I now am free to listen to whatever I want and to spend all my money on concerts. It makes me come alive. And guitars do talk to me. Not all of them, of course. It depends on who plays it. This one here is outright eloquent. I listen, captivated, song after song, ensnared by the instrument. Or its player if that makes a difference at all. Watching him is almost as bewitching as listening to his guitar and I wish we had gone for front-of-stage tickets so I could see him better. He walks around the stage, dances, jumps, or in some instances, just stands still. In these moments, it looks like he was listening, too. The stage lights bathe the band in a kaleidoscope of colors and gives them a mysterious air. Maybe it is just a trick of the lights, but one time I actually had the impression he smiled and winked at me.

I feel a closeness to him, and that is futile. I bet everybody in the stadium does. Still, it feels real and makes me yearn. Like a rock star would ever look at me.