Rocked Up

After receiving the electric guitar, my lessons with Mr. Robson were mostly plugged into an amp rather than on the acoustic, and the songs I wrote were based around that awesome electric sound.

Mr. Robson would say, “Don’t always play with the volume at ten, they won’t feel anything when you do that. For something to sound loud it has to be next to something quiet.”

Depending on who was playing the theater that night, we sometimes would have to set up a backline. A backline is a set-up of all the equipment that we had at the theater, and the band would just show up and play on our amps, keyboards, and drums. Usually smaller bands would do that, or maybe when there were multiple acts and tearing down and setting up a new equipment for each band wasn’t practical. Anyway, those days were the best because the crew would get a chance to jam on the equipment during the day. Sometimes, we would play one of my songs and I got to be front and center. It was amazing to play with a full band, drums pounding, bass rumbling, my guitar sounding exactly how I wanted it to when it was plugged into the Marshal amps.

The more we played, the more often they would ask me to take center stage. They weren’t as old as Mr. Robson, but they were still pretty up there. Even though they had grey hair, they acted like teenagers when they played, and they were really good musicians. One time we had fun with the smoke machine, using up all the dry ice. Mr. Robson gave us some trouble for that.

So, after such an epic thirteenth birthday, I would be lying if I said when I walked in a year later I was wondering if they would do something similar for my fourteenth.

“Did they let you out of your cage?” Mr. Robson asked without fail. I laughed and started coiling up some cables. I pressed on like any other day, not feeling bad that Mr. Robson didn’t know it was my birthday, but feeling bad that I had some kind of expectation. As if the electric guitar wasn’t enough. I quickly sorted myself out and tried to forget it was my birthday. I noticed they were setting up a backline so I hoped we would get a little jamming in.

“I was thinking of trying that burger place across the street,” Mr. Robson said jokingly as he handed me a ten-dollar bill.

“Bring back the change,” I said before he could and laughed at the scowl that melted into a smile.

“Who is playing tonight?” I asked as I walked away.

“Never heard of ‘em, kid. Take a look at the marquee on your way out,” he said.

As I walked out of the grand theater and into the foyer, I saw one of the crew members on a ladder beginning to put the black letters up outside. Still curious about who that night’s act was, I walked into Dilallo Burger and was greeted by the older couple that always worked there.

“I’ll take the usual,” I said to the smiling lady who took my money. I sat in a rickety chair and listened as they spoke in a language I couldn’t understand. I never could tell if they were arguing or not.

“Kid!” The man who did the cooking shouted and handed me a paper bag with the burgers. The bag had a shine from the grease soaking through.

“Thank you,” I said, and walked toward the exit.

“Hey, kid!” the chef shouted again.

With one hand on the door and my other hand cradling the greasy goodness, I turned my head toward the smiling man behind the counter.

“Don’t forget about us when you’re famous!” he shouted.

I had no idea what the hell he was referring to. His wife smiled and pointed to the marquee across the street where the night’s acts had been posted. The crew member was walking away with his ladder in hand.

In big bold black letters, the marquee read:

Iggy Pop

Ms. Sugar

Brad Snyder

I threw the door open and stood on the sidewalk staring at the sign in disbelief. My heart was racing and I felt my throat tighten up. Alone, on the sidewalk, I shouted for joy like a wild man and ran across the street getting honked at by the cars I was cutting off.

I stumbled into the theater out of breath and smiling.

“Happy Birthday, kid!” Mr. Robson cried out joyfully.

I was completely overwhelmed. I had never played in front of anyone, and this was going to be a full house. I was sweating and probably looked a little green.

“Sugar said she would go on first and get them ready for you. You’re going to do great.”

I must have looked like I felt because Mr. Robson took me by the shoulder and guided me to a seat.

“Relax. You’re ready, so just have fun with it. The guys will meet you backstage and you can decide what you want to play. Just do twenty minutes tops. You’ll do great.”

I didn’t respond—I just stared at the stage in disbelief and ate my burger like a smiling idiot.

***

I met Iggy Pop briefly, and he was nothing like I thought he would be. He sounded like a grown up and was actually very nice. Mr. Robson said I could learn from him but complained that he kept the volume at ten too much.

I watched Ms. Sugar from the side of the stage. She would give me a wink here and there. I had a crush on her even though she was twice my age, and I think she knew it.

I wondered why so many fans would want to watch a show from the side of the stage. The sound was awful. I tried to poke my head out to see if I could see Mr. Robson, but the lights were blinding, making it impossible.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sugar said in her sultry voice. “It is with great pleasure that I announce the next act. I have a feeling that you all will one day be able to brag to your friends that on June 7th, opening for Iggy Pop, you saw this young man’s debut performance here in this theater. This boy is going to be star, and we all get to witness where it all started, right now, on this stage before you. Ladies and gentlemen…Brad Snyder.”

The crowd applauded politely as Sugar strutted off the stage carrying her clothes, a large feather boa wrapped around her neck and pasties on her nipples. She leaned over and in an airy voice spoke into my ear, “Don’t forget to have fun, Bradley.”

A stagehand handed my Gibson SG to me and I walked to the mic with a fraction of the confidence Sugar walked off with. I kept on trying to see Mr. Robson, but the lights were too powerful. The applause had fizzled out and the room was quiet. I plugged in my guitar and it made a crackle that filled the room. I remembered Mr. Robson’s lesson about looking confident. The microphone gave some feedback when I put my lips close. The band looked like soldiers holding for their command. Mr. Robson said it’s best to just get playing when you walk out, so I counted off and we slammed into action.

I can barely remember that first show. I do remember that I could hardly figure out what side of the guitar to hold when I first stepped out onstage, but somehow after I played the first note I glided along.

It was the perfect escape. I felt love. Mr. Robson may have been my only friend, but at that first show I felt like everyone in the theater was my friend. I wasn’t a stupid kid with big sneakers that screwed everything up, I was something very different.

That’s when it started for me.