Train
One is a funny number. When you consider the fact that a person has a one in three hundred-thousand chance of being struck by lightning, one seems like a small number. When you’ve played a note that is one whole tone away from the intended note while standing on stage in front of nineteen-thousand people, one seems like a large number. When that note happens to lead off an epic guitar solo in which all lights are shining directly on you on an otherwise darkened stage, one becos, as the song says, the loneliest number.
Puddin’s head snapped towards , and he burst into laughter as I fat-fingered my way back to the correct lody. If I’d co into the note flat, at least I could have bent up to the intended note and turned the mistake into a soulful choice. But I ca in sharp. Directly at the corner of wrong and ugly. The kind of mistake that causes even the most tone-deaf, casual concert goer to wince. Worst of all, I’d never be able to explain to lody why I’d made such a fucking boneheaded mistake in the first place. I couldn’t possibly tell her the reason I fucked up on stage was because I was distracted by her. Distracted by even the slightest glimpse of her as she moved across the stage. Or, God forbid, I sll her as she passes by.
I put the sour note behind and turned my thoughts to lody. Trying not only to recover the solo, but also to convey the feelings I had for her. Feelings that grew stronger every day. I knew she could never be mine, but that didn’t stop from wanting her. Even though we shared the sa stage night after night, we lived in completely different worlds. All I could do to stop the burning in my heart was play. So, I played, and I kept playing, with all my heart. Pouring everything I had into each note. Then lody joined .
lody
The solo section of ’Flowers on Fire’ had beco my favorite mont of the entire show. The chorus leading up to the solo would end abruptly and the stage would go dark for an eight count. Then, a single spotlight would shine on Train at the exact mont he would start the solo. Legendary session guitarist, Greg Kirk, had played the part beautifully in the studio, but Train sohow managed to elevate the solo far beyond the recorded version. I couldn’t wait for this part of the show and my heart raced every ti the stage would go black. Anticipating the mont when Train’s first note would pierce through the darkness. Savoring the delicious tension of the prolonged mont of silence beforehand. Knowing that tension would soon be broken, and I could lose myself in Train’s playing.
At least, that’s the way the solo had been until now. Tonight, Train served up a big ol’ bucket of clams. It took him a bar to fully recover, but by the ti the band ca back in he was back on track and playing his ass off, per usual. Then he really started to let loose. Playing like I’d not seen until now. Free and wild with reckless abandon.
I stepped out of the darkness and sauntered to the front of the stage just as Train’s solo reached its climax. The band roaring behind us as I began to sing. My voice intertwining with Train’s guitar lodies as we circled one another, bathed in the glow of the spotlight. I taunted him as if I were a matador and him my bull. He stomped the ground before charging at , missing by re inches as he passed. The band played on, taking their cues from our movents as we continued.
Train
"Courtland ’Train’ Nash on guitar!" lody shouted as my guitar rang out through the arena. "And this is real live music, people!" The crowd went ape shit and I’d never been prouder. Not because I felt they were cheering for . But because lody was right. We were playing live mother fucking music. Without a net. Warts and all. The way music is supposed to be played. My mistake was my mistake to make. I owned it and did my best to turn it around, and instead of tearing into in the dressing room, lody joined and gave the single greatest onstage mont of my life. It only made want her more.
It was three o’ clock in the morning and I was wide fuckin’ awake, adrenaline still coursing through my veins from tonight’s show. Mostly, the fuck up. We’d been on the road for a week now and I was still having trouble sleeping on the bus. On show nights, I’d be jacked up for hours, and the rest of the ti, it was just normal life on the bus shit that kept awake. After tossing and turning in my bunk, I gave up and quietly made my way to the front of the bus. Maybe our bus driver, Walt, could use so company.
I reached the lounge area at the front of the bus and was surprised to see Puddin’ awake. He was staring at his phone with a worried look on his face.
"Everything okay?" I whispered.
"Sorry, mate. Did I wake you?" he asked.
"No, no. I still haven’t quite got the hang of night life on the bus."
"I gave up sleep years ago," Puddin’ said. "It’s overrated if you ask ."
"Well, I’m up if you need to talk."
"I sent a text to my daughter in London, and I’m just waitin’ for her reply."
I sat beside him on the sofa by the large window. "Do you get to see her much?"
"We haven’t spoken in seven years," he replied.
"I’m sorry, I didn’t an to pry."
"No, it’s all right. It was all my fault. I nearly did myself in with drink and drugs. I lost everything, including my family, but I’m praying to my higher power that my sweet Elli will speak to again. She’s thirty-two years old now. Got two kids. One of ’em I ain’t even t yet."
"Wow, that must be tough."
"Last ti we spoke on the phone, she told not to contact her again unless I’d earned my five years clean and sober chip."
"But, you’ve been clean for seven years, haven’t you?"
"Aye. Bill gave my seven-year chip two days ago." He grimaced. "It’s taken two years to gather up the courage to reach out to her."
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