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“Is it really you? Tristan! Oh my god, I’ve wanted to meet you for so long. Oh my
god! Shari, get over here, quick!” She stopped to catch her breath for a moment, her
hand on her chest, which was rising and falling with an incredible rapidity. I hoped
she wasn’t going to hyperventilate and pass out on us. I looked over at the people
at the front desk, who were watching, somewhat amused. That reassured me—at least
they were there, they could call someone, or act as witnesses if one of the girls
passed out from the excitement. It had actually happened twice so far, once when he
was signing autographs, and once when he had leaned down to touch hands with the fans
pushed up against the stage. They had fainted dead away. I couldn’t really blame them.
I knew what it could be like.

The girl was talking really fast now. “Tristan, Tristan, can we all get a photo with
you? Please?” He nodded and she squealed. When he put his arm around her, her eyes
closed in sheer ecstasy and she said, “Oh my god, he’s touching me. Shari! Andi! Melli!
It’s amazing. Get a picture, get a picture.” Tristan smiled his killer grin at them,
as one by one, they all came up to tuck themselves under his arm, as multiple pictures
were taken on their phones. Nothing was real anymore until you had an Instagram of
it. Tristan asked them all if they were coming to the show tonight, and they were.
He signed a couple of mini-posters, and an old 7 inch from the first band. Tristan’s
face lit up. “Where did you get this, and what’s your name, so I can sign it?”

The girl with the record was quiet, almost slinking back into herself, while her friends
squealed and bounced around, showing each other the pictures, coming up to touch his
arms again, then backing off. Melinda, for she was telling us that was her real name,
stared at him, her eyes wide. “I don’t like Melli. But she always calls me that,”
she said, approaching Tristan very carefully.

Tristan smiled at her. “I’ll make sure to write Melinda then. And where did you find
this one? Are you sure you want it on this? It’s pretty rare.” She looked up at him,
blinking, like she couldn’t really believe that Tristan was speaking to her. She opened
her mouth, then closed it again, then shut her eyes. I wondered if she wouldn’t be
able to get the words out.

“It’s my brother’s—he’s overseas now—I promised him I’d come tonight and get it signed.”
She sighed. “He played your music for me all the time, and now I love it too. But
I don’t know when I’m going to see him again…” She broke off, and wrapped her arms
around her thin body, her pale hands and fingers covered with rings disappearing into
the pockets of a worn blue sweatshirt. Tristan was by her side in a second, pulling
her arms out so he could take her hands. He squatted down and she followed him, and
they seemed to be away from the others, who were now watching, curious. “What’s your
brother’s name, Melinda?”

“Neil,” she replied.

“And where is he?”

“Afghanistan. He’s been there a long time. I’m really worried. Mom and Dad said he
was right to go back again, but he looked so sad. They told me not to worry so much.”
It was though the words were tumbling out now that the dam had been broken. Tristan
frowned.

“Of course you worry. You care about him, right? Your big brother. Naturally.”

She nodded, a couple of tears slipping out and down her face. Tristan smoothed her
hair away from her face. He suddenly looked older, and I could imagine him, just like
this in years to come, giving out wisdom that he had won hard.

“That’s why you’re so brave. You’re being brave for him. And you know he’s proud of
you, right?”

She nodded again, watching him with a kind of wonder on her face, her eyes big and
sad. Another tear dropped down her cheek. He stood and pulling her up with him, wrapped
her in a big hug. I was close enough to hear him whisper in her ear. “You come backstage
after the show. Come up to the stage at the end, and I’ll send someone out to find
you. Ok? Then we can get the whole band to sign stuff for you. AC is there too. Remember
him? Ok? Don’t forget.” He kissed her cheek, and gently took the album from her, signing
it to Neil and Melinda.

She took the record from him, and looked up at him, standing up a little taller.

“That’s right. Braver than the rest.” And he waved at the group, and took my hand.
“Sound check. See you ladies later at the show.”

We walked off to the elevators, I held on to his hand. “You’re amazing, you know that,
right? That was incredibly kind of you.”

He walked into the elevator and punched at the button for our floor. “No, it wasn’t.
It was normal. That poor kid. Who knows what could happen.” He looked at me. “It was
human. That’s what I want to avoid. Not being able to do that. I mean, it’s crazy
that I can, and it’s wrong. I’m nothing special, just a person. But I would have liked
to have a brother, and if I can do something that means something, makes her life
and maybe his a little less painful, then I will.” He kissed me. “Five minutes of
my charmed life. That’s all it took.”

He took my hand as the doors opened and we walked down the hall to our door at the
end. “But you. Thank you for staying there. For watching.” He hesitated. “She wouldn’t
have done that. Alixe. She thought the fans were an annoyance.” His mouth tightened
in a hard line for a moment, his eyes focused on a moment that was far away and out
of sight. “But you. Are different. And. Should be careful. Now a quick shower, and
it’s back to work.”

He unlocked the door, and started removing his clothes the second the door shut. “I’ll
only be a few minutes. Will you get the door when the room service comes?” I’d already
forgotten that he had ordered a bottle of champagne from the front desk. After that
whole scene with the girl. And I watched his long streamlined body cross the carpeted
floor over to the green and blue tiles in the bathroom, his legs a series of hard,
flexing curves up to his perfect ass, his back a long stretch of tight muscles and
smooth skin. As I watched him move, watched him shut the door, and heard the sound
of the shower starting, I realized that he never stopped working. That even now he
would be thinking of the sound check, and what to ask for, what to tell the band,
remembering to get someone to fetch the girl from the front of the stage. And he hardly
ever shared what he was organizing in his mind, and he never asked for help. All that
thinking went on in that beautiful head. And the kindness he had shown was so simple
and straightforward, like he understood. But it was something that she might remember
her entire life.

Not for the first time, it struck me how lightly he carried the enormous responsibility
that he placed upon himself, to get it all right.

* * *

The sound check went well, and I watched them fool around with a cover of the Blondie
song “One Way or Another.” I had no idea why they had chosen that one, but it was
amazing to see Tristan stop them and explain what he wanted the rhythm to do, actually
taking off his guitar to play a couple of bars on the bass, before heading over to
the drum kit to show Pete how he wanted more high hat, and a steady beat except for
the last two beats of the 8 beat section. I just watched. As usual, I saw a couple
of the roadies keeping an eye on me. When I caught them at it, they just turned away.
I had the feeling that even though I here doing a job as well, writing it all up,
they still saw me as the girl. They thought I was only there because that’s what the
band girlfriends did. The girlfriends brought beer, they held things, they found wallets,
they watched the men in adoration. I did have the last one down, I thought.

But things had changed, were changing. And even though there were still plenty of
women out there ready to be picked up and taken advantage of in exchange for sex with
a famous, or even not so famous musician, that really wasn’t me. Not really. After
all, I’d spent a lot of time, back in the day, trying to convince people that I was
actually listening to the music. There were a few times I’d been severely disappointed
by someone I’d been able to meet, who wanted one version of woman. On the other hand,
it took such incredible devotion and dedication to get anywhere, to put something
out there for the critics and fools to jump on, that you had to cut them some slack.
Just because someone was an artist didn’t make them a saint, sadly. Realistically.
But there were a lot of fools out there.

Tristan was very different. I thought of the way he had acted with that shy young
woman. His sense of compassion, of connection, was incredibly strong. I watched him
as he got the band to go through the last song of the encore one more time before
finally calling it quits, and letting everyone relax before the show. He was a perfectionist,
but the rare kind who made himself work too, fighting off his own inner brutal criticism
to try and reach something transcendent. He was flawed—obviously. When he threw an
arm around AC, and squeezed him tight, his easy smile lighting up the stage, I already
knew I’d keep his secrets forever. Tristan was something special. An artist, strong
enough to know the depths of his own heart, and brave enough to sink into that darkness.
And come back.

Because the tour was off to a good start, and to celebrate the unexpected nomination,
Tristan had told James to organize a dinner after the show somewhere different than
the hotel dining room, or the inevitable catering in another backstage room. He had
been looking forward to coming to Minneapolis, and happy that we were playing First
Avenue. And he was doing the DJ set there later tonight as well, which he thought
would be fun. It was one of those places in rock history. Tristan thought Prince was
a genius, and deeply admired his determination to carry on, to stand up for what he
believed in, to follow his own vision even when people and the record company said,
no, too much, not right, won’t sell. Perseverance. To keep going and follow your own
path, despite the odds.

The last time I’d spoken to Dave, I’d mentioned that it might be good to go out to
Paisley Park, get some comments from Tristan on the legacy and continuing legend that
was Prince. Dave offered to make some calls. But Tristan had shut it down completely,
saying Prince probably didn’t know who the hell he was, and he wasn’t going to make
a legend like that think that he was trading on his name to get publicity for the
tour. Dave tried to talk to me, told me to mention it again, which I did, because
I thought maybe Tristan was being a little too careful. But he was adamant. He wouldn’t
do it. On his own time, maybe. Prince didn’t need his shit. He’d maybe try to meet
him at a concert. Someday. And so on.

So here we all were, at the restaurant, instead of getting a tour of Paisley Park.
I watched Tristan chat to everyone, trade jokes with drum and bass, as he had started
to call Pete and Jack, tell them not to drink too much, his arm casually thrown around
the back of AC’s chair. AC always sat next to him now. I was on the other side. Especially
after what I’d seen in Chicago, it made sense. They had this indelible bond, and it
was clear to anyone with the eyes to see. AC really was a kind of fragile soul, quick
to react, his emotions scratched across his face, a second later hidden, his dark
stare into the distance, the open wound flushed out later with a bottle of wine. Unfortunately,
all the wine seemed to do was sew up the top, and leave a big gaping hole underneath.
Tristan seemed to know this, and once he realized that I wasn’t going to come between
him and his friend, gravitated instinctively towards AC when he was hurting, and finally,
as he had done for me, made it clear in a number of ways that AC was under his protection,
and to hurt him was to risk seeing Tristan at his worst.

So I wasn’t expecting anything but a nice dinner, a couple of glasses of wine and
some of Minneapolis’ best cooking. Everything seemed calm, Tristan and AC sitting
side by side, the focal point despite the round table, me next to Tristan, facing
the drummer and bassist, James next to the drummer, and the PR person from the record
company who had flown out to see the band, sitting on my right. The food was really
good, and everybody seemed relaxed and happy. The show had gone well and the Blondie
cover had received a rapturous reception. AC was coming up with a list of potential
covers and singing pieces of them in a ridiculous voice. Tristan was cracking up.
I was half listening to the PR person, Annie, talk to me about the response rate to
the tour blog, and the tracking numbers they were getting from the new followers,
and how surprising it was that the numbers held steady across various age groups.
I had just been thinking about how things were changing. That considering you now
had a few generations of people who had been listening to rock music their entire
lives, it wasn’t that surprising. It was almost as if the record companies were acting
like the parents from 30 or 40 years ago, claiming you’d grow out of it, surprised
when you didn’t. Maybe. I was just telling her that it might be better if the companies
didn’t act as though the entire market was born in the 21st century, when we both
stopped.

What made us both turn to look at the head of the table? I can only imagine it was
Tristan, whose entire posture was that of a wildcat about to pounce on its prey. What
the hell had happened? I’d tuned in to their conversation for a minute, when demographics
had started to get to me. They’d only been talking about sports, about football—soccer
over here. Suddenly I realized exactly what was going on. Tristan and I had been chatting
earlier about the news of the 25-year-old soccer player, who had quit his team, and
then come out as gay, finally doing an interview about it. Tristan had mentioned that
it had taken a lot of courage, but that he wished the guy could have kept playing,
even though he understood why he stepped down. I had looked at him, wondering if he
was going to say anything else. But Tristan had just muttered that the music business
wasn’t quite there yet, and hadn’t mentioned it again. But it must have come up.