Millions for a Song (2 page)

Mélanie is unhappy. I hope I'm wrong, but I'm afraid she'll always be that way. All because of what happened to her in her childhood that she can't forget.

Sometimes I hate adults. They're blind to the hurt they cause. All they think about is themselves, what makes them happy. Kids have no say in it. They're supposed to shut up and take whatever comes. Their lives can be totally shattered, but it doesn't matter as long as the adults get what they want.

I'd better get back to Mélanie's trouble waking up because if I start thinking about the way kids can be ping-ponged back and forth between their mom and dad, I'll never stop.

So I agreed to be the one to wake Mélanie. I'm much more successful at it than her mom. Which only makes sense. No matter how deeply Mélanie's sleeping, she still knows that I'm the one in her room and she can't resist her need to be seductive.

That changes the whole dynamic. The charm's turned on the minute she senses I'm there. She starts striking poses, innocent-like, all the while pretending to be fast asleep. After a while, I say, “Okay, Mélanie, the show's over. Your charm doesn't work on me because I know all your tricks. They have no effect.”

She pretends not to have any idea what I'm
talking about, then after a few seconds exclaims indignantly, “Where
do you get off? Me, want to seduce you? Who
do you think you are? You don't interest me in the least!”

“Who do I think I am? I'm the guy who can resist any number of lame enticements.”

Bingo. A bull's eye. She retaliates. A flying pillow, a stuffed teddy bear, another pillow right to the face. I'm being pelted. I don't budge. I wait for the ammunition to run out; then, when I know I've got the upper hand, I put her in a judo hold and wring out a few answers. “Admit you're the best singer in Quebec.”

“I admit it.”

“The prettiest, too.”

“That, too.”

“That, thanks to you, Nexxtep's on the road to international fame.”

“Obviously!”

“That as the star of the best band in the world, you're only too glad to hop out of bed and come rehearse with us today.”

“Can't do it! No way! I want to sleep!”

It's in the bag now. Flattery got me everywhere. Praise gets her to open her eyes like nothing else. I've seen it in action. All it takes are a few sweet nothings whispered into her ear for our Sleeping Beauty to emerge from slumber. She does a cat stretch, watching herself in the mirror the whole while. Such a star! Conscious of her every move.

Once she's awake and in good spirits, it's time for me to go. But at the last second with the door already open, I make sure to add nonchalantly, “I expect to see you there in an hour. Not a minute more. If you miss rehearsal, we'll find a replacement. Hmmm … remember Isabelle Gourd? In Grade 11 at Paul-Gérin-Lajoie? She's great, and what a gorgeous voice!”

I've won.

Mélanie's eyes are shooting sparks.

She'll be there within the hour.

I'd stake my life on it.

The Limelight

two

Y
ippee, it's official! We're on our way to stardom. I've just landed our first contract. Here it is, signed and sealed. Believe it or not, Nexxtep is going to perform at Brébeuf on November 6
th
.

Thrilled, I lay out the details for the band. “A hall just for us! The organizing committee's planning to put posters everywhere. As of today, good-bye anonymity. People will be begging for our autographs. We'll have to wear sunglasses so no one can recognize us. I'm telling you, our show's gonna be fantastic. Unforgettable. Fame. Celebrity. The best of the best …”

Silence.

“What's wrong, has the cat got your tongues? Don't just sit there staring, your mouths open, like this is no big deal. Aren't you excited? Did you expect to be booked into the Bell Centre or something?”

All three of them are still staring at me, too surprised to speak. Most of all, they can't believe I waited till Saturday to share the good news when the contract was signed on Tuesday.

Then comes the explosion, shouts, questions. I'm bombarded. Are we really playing at Brébeuf? Soon to be packing in the crowds at other venues? Making a name for ourselves? Becoming huge stars?

They go berserk. Mélanie gives me a giant bear hug. Bruno throws himself at me. Even the usually stone-faced Jean-François starts to yell. It's mass hysteria. We roll around on the floor, smack each other. If this keeps up, we're going to break a few ribs.

Finally, spent, we start laughing like crazy. Our first show! At Brébeuf! It's unbelievable, someone must have made a mistake, maybe the promoters are having a little fun at our expense. But I shake my head. The truth is here in black and white. There's no room for doubt.

After the explosion, panic sets in. We all start picturing what it'll be like up on stage. We all start shaking. With good reason. This is serious stuff.

“The way I see it, we've got no time to lose. As of today, we've got to act like professionals. Now that we'll actually have an audience, we have to live up to the hype. We've got to deliver. Otherwise …”

Suddenly, silence. I don't feel so hot. I've got stage fright. So do the others. You can feel it. You can see it.

“No need to panic.”

We've got to calm down. This is no time to throw ourselves headlong into a rehearsal and get all worked up about hitting—how could it be otherwise?—a few wrong notes.

I've got a solution, “What do you guys say we go grab a pizza at Katarak Souvlaki? It'll help us get back on track.” I've barely had time to throw the idea out there before everyone's racing outside.

What a gorgeous day! I love September, the most breathtaking month of the year. Warm and cool at one and the same time. Because we're happy, because it's so beautiful out and because we're such great friends, all four of us link our arms together. We're like the sun. Warm like the sun. Strong like the sun. The world at our feet.

We walk in lockstep, overjoyed all of a sudden, certain that nothing can stop us now, that we've turned into a chariot of fire, orbiting the globe in one superb, radiant, dazzling sweep.

People turn to watch as we go by. They smile. They're happy for us. I can see they think we're beautiful. We radiate energy. Shine light on everything in our path: the street, the houses, the passersby. We're both light and life …

Suddenly, everything slows to a standstill. I get the feeling we'll only ever get one moment like this. A leaf tumbles in the breeze. It spins, crimson, jagged, drifting, then falls at our feet.

I know that, whenever I think back to this incredible afternoon when the four of us strode side by side, I'll always remember that leaf tumbling lightly through the air while we walked and dreamed about how different our entire lives would soon be.

I'm a romantic, I know. What's wrong with that? It's moments like these that make me feel like crying tears of joy because we're arm in arm and life is pulsing in our hands, in our hearts, and in our feet.

We couldn't feel better. We say nothing. We're enveloped in love. We dream of our show a few weeks from now. We're already up there, on stage, the amps blasting out our music, our lyrics ringing out in the hall crammed with teens like us rocking, clapping, eyes gleaming, smiles on their lips. They're mesmerized, hearts swept along in our passion. We've made it ...

You can only daydream for so long. By now, we're at Katarak Souvlaki. Our favorite waitress Roma heads toward us with her usual friendly smile and suggests the souvlaki, her tone dripping with irony. She waits expectantly for our response, “Souvlaki, yuck, never! What we want is a good pizza!”

A triumphant Roma cries out in a voice loud enough to bring down the walls, “Four pizzas, fully loaded!” knowing how furious the order will make her boss.

Roma can't stand Greek cuisine. She'd give anything to work in a fine Italian restaurant, but there aren't many openings these days. So she grins and bears it.

We're hungry. To calm our nerves, we dig into the pizza with its floury crust, thick tomato sauce topping, and layer of stringy cheese.

Mélanie interrupts the silence. “Hey! I don't know about you guys, but the butterflies in my stomach are still fluttering despite all the pizza I've just thrown at them. I can't stop thinking about the show. Alexandre, how will we hang in there for a whole hour? An hour's a really long time, you know. You have no idea how freaked out I am right now.”

I could put on a brave face, say it's going to be easy, no different than singing in my basement, but I know the others won't believe me. “Listen, Mélanie, our choices are pretty limited here. We've just got to dive into the adventure and come out the other side. I know we can do it. We've got to stick together and practise to perfection before we hit the stage. It's the only way.”

She stares at me. I can see dread and fear
in her eyes. But there's a gleam there, too, that
lets me know Mélanie will blow us away beyond our wildest expectations.

She smiles. “You're right. We have no other choice. But we've got to be ready. I suggest we change our rehearsal schedule. We'll have to ramp up the number of hours till we can sing and play in our sleep. The words and music have to be second nature to us ...”

Our confidence starts to return. We map out a schedule on the paper tablecloth. We decide which songs to rehearse and when, week by week. The toughest ones first, the ones we've already mastered last.

No sooner said than done. We're back at the house where we throw ourselves into our program. Mélanie rips into her songs with such energy that I get goosebumps just listening to her. How can such a bit of a thing dredge up so much power?

The sensuality oozing from both her and her voice bowls me over. If I'm not careful, I could fall for her again. Jean-François and Bruno, too, I'm sure. She owns us, bewitches us, electrifies us. We're so enthralled with her performance that we, too, give our all. Our band has never been so united in our music. I was right; all we needed was a spark …

We've been practising like mad for six weeks now. We're ready. Our set is complete. We're holding up our end of the bargain. All that's left to do is to get up in front of our first audience.

We even invited some kids over to listen to us in our basement rehearsal space. They were impressed. In their eyes, we're a real band. Nexxtep has become the “it” band.

To hear them talk, you'd think we were better than Dire Straits, The Police or
U2
. Better than Nickelback and The Box. Obviously, they're exaggerating, but it does us good. At the very least, it proves we don't suck. Their enthusiasm feeds our confidence. We feel ready to jump up on stage at Brébeuf.

A good thing, too, since the show is only two
weeks away (just the thought gives me shivers!). We plan
to meet at my house, then head out together to
Brébeuf for our one and only dress rehearsal before the
show.

We'll have four hours to set everything up and iron
out any kinks. Four hours with a real lighting guy
before he heads out for an hour and a half
to grab a bite to eat. Then finally, the big
show! Time to get down and rock ...

Have you ever stood on a stage? It's a pretty
awesome feeling. The dust and the heat from the reflectors,
that unforgettable, dried-sweat stench born of the musicians' nerves and
feverishness ... animal, electric.

We're all here, plugging in cables, setting up amps. We asked the lighting guy to figure out a light show for us, but he refused. He says he's not being paid enough to work that hard. As far as he's concerned, the few hours we have him for are more than enough.

Boy, does that make us mad! He could ruin everything, but there's nothing the organizers can do. They don't have the cash for anything more. “Come on, it's a student show, organized by students, put on by students.” (That's us!)

They've got a point. Not to mention we wouldn't have a clue how to use all those reflectors. As we set up our gear, the guy tracks our every move with a light.

Actually, it's Mélanie he follows with his thousand watts. Apparently, he's taken quite a shine to her. He throws in some color—red, green, blue—as though he already knows what kind of rhythms to expect from our songs. He explains he's just trying out a few things. We're not his first band, he knows the genre ...

He's spot on. He's right there with us. Almost from the minute we start rehearsing, he's figured us out. He's a genius! And here I thought he'd screw up. I've got to admit he's a pro.

It gets even better when we hear him make an
offhand comment halfway through the rehearsal, “Nice job, guys.” (Mélanie's
obviously one of the guys!) “Great songs. You've got some
real punch. I like it.”

Coming from someone who clearly knows music, that's a real compliment, one we gladly accept. We get a big boost of confidence from the way he makes us feel that, of all the bands to have played here, we're one of the best. He didn't say it in so many words, but that's the conclusion we all jump to.

One thing for sure, whether he knows it or not—does he?—his comment gives us wings. All of a sudden, it all seems so easy. Now we own the stage that terrified us just moments ago.

The only thing missing is an audience.

This is it, we're up on stage. Incredible ...

A moment's hesitation. The audience waits. So do we. We take stock. We've planned it all out. We'll start out slow and steady, then crank it to the max. We follow our plan to the letter. Just enough of a beat to push them to the edge of their seats. Then we turn up the wattage. We take them by the hand and lead them right where we want them. Fan-tastic. By the end, the crowd's bordering on delirious.

I'm in an altered state. Electrified. Plugged into Mélanie, who's totally possessed. She's vibrating actually. A magnetic current zaps the crowd. Mélanie can feel it. At one point, she stops for a few seconds. She looks out at the audience, literally welded to her gaze. The silence is amazing. As though time just stopped. When Mélanie launches back into song, the place goes crazy. The room begins to vibrate as Mélanie goes wild. It's like she's left her body, left the stage behind. We all follow in her wake.

She keeps us spellbound throughout the
show, right up to the moment when, exhausted, she collapses.
She crumples to the floor. No sign of movement. Jean-François,
Bruno, and I are glued to the spot, incapable of
anything. For an instant, we think she might be dead.

Seconds later, her eyes open and she gets to her feet as though nothing had happened. She waves to the crowd, hears them roar to see her on her feet, hoping against hope,
she's okay, maybe she'll keep singing
. It seems unthinkable under the circumstances. Not to mention we've played every song in our set. We walk off the stage to the crowd's chants of “Nex-xtep, Nex-xtep, Nex-xtep ...”

We come back on stage to take a bow. Then Mélanie calls out for us to play the last song again, the one she collapsed to. Madness gets us all in its grip. As we play, I get the distinct feeling it's only a matter of time before the fans rush the stage and attack us.