I Wanna Be Somebody

The lights dimmed in such a way that made the energy peek in a matter of heartbeats. The crowd’s voice rose as one, a mighty roar with a chant echoing behind it.

“Memento Mori!”

A mantra repeated again and again. Remember that you will die. Harsh, but undeniably true. We all succumbed to the harsh realities of life with the only certainty that we all, in fact, die in the end.

But though that was the only certainty of the future at this point, I chose to avert my eyes to the present, to the sliver between the curtains where thousands of emotional faces conjoined with their chanting. Bodies of all ages and sizes and backgrounds here to marvel at our gift.

Scott handed me one of my guitars, an ESP LTD Kirk Hammett (fitting for the song about to be played), customized to feature my signature color—camouflage. I looped the leather strap over my neck, letters scrawled “RY”. River Young. The joke was that the initials were my name so the crew found it appropriate to identify me as Ry. But the strap was my first, worn and scathed from years of travel, given to me by a man I owed my life to. “Good luck,” Scott said and we clasped hands in a second of comradery, guitarist and the tech who kept her life organized.

Low, thrumming came from Oblivion’s bass guitar and I forced myself back to the present again. The screaming of the crowd forcing me to. The first of our brigade having snuck up on stage without their detection. I made my way up the ramp to the back of the stage, Tygo—our fearless and indescribably patient manager—slapping my hand in a low-five as I went by. The drums, a steady beat of snare and symbols, joined the thrumming, the pulsing. My own heartrate increasing.

Before I was even fully on the stage, I began to strumming out the solid riff, the identifying piece of “Orion” by Metallica. Jess’ guitar doubled mine as we both strutted onto the stage, the lights coming up in a blinding wave. The screaming intensified.

“Are you motherfuckers ready to party?” Jess called into her microphone as I took a stand to her right. The crowd’s volume rose. In a Children of Bodom tank topped with a leather jacket, black tendrils falling down her back, she looked like a well-entitled member of metal royalty. “I can’t hear you!” More clamoring for recognition.

I begin to pluck out the chords, fingers dancing down the neck of the guitar, letting the strings sing. Oblivion hammered on his bass across the stage from me, the humanized representation of his instrument. Broad shoulders, long thick hair like bass strings, chiseled facial structure. This song was one of his favorites; you could see it by the intensity in his expression, tightness in his shoulders.

His twin brother, Avaalon, matched the pace with his drum beats, crimson hair whipping around his head as he jammed out from the back of the stage, our insignia proudly displayed on the bass drum. A grinning grim reaper, Memento Mori painted in blood red across it.

Kristian had appeared last, tapping out the notes for his own keyboard arrangement, making the whole song sound a bit more on our end of the genre. Symphonic metal with the traces of death metal that Jessii thrived on. Kris, the only one with short hair—almond colored—already grinning like it was Christmas morning as his fingers charged away across the white surface of his keyboard.

As my own hands continued their job, I marveled at these individuals as if it were our first time performing together. All so different, all so very wounded and beat up from life. We were a little fucked up and alone to start with, but what brought us together is also what helped us heal. And that’s what came from my guitar and Avaa’s drums, what we had been making together for the last four years together. I was not looking at band mates or even friends. They were my family.