String Bridge (3 page)

To be honest, it can be quite embarrassing. My favorite colleague, Heather, once caught me at it by the coffee station in the office with my headphones on. I imagine it would have been a funny sight—a professional-looking thirty-year-old woman, who attempts to mask her post-baby stomach flab with bulky male shirts, strumming an invisible guitar with her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth. Yes, I stick my tongue out when I concentrate. A habit I have recently become self-conscious about since realizing I will soon have to concentrate in front of a large audience of strangers. I’ll have to conquer this stage fright once and for all today.

Deep breaths. Do what Heather said. Pretend you are practicing on your own in your bedroom. Windows and doors closed. Free from interruptions.

Being a victim of stage fright is not easy, to say the least, for a woman with a passion for music sewn into her seams. In my world, the stage is a magnet. One side pulls me in, the other pushes me away, generating an involuntary psychological push-and-shove with no resolution in sight. Despite stage fright paralyzing me like a dose of tetrodotoxin, the overall thrill of performing survives the poison, and I wake up on the other side, ready to get back up on the stage and start all over again. I don’t remember the angst; and the craving to perform again overpowers me like drug withdrawal. If Alex hadn’t asked me to stop playing gigs would I be craving this now? Would I have become this tyrant of an editor who sports herself as a determined corporate ladder-climber? What if I followed this course in life because the stage fright had ultimately taken over? What if I subconsciously found an excuse to escape the fear? Should I really be putting the blame on Alex? Perhaps this is my fault. Perhaps it wasn’t Alex’s doing at all.

Before I met Alex I earned enough money to feed myself and pay the bills through random solo gigging. And that’s not easy to do, especially in Greece where the mention of music generally sparks thoughts of bouzoukis and traditional dance in foustanela (male dress).

My first live gig in Athens was at a tiny venue that comfortably held eighty to a hundred people. That night there were a hundred and fifty ticket stubs collected at the door. And that’s not counting the acquaintances of the promoter, venue owners or the press that slip in for free simply by having their names put on the list at the door.

During sound check I tuned my guitar at least ten times, because despite what the little orange light suggested, my guitar never sounded in tune. It was as if my anxiety was interfering with the frequency. The sound engineer’s blood-shot eyes bore through my back, while a short petite man with a gray Mohawk fiddled with the stage lights—he seemed to like red. I hated red. Red lights make the frets on my guitar almost invisible. I kept trying to overcome my pride and tell him I was scared I would hit the wrong chords, but he spoke first. “Red lights are great, aren’t they? They hide wrinkles.” If I hadn’t been so nervous, and perhaps could have injected myself with a shot of teenage aggression, I would have punched him in the nose for that comment. I clenched my teeth behind a polite smile and took a moment to compose myself while sitting on the edge of the stage with my eyes shut.

The light man winked and stepped outside onto the wet pavement. The foggy sound of the busy street crept through the large, heavy soundproofed metal door as he opened it. The deep thud of the door closing behind him remained with me for the rest of the night. A reminder that I was trapped inside myself—a victim of my own torture.

When the venue was full, I stepped onto the stage holding my breath. My footsteps vibrated through my body, as laughter turned to talking, talking turned to mumbling and mumbling turned to breathing. The first song on my set was
a capella.
I didn’t introduce myself, or welcome the audience to the show. Looking down at my chunky black army boots, I let out a hot steady note that thrust the crowd into throbbing silence. Each hair on my bare arms rose one by one as the notes escaped me. But was the silence a sign of dislike or awe? Panic brittled my bones, and my limbs shook with immutable doubt. So much so that I feared the audience could see and were silently laughing at me.

I tamed my nerves little by little, doing invisible breathing exercises in between songs. But I continued my set with more original tunes without much reaction—bar the obligatory applause. They watched with steel eyes. Convinced they were just waiting me out to see the headlining band, disappointment pricked my skin like poison ivy. I thought,
I’m never doing this again. I just can’t take it.

But then I had an idea. I replaced my last song with a cover. I had learnt it not long ago for a friend’s party. I played “Wonderwall” by Oasis; despite believing it to be too commercial for my reputation, it had to be done. I had to do something to loosen up the crowd. As soon as the words, “Today, is gonna be the day …” came out of my mouth, they recognized the song, and started cheering and singing along. Relief flushed through me like a sedative. The dissipating tension in the air cooled me down like sprinkler mist on a warm spring day. It was over. Finally over. And on a good note.

Performing to a live audience has always, and will always, create an explosion of dread and dignity within me like a balloon expanding in my stomach. I despise the feeling, but something about it—the release of steaming hot fear while playing the last song of every set— makes me want to do it all over again with the absence of such fear. Of course, this never happens. And I continue to go through the same torture again and again.

After the gig, I stood outside the venue in the rain with my guitar, waiting for a taxi to hail. I was praying one would appear out of nowhere and save me before the rain got any heavier, but a man with a shaved head and a long black leather coat appeared with an umbrella instead. He looked different than the typical Greek male, who commonly sported skin-tight jeans, open white shirts, and slick gelled hair. I was immediately intrigued.

“Hi, Melody, you were great tonight. I’m Alex,” he said, holding out his hand, “head of Cat Events.”

“Hi, thanks. Nice to meet you. Did you come to see The Drovers?” I asked, wondering whether he was just trying to make friendly conversation.

A vague Greek accent laced his warm, humble laugh. His voice purred—a soft, deep, slow, mouth-watering purr from a big, fast wild cat, with the pitter-patter of drizzle in the background.

“Well, not really,” Alex replied. “I came to make sure the whole event ran smoothly.” Then I remembered the huge blue and black banner that read “Cat Events” behind me on the stage.
You idiot!

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry!”

“Not a problem,” Alex chortled. “It’s refreshing to see a musician who’s not concerned with kissing up. It shows you’re sincere. I’m impressed.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, thanks.” As the left side of my lip stuck on my teeth, a crooked smile emerged. I dislodged it with my tongue, strangely captivated by the reflection of headlights passing over his dark blue-gray eyes. He put his hand on my upper back and guided me toward the entrance of the venue, which was under cover, and closed his umbrella.

“Listen,” he said in a more serious tone. “I was thinking we could get together and talk about your music. I really like your stuff. I think we could make something of you here.”

“Oh, wow, really? That’d be great.” I turned my guitar case upright and rested it on my foot to move it around with ease.
Is this really happening? Am I seriously going to make an honorable musician of myself in the least likely country?
I pictured myself on a bigger stage. Fearless. Crowd roaring. Cameramen shooting the show from every angle. A huge line-up of professional musicians behind me, backing up my guitar and vocals with instrumental genius. I saw myself as Tori Amos with a guitar.

“How about we meet tomorrow for a coffee? Say about three p.m.?” asked Alex, wiping a few raindrops from his cheek.

“Okay. Where?” I was now as curious about Alex as the idea of pursuing my dream.

“See you at Thissio Station, three tomorrow.” Alex held out his hand for me to shake again. But this time he pulled in closer and gave me a peck on the left cheek and then another on the right. He smelled like Chinese noodles. It gave me goosebumps. It gave me hope. I’d finally met a man who didn’t drown himself in his mama’s cooking.

“Er, okay, wonderful, great,” I stammered. “See you then. And again, great to meet you.”

I was about to step back out onto the street to find a taxi, but Alex offered me his gig runner to take me home. I accepted the offer, already feeling a little like a star.

The next day, we drank coffee in Thissio until the shop closed. He offered to be my manager. I accepted and we began exchanging emails. He requested promotional shots; I sent him promotional shots. He requested a written biography; I sent him a written biography. He requested a demo CD; I said I’d bring it the next time we met. I asked him if he knew of any worthwhile gigs to go to on Saturday night. He said I should come to one that he’d organized, and that he would take me to a great little jazz bar afterward. So I went. But the night didn’t turn out as I’d expected.

“So, what kind of music are you into?” I asked, letting this newfound confidence take reign as I perched myself on a bar stool and crossed my legs in my slinky knee-length black skirt. My long psychedelic beads collided, caressing my hardly-there and well-covered breasts. “You know, the stuff that
moves
you. The stuff you listen to at home,” I continued after a few seconds of silence, wondering if I had asked a stupid question. The soft warm Frangelico glided down my throat, my voice sliding through my red lips like water over tanned, oiled skin. Alex’s body heat traveled from his thighs to mine as he stood leaning his elbows against the bar, slowly sipping his Vat 69. He squinted, and pouted his lips in thought toward the rows and rows of alcohol bottles behind the bartender—a very old, classy man who had worked there for thirty years and obsessively wiped the bar dry.

“The Kinks, Dead Kennedys, Elvis Costello. You?” Alex answered, turning to face me on the “you.” He slid his body a little closer. My stomach tightened in anticipation. All I wanted to do was wrap my legs around his waist and savor his touch, the poignant tenderness I imagined he hid below his black leather tough-guy exterior.

“PJ Harvey, Nick Cave, Joni Mitchell,” I replied, smiling so hard my lips stung.

“Nice.” Alex nodded, took another sip of his drink and turned to face the bar again.

“Get into a bit of trip hop now and then too. Nightmares on Wax. Stuff like that,” I added, trying to get him to look at me again. His cool manner was so well executed I wondered whether it was even a manner at all. Perhaps that was just him. Naturally at ease. Sure of himself. And not afraid to flaunt it.
Perfect
, I thought.
This is the kind if man I want in my life. A man untainted with insecurity.

“Trip hop, hey? Unusual,” replied Alex, contorting his mouth into an intrigued frown.

“Why?” I put my drink down and reached for some nuts. “Why is that unusual?” As I put the nuts in my mouth, one escaped and dropped into my crotch. I pretended I hadn’t noticed and slowly opened my legs to let it drop to the floor. Alex pretended not to notice, but I caught him take a fleeting look.

“Well, Greek girls don’t usually mix tastes like that,” said Alex, putting down his drink. He looked me right in the eye this time, as if trying to read my thoughts.

“Well, I’m Australian, so that’s irrelevant, right?” Quirky innocence invaded the tone in my voice. I didn’t want to be quirky and innocent. I wanted to be strange and mysterious. I tried to wipe the grin off my face, to appear more in control of my feelings. But it was too late.

“Right,” Alex replied, a semitone lower than usual, moving his face so close to mine I could feel his breath on my lips. I could taste his whiskey, smell his aftershave. My mouth grew moist as I imagined our tongues touching.

“I’m glad you’re not Greek,” he sighed. “I want … not Greek. I want … white skin … green eyes … long … black … hair.” With each pause he inched closer to my lips. I couldn’t move. As if my skin had been turned to stone. All I could hear was the gentle roar in his breath. As he reached the closest point before touching my lips he whispered, “Can I taste your lipstick?”

In the taxi home that night, the first song I heard on the radio was “I Want You” by Elvis Costello. And as it turned out, it was Alex’s all-time-favorite song.

Three

At Hilton Hotel. Biting nails. Reciting presentation in head with the notes of guitar scales. Standing by lecture hall door, fingers twisted behind back, toes clenched in black baby doll slip-ons. Changed shoes in the car. Watching freshly dry-cleaned suits, worn by impassive breathing corpses, walk by. Black pencil skirts and dusty patent leather high-heeled shoes on Stepford Wife splendor. Clop. Clop. Clopping. Past me like old slides. Bus boys with crisp white shirts and ugly yellow ties. Upper-class ladies in frilly blouses who eat with their mouths closed at all times, and wait for the thirty-second mouthful before swallowing, and pat their lips with expensive linen napkins.

A piece of nail gets lodged between my central incisors. I try to pry it out, exposing my teeth like a growling dog, but failing because I have no nails left to pry it out with. Middle-aged man in navy blue tailored trousers and pink shirt with collar opened three buttons down, grins at me in a ridiculing manner. His gold chain glistens amidst his thick dark chest hair as he passes below a chandelier.
Rich bastard. Trying to follow trends.
I bring my arms down to my sides and close my mouth, pushing the nail through my teeth with my tongue. Grimacing within, I smile back with my lips pressed together so tight I imagine them turning white.

I’m nauseous. Not because of presentation nerves, but because pink shirts make me want to vomit, for two reasons. One: they remind me of the time I was ten and put my white clothes in with the red bed sheets and mum pulled the heads off all my Barbie dolls as punishment. They also remind of when Alex got attacked by Greek rock venue mafia, and was left bleeding with a few knife gashes to his chest. White shirt stained with blood. Nothing serious. But what if it
had
been? I tried to scrub out the blood from his shirt by hand in the white porcelain bathroom sink. I’ll never forget that feeling of infirmity spread from my feet, through my body, to the tip of my tongue. I turned around and threw up in the toilet bowl. Then continued to scrub, and sung a stupid TV cheese jingle to distract myself from the overwhelming fear of what might happen next time.