CHAPTER SIX as audiobook on YouTube

excerpt:

That was the last night of the Beauregard Festival near Caen. The night the cheese heated up enough to slide completely off Kev's cracker and he halted the band's final encore. Fucking ruined my guest solo and announced he was leaving Five Ways.

Then the junkie fool snapped for real and he booted my microKORG into my shins, sucker-punched Tony behind the ear. Charged Brady with his bass guitar held high, a boy-band berserker pushing forty in a hundred-dollar blazer, thousand-dollar sneakers. They went to the boards with a mike stand and Brady's feedback-shrieking Gibson tangled between them.

The audience hive-mind entered a state of supreme disturbance and went promptly into meltdown.

Dirty cotton clouds rolled in off the Channel earlier when Vincent and I wrapped our opening act. The rain fell in sharp darts and drove the crowd from a swaying singularity into pathetic clumps and huddles, screens glowing blue under plastic ponchos when Five Ways took the stage at sunset. Then the rain was coming down like something out of the Bible and the moment Kev flipped out those general-admission animals started throwing shit.

Water bottles tumbled in from the blackness, penetrated the halo of hot lights overhead and they crackled and snapped against the stacks, burst open onstage and popped underfoot when Patrick ran to aid Tony.

Maxim pitched his sticks, jumped from the drum riser and he circled Brady and Kev, penalty-kicking Kev's kidneys and ribs with flawless rhythm and savage follow-through.

Gabe and his security team dropped back from the crowd and they bear-hugged Maxim out of the equation, clamped Kev in a root-mass of tattooed arms and hairy tarantula hands. Brady spun free with a bloody nose, crewneck of his vintage Atari T-shirt pulled ragged down his chest, pink throat sawed raw under his hemp guitar strap.

Brady's heap of dreadlocks now tilted far beyond the jaunty dip I perfected that afternoon before sound check. I pulled some cotton string over the tip of a purple Sharpie to disguise six inches of sail-repair stitches supporting the whole post-modern mess.

He dodged a salvo of incoming bottles and rolled the back of one hand under his dripping nose. I watched him consider that runny red blaze on his skin in a moment of detached fascination and some weak-sauce reflex buried inside me tried to push its old agenda to the surface. An automated emotional prompt meant to guilt or goad me into feeling something soft for Brady. Trick me into trying to make this mess better by waving a wand, singing a song.

Nope.

No fucking way.

That bitch didn't live here anymore.

Holding borders with Vincent taught me to let empathy die cold at the end of a cut wire. These weeks on the road only strengthened my new position, standing solo at the center of my own priorities. Nobody on this tour got here by putting someone else first.