Except for his shoes.
Ancient. Battered.
Dear God, the perfection of it. I had to have it.
When he stomped once more, the sole of his shoe flapped. Duct tape peeled away. Oh, he’d hidden it well enough with…was that marker? Sharpie, perhaps?
I shoved my newer camera into my bag and unearthed my ancient Polaroid. It was clunkier and the button stuck. It was persnickety. That was why Matilda was my favorite—and yeah, I named my cameras.
My finger shook a little. I took a long, slow breath to even out my jangling nerves.
The undeniable hatched gray tape was coming apart at the edge of his boot.
And still he stomped.
The dichotomy made my spine zing. I recognized the feeling. I’d followed it down more than a few rabbit holes since I’d left my sleepy little town of Turnbull, NY. Every time resulted in magic. The first time had turned into a sculpture that had been the centerpiece of my first amateur show when I was a teen. The last time had become a mural in a theater downtown.
This would be a painting.
A wall-sized canvas that would show every detail.
The boos from the crowd finally dented my tunnel vision. Still, the singer stomped and sang his song. He closed his eyes and sang louder. It was as if he’d left the freaking building in his mind. He was locked in and determined.
I’d brought a shit ton of cartridges. I dug around inside my bag. “Where the fuck are you?”
The lights went from stark to a hazy green as he swung his guitar around his back and yanked the cover off the piano on the side of the stage.
Not his instrument. Well, that took balls.
He unhooked his microphone and snapped the cord to get some length so he could move to the piano. He snapped it into the stand set up for the Zeps and sat down. “Think they’ll mind?”
The crowd roared their anger.
His voice was far deeper than I’d been expecting. And something else. Accent? Right, he was British. At least I was pretty sure. But that voice…especially compared to the crazy range of his vocals? Yeah, that was delicious.
I shook off the distraction and dug for more film, finally finding a pile of cartridges that had slid between the lining thanks to a tear in my bag. Thank fuck. I still had the Zeps to photograph.
He lowered the mic to kiss his mouth and started the song without accompaniment. The change in the crowd was slow. Growls of malcontent faded to murmurs as the effortless power of his voice and the alternately gentle caresses of his long fingers on the keys took over.
The song was low and powerful, then slowly built as he climbed from a soothing tone to a pounding beat and his voice grew with each note.
Phenomenal.
Electric.
Fuck, he was gorgeous, and he had turned the crowd from bitching to cheering in the space of two minutes. I didn’t think it was possible.
I moved out onto the stage for a better angle.
Pop.
Hiss.
Another photo disappeared into my bag. I’d have to remember about the rip inside. I didn’t want to lose any of these. They all would have to be reviewed for transfer to canvas. I crouched down low and my heart thundered when I realized there was carpeting under my sneaker.
Kinda like the ones scattered on the stage.
Whoops.