Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Saturday, December 19th, 2017▪️
▪️Los Angeles, CA▪️
The run-through Neil and Angie go over before the show brings out the caveman in me again. I ball my hands into fists. I wish I had a place to run through a Tai Chi flow. Instead, I use the breathing techniques Master Chang taught me to slow my frenzied blood. I'm better than this. It's a show, just a show. But the way they jump around from song to song, from piano to guitar to both, and the performance they put on, will leave no doubt in the audience's mind that these two are more than just singing.
The Whats take the stage, and Angie makes her way to the now cordoned VIP seats I'm forcing myself to stay still in. I've never been this close to the stage and if I could sell droplets of sweat on the black market, I'd be able to collect a fair amount at this distance.
"Enjoying the view?" She cozies up to me on the folding chair. Her skirt and what looks like a longer pushup bra sparkles as a perfect Christmas outfit should.
I run my eyes over her face. Even with the stage makeup, she's breathtaking. "I am now." I cringe at the phrase that left my mouth. But when it's the truth-it's the truth. "You do this run-through every time before you perform?"
"Sort of. This is the first show at this venue, and we have to do the full-on check and figure out where we stand and how to move, but other days it's shorter, unless something didn't work out during the performance, and we have to decide on new moves or order. I'm confident we have this one in the bag."
"It looked like you had fun." I glance at the stage where The Whats continue with the barrage of drums and bass. Neil's fingers fly on the neck of his bass guitar. He's wearing a ragged A-shirt that's more holes than cloth and leaves his tattoos on display—something Mom was vehemently against when I wanted a tattoo as a teenager. Once I had the freedom to do it, I was no longer letting myself do anything that was not the reflection of what a perfect Mike would do.
"It's fun, but it's also work. Fun work? Work fun? Whichever way you look at it, it's demanding and rewarding, exhilarating and draining." She massages her injured pinkie. "Not what I've expected and so much more. I still pinch myself every time I go on stage with these guys, when people sing along with me, when they know the words better than I do, when my merch table is half-empty at the end of the night."
Angie's face reflects the emotions she's trying to express, and it's not the glitter of golden makeup, but the cartwheels I see her do inside her head every time she describes how performing makes her feel. "You love it?"
She rubs her hands together and doesn't reply. There's more to her silence, and I want to know what it is.
"Love it too much or not enough?"
Angie leans her head on my shoulder and threads her arm through mine. "It's not about love. I've always enjoyed the performance part of it. The songs reaching people and stirring the emotions I put in the words and the melodies, that's what I love. The stage is the wrapper I need to deliver the chocolate-covered caramel of my creations to the audience."
