An Odd Kind Of Wonderful

Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Maybe I don't want to live in a world where my innocence is so assured. (Silverchair)
   
    Raisa seems to take my comment in stride, which is brilliant. She's a bit brilliant.

    Her head tilts upwards, looking at the stars with renewed interest, and she reminds me of a guitarist on stage, looking down at the fretboard like it's an alien they've managed to tame. Raisa has that sort of magic in her eyes all the time, I think, but right now I see it so clearly it makes my head spin. She swims over to me, closing that three feet of unbearable distance, and kisses the end of my nose.

    "Will Joel be worrying about us?" She asks, but she sounds distracted.

    "Are you really fifteen?" I blurt. I know she'll hate me for asking, but I need to know.

    "I am fifteen, I promise." She nods, as if cementing the fact. "Why do you ask?"

    "You just look sixteen, that's all."

    Raisa gives me a look like she knows exactly what I'm on about. She shrugs it off, though, and starts to wade over to the shoreline. "Joel has to go and catch those kids who stole his car," she explains, back turned toward me, face out of sight. "C'mon, Nathan."

    And, like the leader she is, I follow her.

    -

    Joel's managed to keep a crowd happy, which I didn't expect, especially seeing as though I'd previously thought the most pub rock-like songs in his repertoire were the most poetic of Patti Smith. But there he is, standing on the stage, belting out the lyrics to 'My Generation' by the Who, going too fast and singing a bit too high, his smooth voice not really dealing with the harsh words he's spitting.

    He collapses over the mic stand after the last few bars of the song, exhausted, his curly hair stuck to his forehead. The small mass of people—twenty, thirty by now—give cheers and whistles. It's clear nobody wants to take his place. "Any requests?" He asks, though he's out of breath. I check my watch and I want to tell Joel it's nearly ten o'clock and we should really go now, but I don't want to break him from this weird alter-ego-type trance. 

    Someone in the audience yells out 'Lennon!' to which Joel shakes his head and says, "Nah," like he's indifferent, like it's not a privilege to perform. He's acting like a total douchebag but everyone seems to love him for it.

    "Powderfinger!" a girl shouts, and it's not until I turn to my left to see where Raisa's gone that I realise Raisa was the one shouting, having moved closer to the stage a meter or two.

    "Why are you damp?" Joel ducks away from the microphone to whisper.

    "I went swimming." Raisa whispers. Joel nods apprehensively and stands back up.    

    He adjusts a capo on the third fret of his guitar—it's beautiful, a piece of art in more ways than one—and he pushes some of the hair out of his face.

    I'm in awe for the next three and a half minutes. The only reason I know the song is because of triple j's insistent playing but I do know that drums and bass and generally, three other band members, are an instrumental part of it.  I don't know how he does it but Joel makes his one guitar sound like an intact band, picking enough notes to institute a weird kind of bass line that does the job pretty well. His onstage presence is so much larger than the skinny, tall thing he really is.