Concerts are a constant back-and-forth; people always try to understand what a song really means.
For everyone in the stadium, that marvel—the song they heard every four minutes—was enjoyable and entertaining, varying in intensity. The crowd admired every nuance of the songs; it was a pleasant experience for them.
Taking a deep breath, they had already been singing and jumping through several songs, moving from one side to the other. The rhythm was definitely not for kids; many seemed to adapt to the mix of dances and game-like energy that filled the space.
He finished the song as his chest heaved. Spencer moved his fingers side to side, refusing to fall into the trap of a guitar solo, sharp and piercing. His fingers moved with force, while his schoolmaster spirit stayed in tune. He wore a button-up shirt and pants nearly at his hips—not exactly rockstar attire, but damn if he didn't rock. His guitar was powerful, dazzling everyone who listened.
Connor hit the drums hard. Sugar Egg joined in the long-standing jazz battle between them—an uncordial attitude always at odds. One liked the lows, the other the highs of the cymbals. What more could anyone do but say yes when the singing soared at full power? The strong vocals and the devilishly skilled bass of Jack Sauce, who—though an addict—devoted his life to the bass and liked nothing else. Who else could do more than wait for that person to help carry the song?
-Then let's follow the script, - Billy said.
Taking a deep breath, the music of one of the songs he could perform started. Juicibox followed, a great act that seemed to add to the appeal—fast, charming, and catchy, a little extravagant for a rock song, but magnificent to hear every track.
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Everybody sees me
But it's not that easy
Standing in the light field
Standing in the light field
Waiting for some action
Waiting for some action
Oh, but why won't you come over here?
Why won't you come over here?
We've got a city to love
Why won't you come over here?
We've got a city to love
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He sang on autopilot, already having everything he needed in mind, though something was missing, maybe a good spark. But only one song was on his mind, the one that touched his soul. And when he wanted to deliver a great song, it was only when he really wanted to sing it. Luckily, he always wanted to sing; the shouts were his ego, each thing triggering a good memory.
So what could he do when he had to sing? Just forget. It was necessary. He stored thousands of emotions in his heart, so many it seemed to hurt his soul with every song. And when he needed a good recommendation, that's when he tried everything to always reach others. He could almost feel Spencer's gaze on his back. Spencer understood Billy's whims well—he could ignite the dishonor that seeing others take risks caused. It was almost entertaining. He didn't like singing things he didn't want to, but it was difficult and complicated.
Who could change? Who could keep up with the boy in every activity? How painful it could be when someone had to become themselves, to find themselves a new to give a powerful performance. So what did it do to the mind? How hard it was to deal with the boy, how impossible to feel when someone wants to do exactly what they want without complications—a sparse mix of elements, an anxious task.
How to say that wasn't the problem? How to say none of that bothered him? How to say that even if he wanted to, the next songs would all be different? A sharp feeling of dissociation, one he hated with a passion. He sang well, perfectly in tune; his musical structure was ideal, but he couldn't quite leave his mark.
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Old time grudges
Will die so slowly
I know you miss the
Way I saw you
And cold
You're so cold
You're so cold
You're so cold
Nobody can see me
Everything's too easy
Standing in the light field
Standing in the light field
Waiting for some actress
Waiting for some actress
To say, "why won't you come over here?
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Almost as if Billy felt it, he mocked the frustrated emotion—that dull, degrading desire—and infused that obscene way of dancing, the festive feeling of his song, to use the chorus to his advantage and bring life to his often disparaged singing. He needed his voice to prevail over mistakes and whoever might deny anything in front of him. Denying nothing would be tasteless, but his band wouldn't let him give up. No one let him step down—they hit hard.
He used his whole voice, leaving a mark on every trace.
-What a great voice and what a great dance, - Billy thought, fully aware he might need to raise the volume a bit—two octaves, at least enough for the band to follow his key. A party surrounded by the cold path where he lived—a chilly night party as his lungs filled with cold air, while chaos erupted around him. The weapon was a somber celebration of memories. What need and incapacity could be worse than doing the exact opposite?
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
Why won't you come over here?
We've got a city to love
Why won't you come over here?
We've got a city to love
Old time love song
Will die so swiftly
You never trust me
For a while it was nice
But it's time to say bye
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His words came fast—that was an advantage when singing—because he captured that deep, extended voice that some failed to fully grasp, the essence of a great song.
He stretched his voice, then softened it. Clarity was a good trick, but after nearly an hour and a half, the rasp in his voice became noticeable, adding a bit of grunge to his style. He always tried to make the best of it.
Billy gave Spencer a long look; Spencer acted as if nothing existed. How precise it can be when the singing is needed.
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And cold
You're so cold
You're so cold
You're so cold
No, no, no, cold
You're so cold
You're so cold
You're so cold
Oh no, no, no, no, no
You're so cold
You're so cold
You're so cold
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
He took a breath.
They continued, starting to sing with strength, the power Spencer demanded after refusing to let the band pressure him. Spencer then immediately launched into "505."
...