“You will never speak the language of music.”
You said that to me once, while strumming your guitar. How pretentious I thought. How rude. Even in my early 20s I knew a real dick when I saw one. I knew exactly how to fall in love with them, hard. I had dreadlocks then. Maybe that’s why? Bad choices all around. A six foot tall redhead with dreads and an unquenchable desire for douchebags, hi nice to meet you. Standing alone in a crowd of sweaty dudes, most of whom have offensive hair, like me, I stare up at the stage. Everyone is young but the vibe is not sexy. Too much bad taste, it’s wafting through the thick air and clogging my small pores. How did I get here? Surely my taste is not this bad? Then I remember that I’ve been here before. Last year, the exact same place. I take a large swig and finish my beer, and then I get another one. Lights flash, the show is about to begin. The crowd of ill fitting t-shirts rushes to the front, I follow. A huge neon sign lights up the stage, WELCOME TO GUITAR HERO, it screams. Everyone is cheering and I hate everyone. Oh no, here comes Sebastien, last year’s winner, the bane of your existence, and why I’m here. To watch you beat him. To watch you set history straight because you are the best. The competition is made up of battle rounds. In each, two musicians face-off and play a riff in the style designated by the MC – metal, rock, jazz, funk, reggae, punk, etc. – and then the audience decides who wins. The strength of their screams determines the hero. We’re hoping you get jazz because that’s your specialty, but who are we kidding, you’re a master of them all. Unfortunately for me, watching these guitarists wank off for each other is the equivalent of getting semen in my eyes. Have you ever gotten semen in your eyes? It’s like having your pupils burned out with acid. Usually this experience goes hand in hand with some kind of sexual act so there’s an added pressure to remain attractive amidst the anguish. This conflicted state characterized the look on my face that night. The look of a woman in pain who’s trying to hide it. Something inside me said, “Get out! You don’t want to be here! Run!” But I was young and able to repress this voice under my fear of losing you, my boyfriend, “the virtuoso”. Although, last year you came in second. That was devastating for you. Devastating for me too because now I am back here. What have we learned? Nothing. I have another beer. It’s the last round, you’re a finalist, about to perform the rhythmic jazz song you’ve prepared just for tonight. Huge beaming smile, bright eyes, a tremendous presence. You sit down on a stool and commence. There is so much intensity in the way you treat your instrument, the way you play her, it is beautiful and the crowd goes wild. You win, obviously, finally. I am jealous for a moment, of what I’m not sure, but I barely register the feeling and quickly transform it into a desperate desire for your attention. I run up to the stage, you smile at me and we share a look that says, obviously, finally. “You were amazing!” I yell. “Thank you,” you say, while simultaneously absorbing the adoration that surrounds you. “I’ll wait here,” I say. I do not want to take away from your glory, nor do I want to be confused for a fan. I am more than that. I am more. “I’m actually gonna hang out with Sebastien tonight. I think he’s upset that I beat him,” you say. I choke on the bad taste that has found its way inside me. “Oh ok, have fun. I’ll call you later,” I say. “Great,” you say, with a haunting smile and empty eyes. In slow motion I turn around and walk past the wannabe heroes buying merch as they hold their girlfriends tight. I laugh because I am sad and then on my way home, I decide that I will learn to play the drums.