This Is It

     I hear the cheering. I hear the roar of the crowds and the eagerness in the atmosphere. I hear it. I feel it. I know this is it.

    I have my drumsticks in hand, Casey has her electric guitar slung around her shoulders and a microphone, and Roman has his metallic green bass. This is it.

Casey walks out, seemingly without worry, yelling into her microphone and the crowd goes insane. I still can’t see anything, but I feel like my ears may burst from the loudness. I’m waiting for my queue. This is it.

     Roman nudges me with his elbow. He’s always been a very exciting and daring person, never nervous about things like this. “It’s going to be fine,” he tells me. I know this. Or do I? “It’ll be a blast, trust me.” I nod and pretend like I’m not nervous, but this is my first of a series of major concerts yet to come on our American tour and I’m having trouble holding back my anxiety.

     I see Casey give Roman and me the signal. I shake out my trembling hands and take a deep breath. This is it.

     As soon as I enter the stage and see the crowd, I want to puke. The flashing lights and booming speakers make me feel like I’m in a nightmare. But I don’t freeze, and I don’t falter. Instead, I just jog up to my trusty drum set. The golden rims glitter under the spotlights and the cymbals gleam with excitement. This is it.

     Casey says a few things which make the crowd excited, but I’m too focused on focusing that I can’t make them out. A few murmurs is all I hear, and then the first guitar chord. Crash. Bass. Snare. Hi-hat. Snare. This is it.

     I beat the drums with all my might, and I try not to look at the faint silhouettes thousands of screaming people. I distinctly hear each sound: the guitar, the bass, each strike of the ride cymbal, but I don’t listen to any of it. Iwon’t mess up. I won’t mess up. I won’t mess up. This is it.

     I’m so focused I don’t really hear what I’m playing. Play this beat three times, fill. Next beat. Fill. First beat again. Over and over and over, is all I think.

     I’m still not comfortable, but Roman and Casey seem to be having a ball. Roman turns to me, and smiles gleefully, like this is the best night of his life. He sticks out his tongue and jumps off the stage into the crowd. Not the best move, my friend. He plays each steel string with such gusto as the girls scream our infamous lyrics into his face. He loves it.

     Casey laughs at her friend and looks to me for my queue. I point my arm up to the sky and give my drumstick a twirl, coming back down and hitting the crash cymbal with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. I give my most impressive fill and try to look cool even though I mess up a tiny bit.

     Finally, with a triumphant lick to the snare drum and a G-major guitar chord, the song ends. I’m out of breath and sweaty already, and the teenage girls shriek and holler. I did it. But there’s still an hour and a half left. Can I do this?

     Roman, who returns to his spot on the stage, introduces the next song, Stranger. This one is bit calmer, so I can settle down a little.

     It begins with two measures of bass alone. Then the Casey’s acoustic guitar chimes in, along with the first lyrics.

     Like you,

     Like me.

     Like the man down the street.

     We’re strangers, can’t you see?

     I wrote this song. I know it by heart. I hum along as I start off the beat with a little hi-hat-ride fill. Roman begins to harmonize with Casey’s high, feminine voice. Oh dear God, is this it.

     The feeling of the room has changed completely. It is no longer a mad-house, but now a tranquil scene of brotherly love.

     I start to remember where I was when I wrote this song. It was Autumn in London, and I was standing in the middle of the street at 1 am. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in three straight days. Not a sound had escaped my mouth. It was so cold, and the biting winds seeped through my cardigan. The smell of cigarette smoke and freshwater filled me with a strange thoughtfulness. I was on the edge of the Thames, looking over the railing of the Millennium Bridge. I looked out into the dark, peaceful void lain out in front of me and I thought, what would it be like? But then I remember Casey and Roman, and what was truly lain out in front of me.

     I saw a man in the corner of my eye. Handsome, but in very ragged clothes with a messy beard. Who is this man? I thought. Why does he walk this same path on this same Autumn evening at 1 am? He looked up and we locked eyes. It was like he could see straight through me and was reading my thoughts. He smiled. I swear I heard him say, “This is it.” It was probably my imagination.

     I am brought back from my memory daze by a screeching of guitar. Time for the bridge. This is it.

     Open hi-hat, floor-tom. Bass drum, snare, mid-tom, high-tom, CRASH! It’s like my cymbals send sparks through the air, electrifying the thousands of people in the audience. Lights of red and yellow shine on them making them sparkle like the rims of my drums. I feel the music in my chest that beats my heart. This is what I live for.

     The song dies down again, signifying the ending of the bridge. The beginning chords are played again, and the drums die out.

     I stand up. I am confident. I grab a microphone from the invisible hand off-stage. This is it. I will live.

    “And the wind blows all around us,

     And the darkness it surrounds.

     Nothing but air strangled between us,

     We’re strangers

     And this is it.”

SRC