The backyard of the frat house is buzzing with excitement. The deck has been turned into a make-shift stage with the sliding glass door behind it blocked off to anyone that isn't a band. Party goers coming in are directed to a tall wooden gate around the side of the house for entrance.
Gabby had made the mistake of choosing a pair of my heels for the party, so she had to slip her feet out of them pretty early on or risk sinking into the grass. The heels were completely unnecessary. She's already about five-nine. I, on the other hand, am about five-five.
Gabby's real name is Gabriella. It compliments her darker skin tone and exotic look. Her skin is a beautiful olive tone and she never burns. A point of contention between us because I always burn. Her long black hair is full and shiny and her legs seem to go on for days. I tried explaining to her that wearing heels that tall is going to intimidate boys. Her answer to that was to wear even taller heels. I have to admire her commitment.
The band is setting up as Gabby and I are waiting our turn at one in a long line of kegs that are snugly fit into large tubs full of ice. Each keg is being manned by a different frat guy. I can tell they're frat guys because they all look the same. Standard-issue-frat-guy ™. The guy helping us has a dirty blonde mop on the top of his head and a fitted t-shirt with greek letters emblazoned across the front in our school colors, emerald green against a white background.
"What kind of beer is this?" I ask, clutching my red solo cup as though my life depends on it. Oddly enough on a college campus, sometimes that can be the truth.
The frat guy offers an award-winning smile that accompanies a non-committal shrug. "I dunno. The foamy kind." He shrugs as a way of apologizing. Whether he's apologizing that he doesn't know or he's apologizing for his idiocy in general - I'll never know for sure.
Mostly I was curious if they managed to have more than one kind of beer to choose from, but I must have been ahead of myself. Check yourself, Vale, this is a frat party. I'm sure it's just seven kegs of Bud Light or some other unimpressive American ale. How quaint.
I thrust my cup forward, tipping it slightly so the golden liquid can roll down the white inside of the cup to settle on the bottom. I've done this enough times to figure out how to avoid all the extra bubbles. They should probably just go over it in orientation. You can always spot a freshman at a kegger. They're the ones with cups full of foam.
The beer tastes as generic as the frat boy looks. It's warm, and not all that enticing, but I feel better just having something to hold in my hand as I maneuver through the crowd. I catch sight of the band members setting up their gear on the deck. It brings back memories of the last time I played a rock concert. It was a high school band. Just for fun. We played a lot of covers. It was how I first found my love for songwriting as well. I always see a kindred spirit in a band; something I've always felt to be missing in my own life.
Once all the amps, mics, and pedals seem to be plugged in, five men stroll out on stage, looking about how you would expect a band to look. The frontman picks up a black Epiphone, checking the tuning of the instrument briefly before plugging the cord into the input jack on the front of the guitar and looking up to the crowd. I can't take my eyes off of him. His charisma is overwhelming almost instantly.
He's not buff in any sense of the word, but he's definitely filled out and probably has zero percent body fat. I believe one might refer to him as "cut.' I'm no one to turn down a hot bod, but my favorite part of him is his style.
An old worn out Metallica muscle-tee stretches across his chest, dipping low on his sides, giving a glimpse of the pyramid spikes that trail across his belt. The shirt sports a few holes and is obviously authentic to the era of Metallica's heyday. I recognize the Master of Puppets cover art emblazoned across the worn fabric immediately, so I'd place the shirt somewhere in the eighties. Vintage. I respect it.
His tight jeans are frayed in all the right places and his docs are well worn. His grey eyes are framed by strands of his messy deep brown hair, and a half-smoked cigarette hangs perilously from his lips.
He looks like trouble. Very delicious trouble. I find myself licking my lips subconsciously and lifting my cup to my mouth to hide the motion.
Pulling the mic to his lips, he introduces himself, his voice deep and raspy. "I'm Kaden West, and we're Black Canvas."
Black Canvas has been a big deal in the area since I started at Brentwood last year. They've played some of the campus bars, and parties and they won the local Battle of the Bands for two years running. We played them a lot on Campus Radio where I worked doing odd jobs last year. This year I'm going to be a deejay and I'm sure I'll play them just as often.
Although I know they're students here, I can't recall ever running into them on campus, or in any of my classes, which is odd. I'd assume them to be part of the music program. They're the hometown favorite. Everyone talks about how they can't believe they haven't been signed by a record label. Despite all of this, it's somehow my first time seeing them live. I'm popping my Black Canvas cherry.
An upbeat guitar riff, riddled with just enough flat notes that it carries a sadness in the undertone rings through the air, pulling a chill up my spine. A good chill. Kaden leans into the mic, spilling the first line for the crowd before the rest of the band joins in.
"When your lips kiss my soul, I finally feel alive..."
The bass drum echos loud enough that I can feel each percussion in my chest, and with that one line I'm lost in the music. They are amazing live. It's not that I've never heard their music before, but right now it's like I'm hearing them for the first time.
"You chew me up, you spit me out,
And still I come running when you're around..."
The key shifts as they move into the bridge of the song. Kaden's eyes catch mine in the crowd, and they stay. The color of them was like deepening grey thunder clouds in the center of a storm, and the emotion leaching into me with the same intensity. I can feel him, and he can feel me.
"And I'll live every sin, and cast every stone
Just for the chance that I'll catch you alone,
I'll beg for the pain, and I'll take all the blame,
Just for the chance that I'll see you again."
After the verse he casts his eyes down to the guitar strings, changing his focus. When his eyes leave mine the spell is broken, but I feel like he's pulled part of my soul up there with him. He's playing me like he's playing his guitar. It's unsettling.
My mouth is dry, and chugging my beer doesn't seem to be doing any good. When the song is over, I snake through the crowd back to where the kegs are, getting in line for a refill.