Robin:
£100,000.
That's the number staring up at me from the screen.
Only there's a minus.
A little -.
And that tiny symbol changes everything. I weep, alone in my flat, at the thought of it, having spent over thirty thousand British Pounds per year to receive exclusively online, piss-poor education via the same screen that provides updates on the virus death count and when the next food delivery slots might open up.
I didn't even have anyone to "bubble" with on account of not making friends due to being a bit different, so you can forgive me for feeling a little apprehensive about getting back into the world after three years of lockdowns. What a waste.
At least they say it's safer now, like London knife crime and hit and runs won't be a thing anymore. I wonder if Whispersong know about all that, given they're not from here. We know everything about them, us Little Leaves, but what have they learned about us, and this country?
I guess we'll all find out tonight, at their first-ever live performance to nearly one hundred thousand people pulling on their greens just like I am and getting ready to begin again.
***
"Look up!"
"Look up!" I'm shouting, but it's no use.
The idiot keeps zombie-shuffling towards me with shoulders pointing towards each other as they crouch whilst walking, eyes glued to the bright blue lights of their smartphone despite the chaos surrounding them.
"Look u-" I manage one last time before they walk straight into me and the others waiting in the enormous line for tickets whilst the busy London night carriers on around us, filled with the sound of sirens, revellers and the promise of coming adventures.
The fool looks up with bleary eyes and mutters something but it doesn't sound like an apology. Other colourful country fans regard the Frowner with wide eyes and disdain, but already, the shuffling has recommenced on the other side of the line and the incident likely forgotten.
Unbelievable.
I've been queuing for Whispersong tickets for hours at this point, and I think I'm the only person that didn't bring my phone with me. In the absence of friends, it might have been a smart thing to do I guess, but even the groups of four and five in front of me don't seem to be talking to each other in lieu of texting someone that isn't stood right next to them; I've given up trying to understand it. I thought after nearly three years of forming connection in the online forums, Little Leaves might be dying to meet each other in person, but I guess it's easier said than done.
All I can say is that the air tastes better outside and I remain hopeful, because this ticket is going to blow my "social" budget for weeks. Why did everyone post that they've had a great time doing up the house and learning Karate when it's so clear the time hasn't been kind to anyone.
Liars.
I didn't know I loved country until Whispersong, who were visiting Southern England on holiday from their native Nashville, absolutely exploded onto the scene, tearing through the university airwaves without competition. There's something more to them and the flawlessness of their debut album and I just know I must see it in person for myself, even without any mates, or my former family who would rather stay at home and order takeout, not understanding that a life not lived is just a very slow death.
People have said forever that life is short but ever the contrarian I disagree, it's super-long, and if you're not careful, you'll spend years being less happy than you could have been or worse. So, I'm going to this gig and nothing will stop me.
"Sold out!" I hear a shout, far ahead of me in the queue, and the rest of us let out a disillusioned groan. Maybe it wasn't meant to be.
Rather than leave in a huff right away like the hundreds of others, a sea of forest green washing through Wembley, I decide to sit for a moment on the kerb of the road we've been standing on for the past three hours and fight the urge to bury my head in my hands and cry.
Far ahead of me, I can see groups exclaiming happily, far more tickets than they could possibly need in their hands. Presumably they're going to sell them on for vast profits; things have been tight since everyone lost their jobs, so I get it, but I feel angry bile rise within me at the prospect and stand, ready to give them a piece of my mind before someone pushes into me AGAIN and I'm about to lose my shit.
"Here, take it" they're saying.
It's all happening so quickly, and before I know it, I'm stood in the shadow of the person that has just pushed a Whispersong ticket into my hands and kept walking into the dispersing crowd. They're gone already and I didn't even get a good look at them or manage to shout thank you. All I know is they were wearing green, too.
I look down at the ticket. It's genuine, and cost £80 – you don't want to know how many words I'd need to sell to make that – and flutters in the smelly city wind, threatening to blow away. I quickly fold it in and put it in my pocket, unable to believe my luck.
It was meant to be after all.
I don't believe that everything happens for a reason, because a lot of terrible things happen that can't possibly have reasons, and humans generally have so much more control than we like to admit. It's easy to pin it on something else, but really, it's up to us to get up and do something isn't it?
The gig is later tonight and I've got a rare paid writing assignment to complete so since I'm already in central I guess I'll go to the library and do some reading and ask those big questions like: what is the point? Why bother? And what is the meaning of life?
***
When I return to the same spot I was gifted the ticket having just earned enough to enjoy an expensive stadium beer in the shadow of the arena before going in, I prepare to fully-embroil myself in the awesomeness of Whispersong. The library has headphones attached to the ancient desktop PCs and whilst the connection struggled to load it, I did manage to listen to their whole album twice whilst I wrote an article on the health benefits of acupuncture for nameless, faceless internet clients.
My excitement battles nerves, with no clear winner, and I shouldn't have only eaten a large, frothy coffee today as my stomach flips, reminding me that I'm on the edge of something. The precipice of a more meaningful life is just a few Whispersongs away and I can't wait for it to unlock the potential of my worldly soul.
You can spot the Little Leaves a mile away they're such a bright and colourful bunch. I agree with the Frowners that it's weird they truly believe that you can retain your uniqueness whilst still being part of a community, and whilst no two look the same, they all share a forest green leaf motif somewhere on their clothing or in some instances in their hair as well, and discovered a love of country.
People often associate country music with wheels, dirt, dust and desert but Whispersong tell their fans that country isn't something you can see it's something you feel and that they feel most like the rich green of a leaf in a forest; alive but mysterious and unique, part of something greater than itself and always about to change. That message really resonated with the hundred thousand or so of us attending their first live gig tonight at one of London's biggest arenas.
The fact that they've evolved from viral internet video sensations to sold-out stadium tour stars in such a short space of time gives me the faith, courage and confidence in the future I need to keep going and I'm grateful to them for it.
There's no pressure, but I sort of need this gig to change everything for me.
I wonder how many of the other Little Leaves – that's what we're called, if you haven't figured it out by now – around me feel the same. The "little" isn't condescending by the way, it's meant to show that together we are more, so that's alright isn't it.
I'm twenty-one now, and a significant percentage of my life has been stolen by lockdowns, viruses and ideologies I can't get on board with and I think if it weren't for having this gig to look forward to, I wouldn't so much want a future on this planet as live in the past like the Frowners do – that's what we call everyone else, by the by.
So that's me, but I'm not me really, am I? I'm just a great big mirror for you to look into.
Are you a Frowner or a Little Leaf?
If we can be dragged down, so too can we be dragged up. My mission is to lead by example with the tiny sphere of influence that I have as a novice writer and help at least one or more people on this journey called life even though it takes me way out of my comfort zone.
Why bother being comfortable but unhappy anyways? I want to make a friend, no matter how uncomfortable I have to be to make one.
Making my way through the epic stadium into the growing crown, the warmup act is yet to come on but the feeling in the air is catalytic.
They won't let people drink at gigs anymore, or at football games or at weddings or funerals, so the atmosphere is one of sober anticipation – this could go either way.
In some places this would be enough people to start a revolution.
The smells and the visuals are vivid, but my ears demand an experience as I think about how grateful and lucky I am to be here, and I whisper quietly thanks to my be-ticketed benefactor.
I close my eyes and lean my head back, looking at the grey of my eyelids and trying to feel what's about to happen. I haven't even thought about how that might look to anyone else because Little Leaves wouldn't judge me like that.
"Look down," a voice says, and I think is this God, or the Devil come to talk to me at last, and I don't immediately act, but then the voice says it again, and I feel a small but firm hand grip my shoulder.
"Look down,"
I look down at the forest green cap of a Whispersong fan shorter than me, who I can tell nothing about from looking at but just know immediately is the one that gave me my ticket earlier.
"You came on your own, too?" the Little Leaf asks me, hopeful, expecting.
"Yeah," I answer.
Rather than say any more, the little leaf looks up and shows me their face and I see in their eyes that same yearning that I see when I look in the mirror.
It doesn't matter who we are right now; what matters is who we might become.
We take each other's hands and lean our heads back, listening and humming along in harmony all the way through the warmup act before the lights dim and we turn to each other to say:
"It's starting!"
***
Even from this far away, to see in real life people you've only ever watched, examined, scrutinised on a screen is breath taking. Even in this circumstance, with a haze of weed smoke, tens of thousands of bodies and the licking flames of the special effects crew on either side of the stage between us, as the whole band emerge from backstage, dressed as green versions of their animal namesakes, I can feel us connecting on a greater and more meaningful level than the half-life we've all been living.
Badger comes out first, wearing a full headdress but with green fur and exposed, paradoxically tanned arms – feels like the sun hasn't shone here in years – he grips the microphone and speaks a silken, dangerous whisper amplified into all our souls.
"Hello England! It's a pleasure to meet you! Let me introduce Whispersong!" Badger says, humble and full of humility, as if all hundred thousand of us didn't know everything there is publicly available to know about him, Stoat, Ferret and Fox.
That being said, we don't know all that much.
"Did you guys know Stoat is my brother?" Badger asks us as Stoat comes to the front of the stage, slightly shorter and wider but similarly dressed with a Stoat headdress and green fur all over his body. Unlike Badger, Stoat's arms are covered in tattoos, but similarly solid. He hugs his brother before picking up an acoustic guitar that hums with anticipation – it's already tuned to perfection – and takes his place in his spot, flanked by waist-high amps and wearing a smile that'd make a stoat proud.
The crowd around me is cheering, near-euphoric thanks in part to the smoke but also the natural buzz and the beers outside. Nobody's talking yet. My companion Little Leaf doesn't speak but I can see their mouth moving and I know what they're saying.
"I haven't said anything yet!" the Little Leaf says noticing me noticing them.
"I know, but I can hear you anyway," I reply, and we start mouthing the lyrics to the first song they'll play, the Whisper Song, the song that even if nobody sings you can still hear. We smile at each other with our eyes as our mouths are busy with lyrics we don't yet understand, but hope to regardless.
"Here's Ferret!" Badger announces, louder now and snapping us out of our little moment. When did we start holding hands…?
Ferret heads over to the bass with little ceremony and I'm sure all of us can see that he's not as solid as Stoat or Badger, as if he might be a projection or a ghost, and when he looks up at those two, it's with a nervousness. As we all start thinking it, Badger reminds us.
"This is our first gig ever, and Ferret here – the greatest bassist I've ever had the pleasure to spend years getting drunk in a house in the country with – is something of an introvert, so we hope you'll understand if he faces away from the crowd and plays with headphones in."
Before Badger is finished talking, the stadium erupts to life in a way I imagine is well-intentioned but perhaps not that helpful.
"WE UNDERSTAND, FERRET!"
Somehow, we hear Badger's smile before he even speaks.
"Finally, here's Fox!"
Fox, the drummer, emerges twirling drumsticks as he strides, the tallest of the group by far and lithe in build. He's the only one not wearing coloured fur, but red faux leather jacket open with a bare, hairless chest underneath and matching trousers.
He's unusual, in that his eyes are a red yellow. We've all seen it in the livestreams, but even from this far he looks at all of us and really sees us as we look back. It's fascinating and my Little Leaf companion nods along with me as we try to lean forward to get a better look.
"Do y'all have any idea how hard it is to get a tan when you're always in Fox's shadow?" Badger asks us, giggling at his own joke and spreading his muscled arms wide like wings.
"We love you, Fox!" the band and the fans shout as one as Fox breaks dozens of drumsticks into halves and throws them into the audience with a wink. Only the band have ever heard him speak, and we're all wondering when it's going to happen.
As Fox heads to the biggest drumkit I've ever seen, the crowd quietens to a humming fizz, primed and ready for whatever's coming next. Badger could tell us to eat our own heads and we would, such is his power.
"We're going to play some songs for you tonight," he says, all honeyed as he clasps both massive hands around a tiny mic, his rings clicking together. Underneath the impressive headdress we can see his naturally dark eyes have been enhanced with eyeliner and other makeup, more goth than country.
"You like these?" he asks, pointing at the headdresses, "We made them ourselves, didn't have much else to do, but shout out to High Hampton, Devon, the most beautiful place on earth!"
The crowd appreciates this, but the cynic in me suspects most of us are Londoners who have never even been to Devon, and I take a mental note to correct this. I can tell other Little Leaves are doing the same.
A smooth, black electric guitar with many knobs and dials is slipped into Badger's arms whilst I'm day dreaming about endless green, and he teases a riff all of us recognise out of it as they start to play their signature song, the Whisper Song. Sixty thousand bodies start to jump up and down as the forty thousand seated wave and clap and scream and invoke the god of gratitude.
I can't hear them, but I know what they're saying:
"We're grateful,"
"We made it,"
"We're not alone!"
I know what they're saying because I'm saying it too, and even though I'm saying it with my mind, everyone can hear me. Somehow, this group of four American strangers have managed to get us all to listen to each other as well as them, and I think the Frowners have just never understood that cos they don't listen to anyone, least of all themselves.
The song is over as quickly as it started, but from looking around I'd say it's lifted every single Little Leaf's cheeks two inches north, so that we're all half-blind from smiling and tears of gratitude.
Badger lets the guitar – something that looks so tiny but is so big in impact – hang from the strap around his neck as he grabs the mic again and takes a deep breath.
"We're just as grateful to you guys you know," he says, quiet at first but getting louder as he speaks and I forget he's our age: around 21, having managed to study, work as as frontman and manager of the number 1 streamed country band of all time. If we didn't love him so much, I'd wager some of us would hate him. Indeed, many media outlets have likened him to more of a cult leader than a rockstar, and why wouldn't they?
Not everybody likes prophets.
***
Four songs later we're halfway through the too-short album, and Badger has taken a moment between each to tell us about the band and its history along with its present and future. I knew that they were self-managed, but I didn't know that they are going to donate 60% of the proceeds from ticket sales to charities the most local to every gig venue they perform at.
Nor did I know that they encourage everyone to write to them via their website, and that they read every single message even if they don't respond. They just seem like bloody good blokes if you ask me.
Ferret has turned to face the crowd at this point, but is seated on one of those wooden box drums whilst he plays. Stoat's guitar mastery is intense and it makes perfect sense, given he picked one up instead of a football much to the disappointment of his and Badger's parents. Badger says that he has to manage the band because he contributes the least, even though he sings, writes all the lyrics and is capable of playing a guitar or as we saw in their third song the Ukulele, Banjo and other string instruments.
Something about watching them unlocks something in me and I want to do more than just write, I want to create something of true value to others, instead of something that derives its value from clicks and advertising dollars or website conversions.
My soul is kind of crying out for poetry, fiction and real creativity not what marketing big wigs think it is. The Little Leaf next to me seems to be going under a similar existential crisis of self-transformation, and whilst we don't talk we sway with our arms around each other to the slower songs.
My favourite one comes on and thinking about it I can't even explain why it is my favourite. It's not the music or even the lyrics that speak to me, so much as the fact that there's life before and life after you've heard your favourite song. It feels like I'm listening to the future, if that makes sense?
There's a line in it that is so meta I can't get it out of my head:
"Country's always about you but this song's about me,".
Others speak to memories and loss and messages beyond and love and I think about how writers are always accused of writing what they know but these guys can't POSSIBLY have had the experiences to know the wisdom they create; they must have got it through listening to others, and I try to capture this understanding in a promise.
"I'll be your friend, I promise," I shout at the Little Leaf who gave me the ticket.
"If that's what you want. Well, I want it too, that's what I promise,"
When no reply comes, and the air around us swirls with the music and emotion and I can hear my heartbeat just like Fox's drums, the Little Leaf surprises me.
"I'm Jay!" spoken quietly, but heard perfectly well.
"Robin,"
"Thank you!" we shout at each other as Whispersong start the next track.
***
In the quiet moments between the overloud choruses, as our ears ring and our mouths sing, we talk about how we never want this concert to finish, but know that it must, and whether there'll be an encore or not.
Eventually, after slower numbers, including an amazing acoustic solo performance by Badger, and a 6-minute drum solo by Fox, Badger starts to talk again, and the crowd immediately hangs from his words.
"Little Leaves," he begins.
"It's time for us to go home. To our real home,"
The crowd groans with collective displeasure, even though we've just started sharing the same physical space, when Whispersong tear themselves away from us it's going to hurt and leave a scar on our hearts.
"We didn't know when we got here that we were doing God's work, but now that he has spoken to us we understand that we're on a mission, and we need to take that mission back to America before spreading it around the world!" his ascending cadence and pause for impact are showy but undeniably effective. I'm a little more subtle with my belief, but I must admit I'm cheering along with everyone else – our applause is their permission to leave and we do give it willingly.
A choir of sniffs and an atmosphere of tears spreads through the crowd faster than the haze, and everyone must be asking themselves the same question I am: what next?
As if reading our minds, Badger answers with,
"Now for the encore! We're going to play a new song at every gig we do, and yes, we've been busy writing. The song you're about to hear will be available for streaming immediately after this gig, and you'll all be getting a signed copy of the single and photograph as you leave.
I wrote this song in a moment I didn't tell the rest of the band about until a few days later. As close as we all are, there were moments in that big house where we all just stayed in our own rooms for days…and I wasn't the only one to do some writing!" he pauses to take a meaningful glance at Ferret.
"This song is called Lights Camera Infraction, and it's a protest song with a twist. I don't believe all policy and law is useful and to be observed in every possible individual circumstance we find ourselves in… especially when new and ever more invasive ones are constantly cropping up. BUT, I'm also talking about the rules we place on ourselves. Every time we say it's always been this way or I'll do that later, we aren't helping, so this song is about taking peaceful, mindful and meaningful action towards positive change and if that sounds too hard to do, let us show you how."
Badger takes a small handgun from inside his jacket and fires it into the air, stunning everyone into silence before the rest of the band follows suit. The action makes most of us flinch, and as we watch and see the line of security guards remain facing towards us and have no intention of stopping the band from breaking the law any further a powerful realisation washes through the room like electricity. Thrillingly, there's no consequence to this action. The band could easily kill some of us right now if they wanted, they have that power, but we trust that they won't. Is this what society could be like?
Maybe there isn't one rule for them and another for us after all, because we could be them and they could be us.
This message kindles something in all of us, and I can't wait to find out exactly what it is.
The band put their guns away and begin the new song with some instantly catchy refrains that I'm sure will take them from viral to truly history-making.
Jay's jumping up and down screaming, but it's an excited scream, whilst I'm trembling with the prospect of a future that God just might have a plan for after all.
***
"I can't believe it, I just can't believe it, they're so…WILD!" Jay is talking so much more than I expected after the near-silence I'd become accustomed to during most of the gig.
"I never want this night to end."
"I think ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine people know just how you feel. I know I do" I reply as the legion of inspired Little Leaves flood out into the cold London evening, bringing a wash of sweat and new hope into the air with them as they promise to stay in touch via the Whispersong forums and brandishing their new protest song CD cases like swords and shields.
I wonder how many lives Whispersong saved tonight, I start to think, before Jay asks me what's on my mind, stooping to my level and looking into my eyes with a look of genuine curiosity, or perhaps something more.
"Nothing, what do you want to do?" I ask, relatively directly. I don't want Jay to leave the same way I didn't want Whispersong to.
There's a pause as we both think about how the obvious answer is that we have no idea.
"Well…" Jay begins hesitantly "I live in a hotel near the office, it's not far from here, but there's no food or drink or much of anything really."
I feel a bit sad hearing the words.
"Well, my lapsed catholic parents still have the good grace to rent a little studio in Clapham for their only child, regardless of how much contact we've had since they…disagreed with me, before the lockdowns. There's food and drink and tonnes of mess. What do you s-"
"I say yes to Clapham!"
So we head off to the tube, hand in hand knowing our lives have been fundamentally altered and thinking very little about what that might mean.
***
Jay:
I've never told anyone I live in a hotel before, and certainly never taken anyone there. What was I thinking? It's so embarrassing.
Robin didn't seem to notice though, and is already excusing the clutter that I can't wait to see. It must be the exact opposite of what I'm used to, and that's just what I need. I think I was the only Little Leaf whose green clothes were a blazer and suit trousers combo.
They were expensive and now they stink of gig and I've spilled a bit of the beer Robin produced from somewhere when we got on the tube on them. It doesn't matter, I can buy more, WHY AM I THINKING THIS?!
I hate myself sometimes, but I guess my Key Worker status – that I'm not really sure was warranted given I'm a corporate finance analyst – has become something I cling to. A part of my identity as much as being a Little Leaf I guess. My boss HG is a Little Leaf too, so he gets it, but the rest of the firm are Frowners so I tend to go straight back to the hotel, have dinner sent up to my room and get a head start on the next day's spreadsheets…what have I become.
Robin does a little hiccup burp thing as we bounce on the comfy but stained and ugly tube carriage cushions, and looks mortified that I might have heard. I can't help but giggle. Robin, a little shorter than me, is absolutely adorable, wearing an oversize forest-green hoody one could get lost in.
Robin looks at everything else whilst I look at Robin.
I notice that with each stop towards our station, the carriage goes from almost all Little Leaves to almost none and feel a little upset. I didn't speak to many, but if they're all like Robin, I love each one of them.
We held hands on the tube, but the connection breaks as we step off into the busy station, and navigate through a crowd that stares at us like we're freaks. Robin doesn't seem to mind, whilst my heart jumps up into my mouth and threatens to burst, crumbling under the pressure of everyone looking at me. This is normally when HG would step in and save me, but HG isn't here…
"Come on, it isn't far," Robin says, smiling through the bright lights and the awful context of a scared world.
A few moments later we're walking through the side entrance of a grand, four-story house that was surely once beautiful but now needs a lot more than a lick of paint, it needs a soul transfusion.
Whatever I felt about the outside appearance changes once we've tramped up the stairs and spilled into Robin's little studio. I can see through the one window that the night is dark, black tinted with streetlamp orange, but this room, even before Robin turns the light on, is a rainbow of colours.
There are at least two guitars and a smaller instrument I don't know the name of, an easel with a half-painted landscape of a vast valley, huge birds flying overhead and the sun rising over a river. I spot the desk quickly, and understand why Robin thought I might think it's cluttered. It IS cluttered. I've never seen so many notebooks, pens, pages, sketches, and even an unique, small book that looks to have been encased in an outer shell of black, complete with a little clasp holding it shut. Instinctively I head over and pick it up, expecting it to be heavy but it's not.
"Oh, I didn't mean to leave that out," Robin says, quickly stuffing it in a drawer below the desk, revealing in doing so that the thin pages have gold trim and are loose. Some nearly fall out.
"Sorry, sorry… this place is amazing!" Try to find my feet, I'm nervous.
"Kitchen is over there," Robin says, pointing a green-nailed little hand towards a sink, next to which sits a microwave and a little fridge. I don't really want another beer, so I ask for a glass of water which Robin fetches whilst pouring out a gin and tonic.
I sip my water, glancing back to the desk.
"You're a writer?" I ask.
"Yeah, it helps you cope with the loneliness when you can just write voices to talk to every day," Robin says with a little chuckle, and I feel a profound sadness at the statement and immediately feel stupid for thinking about myself earlier when there are other people to consider.
"Do you like being a writer?" I ask, redundantly.
"It's the only thing I want to do, I just wish I could do more."
"Then help me!"
"What?"
"I'm numbers, you're words. Help me. Let's write to Whispersong. I've done it a couple of times, just to thank them for helping me find a friend in my boss – and now in you – and feeling less alone in an office where everyone thinks you have a disease if you wear green or don't wear three masks on top of each other… will you help me?"
"Yes, of course I'll help you," Robin says, with a confidence I hadn't seen before now. A laptop is produced from one of the drawers and I notice that when the screen comes to life it's already open at the Whispersong forum with a half-written draft in progress.
Robin quickly deletes the draft before turning to me as we sit on the bed together, no space between us at all.
"So, what shall we write to Badger and the gang?"
"The truth! Let's thank them. I want to tell them so much, but I'm worried about boring them."
"There's a little trick I like to use when I'm writing," Robin starts telling me "Where you start with what the facts are. So like we've met that's the fact. Then we talk about how that fact makes us feel. So like, I'm feeling a bit butterfly-y. And then finally you say what you're going to do about the feeling because you want to turn the energy into action. You know, kind of like a manifesto."
Robin's been typing the whole time whilst saying this and maintaining eye contact with me. It would be creepy if it wasn't so damn impressive. Before I can even ask what the message says I hear the little whoosh noise that indicates the message has been sent.
"But you didn't finish!" I protest, "You didn't say what you were going to do!"
"This," Robin says, surging forward and flinging the laptop onto the carpeted floor without care for its safety and kissing me straight on the mouth.