One for the blogs

i take a bow and bound off-stage, immediately awkward and shy and weird again. i make a beeline through the crowd for my dad who takes me under his arm and rubs my back. an old man comes up to me and thanks me for singing. i'm always thanking people for listening so that's really strange but also nice you know. a little while later i try to make my way outside, bursting through the door and breathing in the cold air like coming up from underwater. a group of drunk grown-ups flock to me and my feather eyelashes and begin slurring, gushing; i'm overwhelmed and anxious and they're standing too close and saying too much. my boys appear on either side of me, big tall chesty walls with huge hearts and they take away the pressure of 3 against 1 and i start to hear what these people are saying to me. "your singing...i mean i don't ever say this but and like...don't be offended...you're 20? 20 years old? you're old...you're an old soul...it's like you're 70 in a 20 year old's body..." i once read somewhere that the only people in the world who ever tell the truth are children and drunk people, and this is yet another apt observation made by someone who's just had a few too many white wines. i hold my hand to my heart once again and thank them, finally able to escape from their hopelessly accurate drunkeness. 

backstage. the two singers from the bombay royale stumble down the stairs into the dressing room. henry and lewis and i are actively replacing beers stolen by the second band on the bill back into our rider bucket. i fill a little latte glass with wine and watch the beautiful girl sit in front of the mirror, brushing her hair in a rush and preening her perfect face. we cultivate such a fragile image onstage, and onstage is the only place it can survive. i am nothing when i'm in the world.