Uncle had agreed readily to Roc’s demand that he be able to witness the show from backstage with Bobbie, in return for the understanding that they wouldn’t arrive until after it began. For Uncle’s plan to work, it was essential that they not see the crowd, so he rented a stretch with windows tinted hearse-black. This suited the singer perfectly, and he sank deep into the leather seat in hooded sweatshirt and shades, looking like a nervous Eminem. Eddie, a bit stressed at having to play confidante to both sides, waved them agitatedly toward the emergency exit in the alley behind the El Rey Theater, where he looped backstage laminates over their heads. Hood up, Roc clutched Bobbie’s arm like a child as they slipped into the building.
Once inside, the familiarity of it all hit him: the shadowy backstage area, techs smoking, huddled over their personal pieces of gear, and the muffled thump of Stick’s bass drum driving the band through the opening song. Weirdest of all, though, was the wave of approval from the crowd to the climax of the song. Roc stopped, transfixed by the sound of his own voice. Eddie caught his expression and mouthed the words “Good singer.” Maglite in hand, he guided the couple through a gauntlet of dangling ropes, equipment cases, and coiled cables. They were ignored by various crew members, focused on the activity on stage.
The final ringing chord of “Cold Spark” was greeted by thunderous applause, and Bobbie squeezed Roc’s arm excitedly. Eddie’s stage whisper drew the three heads together. “Okay, Rocco, up this ladder about twenty feet and then hard left on the catwalk. Hold the railing till you get to the crow’s nest at the end. I had the spotlight hauled out during sound check. The water bottle is yours.” He turned to Bobbie. “You’re coming with me, right, Bobbie?”
“I’ll stay with Roc if he needs me. Is there room up there? What do you think, baby?”
“It’s all right, I’m cool.” Roc shook his head and pushed back his hood. “Go with Ed. At least one of us should see the show.” She fussed with his hair as he smiled nervously then hugged her quickly.
“I’ll hold the beam on your way up.” Eddie pointed the flashlight at the bottom rung. The sound of Stick counting in the next song and the ringing guitar at the start almost drowned out his next words. “Then you’re on your own, okay? Remember, ‘Swan Dive’ is song number four, and the flash pots at the end of the intro is your signal to drop down, all right?”
Roc nodded and scrambled wordlessly up the metal ladder as Bobbie watched nervously until Eddie flicked off the beam once he was out of sight. Eddie leaned into Bobbie’s ear to cut through the music. “Okay, let’s go; Emma’s got seats for us in the balcony.”
Bobbie hung onto his arm as they wound through the backstage area. “What about Uncle? Won’t he wonder why I’m with you all?” She glanced through the curtains as they passed the glowing monitor board sidestage, stopping to take in Stick’s intense concentration as the band pounded through ‘Flare-Up,’ one of the earliest hits.
“Don’t worry about the swami. He’ll be prowling, schmoozing, and on Marie patrol big time. Let’s go.” They both stopped cold when they spotted the projected Roc throwing his hair back wildly and seeming to share the microphone with Frankie on the chorus. Bobbie instantly understood why the audience was responding so feverishly to this transparent fantasy. It was mesmerizing, and she was completely thrilled by the sight of a three-dimensional projection of the man she had been sleeping with last night. She caught Eddie’s expression of wonderment before he looked away and led her through a fire door into a hallway past merchandise and concession stands to a stairway leading to the balcony.
A young fan, dressed to resemble early period Roc, burst through the doors from the theatre into the hall and rushed to a nearby restroom as the roar from within crested briefly. Bobbie started and whispered to Eddie, “Hell’s bells, did you get a load of that?”
Eddie nodded. “Dedicated. Obsessed. Their fans have always been full-on.”
“My lord. What are they gonna do when the real Roc shows up?”
“C’mon, Bobbie,” Eddie indicated a door straight ahead, “we’ll find out soon enough. ‘Swan Dive’ is after the next song.”
They found their seats just as the crowd rose as one to cheer the end of the song. Emma hugged Bobbie tightly, but whatever they said was drowned out by the crowd, stomping and whistling as the holographic Roc acknowledged the response, stalking the front of the stage and coming within inches of touching the hands of the fans pressed in front. Bobbie found herself completely swept up in the moment, transfixed by the illusion, as she and Emma stood clapping along rhythmically to the intro to “Sky Train.”
Bobbie watched the holographic Roc, confident and commanding, one moment with his hair hanging over the neck of his virtual guitar, and the next racing to the mic just in time for the opening line of the song. Uncle was, as Eddie predicted, too distracted to appreciate the technological marvel unfolding on stage. He scanned the crowd, a stomping, fist-pumping army on the floor, looking for Marie. Wearing an uncharacteristically demure, billowing black dress, she’d arrived late and had melted into the throng as soon as Uncle had spotted her. Their late afternoon boozy tête a tête had whetted Uncle’s appetite for aftershow activity, and Marie had seemed so dazzled as he told her more than he intended about the evening ahead. Refusing to go with him to the gig was just another of Marie’s endless coquettish whims.
Uncle hastily checked the gate receipts and made sure the merch tables were well stocked. The big mover turned out to be a special one-off t-shirt done especially for the night. It featured a ghostly Roc bathed in a single bright white spotlight, the band in silhouette behind him, guitars fanned out like wings from his narrow frame. Highest quality collectible cheese, he figured. His only regret was the reduced mark-up necessitated by having the t-shirts made in the U.S. on short notice.
Through it all, he shot glances at the stage, not knowing when Roc was going to pull his surprise switch. He figured it would be for the encore, when he’d have maximum time to get to the stage. Tempted as he was, the manager stayed in the front of the house, avoiding the backstage and any possibility of causing wrinkles in Roc’s scheme. A pang of nostalgia hit him as he watched the boys, as of old, cavorting on stage; he was reminded yet again of the timeless vitality of so many of the songs. “Sky Train” had peaked during the Japan/Philippines tour, when Danny had been hospitalized from drinking a gallon of hundred-year-old sake. The ex-emperor’s granddaughter had been most hospitable. He smiled, recalling a night that turned into three days. Waking up with a samurai sword on the pillow beside him had been a bit weird, to be sure, but he realized they’d never see times like those again.
As he passed the soundboard, he wondered how Eddie, at the heart of the deception, would kill the hologram. At first, the realization of which way his old friend and engineer’s divided loyalties had fallen had been stinging, but Uncle was used to the stab-or-be-stabbed nature of the business, and eventually it had simply hardened his resolve as to how this would turn out. He regretted denying camera access now, thinking it might be amusing to revisit this evening at a later date.
From his perch high above the stage, Roc peered down through the rigging to accustom himself to the distance. He’d practised his grip on the cable in the studio, but it was far from the reality just ahead. He’d only get one crack at this and hoped it wouldn’t be to the sound of breaking bones. He almost felt nostalgic for his parachute as a wave of nausea rolled through his body. He leaned back, quickly righting himself, and realized that the queasiness probably had more to do with fear of people’s reaction to his unexplained re-appearance than the gymnastic routine coming up. In the days leading up to this night, Roc had rolled over all concern for credibility once he’d realized that he had to be alive if he was going to have a life.
Marie, tucked behind a pillar in the rear of the theatre, followed Uncle’s gleaming head around the room. She muttered another “merde” to herself as she adjusted herself awkwardly inside her billowy outfit, wondering how long the show would go on. Uncle had said the encore would be the likely moment, and it seemed a long way off, given how dragged-out these American rock shows were. Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin would have been in the dressing room sipping Pol Roger and planning their evening in Montparnasse by now.