Leap of Faith

Have you ever been on stage with the stage lights on and the rest of the room shrouded in darkness? You can barely see anything beyond the end of the stage, past the blinding bright lights. It gets hot up there, partially from the heat of the lights, partially from the adrenaline, and partially from the need to move. It’s the kind of blood rushing, lightheaded thrill you get from hitting a home run, or the exhilaration of dropping from the highest point of a roller coaster.

Growing up in a family of musicians, music was always a part of my life. It was in the sharp whistling in the kitchen, the buzz of a guitar, the belting echo from the top of the stairs because the acoustics made the sound bounce off of the walls. Loving music was a guarantee, something that only became easier when I made connections with other musicians.

One of my best friends is a bassist who semi-regularly does gigs at a place in Lovingston with a band that their music instructor started. Despite being mostly a homebody – even during freshman year of high school – I went to one of these gigs to show my support and enjoy the music.

Before the gig, I was introduced to my friend’s music instructor, Johnny, who had initially asked my friend to be the bassist for his R&B band because they were good at improvising and learning on the spot. My friend explained to Johnny that I was also a guitarist; except I only played as a hobby and could only play basic rhythm. It was then that Johnny asked if I wanted to borrow one of his guitars and play with the band that evening.

I’ve never been one to take risks, too worried of messing up or looking the fool. Just being asked to do something daring, something that I had no idea what the outcome might be, made my stomach bottom out and my heart feel like it was in my feet; however, I had always hated disappointing people more.

So, despite the way my hands wanted desperately to fidget and the way my stomach twisted in my gut, I said yes.

We went backstage – which was off to the side of the stage, behind a curtain, down a little hall, and behind a door – and Johnny handed me one of his guitars. I adjusted the strap so that it fit me, then shook my hands to release all lingering tension in my joints. We started going through the songs quickly, though Johnny assured me that he would be shouting out the appropriate chords whenever it changed.

My fingers were already starting to smart from the thin strings of an electric guitar before I even got on stage. The lights weren’t as bright as some, so I could roughly see my mother and my friend’s parents out in the crowd. I did my best to ignore them, focusing on the familiar feeling of a guitar in my hand, the strap holding its weight on my shoulder. It was my shield against the crowd – as it had always been on stage– and it comforted me. Before then I had only played talent shows where the crowd was swathed in shadow and the people in the audience were indistinguishable from one another. Playing with a whole band where all I could hear was the thumping of the drum, the low tones of the bass, and the brassy sounds of a saxophone was a completely different experience.

Even with Johnny telling me the chords as we changed, I fumbled most of the chords during each new part. My fingers stalled and froze, stuttering as my brain tried to remember what positions my fingers were supposed to be in.

There were moments where I had gotten chord progressions down and was able to feel the music and just have fun, no longer as worried about getting the notes right. All that mattered was the lightheaded thrill, the grin that threatened my face, and the bounce in my feet. I could revel in the thudding of the kick drum reverberating through my feet and up through my skull.

Afterwards, within my worries about having done badly, or wondering if people noticed my countless fumbles, I was pumped with adrenaline. I was sweaty from the hot lights and from the exertion and nerves, but my fingers buzzed with excitement and my heart felt full from the music.

Even with my initial hesitance towards the situation – having to learn the songs on the spot, ones I had never heard before – I had fun. Music had always been my way of connecting with people, something I did for fun. I’m glad now that despite my worries I took the leap of faith. I knew I would mess up, but I proved to myself that even when I know I’m not going to do it perfectly I can still have fun. While I only play with them on the rare occasion now, the experience helped me realize that sometimes it’s worth it to take the risk of failure to have just to have fun and connect with other people.