The houselights dim, and the music pounding through the speakers fades into silence, replaced by applause and shouts. The curtain parts, and I see three figures onstage. Spotlights ignite, and the snare drum rumbles. A heavy guitar riff follows, splintering the damp, smoky air. Jason stands in front, a Fender Strat cradled in his hands. I have to give it to the guy—at least he has good taste. Jimi Hendrix played a Strat, though I’ve got to say I’m a Gibson girl myself—you just can’t argue with Duane Allman’s and Bob Dylan’s guitar of choice.
Beside Jason is a guy on bass, his pants so tight they must be cutting off the circulation to important extremities. He bounces to the tempo on the balls of his feet. Behind both of them, the drummer taps out standard rhythms that are clean and precise but lacking any real flair.
Jason steps up to the microphone, and his clear voice cuts through the music. I have no idea what he’s saying, but judging by the parent-friendly chords and painfully pop vibe of the entire performance, I’d guess it’s about first love or something equally nauseating.
They play well, I’ll give them that. The melody is clear and catchy, and the drummer harmonizes like an angel. But where’s the emotion? Where’s the rawness that claws its way from the performer into your mind, shredding your thoughts until all you can do is replay the notes inside your head like a track on repeat?
I glance at Sophie, who’s grinning and clapping offbeat. The girl has no rhythm. It’s painful to watch.
I’m not sure what I expected—that they would be good? Pop is in the name of the genre. That never bodes well for the quality of the music. But I guess I’d hoped that since they’re a big deal, they would be more than your average bubblegum band.
After ten songs, my brain is ready to explode. I can’t handle more than two Top 40 songs in a row in English, let alone sung in a foreign language. Everyone in the crowd screams and dances, especially the girls. A few hold up signs with words written in glitter and surrounded by lopsided, Sharpie-drawn hearts. Maybe it’s just dark in here, but it looks like one girl near the front is crying.
I lean over to Sophie and shout, “So, why is the band playing such a small show?”
“The label wanted them to test a few new songs on smaller audiences,” she yells back.
Memories of Dad giving his musicians similar advice surface in my brain, but he usually only said that if the band was having a rough time. My thoughts shift back to what Sophie said yesterday, about Jason running away from Seoul. I make a mental note to ask more questions about that later.
As the band continues to play, though, my brain wanders. The foreign words swirl around my head as meaningless background noise. I’ve never liked listening to music in a different language or watching movies with subtitles. Why would anyone listen to something they can’t understand?
I’m reminded of Jane and her Japanese phase. She would love this concert. She would love being here, period. How is it that the sister uninterested in anything international got the acceptance letter to an international boarding school?
The set mercifully ends, and I let out a slow exhale. The silence rings in my ears until high-pitched screams replace the music as the band members exit the stage. You’d think those boys were the freaking Beatles or something.
Sophie grabs onto my arm and pulls me around the perimeter of the club. “Let’s go backstage,” she says.
I stifle a sigh. Exactly what I need—another awkward run-in with a sexy Korean who hates me for no good reason.
Two muscled men stand at the entrance to a door on the side of the stage. A throng of girls stands in front of them, craning their necks for any glimpse into the greenroom, where the guys of Eden are most likely coming off their performance high.
Sophie flashes the bouncers a bright smile and waves, and they let her through, with me trailing on her coattails. I glance behind us long enough to see a lot of angry fangirls throwing daggers at us with their eyes.
The back of the club could use a good scrubbing and maybe a few more lights, but it looks a lot like those I’ve seen before. Nathan and I like to joke about backstage being a “holding tank” for the musicians who, like fish, swim and puff themselves up before getting thrown out into the “shark tank” onstage.
The memory of laughing with my brother sends a sharp pang through my chest, but I shove those thoughts to the back of my mind where I can forget about them until I’m lying in bed tonight and unable to dwell on anything else.
A group of people congregates in the corner around a giant lighted mirror. I spot the bassist with the tight pants among them, running his hands through his dark, sweaty hair until it stands on end. He turns toward us as we approach, and a grin breaks out on his face.
“Sae Yi-yah!” he cries, breaking free from the group and rushing to her side.
They babble in Korean as I stand beside Sophie, pretending not to eavesdrop. Not that I would know what they’re saying, anyway.
“Tae Hwa-oppa, this is my roommate, Grace.” She motions her hand toward me. “Grace, Tae Hwa.”
He bows his head, his eyes crinkling with his gigantic smile. “Is nice to meet you. Uhh … my English no good.”
“No, no!” I can’t help smiling back at this guy and the way he looks at you like he cares what you’re saying—maybe I don’t repel every Asian guy in a fifty-foot radius. “Your English is a lot better than my Korean.”
He chuckles, though if it’s to be polite or because I’m genuinely funny, I don’t know. Either way, I’ve already decided I like him a lot better than Jason.