12 sold out dates out of 14. Sold out. And they'd only been signed for about a year. Nevertheless, something was charming about looking fresh-faced and naïve to the criticism of the music industry. Ryan wasn't sure how they survived so many people - who weren't going to be the ones playing this music, mind you - giving them 'helpful tips,' steering them toward a more mainstream genre of music, recommending different ways to mix. Yeah, they could have probably been a lot more professional when it came to actually putting the first full album together, but Ryan couldn't imagine himself ever making something people would play as background music to a party. Pop was good for certain occasions, and they touched on it to make sure people would listen all the way through without getting bored, but what was more important was making something personal to him lyrically and soundwise.
Ryan was, oddly, the lead singer, lead guitarist, and sole writer, except occasionally he let the drummer take a look at his drafts because he was so transparent that Ryan could immediately tell when something needed to be changed. Best friends tend to find your faults better, anyway, and based on the fifteen different versions of each song on the album, Spencer had no problem being honest. It used to be just the two of them in a basement, hiring some underclassman to provide instrumentals when they wanted a horn or whatever and couldn't figure it out themselves, posting recordings online that garnered attention quickly. Ryan was ambitious, if nothing else; the validation from total strangers who just stumbled upon their demos was probably responsible for him actually getting them signed. They went through other band members like candy. Usually they just didn't mesh well with the two founders who were connected at the hip.
Their following was way more predictable, though; of course an online blog like his was a platform with a specific audience, so Ryan anticipated the simultaneously morose and overly excitable types to show up if ever they played stage shows. When they did, he was lucky enough to find that people not just in his social circle had taken an interest, but also people who seemed like they would never listen to this by choice in their life. He had a front row seat to the expressions changing, mood shift of an audience as the performances progressed. Although overly ambitious and way beyond starry-eyed, Ryan still had the modesty not to believe their luck. He blamed it on the theatrics, at least half of it anyway. He had much bigger plans, more detailed and thought out, but as things were now, they'd only been in the public eye long enough for him to throw a few baroque-but-gothic decorations here and there prior to a show, should the venue allow it. He got ahead of himself constantly, but putting in the time and money for the aesthetic of a show wasn't their priority as of yet.
As much as said ambition might be associated with confidence, Ryan was still young. He was always sort of terrified of standing in front of a crowd of people and exposing his thoughts, his soul, his efforts at writing something that didn't turn people away. He was afraid that there wouldn't be a second album. He was afraid they'd never win an award, or hear themselves on the radio, but more importantly he was afraid he'd never get the letters he wrote to his favorite musicians about "their music changing his life" or "saving him." It was kind of dramatic, but still; it meant they'd reached someone. When Ryan actually started getting serious about writing lyrics he wasn't necessarily doing it for anyone but himself - some thoughts were too harsh and painful when said out loud, so they lived through the pen. And then they got crammed into a metaphor, then another, etc., but eventually he came to the conclusion that this could get to someone else, too. Not that a 13-year-old was writing anything too profound, but.
That's all that really ran through his mind during these pre-show rituals. Fear, anxiety, then things to shove it down, like the imaginary fan who'd really appreciated their stuff, and could you sign this, please? Setting up didn't distract him much, and he didn't like tuning or testing the amps out in the open, 'cause then people were looking at him with no music to hide behind. Real weird. If he could control the setlist he'd start with softer songs, ease people into their kind of unusual sound; as it were he knew that the first song needed to demand people's attention. Time to Dance, then The Only Difference..., London Beckoned Songs..., so on. Sins was the fan favorite, unsurprisingly. When they landed on personal ones, like Camisado or Nails, he burned out quick - the first show he knew his voice cracked countless times and he was already self-conscious of his singing ability. Thankfully, they were such newbies that their shows stayed short, left out songs that weren't fast enough for the disengaged audiences. They got through 7 songs every show at most, the setlist changing with the correcting scratch-out of a Sharpie sometimes, and other times the seventh song - an encore if they were lucky enough to get it - was just a cover.
Anyway. Those were the motions. Ryan was at the front of the stage, not quite centered but closer to their current bearded bassist (who he relied on most of all for backup - his vocals were admittedly kind of better than Ryan's, which didn't add up at all). Their cue came from the sounds of equipment getting plugged in, feedback that somehow formed a melody, before launching in to the first song. Ryan's only real crowd interaction came from a shy 'hey' as he came onstage, and, on the better days, he'd let them sing for him. His role as lead guitar got passed on to whichever unlucky bastard was off at side stage occupying bells or piano scores, so on. It was their last show, this one; he had to. So, after stumbling through a rearranged setlist, Ryan turned round and let the rest of them know he'd mentally replaced Nails with Build God. Probably should've discussed that first - but what the hell. Again, the last show had to be different, unexpected.
After a brief intermission where they reoriented themselves, Ryan leaned in close to the stand, lowering his voice and holding his fingers over the neck of his guitar. "It's these substandard motels on the -" All three on stage, and the audience members who were ready for it, hurriedly sang a 'la-la-la' for him while he just grinned against the mic. "...corner of 4th and Fremont Street." He was moving his guitar round so it hung backwards when they came to habit of decomposing, jumping down to the barrier (not quite jumping but stepping - it was a small stage and his legs were, like, three fourths of his height) by very, and picking whoever got the mic as he drawled out eyes. The entire front row seemed to already know the lyrics, or at least most of them; he didn't like taking bets, though, and it would suck to hold it to someone who had no idea, so he picked the most confident looking face already singing along anyway to kick them off into the chorus. "Along with the people in..." Ryan held the microphone faux-dramatically out to a guy with about the best candid smile he'd ever seen, radiating enthusiasm, and time didn't stop or anything, but he definitely wished he wasn't busy right now just to strike something up.
Ryan was, oddly, the lead singer, lead guitarist, and sole writer, except occasionally he let the drummer take a look at his drafts because he was so transparent that Ryan could immediately tell when something needed to be changed. Best friends tend to find your faults better, anyway, and based on the fifteen different versions of each song on the album, Spencer had no problem being honest. It used to be just the two of them in a basement, hiring some underclassman to provide instrumentals when they wanted a horn or whatever and couldn't figure it out themselves, posting recordings online that garnered attention quickly. Ryan was ambitious, if nothing else; the validation from total strangers who just stumbled upon their demos was probably responsible for him actually getting them signed. They went through other band members like candy. Usually they just didn't mesh well with the two founders who were connected at the hip.
Their following was way more predictable, though; of course an online blog like his was a platform with a specific audience, so Ryan anticipated the simultaneously morose and overly excitable types to show up if ever they played stage shows. When they did, he was lucky enough to find that people not just in his social circle had taken an interest, but also people who seemed like they would never listen to this by choice in their life. He had a front row seat to the expressions changing, mood shift of an audience as the performances progressed. Although overly ambitious and way beyond starry-eyed, Ryan still had the modesty not to believe their luck. He blamed it on the theatrics, at least half of it anyway. He had much bigger plans, more detailed and thought out, but as things were now, they'd only been in the public eye long enough for him to throw a few baroque-but-gothic decorations here and there prior to a show, should the venue allow it. He got ahead of himself constantly, but putting in the time and money for the aesthetic of a show wasn't their priority as of yet.
As much as said ambition might be associated with confidence, Ryan was still young. He was always sort of terrified of standing in front of a crowd of people and exposing his thoughts, his soul, his efforts at writing something that didn't turn people away. He was afraid that there wouldn't be a second album. He was afraid they'd never win an award, or hear themselves on the radio, but more importantly he was afraid he'd never get the letters he wrote to his favorite musicians about "their music changing his life" or "saving him." It was kind of dramatic, but still; it meant they'd reached someone. When Ryan actually started getting serious about writing lyrics he wasn't necessarily doing it for anyone but himself - some thoughts were too harsh and painful when said out loud, so they lived through the pen. And then they got crammed into a metaphor, then another, etc., but eventually he came to the conclusion that this could get to someone else, too. Not that a 13-year-old was writing anything too profound, but.
That's all that really ran through his mind during these pre-show rituals. Fear, anxiety, then things to shove it down, like the imaginary fan who'd really appreciated their stuff, and could you sign this, please? Setting up didn't distract him much, and he didn't like tuning or testing the amps out in the open, 'cause then people were looking at him with no music to hide behind. Real weird. If he could control the setlist he'd start with softer songs, ease people into their kind of unusual sound; as it were he knew that the first song needed to demand people's attention. Time to Dance, then The Only Difference..., London Beckoned Songs..., so on. Sins was the fan favorite, unsurprisingly. When they landed on personal ones, like Camisado or Nails, he burned out quick - the first show he knew his voice cracked countless times and he was already self-conscious of his singing ability. Thankfully, they were such newbies that their shows stayed short, left out songs that weren't fast enough for the disengaged audiences. They got through 7 songs every show at most, the setlist changing with the correcting scratch-out of a Sharpie sometimes, and other times the seventh song - an encore if they were lucky enough to get it - was just a cover.
Anyway. Those were the motions. Ryan was at the front of the stage, not quite centered but closer to their current bearded bassist (who he relied on most of all for backup - his vocals were admittedly kind of better than Ryan's, which didn't add up at all). Their cue came from the sounds of equipment getting plugged in, feedback that somehow formed a melody, before launching in to the first song. Ryan's only real crowd interaction came from a shy 'hey' as he came onstage, and, on the better days, he'd let them sing for him. His role as lead guitar got passed on to whichever unlucky bastard was off at side stage occupying bells or piano scores, so on. It was their last show, this one; he had to. So, after stumbling through a rearranged setlist, Ryan turned round and let the rest of them know he'd mentally replaced Nails with Build God. Probably should've discussed that first - but what the hell. Again, the last show had to be different, unexpected.
After a brief intermission where they reoriented themselves, Ryan leaned in close to the stand, lowering his voice and holding his fingers over the neck of his guitar. "It's these substandard motels on the -" All three on stage, and the audience members who were ready for it, hurriedly sang a 'la-la-la' for him while he just grinned against the mic. "...corner of 4th and Fremont Street." He was moving his guitar round so it hung backwards when they came to habit of decomposing, jumping down to the barrier (not quite jumping but stepping - it was a small stage and his legs were, like, three fourths of his height) by very, and picking whoever got the mic as he drawled out eyes. The entire front row seemed to already know the lyrics, or at least most of them; he didn't like taking bets, though, and it would suck to hold it to someone who had no idea, so he picked the most confident looking face already singing along anyway to kick them off into the chorus. "Along with the people in..." Ryan held the microphone faux-dramatically out to a guy with about the best candid smile he'd ever seen, radiating enthusiasm, and time didn't stop or anything, but he definitely wished he wasn't busy right now just to strike something up.