Dear followers before him, dear friends around him – the pleasing strains of a bass echo in his mind and in his ears; a cymbal crashes at the base of his memory and the forefront of his perception.
But this is his time – his moment of glory.
Taking centre-stage he salutes briefly those who cheer, those who show their appreciation.
The first note is struck – a wave of screaming recognition wells up in ten thousand throats. A smile flickers across the long, handsome face, soon disguised by a mane of damply curling blond hair.
Fingers flying on the fretboard he gives them what they want, feeds the craving for more. A stunned silence falls on the assembled crowd as the beauty of his music washes over them – chords of liquid perfection; notes of perfect fluidity.
A group of teenage girls stare in wonder, silent screams twisting their faces. Beside them another girl, alone, her dark eyes fixed on the blond-maned guitarist, tears on her cheek, a soft smile of rueful remembrance on her red lips. For she has seen another side of this man: a hero to these foolish girls; much more to her. They see him as a god; she known only too well how human he can be.
Pressed against the stage she gazes up at him, a warm glow of remembered and yet hopefully anticipated pleasure running through her. Whispering his name, she follows every movement of his long fingers – those hands she knows so well...
Watching closely to see each fleeting expression on his familiar face, one figure in thousands who understand him like no other; the one who has seen every side of him, in all moods. She is a fan seeing him as perfection, she is a friend seeing him as natural and honest. As a lover she looks at him and sees reflections of herself.
The music is mounting, surging forward, enveloping her in its warmth, crushing her with its power, its strength. The music is him – he is the music. Building up to a climactic crescendo, the tempo picking up, pure energy pouring from the strings and the great wall of amplification behind him.
There he stands: a look of increasingly ecstatic concentration on his face; blinded by the spotlight; deafened by the breathless silence of the crowd before him; his sweat-darkened hair clinging to his cheek under the bright lights.
Ever advancing, the notes fly from his fingertips. Everything is leading up to that grand finale... a near-hysterical wash of delighted approval greets his final, heart-shattering note.
He stands back, waves an aching hand in an appreciative salute, and looks at his companions on stage. In a few moments they will join together again in another rock epic, but for now he can savour his own, personal glory.
The cheers still pour into his ears, but one face alone does he see in the crowd. A face he had thought never to see again, a face which has haunted him for months.
Reaching forward, bending wearily, he grasps the outflung hand of Lady Dark-Eyes and draws it to his lips.
Jealous cries of green-eyed adolescent envy assail her ears, but she hears nothing, sees nothing but him.
Straightening from her, he murmurs a phrase of which she alone knows the significance, and the tears are flowing once more as the bass thunders, the drums roll, and the guitar screams out once again.
'An echo in her memory...'
"Return of the Axe Warrior – eleven thirty sharp."
[23rd February 1992]
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