The first time he’d felt like he was playing in a real band was the Friday night they packed the local coffee house. He’d felt exhilarated as he’d stood on the stage and Frank worked what they all thought was a groovy lightshow, but which really consisted of a few flashing spotlights and Frank’s Dad’s drill hooked up to become a strobe light. The place had been filled, with kids spilling out the doorways and into the street. And they had all come to listen to he and the guys; the same guys he had been practicing with for almost a year nearly every night after school. True, they had played at a few house parties, and there’d been that church dance, but this was really the first time. And the kids were eating it up. Groovin’. And it felt great. He felt himself hoping that he could somehow make his life out of re-living this feeling. As he stood on the stage and watched the kids groovin’ to the tunes, he felt the music flow through him, out from somewhere deep inside him, through him, and into the guitar, and into the amp, and out the speakers and into the kids. It felt great.
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