The next fewhours blur by in a surprisingly fun haze.
I love these sprawling multiple-day festivals—the kind bursting with many stages and endless crowds. It's always chaos, vibrant and pulsing, where you bump shoulders with fascinating strangers or rekindle sparks with half-remembered faces from your past. I guess because high school felt like one long series of misfit moments for me, slipping into this scene feels like home. Here, wrapped in the electric drone of music and excitement, I finally feel like I belong—like I'm part of something that matters.
And I know I’ve been a whiny bitch ever since I stepped off the plane, but I have to give Jett some credit. Being his girlfriend comes with its perks, especially when it means I get the same VIP treatment his band does.
I spend the earlier part of the afternoon accompanying Jett and the rest of the guys from Sonic Trash to some press eventsand get to see a couple of on-camera interviews. One for some British YouTube blogger and another for a local music magazine. Then Jett and Kian join a podcaster in another tent, and Ramses and Griff do a live Q&A for a radio station.
One of the publications talks the band into doing a quick photo shoot, and I watch that unfold too. Watch Jett doing his thing, transforming into the guy I want him to be all the time. A guy with an easy smile and a charming demeanor. It all slips into place like a well-worn mask. He jokes with the photographers as if they’re the best of buddies, and I wish he’d always be this mellow. The rest of the band join in, their energy infectious as they pose for the cameras, goofing around like a bunch of overgrown kids.
I stand off to the side, observing the controlled mayhem of the press area. Fans clamor for attention, waving posters and shouting the band's name. Jett and the others indulge them, signing autographs and taking pictures with their Cyber-shot cameras, their faces alight with genuine joy. It's moments like these that remind me of why I fell in love with him in the first place–his drive, his talent, the way he comes alive on stage.
As the day progresses, the festival kicks into high gear. Smaller bands take various stages scattered throughout the festival. If you stand between two of them, their music blends together in a jumble of sounds, and you can’t really tell the bands apart.
When dusk is starting to slowly settle over the fairgrounds, Sonic Trash is the first band to breathe life into the massive main stage, where only four acts are set to perform tonight, with The Deviant closing.
I mean, everyone knows about The Deviant. If not because they like their music, then because they’re out of their freaking minds.
Three best friends who left Northern Cali for LA a few years ago. That’s where they found the last member of the band—Cruz. And the rest, as they say, is history.
If anyone can write songs about fucking and praying at the same time, it’s those guys.
Cruz. I don’t know why my mind returns to the mysterious bassist all of a sudden. I’m backstage, watching Jett and the guys perform their latest single in front of a decent-sized crowd pressed against the barricade. And instead of thinking about my future with my boyfriend, I think about the man I really shouldn’t be thinking about.
By the time Sonic Trash finishes their set, the crowd is primed and ready for the next band, their energy in the air palpable.
It’s hectic with roadies clearing the stage and preparing it for the next artist, but we’re allowed to stay in the wing and watch the next set. Jett steps away occasionally to greet some people, so
I’ve hardly had time between songs when the music isn’t booming to tell him he was amazing.
"You liked it, baby?" He grins at me, his eyes a little glassy, which tells me he’s been drinking without my knowledge, but so far, he’s been good.
"Of course I liked it."
"Come here." He draws me closer and places a kiss on my lips in front of everyone. I hear a couple of claps from the crowd and a whistle.
"You go, Jett!" someone shouts over the music.
"That’s my baby girl!" Jett yells out, shooting his index finger in the air. "That’s my fucking ride or die, y’all!"
I ignore the fact that I’m a little uncomfortable with his arm squeezing my shoulder too hard. Any man publicly announcinghis love is a man you should probably hold on to. I know my mother would say that.
"I gotta go talk to some guys, babe, okay?" he whispers to me during the next short pause between songs.
I nod.
Jett disappears into the sea of people cramming the backstage area. He doesn’t return for a while. The band’s set is over, and I’m still rooted to my spot, watching the changeover. Next up is The Deviant, and their props and stage lights are freaky. Gives the illusion that you are indeed in a church, and I’m a little intimidated by the fact that it makes me feel like a sinner.
For thinking about their bassist while I’m taken.
I scan the surroundings once more, but Jett’s nowhere to be seen. Then my gaze lands on the group of people emerging from around the corner.
The Deviant.
I recognize them immediately. All-black stage outfits, faces hidden under makeup. They’re like a magnet, drawing people closer and closer. And despite somewhat uniformed costumes, I spot Cruz right away. It’s his hair and body. You can’t really mix them up with the other three. He’s got big shoulders, and I bet he works out. Probably lifts weights. I mean, you have to be in shape to be touring this much. Doesn’t matter the age. Being on the road is exhausting. I know that because Jett keeps reminding me about it all the time.
I’m distracted for a second by a crew member asking me to step aside so he can check some cables. When I look up, Cruz is in front of me, smiling weakly.
"Hey, we meet again," he says loudly over the racket of the crowd and the background music.
