The Black Staircase

Dusting off my old computer desk at home, I came upon a bounty of dirt-encrusted 3.5 inch floppy disks. You do remember floppy disks, don’t you? Personally, they remind me of 5th grade computer lab. Anyhow, on this little black parallelagram I discovered a treasure—-an essay I wrote in sophomore year at Dana Hills High about what inspired me to become a true musician. Let me preface this with a brief backstory:

I bet some of you are curious as to how I got my start in this crazy business. It’s been quite the wild ride from fan to showman, but I would have to say that much of my motivation arose from a few meager performances at a middle school auditorium.

In seventh grade I suddenly realized that there was more to the musical landscape than playing the saxophone in a crappy out-of-tune orchestra, and that I was destined for something more. That was when i decided to eschew the bass guitar I’d been dabbling in nonchalantly for something with a couple more strings. The very same year I played “The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World at the Niguel Hills Middle School talent show. Needless to say, it was an inspiring and fortuitous moment for me, feeling the excitement and love of hundreds of people watching my every move. After that I became a machine dedicated to conquering the collection of wood and metal we know as the guitar.

By eighth grade, I had gathered a couple of other like-minded roustabouts together to play in what we thought was a band. Several roster changes later, we were ready for the next talent show, this time with the infamous power trio of guitar, bass, and drums. Included in this lineup was current thatwasthen drummer, Chris Bridge.

I think you’ll enjoy this little essay from my raw 15 year old brain, back when I still remembered a veritable cornucopia of million-dollar vocab words. It’s pretty humorous how I make this little talent show sound like the most epic thing of all time!

“Nick Papageorge
Mr. Vermeulen
English II Acc.
7 September, 2004
The Black Staircase

The stress grew and grew until it was all that I could think about, like that catchy song you absolutely loathe but just can’t stop singing. It bore down on me unceasingly as the time ticked slowly by. The inexorable performances and occasional eruptions of applause began to drone on into an indefinite blur of disco hits and choreography. A sea of cheaply made plastic chairs squeaked and groaned as proud parents fueled their arrogant children’s egos, but the only sound I heard was the persistent, anxious tapping of my own faded high top shoes upon the cement ground. Suddenly the tempo was broken. “Are you nervous?” My band-mate Adam inquired in an attempt at convincing himself that he wasn’t. Chris, our drummer, peered around from his adjacent seat to show he was wondering the same thing. “Nah, of course not,” I replied assuredly. “If anything I’m just excited.” I tried to make myself believe that statement, but I knew I had lied when I felt my hands tremble upon the neck of the white Stratocaster in my lap. My resolve was unbreakable, or at least I thought if I could make my friends think that, at least theirs would be. Strumming a few arbitrary chords, I set my gaze intently upon the black staircase in front of me, the one we three would be ascending in time. Our band had practiced far too long and too hard to mess this talent show up, and we would make sure it went off without a hitch.

Moments turned into minutes, which then proceeded to join together and form a half-hour. Down, down through the program I followed the acts as they slowly dwindled, the anxiety growing as the performers in the chairs before us left their seats. “Warming up” on my guitar quickly became an excuse to stop myself from tapping my feet, and all the usual questions flew threw my mind like a hurricane of self interrogation. “Do you know all the parts? Gotta make sure you know the lyrics…wait, what were the chords in the bridge again?” Then it turned into curiosity and fear. “Hm…I wonder how strong this P.A. is. Will my amp be loud enough? What if the inept stage crew set it up wrong? What if nobody can hear me during the solo? Sure hope I don’t drop my pick.” Forcing myself to forget these worries I talked to Adam about the present acts, critiquing them to boost confidence. We whispered back and forth until a familiar sound interrupted the conversation: “…ick Papageorge, and the band Switch performing a song by…” I cursed silently at myself for not paying attention and hurriedly ushered my friends to the stage. After emerging from the dark stairwell, we entered another world. The bright house and spotlights beat down without mercy as Adam took up his bass and Chris sat down at the drums. My little Marshall amp was too far back so I nudged it up to the forefront. Hey, at least the crew managed to not completely destroy it. With a flick of the switch (no pun intended), the amplifier glowed and came to life. I muttered something witty but forgettable into the mic as I fiddled with my cord, only to break the deafening silence in my head. When I returned to reality I became cognizant of the hundreds of faces staring back at me, and our names being chanted in anticipation. Now was the time.

The distorted roar of an E power chord, a deep, ominous rumble, and the continuous thud of the bass drum signaled that the band was ready to play. A few glances where exchanged and I steadied my hand upon the guitar. Wielding my pick like a medieval weapon I catapulted into the intro of the song. The musical tension built as I bobbed my head in time, hair whipping around in reply. Chris beat on the snare drum and crescendo’ed into a manic volume, and then finally there was resolution. The whole band kicked in at one time as the crowd exploded with applause. Adam and I leaped into the air in time with the beat; it was all choreographed but somehow spontaneous and wild. We had gotten off to a great start and absolutely nothing had gone wrong, but I didn’t want to jinx it so I kept my mind on the music and my doubts.

“She’ll do right now!” I belted, managing to control my voice so it didn’t crack like it did in rehearsal. The note was high, but I was getting used to it. After the sing-along chorus, I again ricocheted into the catchy intro riff, this time the full band backing me up. I become so distracted with getting the notes right that I forgot the second verse was soon. Then, panic set in. I could not remember the words for the life of me, and the next singing opportunity was coming up quickly. Hundreds of lyrics to every song imaginable went on a rampage in my head as I racked my brain for the mystery verse I had once known so well. While this was occurring I still had to focus on playing guitar, but at this point it had become so automatic, it was as if my hands were on cruise control. Only one measure left! I had to think fast…what were those words? The music abruptly ceased at the break and my mouth acted by its own will, forming the syllables my mind could not find. “I used to hang on every word/Each lie was more absurd!” Yes, success! The now-conquered verse was well behind us, but there was no time for thinking. Chorus number two came into effect as the impending guitar solo loomed in the distance. “She may not be miss right, she’ll do right now!” I sang the familiar ending once again and then immediately diverted my attention towards the guitar. I shook my head to get the long brown hair out of my eyes as acrid sweat dripped into my mouth. Vaulting up the high E string in a flurry of notes, I bent down until my back hit the ground. Jumping back up again I resumed rocking out until a turning point in the solo, at which I began to leap across the stage in a Chuck Berry-esque manner. That REALLY got the full-auditorium going, and they cheered and yelled in satisfaction. The worst was now over, and the song eased into the slow bridge. Once again the tension built up and we burst out into a final chorus. Upon playing the last chord, we decided it wasn’t a satisfactory ending to such a great performance, and furiously strummed the note in defiance. Chris let out an amazing drum solo as I aggressively slammed my hand into the guitar almost falling over backwards into his set. We all looked at each other, and with one last hit of the crash cymbal it was all over. The audience was ecstatic as Adam and I removed our equipment and once again traveled down that staircase, looking back upon the new world we had just discovered for the first time.

We watched the show a bit longer; enough to see the band following ours perform. They played an original song, which made it all the more horrible, because it was written by eighth graders. Both of the groups adjourned outside afterwards to talk with friends and family at the outside stage. Even though our performance blew theirs out of the water, somehow they were surrounded by girls as we sat alone with one or two admirers visiting every minute or so. We would get some odd strangers going on tirades about how good we were, but it was never as many as they had. Sometimes the good things in life get the least recognition. But even as they became engulfed with no-talent, musically uneducated airheads, I still knew we succeeded in our goal. We came, we rocked, and we conquered. I got my first glimpse of my future passion that warm May evening, and it was all because of that little, black staircase.”