I wanted to be a rock star.
Not a sensible rock star.
Not one of those healthy,
early-to-bed,
drinks-water-between-sets
rock stars.
No.
I wanted to be the kind
who enters a room
through a cloud of smoke
that nobody can explain.
The kind whose sunglasses
cost more than a family sedan.
The kind whose hair
has its own management team.
I practised.
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror
holding a hairbrush microphone
and delivering emotional speeches
to an audience of shampoo bottles.
The conditioner loved me.
The mouthwash was less impressed.
I learned the sacred rock star pose:
one foot on something.
Anything.
A chair.
A coffee table.
The family dog.
Rock stars always have
one foot on something.
It’s the law.
I bought leather pants.
The pants and I
had very different expectations
about how this relationship
was going to work.
I squeezed myself into them
using techniques
normally associated with
industrial engineering.
Then I discovered
an important truth:
leather pants look amazing
until you try to sit down.
Or breathe.
Or remain conscious.
Still,
I persevered.
I learned to throw guitar picks.
Unfortunately,
I do not play guitar.
This created confusion.
People would ask,
“Who’s playing?”
And I’d say,
“I don’t know,
but they’re doing great.”
I perfected my rock star walk.
You know the one.
Part panther.
Part pirate.
Part person desperately looking
for the bathroom.
I strutted through shopping centres
imagining paparazzi everywhere.
In reality,
an elderly lady asked me
where the post office was.
I signed her map anyway.
You never know.
Then came my first performance.
The crowd was enormous.
Well.
My mother was there.
And my neighbour.
And a man who only came in
because it was raining.
But I counted them all.
Every legend starts somewhere.
I stepped onto the stage.
The lights exploded.
The music thundered.
My confidence soared.
My microphone wasn’t turned on.
For three entire songs
I delivered what I believed
was a career-defining performance.
To absolute silence.
A mime with delusions of grandeur.
Yet somehow,
I kept going.
Because that’s the thing
about rock stars.
The real ones.
The dreamers.
The shower singers.
The car concert champions.
The kitchen-floor legends.
The people who dance
while waiting for the kettle to boil.
They don’t stop.
Not because they’re famous.
Not because they’re talented.
Not because anyone is watching.
But because somewhere inside,
there is a ridiculous,
glorious voice saying:
“One more song.”
And if that voice happens
to be wearing sunglasses indoors
at eleven o’clock at night,
well,
that’s just rock and roll.
