The city was alive in a way only those who traveled it on foot and without hurry could understand. Valeria clutched her guitar case in one hand, her cell phone in the other, while dodging the people exiting the subway like a stampede. She had just enough time to get to the rehearsal studio, but she didn't run. She never ran. She had learned that in music, as in life, you arrive when you have to. Even if you were late.
It was Tuesday, and Tuesdays smelled of dampness and frustration. She climbed the stairs of the old brick building without an elevator, her legs burning, and a mental list of things she'd rather do than face her band. "The band," she thought, as if it were a creature with a life of its own. And in a way, it was.
She opened the studio door and was met with the familiar sound of chaotic tunings, drum beats, and the voice of Julián, the bassist, arguing with Cami about the arrangements for the new song. No one greeted her, but that was part of the ritual. In that place, the greeting was plugging in and playing.
Valeria left the case on the floor, took out her guitar, and connected the cable to the amplifier. The initial buzz was like an electric pulse running down her spine. As soon as she played the first chord, she forgot about the outside world: the job she hated, the overdue electricity bill, the argument with her mother. In that instant, there was only her and the raw sound of rock.
But the harmony didn't last long.
"That fucking solo again, Vale," Julián said, raising his voice above the din.
"Because you don't know how to do it any better, of course," she shot back, without looking at him.
The rehearsal turned into an ego battle, as it almost always was. It wasn't personal, but sometimes it felt like it was. As if she had to constantly justify her place in the band, on the stage, in fucking rock. Cami, the drummer, mediated as best she could, but she was also fed up. None of the three of them were getting paid to play, nor did they have tour promises or record deals waiting at the end of the week. They did it out of passion. But sometimes passion feels too much like exhaustion.
After two hours of rehearsing and arguing, they headed out onto the street without speaking. The sun had set, and the city had that sticky air of windless nights. Valeria walked alone a few blocks to a dive bar where up-and-coming bands often played. She ordered a cheap beer and sat at the back, at a sticky table, nervously watching the opening act tune up.
There, amid the hum of the place and the buzz of loosely connected cables, with a borrowed guitar on the stage and a voice that didn't command attention, Valeria had a kind of revelation. Rock wasn't fame. It wasn't the millions of views or the festivals. That's what rock was: a kid trembling in front of a microphone as he gave voice to his rage. And that, he thought, was the purest thing he'd seen in weeks.
He took his lyric book out of his bag. The first pages were filled with crossed-out words, coffee stains, and unfinished sentences. He began to write as if his soul was leaving every word. He didn't know if those lyrics would become a song, or if anyone would even listen. But in that moment, he felt like everything made sense.
And for the first time in a long time, he smiled.