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Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.

Remember how the crowd had seemed extra excited, extra loud, extra into it, the first show we did after the explosion? This was like that.

Our usual entry to the stage had Remo come out last. The rhythm section would start first, and gradually each of us would kick in, me last with a recognizable riff that would make the crowd roar, and then Remo would come bounding onto the stage and start the song for real. That night we did it a little differently. I hung back with him, and at the point where the riff would usually kick in, he strode out onto the stage with his guitar held high, both hands in the air, soaking in the cheers. And then he vamped a little at his mic, as if checking his pedals and such, letting the thought sink into the audience’s minds that maybe I wasn’t coming out.

Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.

When Carynne and Bart and Chris went back to Boston, I went with them. There were still two weeks before Team Ziggy would take possession of the audition/rehearsal space, plus Ziggy had some stuff to do on the West Coast, and I really really wanted to get home for a while. Not that I didn’t enjoy living at Ziggy’s, but, you know, that was more like couch-surfing. (Except he had a bed instead of a couch.) I needed to make a lot more phone calls and that was easier to do from home, too, plus I wanted to work on stuff with Bart and Chris…

Yeah. Time to go home for a little while.

Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.

We had the band meeting in our living room, because where else would we have it? Carynne, the four of us, Courtney taking notes and Colin there to talk about the accounting stuff.

Honestly, it was hard to concentrate at first because Ziggy was sitting in the chair across from me and it was like he had a spotlight on him: I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was brighter and shinier than everything around him, and I don’t mean his clothes, which were dark. His jeans were dyed an almost-black wine purple and he wore a loose shirt with a turquoise and navy blue pattern on it. There was a purple sheen to his hair, too, underneath the black.

Half of me had worried that he wasn’t going to show up, but it was the half I kept gagged and tied up in the trunk of the car of my mind.