I could see my mother’s French bun on the first row. Beside her, Janet and Billy seemed to be rekindling their younger years with his arm thrown over her shoulder. Looking around, I noted Brooklyn. Levi’s parents. Some of his college friends. The excitement was palpable. I sensed it with every cell in my body, the electrical charge in the air, the lilt in everyone’s voices as they exchanged murmurs.
I couldn’t describe the feeling that engulfed me when I saw our names on the screen.
Bernstein/Evans
Sweat coated my palms. Dreamcatchers wasn’t just an attempt to bring attention to all the unfairness. This film was a labor of love, sleepless nights, and too much Red Bull and coffee. It was our child.
The credits on the screen flashed. Soft, soulful music filled the auditorium. This was an all original soundtrack, written by Isabella, Kit, Story, and Andy. We’d also used some of the songs from the bands who’d come forward and donated their time and material to the cause. What I didn’t expect was Frank’s name.
I knew this wasn’t the cut I’d seen at Levi’s place when a short clip of his first rehearsal visit popped up on the screen. After he was a no-show for the recording of “Afterburn,” Levi and I agreed on deleting all the footage of him from the film. The final cut I’d watched didn’t have any.
It wasn’t quite clear to me why the theatrical version had the material that had been trashed.
Mouth agape, I drank in the images running in front of my eyes.
Next to me, Frank didn’t move or make an attempt to hold my hand. The film was rolling and Isabella’s face appeared on the screen first. Her laughter, bright, loud, and bubbly, poured across the dark rows. It was a pulse-jarring sound of happiness that melted my heart. The interview parts alternated between backstage and concert footage, and Levi had done a great job piecing all the material we’d collected together.
My heartbeat began to accelerate when Frank’s features entered the frame. He sat in a chair with a lav microphone clipped to his shirt. I could tell this was shot recently by the length of his hair and the sharp, well-defined lines of his cheekbones.
And then he spoke and it was the most honest thing I’d heard from him since we’d met.
I have to confess, my relationship with this project is very complicated. I’m not sure how to describe it. Love/hate maybe. I’m the hated one.
I think the main reason I’m here is because the people who put this film together showed me things I could no longer see myself after being tied to one of the biggest enterprises in the business, and I wanted to share the real story behind who Frankie Blade is and give back.
When you do something for a long time, it becomes part of you, it takes you over and it tricks you into believing that’s all you can ever be. This was exactly how I felt after my accident. I couldn’t fathom the idea of doing something else. I had the band, I had the name, I had the collection of hits, and I wanted to get back out there and do it again. The same thing I’d been doing for over a decade before the accident tore my body apart. So I spent seven years putting myself back together, just to discover that I couldn't do it anymore.
Meeting Isabella was eye-opening. She managed to do what I failed—without the backing of a major label, without the backing of a huge fan base, without an impressive bank account—write music and perform.
I didn’t really see it until after I slipped into a bad depression. It took me a while to come to terms with myself, with my physical condition, with all the changes in my body. I fought it relentlessly at first, and alcohol seemed like the best way to silence all the dark thoughts that constantly filled my head. That pointless fight against time, aging, and health issues cost me friendships and also cost me the woman I love. One can only take so much while living with an alcoholic.
There was always a certain level of awareness, somewhere deep down, but I ignored all the signs for the longest time. When Isabella and I decided to record “Afterburn” together, I let my insecurities take over. I think being fired from my own band drove me to the point where I couldn’t function at all.
I have permanent loss of strength in my right shoulder and arm, injuries that were self-inflicted while I was under the influence of alcohol, and blood pressure issues due to my head trauma. All of these health problems prevent me from going back out and doing a two-hour set three times a week, but what I do have is my voice. And that’s the only thing that truly matters.
I think we all secretly want to see a fit, model-perfect person on stage, because that’s the industry standard, but I believe it’s time we rethink this standard. It’s time we let music be our guide. It’s time we close our eyes and hear a voice. Let that voice make you feel, let it evoke the strongest emotions, let it mend your wounds, and let it love you for who you are. Love your body, love your thoughts, love your skin color, love your accent, love the people around you. Just love.
Because that’s what music does. It erases borders, it erases differences. It unites people.
Now that I see all this, I feel reborn. I’m ready to write new music and I’m ready to move forward.
Sure, there are regrets. Tons. If I could go back and do it all over again, I would be smarter about my choices. And I think I may not be giving enough credit to the amazing woman who pushed me in the right direction and introduced me to Isabella. She doesn’t know I’m recording this right now, but I just wanted to say this… Cassy, thank you for showing me that the world isn’t shit and that it’s full of passionate people. Thank you for everything that you’ve done and endured for me. I’m sorry we’re now forever slated into the archives of history in the form of an internet meme.
He laughed then and the sound of it was magical. A balm to my aching heart. A whisper of reassurance.
There was so much footage of him and Isabella together I’d never seen. Rehearsing, performing, talking, recording. Endless minutes of musical bliss.
My shock was deep and I didn’t dare move. I kept watching until the film passed the midpoint, sifting through my mind, looking for signs, trying to understand how he’d managed to pull it off without me knowing. And how had Levi managed to pull it off? Had my brother been part of this too?
It happened during another clip when Frank’s face filled the screen as he spoke. I could see every tiny line and every shadow. Little stamps of time on his skin, barely visible but there. Just another reminder that he belonged to another generation and that somehow we still managed to mesh. Somehow we still managed to make it work.
Heart pounding, I turned my head to face him. His eyes were transfixed on the footage. The flickering images danced across his cheeks, illuminating his skin. That’s when I saw it, the wet trail of his tears.
He was laid completely bare, unveiled, and free.
I reached over and grabbed his hand. Our gazes met. Then there was a click, and something light, soft, and new passed between us.
It was the strangest thing, seeing the man I’d had a crush on as a teen for who he really was years later. Seeing all his strengths, his flaws, and his potential behind the blanket of darkness. Feeling him in every breath and every beat of my heart.
My senses were shattered when the film came to an end. I was lost and disoriented and my heart was too full.
The front rows buzzed. There was handshaking, hugging, and even some tears. My mother gave us a shy wave. A few eager fans lingered in my peripheral. Their eyes settled on our seats, wide, bright, and curious.