Chapter Five: The Purple Rain Incident
October arrived with a biting chill and the crushing weight of midterms. Alex was drowning in a sea of calculus textbooks and history essays, sleeping four hours a night to keep his GPA afloat.
But for the first time in months, he didn't care about the exhaustion. He had a lifeline.
In a rare moment of apparent benevolence, Marcus had thrown him a bone. The band had booked their biggest show yet—a slot at The Vanguard, a renovated theater that held five hundred people.
"We're doing Prince," Marcus had said two weeks ago, looking uncharacteristically generous. "'Purple Rain.' And Alex... I want you to take the lead. Leo can handle the rhythm. You take the solos, the intro, the whole arrangement. It's your spotlight."
Alex had taken that bone and run with it.
Every spare moment between classes was spent with his PRS in his lap. He wasn't just learning the album version; he was deconstructing it. He added jazz-inflected chord voicings to the verses, shifting the harmony to be darker, more emotive. He worked out a solo that paid homage to Prince but incorporated his own melodic identity—a soaring, technical masterpiece that required every ounce of skill he possessed.
He had the song memorized. He had the tone dialed in on his Line 6 Helix. He felt, for the first time in a year, that he was going to be seen.
The Day Before the Show
Alex sat on the edge of his bed, eyes bleary but adrenaline pumping. He had just finished his final exam of the week. He was free. He picked up his phone to text Leo about the soundcheck time.
The phone rang in his hand before he could type.
Caller ID: MARCUS
Alex smiled. "Hey, Marcus. I just finished my last final. I'm all clear for tomorrow. I actually tweaked the outro solo to add this tapping section that—"
"Alex, listen," Marcus cut in. His voice was flat, devoid of warmth. "We need to make a change to the setlist."
Alex froze. "What kind of change? We aren't cutting 'Purple Rain,' are we? I've spent weeks on it."
"We're not cutting it," Marcus said, the sound of him shuffling papers audible in the background. "But I've been thinking. You've got a lot on your plate right now. School. Exams. I know you're swamped."
"I'm done with exams," Alex said quickly. "I'm free."
"The thing is," Marcus continued, ignoring him, "I can't have you losing focus on a stage this big because you're worried about grades. It's too much pressure. So, I'm giving 'Purple Rain' to Leo."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis.
"What?" Alex whispered. "Marcus, I know the song. I arranged it. Leo doesn't even play lead guitar."
"Leo is the frontman," Marcus said, his voice hardening into that familiar, condescending tone. "He's the face of the band. It makes sense for him to take the big moment. You just hang back and play rhythm. Keep it simple. Don't overplay."
"You can't do this," Alex's voice rose, trembling with a mix of rage and disbelief. "You told me it was mine. I built this version!"
"And I'm un-telling you," Marcus snapped. "I don't trust that you have the time to commit to this. Leo is 100% in. You? You're distracted by your little college degree. Just play the chords I gave you and don't step on his toes."
"Marcus, Leo can't play that solo! He doesn't have the chops!"
"Leo has the star power," Marcus corrected coldly. "That's what matters. Know your role, Alex."
Click.
Alex stared at the phone. He looked at his guitar, resting on the stand, the instrument he had poured his soul into for fourteen sleepless nights. He felt sick. It wasn't about the schedule. It never was. Marcus had realized that if Alex played that arrangement, nobody would be looking at Leo.
And that was the one sin Marcus could not forgive.
The Night of the Show
The Vanguard was packed. The lights were hot, blindingly white against the darkness of the crowd.
When the opening chords of "Purple Rain" started, Alex felt like he was attending his own funeral. He stood in the back, near the drum riser, strumming a simple, repetitive B-flat add9 chord. He had turned his volume down to three.
Center stage, Leo was in his element. Or rather, Marcus's version of his element.
Leo wasn't playing Alex's arrangement. He was barely playing the guitar at all. He was playing a prop.
As the verse kicked in, Leo jumped off the stage and walked into the crowd. The audience cheered, not for the music, but for the spectacle. Leo basked in it, high-fiving people while playing sloppy, open chords that rang out harshly.
Then came the solo. The moment Alex had spent weeks perfecting.
Leo climbed back onto the stage. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a glowing, LED-lit guitar pick. He held it up like Simba on Pride Rock. The crowd roared.
He started playing a simple pentatonic scale—the kind of lick Alex had learned when he was twelve. But Leo sold it like he was Hendrix. He dropped to his knees. He raked the pick across the strings for noise.
Then, the gimmick. Leo climbed onto a VIP table near the front, kicking over someone's drink, and started playing the guitar with his teeth.
It was messy. It was out of tune. It was a circus act.
Alex watched from the shadows, his hands mechanically moving through the rhythm parts. He looked over at Sarah. She was behind her keyboard, staring at Leo with a look of pure second-hand embarrassment. She caught Alex's eye and gave a tiny, sympathetic grimace.
Leo finished the song by smashing the glowing pick into the ground and holding his guitar up to the feedback. The crowd went wild. They didn't care about the nuance. They didn't care about the re-harmonization Alex had written. They just liked the flashing lights.
The Aftermath
The dressing room smelled of hairspray and victory. Leo was surrounded by a knot of friends, recounting the "teeth moment" loudly.
Alex was in the corner, packing his gear as fast as humanly possible. He just wanted to leave.
"Leaving so soon?"
Alex zipped his gig bag and stood up. Marcus was blocking the doorway. His wife, Linda, stood next to him. She was a small woman with sharp features and eyes that always seemed to be scanning for flaws.
"Great show, right?" Marcus smirked, crossing his arms. "Leo really brought the house down. That solo was electric."
"It was a spectacle," Alex said tightly, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "If that's what you were going for."
Marcus's smile vanished. "You look sour, Alex. What is it? Are you jealous?"
"I'm not jealous," Alex lied, though the bitterness was choking him. "I'm just tired. I wrote an arrangement for that song, Marcus. A real arrangement. And I had to watch him play it with his teeth."
"He entertained the crowd," Marcus stepped closer, invading Alex's personal space. "That's something you don't understand. You're too busy with your theory and your scales. Leo has charisma."
"He has a glowing pick," Alex shot back.
"He has the spotlight!" Linda chimed in, her voice shrill. She stepped out from behind her husband, her face twisted in a sneer. "And you can't stand it. You think because you practice in your bedroom all day you deserve the glory? You deserve exactly what you got."
"Linda—" Alex started, but she cut him off.
"Don't you 'Linda' me," she snapped. "We saw what you did with that drummer last week. Defending that... that freak against Leo? You're disloyal, Alex. You've always been jealous of him. You try to sabotage him because you know you're boring."
"I saved him from a lawsuit!" Alex yelled, losing his composure.
"You tried to humiliate him!" Linda yelled back. She looked him up and down, her eyes landing on his plain t-shirt and worn-out sneakers. A cruel smile curled her lips.
"It's pathetic, really," she said, lowering her voice to a mock whisper. "You wonder why Leo gets all the attention? Why he has the fans? Why he has the girls?"
She laughed, a harsh, brittle sound.
"Look at you. You're a virgin, aren't you? It's written all over you. That pent-up, nervous energy. That's why Erica left you. That's why no girl in this venue looked at you twice tonight. You're invisible, Alex. And you always will be."
The insult hung in the air, gross and unnecessary. It was a low blow designed to hurt him in the only place the music couldn't protect.
Alex looked at Marcus, expecting him to reel her in. But Marcus just stood there, watching with a look of smug satisfaction.
Alex looked past them, to where Leo was laughing with a group of girls, completely oblivious to the assassination of his best friend's character happening ten feet away.
Alex didn't say a word. He couldn't. His throat was closed tight. He gripped the strap of his gig bag, pushed past Marcus and Linda—who didn't move, forcing him to squeeze by—and walked out the door.
He didn't stop walking until he was three blocks away, the sound of the applause still ringing in his ears like a tinnitus he couldn't cure.