end of first concert

Most of that first concert passed in a blur. I saw it through the lens of my camera, which I lowered just long enough to spot my next photo op and to glance at my feet so I didn’t trip as I bustled from one side of the stage apron to another. I found myself focusing on odd little things: the chandelier earrings the women wore, which looked glamorous from afar but uncomfortable through the zoom; the unadorned piercing in Quill Kelly’s left earlobe; Tiffany La Pierre’s ragged cuticles; the drummer using one of his sticks as a back scratcher. From my position on the floor, I felt like I was shooting up their noses a lot of the time. I would have to scout around for a better vantage point.

Intermission was upon us before I knew it. As the crowds streamed out toward bathrooms and concession stands, I realized I could use both myself. I hurried backstage in the performers’ wake, the ladies’ room my first priority, rummaging an energy bar from the bottom of my gear bag as I went. It wasn’t much, but it would do until I got back to the hotel.

Twenty minutes isn’t much time when you have work to do. I plugged my camera into an outlet in the green room to charge while I uploaded photos to my laptop. Several people came over to introduce themselves, and I snapped a few backstage shots of those willing to pose. The next night, I decided, the laptop would stay behind in a secure location; it was too heavy to lug around during the show but too valuable to leave unattended in a dressing room.

I also spotted the cold cut buffet laid out along one wall and realized my first perk of being with the band: free food. The singers, I noticed, didn’t eat during intermission, wary of clogging their pipes, but the instrumentalists and stage crew helped themselves.

When the second half of the show began, I had a better idea of what I wanted to do. I spent part of the set lurking among the singers’ seats, sneaking into unoccupied chairs from time to time. I also walked out into the aisles on the arena floor for some wider angles. I considered crouching behind the guitarists onstage but figured I’d better ask first. Maybe tomorrow night.

Any time the lights came up for audience participation, I turned my eye out into the tiers of packed seats. A few audience members saw me and waved, which gave me an idea for a new web site feature: Who are these people? I could post a few audience photographs from each concert and ask readers to identify the people in them. Everybody likes to be famous, right?

Not quite everybody. Not me, anyway, at least not without fair warning. During a break between songs, I was mortified to hear Bill Williams announce that there was a new member of the Praise Caravan family, then boom my name and beckon.

“Come on up here, Kielle, so everybody can see you!” His outstretched hand looked more imperious than inviting to me.

Have I mentioned that I hate the spotlight? That’s why I’m a writer: so I can toil in obscurity, known only by name, and pass unrecognized among my faithful readers, free to observe and record their actions without being scrutinized myself. I’ve always thought of it as sort of like having a secret identity. There’s a carefully constructed part of me that’s public and a much rougher part that’s private.

That night, I was 100 percent on public display. I resolutely did not watch as my shiny face, straggling hair, and wrinkled shirt loomed to life on the huge video screens. Smile plastered in place (and desperately hoping there was no parsley in my teeth but afraid to look), I crossed the stage to shake hands with Bill and turn in a circle to wave at the crowd.

Then — and I still haven’t forgiven him for this — Bill thrust his cordless microphone into my hand.

“Tell us a little bit about yourself, Kielle,” he said.