It’s been two weeks since the first day of the writing retreat I attended in Portugal. I jumped right back into work upon arriving from a 24-hour journey back home a couple of days ago, so I haven’t really quite processed the experience yet. But I wanted to chronicle it somewhere.
Grateful to São Garcia and Martin Cathcart Frödén for holding space for us and making it such a magical experience. I don’t remember when I last sat in a room with other people to share our love for words. I’ve forgotten how heart-filling and nourishing it is. Writing has always been a solitary activity but the moment you share it outside your own bubble, it becomes another thing entirely. Very fortunate to have had the time and resources to honor that part of me and help me fall back in love with it. Here’s to remembering and never forgetting that week. It’ll stay with me forever.
On our last morning before heading back to Lisbon, we were presented with three options: continue writing our project, write the last line of whatever it is we’re working on, or work on a prompt featuring some research on a random topic. Mine was Little Richard and here’s what I came up with with 10 minutes of research and 10 minutes of writing. This is absolutely not edited, handwritten in my little blue notebook from escrever escrever, the wonderful writing school who organized Lisbon Writing, a 6-day programme set in the medieval town of Óbidos.
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We first met backstage at the dingy bar just outside the university. I was new at my job at Atlantis, an indie record company, who signed obscure bands. My task was to scout possible new talents and pitch them to my boss. If he liked them enough, I’d be their road manager if they signed with us.
That night, I heard rumblings of a secret gig by Monty Gonzales, the former front man of seminal rock band The Meteorites. Apparently, after disappearing with no warning sign some 10 years ago at the peak of the band’s fame, people spotted him at the Christian ministry in Legazpi Village. He was now a praise and worship director. He no longer looked like a rockstar with the disheveled hair that drove women of all ages crazy with a flip. He was clean-shaven and in well-ironed slacks and a polo shirt. The rockstar had grown up.
So, when a friend I used to go to music festivals with tipped me off about this night, I made immediate plans to go. I needed to see it with my own eyes, And more importantly, I needed to know if this Monty would want to sign with Atlantis and listen to my pitch.
I had just finished watching a Little Richard biopic and was fascinated how he started his career in rock and roll but actually ended up becoming a minister and transitioning into gospel music. It only made sense that I made that connection with Monty. I was determined to make him interested in getting back into recording.
I tried to make myself invisible, backing into the periphery and observing quietly. I had reached out to Joce, The Meteorites’ former manager to get me an intro.
“Hey, Cons!” she waved when she got there. “You got a drink?”
“Hey, ya. I’m good!” I raised my bottle of Red Horse, “I’m really excited to be here.”
The bar was at capacity. I saw familiar faces in the crowd, former groupies I would hang out with at gigs in college. There was an excited buzz in the air. Nobody knew what music he would be playing at this gig. Obviously, it would be great if he had some deep cuts on the set list. But any music from Monty would be amazing. He was a brilliant musician, people dissected his lyrics and studied his songs. He was a musical genius. Billboard once hailed him as the greatest songwriter of his generation. That’s why when The Meteorites disbanded in 2005, everyone was shocked. They had just finished a 50-city tour and hit platinum on their latest record. They were unstoppable. Who would give all that up and just walk away?
I was leaning against the wall at the very end behind the tech booth. I hadn’t seen Monty yet. I felt someone’s shoulder next to mine.
“Big turnout, huh?” a man in a black shirt and jeans asked. “You a fan?”
Without looking at him, I share, “Huge. I was the biggest Meteorite fan. I ran the yahoogroups back then.” He didn’t say anything to that.
I turn to ask, “How about y—” But he had disappeared into the crowd already.
Feedback from the microphone filled the air. Then a scratch, and the stage lights came on.
“Henry’s will you give it up for one night only… Monty Gonzales!”
The crowd went wild and I swore I thought I had gone deaf. And as he stepped into the light, I saw the man in the black shirt and jeans in front of me. It’s Monty of The Meteorites. It’s really him.
