Charlie Estrella

I. ENCORE! Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara, California, was literally swaying from the stomping and screaming fans, urging their hero Charlie Estrella to emerge for one final encore. The sky was crystal-clear, the moon and stars shining, the flickering extravaganza from the stadium adding to the sky’s luster. A warm, seventy-degree breeze kept the concert-goers comfortable. For miles, the streets surrounding Levi’s Stadium were lined with vehicles, a la scenes from Woodstock, where thousands of rabid Estrella fans – “Star-Heads” – listened intently to the music emanating from the concert. “Estrella! Estrella! Estrella!” It was deafening, yet the one-hundred-thousand-plus loyal Star-Heads inside the stadium, ears, and minds buzzing from the mixture of one hundred thirty-decibel amplified rock, and a thick cloud of powerful flower and other mind-altering concoctions, refused to stop until the band returned to the stage, even following an epic five-hour Halloween night show. Catching their breath in the tunnel, Charlie Estrella and his bandmates guzzled bottles of water. Drummer Sid Stanley, tall and lanky, shaved head with a purple bandana atop his dome, twirled his drumstick with one hand while using his other hand to towel off the streams of sweat dripping into his eyes. Stanley stared at Estrella, who stood with his back against the stone wall, eyes closed, soaking in the adoration of the massive crowd, oblivious to the curious stares from the band. “Shall we?” Sid yelled to Estrella, hoping to break the virtuoso ax man from his trance. Charlie did not react, continuing to meditate. Rhythm guitarist/singer Ronnie Jones, bassist Q. Zeller – Estrella’s closest bud – and keyboard player Nylon Quipp, shrugged at each other, wondering when their leader would give the go-ahead to perform one final tune – a send-off for the band that Rolling Stone Magazine deemed “the last, and greatest, supergroup.” Surrounding the band, Estrella’s diminutive, cigar-chomping, bad-toupee wearing manager, Berg Rabinowitz, massive, Sasquatch-like road manager/head troublemaker Sparks Nevada, and the lady dubbed the most beautiful woman in the world, Charlie’s girlfriend, Shynuh, all wore concerned looks on their faces. Estrella’s trances had become more frequent, and this one seemed to linger longer than most of them. “Should we turn up the lights?” lead roadie Al Rose screamed into Rabinowitz’s ear, knowing that the lights would signal to the crowd that the show was over, and their chanting could finally cease. Rabinowitz shook his head slightly, blew out a puff of his stogie, and waved his hand towards Rose to back off. There was one more song remaining in Estrella’s arsenal – the one everyone came to see the band play on this, their final concert ever. Eyes closed, Charlie raised his head towards the ceiling, lifted the water bottle to his lips, so slowly it seemed like he could barely raise his arm, gulped down the liquid, and dropped the empty bottle on the ground. The band froze in place, wondering if Estrella’s movement meant it was time to retake the stage. Estrella’s eyes sprung open, darting around dramatically as if he had just awakened from deep REM sleep. He inhaled a chest-full of oxygen and declared, “Let’s do this.” The stage turned black, except for the one circular beam shining down on the gold star at center stage. In the darkness, the crowd could not see that Stanley, Jones, Zeller, and Quipp had taken their positions at their instruments. Quipp struck an A-minor on his Studiologic organ and the fans screamed in unison, “YEAH!!!” They knew it was time for the band’s all-time classic, “Free.” The studio version of the song’s incredible intro featured a five-minute, face-melting solo by Estrella, that stretched to twice that length in concert before the drum cymbals smashed and the song broke into one of the most iconic anthem-jams in rock music history. Seemingly by magic, Estrella appeared on his star, the stage light illuminating his golden locks and his signature Les Paul Goldtop. Quipp sustained the chord, which could barely be heard over the fans. Estrella raised his pick high in the air, and the screams grew even louder. The organ faded. Charlie wrapped his left hand around the neck. Smoke billowed around the guitar-God, and the star underneath his feet began to rise, lifting him ten feet above the stage. Estrella squeezed his eyes closed and summoned the magic within his fingers. Despite his years of grueling practice, even Charlie Estrella questioned how one could possess such spectacular talent. Thirty minutes later, one-hundred-thousand fans inside the arena, another quarter-million from the nearby streets, accompanied Ronnie Jones, singing the final words to the song: “And for all of our lives let’s be freeeeeeee.” Stanley struck the gong. The stage went black. As was their custom for every concert throughout their spectacular run, the band members gathered in the middle of the stage to take a bow, the stadium lights illuminating the giant crowd. The guitarist who was supposed to occupy the star in center stage, in the middle of the five-member band, was gone. Stanley, Quipp, Jones, and Zeller looked around, confused. They bowed and waved to their fans. Blowing a kiss to the audience, Jones proclaimed, “We love you!” The band unlocked their arms and wandered off stage, expecting to see Charlie waiting for them in the wings. But Charlie Estrella had completely vanished in a puff of smoke while bending his high E-string at the conclusion of “Free,” tears streaming down his face.