Rob was laughing almost hysterically as he walked out of Kelly's tattoo parlor. The story Matthew had told him about casting a cruel but harmless spell on a demoness, and then disguising himself as a sorcerer, who an acquaintence of his just happened to know as Marcus, then getting paid three hundred gold marks to cure her of the spell HE himself had cast, just cracked Rob up to no end. "Damn, Matt! Dhat is un-phuckin'-believable! Jhou are one crazy muthuh phuckuh! Yeh evuh t'ought uh gettin' a gig as a jestuh somewheyuh? I bet jhou would make a lot mo' moneh as some King's fool," he laughed. Rob shoved Matthew back after Matthew gave his shoulder a push and made fun of his thick creole dialect. "Hey brothuh, I catch a hint uh swamp rat in yaw accent too once in a while," he teased back. Something caught Rob's eyes and he stopped dead in his strides to turn and cock his head as he read a flier tacked to a telephone pole. "Jesus...What kinda name is Hair Day faw a band?" he snickered with laughter and that laughter rose as Matthew made his own comments, cracking bad hair day jokes, and how they probably stank so bad that someone thought they were good. Rob just shook his head, taking pity on the unknown band. "Yeah, dhey need a bettuh name. Damn fools are playin' at Rocky's Club too. Dey ain' gonna make sheeot dhehr. Whadevuh fool booked dhem a gig at dhat dive must nah know Neh'awlins is all I gotta say. Maybeh I should take pity on um and get 'um a gig at my place," he grinned, and just waited for Matthew to tell him how stupid that idea was, which of course Matthew did, reminding him that a band that lacked the imagination to come up with a better name, had to suck as bad a band named 'bad hair day' or whatever, as Matthew put it. "Well somebody t'inks dey ahr aiight tuh book 'um a tawr, and back 'em on outta town gigs with what travelin' costs now, even if it IS Rocky's. Maybe dhey ahr bettuh dhen dheyuh name, or at least have some talent among 'um. But at Rocky's dhey ain' gonna get any kind uh decent exposure. Like us...Rocky's pays deh band what deh club gets at deh daw, but the daw pays a mint at Elysium. Whethuh dhey suck aw not, I am gonna see if I cin hook um up at Elysium. If dhey ahr bad, dhey just won' be comin' back," he chuckled and continued on down the road. He and Matthew parted ways at the corner, and Rob proceded on his way to the club, where he met Rhia at the bar, and what do you know, who else was there, but 'uncle' Maelmorda. That hot creole wrapped his arms around his even sexier sire, and planted a spicy kiss on her lips, before letting her order him a drink of her choice. An hour later he called Rocky's, and offering some gravy to the bar tender, he found out who was representing 'Hair Day' and gave them a call. The offer was made for them to ditch Rocky's and play at Club Elysium instead, Rob making sure they understood that Rocky's was a dive that they were better off not wasting their time with. The invitation was an open one for the same Saturday as they were booked at Rocky's. If they showed up, they played. If not, another band would take their slot. They were promised a damn good crowd, because Forsaken Tribute would be playing that night too, only after two AM, so as not to cramp the other's bands styles by playing before them. Rob's band was as big now as the Beatles and Zepplin had been in their time, only their genre of music was a lot different and their fans were a different breed too. They always played last at the club, and liked it that way, and played almost ever saturday night when they were not touring.
-- Edited by Robert Lyons at 21:08, 2006-04-11
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"Life is for livin', and I live every moment like it's deh last. Undead? Ain' no such thing. If you c'n feel passion and pain, dhen yawr alive."
The flyers were not her idea. Kat as much savored the thought of being alone on the streets of LA at night as being publicly associated with her bandmates. She squinted at the little picture of them together. It was odd to stare at her own green eyes, though of course they were grey in this rendering, wouldn't want to waste money on colour ink. Funny, Kat thought she came off older than that. Benny, the unwitting front man, was something to look at, she had to admit (it was something about a guy with a guitar and curly hair), until he opened his mouth (nonono, honey, you're prettier when you're silent and distracted with something that makes noise). Suddenly it came to her. Right here on a curbside in New Orleans, jet lag and all: her lead singer was a puppy and he needed a chew toy.
Ding! Another thought: Her lead singer. Had the band planned on touring before her, after all? Maybe, but they would have been twice as bad. Kat fought the urge to tear the flyer neatly in half, instead turning her back on it to face a long, balcony lined street. The distinct buildings that surrounded her would give anyone pause, but they also invoked a seed of guilt that would flower if she ignored it now. She longed to get out of Montana (where it was safe, her father said), and poof, she made it to LA. "I'm a drummer," she said to LA, "want me." And so it was, even if she'd chosen prematurely. Then she wanted out of that dive and into the world of the tour, and so she stood, surrounded by history and life and what gratitude had she shown? She took a deep breath and... her thigh was vibrating?
"Hello?... Yeah Benny, I'm 'stoked.'.. Really, what?... Yeah, I'm ready... I'm ready... Benny, for gods sake I'm ready, tell me the goddamned news!...That's great!...Where is it?...What do you mean 'you'll see?' Have you ever been to.. Benny? Damn it." Okay, well at least somebody has some faith, it can't be that this new club had heard of... she couldn't even think it without cringing... Hair D...her band. Heading back to the hotel, she stopped for some tea, what they called sweet tea, short for sugar with a little bit of tea and water. She'd need the energy tonight. She was going to give New Orleans all she had and maybe this time around she'd get something more back.
Kat almost felt violated as her kit was tuned by the drum techs at the club. If she hadn't put her hair back out of her way, she'd have been twirling strands of brown in her fingers until it was a tangled mess. She'd not even let her own band mates touch her drums, they'd become an extension of herself and tuning had become intimate. At the same time, wonder and the edge of hysteria had set in. If this club had stage techs, they were in a classy venue, at least relatively speaking to the clubs they'd played in recently. A crowd? Yeah, she could hear them, and it was well into the night (and into their drinking), though the doors hadn't opened too long ago. Their stage time was safe, the crowd would forget a trainwreck if it happened before they got drunk. She hoped Ben was on his game tonight, all she could do was lay down a kickass beat and hope he followed. She wasn't worried about the bassist. Nobody ever blames the bassist. Why is that?
"Yeah? Sorry, I was thinking." She tapped out the tempo with her sticks and they launched headfirst into an intense warmup, after which she felt okay about exposing herself to a screaming audience. It all went so fast. All she did was blink, and then she was walking onto the stage, and she felt herself sit on the throne, and she felt the impact of the crash that opened their set, but as always, when the music started, she shifted to auto pilot. Nobody but her and the guitar and the bass and the groove. Just as she promised, Kat gave New Orleans everything she had, constrained of course, by the songs Benny had so carefully written. She broke each stick once, and deftly replaced each one with an understudy waiting in her back pocket. Crash. Snare, kick, crash. The end. She wiped her forehead and smiled at the crowd. Were they cheering for her or for more to drink? Hair stuck to her face and neck, she had a tight grip on her sticks as they walked off stage to let the stage techs take apart their show, precisely and quickly, like a tiny army of ants. She felt Benny's hand on her bare shoulder, his lips on her face, just below her eye. It was hot, and she was still high off the music. She smiled at him, wait here. She needed air. She didn't stop to talk to anyone, and nobody stopped her. The night hit her skin like a waterfall and finally she laughed. Her jeans were sticking to her legs. It was a good set... she wondered if the rest of the band played as well, felt as f**king great, 'cause honestly, she didn't remember anything but the wood between her fingers.
Who cared about the base player? Anyone who knew their ass from their face in the music industry would. The drummer and the base player were the two apoxy chemicals that maintained the beat which carried the riffs, notes and chords to reflect the band's harmony. Even the hardest rocking bands needed harmonics and finesse to come off as professional. Otherwise? It was all just what Rob liked to refer to as a bad buzz. Painful to listen to. Forsaken Tribute was one of those bands that fate had to have brought together, plain and simple. They had a natural symmetry and solidarity with one another, knew when something was bad and needed to be scrapped without arguing about it, and never quarreled about needing to hit the drawing board again, and most of all, they had passion. They had what made bands outstanding, what made a great band. They laughed about it when the one of them formulated bad lyrics, riffs, or music, made fun of themselves, each other, and improved their sound until they hit the roots of perfection for the band. Yes, it was because they were perfectionists, and because they got along, that their sound was always fresh, stimulating, and moved the soul with anything from rage, passion, and awe, to tears. Their anxt came from deep inside of each member, Rob in particular, and without passion for what you were singing about, playing for, music failed not only the band members, but the audience. Rob listened for all this and more as he sat at the bar, nursing on whiskey as he listened to Hair Day. The drummer was the first person who really arrested his attention. SHE had passion, she had talent, she hit every beat right on tempo, and was good enough to cover when the base player slurred a base line, or missed his marks to put the band out of sinc. Nothing covered the lead guitarist when he attempted to be cool with those screaming riffs that did little for the band but give them a bad buzz, but the drummer and even the basist did pull the set back to reality. It was clear from the start that the band members were fighting each other with their music. Not a good sign. It reflected a lack of unity in the band. The drummer lacked only one thing...Finesse. She was a hard hitter who seemed to forget their was more to drumming than beating the phuck out your kit and symbols to hit the beat and mix up the rhythm. She had very good rhythm, a damn good pulse, which was what a drummer needed to make it in the business. She made the single same mistake almost every young drummer made, the same mistake their drummer Mark had made when they had first started playing, but with a little advice from Rob and Massie, Mark Templeton had become a first class drummer. HIS only problem were his bloody drug habits, which were getting really old with the band. After playing together for almost seventy-six years, was it any wonder? The band had come up with a plan to 'rehabilitate' Mark, and not by throwing him in some worthless rehab either. Mark had been down that road numerous times. Overdosing and nearly dying half a dozen times had not cured his habits either. Naw, the forsaken boys and girl (their own Kat, Kathrine Maynard, was the only female in the band) had decided to get medieval with Mark's ass, for his own sake. And they were looking for a new drummer too, which was why Lyons was so intensely interested in that young lady on the stage, who was drumming her heart out. Had she been a guitarist, Rob was sure her fingers would have been bleeding. Replace Mark? No way, they had no such plans, but since Mark loved primitive drums the best, they'd made plans to incorporate two drummers into the band. One playing a kit, while Mark drummed his heart out on kongas, bongos, celtic bodrums, a variety of african drums, kettle, and even water drums. Yes, Forsaken Tribute had a plan. They always did. They would never get rid of Mark. They were a band who stuck together until the wheels fell off. Mark would have die, and do so permanently, to get rejected by the band.
Rob knew that when that audience was cheering for the band, they were cheering for the drummer, those boos, which for the most part got lost in the crowd, were for the lead singer. Club Elysium's audiences were for the most part, pretty music savy, but alcohol did make the other half easy to please, heh. Yes, the lead singer SUCKED, and the lyrics sucked too, and when those two elements in band bit the dust, the BAND sucked. Only one set they played had good lyrics, and Rob got the feeling that the drummer, the musician who fans either loved the most or forgot about altogether, was the one who wrote the best lyrics their aweful lead singer crooned out. As a base player, despite making some mistakes, he was pretty good, BUT, like the lead guitarist, he had the kind of talent that could be found in almost any basement where a kid had a guitar hooked up to an amp. Summing it all up...The drummer was the only glue holding the band together well enough to fool half of their audience. The other half of the crowd just waited for the next band, and cheered them to get them the hell off the stage with some false hope to carry them for awhile longer. Those who booed? They were the honest ones who knew bad music when they heard it, and did not mind crushing anyone's dreams. THEY were who made Club Elysium a good place to play if you were serious about music. Nevermind the fact that studios sent recording reps to Elysium quite often, looking for new talent, including Forsaken Tribute's manager, Benny Doyle, from Arcane Records. Benny was there that night as a matter of fact, and approached Rob as he stood up to crush a cigarette out in the ashtray on the bar, intending to follow the drummer out of the club after observing her leaving. "You should try and hook that drummer, Rob," Benny told him. "I am on it Benjamin," Rob assured him with a smile. Yes, Benny knew they were looking for a drummer, and like Rob, he knew talent when he saw it. After Benny cuffed Lyons on the back, the vampire rock star headed out of the club, with the ambition of talking to Bad Hair Day's drummer. Seriously...who would NOT refer to them by that name with a band name like that? Bad Hair Day was an improvement when you thought about it.
The moment Rob had cleared the crowd at the front door, they had a waiting line to get in on Saturday's nights, he lit another one of those hand rolled smokes and sauntered out onto the sidewalk in those languidly lionesque strides. His caramel brown eyes made a casual sweep of the sidewalks, while he let her scent direct his path. When he came around the corner of the building to find her standing in the club's parking garage entrance, the faintest smile curled his lips. "Dhat was a nice set yeh played," he complimented her, that thick dialect very telling of his Louisianna swamp rat roots, his modestly tall, lean frame taking a lean on the club's wall at the entrance of the connecting garage and lower parking lot. "So you and yaw band get along aiight? I sensed a lot uh conflict between ya'll in yaw music," he commented honestly. Before she could respond, he proceeded to say more. "I know it might naw be my business to say anyt'ing...But uh...jhou ahr damn good, and you ain' goin' nowhere with dhem. Dhey will hold yeh back, and crush yaw dreams. I know basement bands dhat ahr a lot bettuh. If jhou wanna reach for deh stars...I can hook yeh up. But dhere ain' any room in the constellation for yaw band mates. If I saw any kinda love between ya'll, I would naw be sayin' any uh dis. Love can improve any band. Jhou catch my drift at all?" He took a deep drag off that cigarette as he waited for her to either cuss his ass out, or show some interest in what he was saying. The fact that he was smoking a cigarette was a clue that he had money, because in the aftermath of war, cigarettes, like good booze, were a rich man's pleasure. That, and his face was not exactly hard to recognize if you listened to death-tech-goth-metal, or underground radio stations. Their music was hard to place in just one genre. If she did recognize him? There were all kinds of rumors about he and his band being vampires...They HAD been recording since 1993, and the present year was 2068. How was there any doubt that they were immortal? Propaganda. It got around, in interviews included, that any of their music sold as recorded before 2060, had the dates misprinted on the jackets. The actual records, CDs, and tapes had never HAD the dates printed on them. That was something Tiber had made Arcane Records agree to in their contracts. Now? No dates were printed on them at all. There was a lot of speculation still. Many fans, and others who Rob actually had to worry about, were convinced he and his band mates were vampires, while the rest just chalked it all up to hype to sell more records. Rob had more than a few assassination attempts on him while on stage, but his security was tightly wrapped, and so was Rob himself. He had had his brains blown out once in one of those attempts nevertheless. Oddly enough, the audience had thought it was part of the show, heh. They band DID break theatrical now and again, expressing their music with some acting on stage. Seemed that had paid off too in the end.
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"Life is for livin', and I live every moment like it's deh last. Undead? Ain' no such thing. If you c'n feel passion and pain, dhen yawr alive."
