Read Online Ghosts in the Attic by Mark Allan Gunnells - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Allan Gunnells
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pulled a plastic bag out from beneath her seat and said, “I got a little mood music for the trip.”
“What is it?”
Joanne reached into the bag and pulled out a CD, still in the cellophane wrapping. “It’s a new Revolution of Sound CD.”
“Get out of here,” Leslie said, snatching the disc from her friend’s hand. “But we already have all their CDs.”
“This is an import. It’s got a lot of unreleased tracks, some live performances, and an early demo of ‘Nasty Love.’”
“Awesome,” Leslie said, already tearing off the wrapping and popping the disc into the player. “Where’d you get it?”
“I got Alec down at the record store to special order it for me. Came in yesterday.”
“Perfect timing.” Leslie cranked the volume and screeching guitars and heavy bass pounded out of the speakers, Dante Reed’s low, resonate voice twining through the music like a snake.
The girls rolled down the windows and yelled at the passersby as they pulled out of the parking lot and got back on the interstate.
* * *
They arrived at the arena just as the opening act was finishing up their set. That was fine, no one came to see the opening act anyway. Leslie and Joanne were only interested in the main event, Revolution of Sound.
Revolution of Sound was a Goth rock band that had formed in the mid-seventies. Dante Reed, the lead singer, had a sensual voice that quickly made the band a phenomenon. They’d produced a half dozen albums over the next ten years before breaking up in ’85. However, the band reunited approximately every five years and toured the country. This was the band’s first tour of the new millennium.
Leslie had discovered the band last year, after reading an intriguing article about them in Rolling Stone and buying one of their CDs. Their music was dark and disillusioned, full of cynicism and a distrust of authority. Revolution of Sound confirmed all the things Leslie believed—that adults had no more idea what they were doing than kids, that Christianity was just an elaborate myth created to keep people in line, that the American government was actively working against its citizens best interests, that life really was pain. Leslie had introduced the band to Joanne, and they’d been diehard fans ever since. The kids at school considered it one more thing with which to ridicule the girls, loyalty to a band that had broken up before they were even born, but Leslie wouldn’t expect those carbon-copy clones to be able to appreciate the philosophy of Revolution of Sound.
Their seats were in section 8, row M, seats 25 and 26. Not the best seats in the house, but not the nose-bleeders either. The roadies were down on the stage, setting up Revolution of Sound’s equipment. People were leaving their seats, using this intermission for quick trips to the restroom, concession stands, and to buy obscenely overpriced T-shirts.
“This is gonna be awesome,” Joanne said with a smile. She had gotten black lipstick on her front teeth.
“I hear they put on a hell of a live show,” Leslie said, excitement bubbling in her gut like a witch’s cauldron. In an age when lip-synching plastic pop princess ruled the album charts, Leslie found little music to which she could relate. That was probably why she’d had to delve back several decades to find music that spoke to her.
“Do you notice anything weird about this crowd?”
“Weird? What do you mean?”
“Just take a look around.”
Leslie did, but she failed to see anything unusual about anyone. To her right was a couple in matching tie-dye shirts, the man with long black hair streaked with gray, the woman with a pockmarked face that looked like a patch of bad road. In the aisle in front of her was a bald man with a thick bushy goatee that looked like a scrub brush. Leslie glanced over her shoulder and saw two amply endowed women wearing tube-tops that looked in danger of becoming belts. She scanned the arena, her gaze alighting on
“What is it?”
Joanne reached into the bag and pulled out a CD, still in the cellophane wrapping. “It’s a new Revolution of Sound CD.”
“Get out of here,” Leslie said, snatching the disc from her friend’s hand. “But we already have all their CDs.”
“This is an import. It’s got a lot of unreleased tracks, some live performances, and an early demo of ‘Nasty Love.’”
“Awesome,” Leslie said, already tearing off the wrapping and popping the disc into the player. “Where’d you get it?”
“I got Alec down at the record store to special order it for me. Came in yesterday.”
“Perfect timing.” Leslie cranked the volume and screeching guitars and heavy bass pounded out of the speakers, Dante Reed’s low, resonate voice twining through the music like a snake.
The girls rolled down the windows and yelled at the passersby as they pulled out of the parking lot and got back on the interstate.
* * *
They arrived at the arena just as the opening act was finishing up their set. That was fine, no one came to see the opening act anyway. Leslie and Joanne were only interested in the main event, Revolution of Sound.
Revolution of Sound was a Goth rock band that had formed in the mid-seventies. Dante Reed, the lead singer, had a sensual voice that quickly made the band a phenomenon. They’d produced a half dozen albums over the next ten years before breaking up in ’85. However, the band reunited approximately every five years and toured the country. This was the band’s first tour of the new millennium.
Leslie had discovered the band last year, after reading an intriguing article about them in Rolling Stone and buying one of their CDs. Their music was dark and disillusioned, full of cynicism and a distrust of authority. Revolution of Sound confirmed all the things Leslie believed—that adults had no more idea what they were doing than kids, that Christianity was just an elaborate myth created to keep people in line, that the American government was actively working against its citizens best interests, that life really was pain. Leslie had introduced the band to Joanne, and they’d been diehard fans ever since. The kids at school considered it one more thing with which to ridicule the girls, loyalty to a band that had broken up before they were even born, but Leslie wouldn’t expect those carbon-copy clones to be able to appreciate the philosophy of Revolution of Sound.
Their seats were in section 8, row M, seats 25 and 26. Not the best seats in the house, but not the nose-bleeders either. The roadies were down on the stage, setting up Revolution of Sound’s equipment. People were leaving their seats, using this intermission for quick trips to the restroom, concession stands, and to buy obscenely overpriced T-shirts.
“This is gonna be awesome,” Joanne said with a smile. She had gotten black lipstick on her front teeth.
“I hear they put on a hell of a live show,” Leslie said, excitement bubbling in her gut like a witch’s cauldron. In an age when lip-synching plastic pop princess ruled the album charts, Leslie found little music to which she could relate. That was probably why she’d had to delve back several decades to find music that spoke to her.
“Do you notice anything weird about this crowd?”
“Weird? What do you mean?”
“Just take a look around.”
Leslie did, but she failed to see anything unusual about anyone. To her right was a couple in matching tie-dye shirts, the man with long black hair streaked with gray, the woman with a pockmarked face that looked like a patch of bad road. In the aisle in front of her was a bald man with a thick bushy goatee that looked like a scrub brush. Leslie glanced over her shoulder and saw two amply endowed women wearing tube-tops that looked in danger of becoming belts. She scanned the arena, her gaze alighting on
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