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Authors: Mark Allan Gunnells
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several people then passing on, not sure what Joanne was talking—
“Everyone is old,” Leslie said, realization coming like a slap to the face. At sixteen, people in their thirties seemed old to Leslie, but a large portion of the people in the arena were in their forties and fifties. She and Joanne looked to be the only young people in attendance.
“It’s like we’ve stumbled into a Barry Manilow concert by accident.”
“Well, Revolution of Sound is an old band. Dante Reed himself is fifty-six. Some of these people have probably been fans since they were our age.”
“I’ll bet we’re the only ones here under the age of thirty-five. I just hope no one has a heart-attack when the band really starts rocking.”
Leslie laughed at her friend’s joke, but she was actually feeling a little uneasy. Over the years, she had developed a distrust of adults—her parents most of all—and being surrounded by so many grownups left her feeling vulnerable and exposed. She didn’t know how to explain this to Joanne, however, so she pushed it aside. Once the show started, she was sure she’d forget her uneasiness in the onslaught of aggressive music.
When the band took the stage, the crowd roared in a single voice, loud and raucous. Leslie and Joanne were on their feet, hands in the air, screaming out all the frustration and boredom of their normal lives, a form of primal scream therapy that left them feeling energized and full of life in a way they seldom did. Dante Reed was the last to appear, stepping out from around the drum kit, strutting like a combination of runway model and streetwalker. The crowd’s voice increased to ear-shattering decibels as the music started up and Dante grabbed the microphone and snarled the opening lyrics to “Heart of a Thousand Lies.”
As far as Leslie was concerned, everyone else in the arena disappeared at that moment. Even Joanne was an insubstantial wraith next to her. It was just Leslie, diving into the deep pool of Dante’s voice, swimming in the waters of every intonation, every howl, every whisper. She balled her hands into fists and beat them against her upper thighs in time to the music. Tomorrow she may have bruises there, but tonight she felt no pain, only the throbbing rhythm of the music, the desperate urgency of the lyrics. She sang along at the top of her lungs, and during the final verse of the song—“ Who are you to tell me I’m fucked up when you’re just as fucked up as me ?”—Leslie thrust both hands into the air, the middle finger of each raised, as if shooting God himself the bird.
As the whine of the electric guitar died, Leslie realized there were tears on her cheeks, and when she glanced over at her friend, she saw the same expression of stunned ecstasy on Joanne’s face. Having shunned the god of their parents, it was as if they had just found a god for themselves. Not Dante Reed himself, but what he represented. Hope for those who were not perfect, who were not beautiful, who were not what they’d been expected to be. Acceptance for those who didn’t yet know exactly who they were, but knew who they weren’t and who they wanted never to become. In the music of Revolution of Sound, the girls had found a home.
“Hello out there all my faithful,” Dante Reed said, and the crowd went wild, jumping up and down, screaming, crying. It didn’t matter that Dante was no longer the physical specimen he’d been twenty years ago, that his face was mapped by wrinkles, that he had a bald spot like a yarmulke on the top of his head, that the leather pants and long purple jacket with fur trim he wore were too young for him. He was above all that, ageless in a way, his music as vital and relevant today as when he’d first recorded it, keeping him forever young in spirit if not in body.
Strutting to the edge of the stage, scanning the crowd that had gathered to worship at the altar of his music, Dante said, “This is our first show on our first tour since
“Everyone is old,” Leslie said, realization coming like a slap to the face. At sixteen, people in their thirties seemed old to Leslie, but a large portion of the people in the arena were in their forties and fifties. She and Joanne looked to be the only young people in attendance.
“It’s like we’ve stumbled into a Barry Manilow concert by accident.”
“Well, Revolution of Sound is an old band. Dante Reed himself is fifty-six. Some of these people have probably been fans since they were our age.”
“I’ll bet we’re the only ones here under the age of thirty-five. I just hope no one has a heart-attack when the band really starts rocking.”
Leslie laughed at her friend’s joke, but she was actually feeling a little uneasy. Over the years, she had developed a distrust of adults—her parents most of all—and being surrounded by so many grownups left her feeling vulnerable and exposed. She didn’t know how to explain this to Joanne, however, so she pushed it aside. Once the show started, she was sure she’d forget her uneasiness in the onslaught of aggressive music.
When the band took the stage, the crowd roared in a single voice, loud and raucous. Leslie and Joanne were on their feet, hands in the air, screaming out all the frustration and boredom of their normal lives, a form of primal scream therapy that left them feeling energized and full of life in a way they seldom did. Dante Reed was the last to appear, stepping out from around the drum kit, strutting like a combination of runway model and streetwalker. The crowd’s voice increased to ear-shattering decibels as the music started up and Dante grabbed the microphone and snarled the opening lyrics to “Heart of a Thousand Lies.”
As far as Leslie was concerned, everyone else in the arena disappeared at that moment. Even Joanne was an insubstantial wraith next to her. It was just Leslie, diving into the deep pool of Dante’s voice, swimming in the waters of every intonation, every howl, every whisper. She balled her hands into fists and beat them against her upper thighs in time to the music. Tomorrow she may have bruises there, but tonight she felt no pain, only the throbbing rhythm of the music, the desperate urgency of the lyrics. She sang along at the top of her lungs, and during the final verse of the song—“ Who are you to tell me I’m fucked up when you’re just as fucked up as me ?”—Leslie thrust both hands into the air, the middle finger of each raised, as if shooting God himself the bird.
As the whine of the electric guitar died, Leslie realized there were tears on her cheeks, and when she glanced over at her friend, she saw the same expression of stunned ecstasy on Joanne’s face. Having shunned the god of their parents, it was as if they had just found a god for themselves. Not Dante Reed himself, but what he represented. Hope for those who were not perfect, who were not beautiful, who were not what they’d been expected to be. Acceptance for those who didn’t yet know exactly who they were, but knew who they weren’t and who they wanted never to become. In the music of Revolution of Sound, the girls had found a home.
“Hello out there all my faithful,” Dante Reed said, and the crowd went wild, jumping up and down, screaming, crying. It didn’t matter that Dante was no longer the physical specimen he’d been twenty years ago, that his face was mapped by wrinkles, that he had a bald spot like a yarmulke on the top of his head, that the leather pants and long purple jacket with fur trim he wore were too young for him. He was above all that, ageless in a way, his music as vital and relevant today as when he’d first recorded it, keeping him forever young in spirit if not in body.
Strutting to the edge of the stage, scanning the crowd that had gathered to worship at the altar of his music, Dante said, “This is our first show on our first tour since
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