face appeared. Two faces. Three, layered. As the threshold approached and widened with perspective of the room, it became apparent.
We dove into a sea of bodies. Bodies on the floor sitting cross-legged, bodies against the wall standing, bodies layered on bodies. There were people from school - Jenny was front and center - but there were few I could recognize individually in this sea. The people were amass amid the scent of coffee and cinnamon, sweet cream and nutmeg. Was that hundreds of bodies? And fabric? And cologne?!
They clapped, cheered, and we walked awash in the cotton of applause. We entered this storm. There must have been seventy-five people in that tiny room. More?
The windows of the restaurant dripped with condensation, foggy like a late night drive. It was incredible. They were all here for us.
John sat at his drums, and began a beat as we pulled our guitars over our heads.
The hum of the amplifiers.
I turned to Kurt and nodded. He nodded.
I turned to Steve and nodded. He nodded.
I turned to John and nodded. He nodded.
The hi-hats counted out. One, I turned back to the audience. Two, I approached the mic. Three, I positioned my hand and raised my pick. A silent four, and I looked up.
My hand dropped through space.
The pick made contact.
Chapter 9
The sounds crept up through the black universe and down through the electric blue of existence. The notes communicated our souls into the minds of our audience, and we had control over them as they dematerialized before us, and regenerated through John's tribal beat.
They bowed down before us in utter cohesion, kowtowing gracefully to submit to our desires and our sound. We had them through the intensity of our performance, a twist of a head, a bend of a note, a foot on a monitor, and a wink from behind a microphone. We were terribly true to our audience. We kept them rapt with attention and devotion to our sound waves for an hour and a half.
The silence of the short intermission was broken by the trade of cash for merchandise and drinks at the counter, and we appreciated Paul's ‘thank yous’ and incessant hawking of our EP with every sale.
Our coven of admirers worshipped and bowed to the sounds of our guitars. It was our truth. We were the spark to the conflagration, huddled toward the middle of a room surrounded by frosty-needled condensed glass. A mean sizzle of caffeinated meat in our foreground just beyond the microphones stood receiving electrons firing from our heads. We all, audience and band, beamed with an electronic fuzz and narcotic buzz.
This was now, this was here, and this was everything.
We walked the tightrope of artistic endeavor, and as we played the final chords of the show, our heartbeats slowed. Our audience's hearts slowed. Everyone was in synchronization with the spinning charm of our universe. We wound the charm down with our eyes closed, adjusted to the darkness behind our eyelids, and we pushed this through our audience.
We were all...right there.
The final G, and the
tss
tss
tss
tss
tss
tss
tss
tss
We dove into a sea of bodies. Bodies on the floor sitting cross-legged, bodies against the wall standing, bodies layered on bodies. There were people from school - Jenny was front and center - but there were few I could recognize individually in this sea. The people were amass amid the scent of coffee and cinnamon, sweet cream and nutmeg. Was that hundreds of bodies? And fabric? And cologne?!
They clapped, cheered, and we walked awash in the cotton of applause. We entered this storm. There must have been seventy-five people in that tiny room. More?
The windows of the restaurant dripped with condensation, foggy like a late night drive. It was incredible. They were all here for us.
John sat at his drums, and began a beat as we pulled our guitars over our heads.
The hum of the amplifiers.
I turned to Kurt and nodded. He nodded.
I turned to Steve and nodded. He nodded.
I turned to John and nodded. He nodded.
The hi-hats counted out. One, I turned back to the audience. Two, I approached the mic. Three, I positioned my hand and raised my pick. A silent four, and I looked up.
My hand dropped through space.
The pick made contact.
Chapter 9
The sounds crept up through the black universe and down through the electric blue of existence. The notes communicated our souls into the minds of our audience, and we had control over them as they dematerialized before us, and regenerated through John's tribal beat.
They bowed down before us in utter cohesion, kowtowing gracefully to submit to our desires and our sound. We had them through the intensity of our performance, a twist of a head, a bend of a note, a foot on a monitor, and a wink from behind a microphone. We were terribly true to our audience. We kept them rapt with attention and devotion to our sound waves for an hour and a half.
The silence of the short intermission was broken by the trade of cash for merchandise and drinks at the counter, and we appreciated Paul's ‘thank yous’ and incessant hawking of our EP with every sale.
Our coven of admirers worshipped and bowed to the sounds of our guitars. It was our truth. We were the spark to the conflagration, huddled toward the middle of a room surrounded by frosty-needled condensed glass. A mean sizzle of caffeinated meat in our foreground just beyond the microphones stood receiving electrons firing from our heads. We all, audience and band, beamed with an electronic fuzz and narcotic buzz.
This was now, this was here, and this was everything.
We walked the tightrope of artistic endeavor, and as we played the final chords of the show, our heartbeats slowed. Our audience's hearts slowed. Everyone was in synchronization with the spinning charm of our universe. We wound the charm down with our eyes closed, adjusted to the darkness behind our eyelids, and we pushed this through our audience.
We were all...right there.
The final G, and the
tss
tss
tss
tss
tss
tss
tss
tss
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