The drummer sat up. Perched high upon his stool he stretched his neck out as his head reached for the microphone that hung stiff and lifeless above his kit. Either side of him sat the towers. Amplifier upon amplifier. Stacked high. A daunting presence that cast a shadow over the world. You could grow dizzy trying to focus on their peak. Appearing to touch the ceiling, they threatened to burst through it with the first notes that were due to be played. Trapped on the stool, he felt the butterflies flutter and bounce from wall to wall inside his stomach. He swallowed hard, suppressing the gut-wrenching nausea. He held his sticks lightly and rolled them in his palms as his hands trembled from wrist to finger-tip. The years had not been kind on his nerves. He closed his eyes and, breathing in deeply, he prepared himself for the impending explosion of noise . . .
A black silence hung over him, thick and heavy. He grew numb to it all and allowed the vibrations to pulsate through his body. A sonic boom, it spread out in all directions and filled the room. He looked forward. He could see his four friends in front of him coming alive in turn and in time. Their instruments had become extensions of their bodies. In his mind they danced gracefully in slow motion, but in truth it was far more chaotic. Beyond the microphone he could only see a wall of blinding white light, but he knew they were there. The sardines. Standing, sweating, bruising, jumping, screaming, singing. He knew of their envy. He could feel it amidst the energy of the night. Those that did not wish to be him wished that they could bed him. At the start this had made him feel like a God but this feeling had long since died. He had grown to envy them. He had grown tired of the girls and he had grown tired of the sycophants. He longed to be like them, out there, watching on. He longed to be young again. He longed to have the unbroken dream again. He longed for the feeling of eternal youth. He had grown to hate himself. For everything that he had achieved, earned, bought and screwed, he felt hollow. He had had every pleasure in the world but had no idea how to truly enjoy it. For all his success he was empty and alone. Bang! The beat wore on.
* * *
One short glimpse of eye contact and he was caught. He was drawn to her uncontrollably. Fighting against the mass of bodies, he struggled to move through the swaying crowd and get closer to her. Crushed in with his hands at his sides and standing on tiptoes, Joe Slim had lost control of the situation and was losing sight of her. He had grown tired of this scene as it was. He was surrounded by sweating bodies and felt trapped in a nightmare.
He could not stand the support band playing. He had seen them before a few years ago and determined them as shite then, even with hindsight now suggesting that they were at their peak in that seedy New Cross bar. This wasn't saying much. Their act was of arrogance and self-importance and lacked any kind of real talent. They had failed to realise that it was no longer 1977. Joe remembered watching as their front man tossed his guitar to the floor as he departed the stage, only to overhear the singer later gloating to his friend "Hey mate, d'ya see me throw my guitar down? How awesome was that?" Joe – who was still a highly impressionable teen - wondered who could possibly still be impressed by these kinds of actions. It had all been done before. Everything has been done before.
He laughed to himself and took a sip of beer. Even now he could see the drummer gazing at the crowd with a face full of boredom and a look that suggested he wished he could just go home. Joe wished it too. He wanted the next band on. More importantly he wanted this girl of mystery. A few rows of kids and no more than a metre of floor separated them. A change of current in the crowd and Joe was pushed further towards her. Dropping his shoulder he was now directly behind his potential beau. Excited and flustered, he started to panic. He needed to get out of his head. He needed to be able to act without thought. He needed a natural ice-breaker and an opening line that would spark her interest. Trying to escape - and trying to shut out the sound of the band playing - he began singing Roy Orbison songs in his head. Whilst sailing through the loneliness of Orbison's music he felt a warmth and a tingle that was unfamiliar to him in such over-populated audiences. He felt fingers wrapped around and squeezing down on his thumb. Joe's heart began to race, but he kept his eyes focused on the stage and radiated a Zen-like nonchalance. He didn't want her to know the power she had. He didn't want her to know exactly how crazy she made him feel. Without word, without breaking his glance, he simply rolled his palm and took her hand in his, as if it were a wounded bird. Fragile and in need of care. Holding it gently he caressed the girl's knuckles with his thumb and allowed his lips to crack into a smile.
She moved closer and pressing her body into him he wrapped his arm around her waist and held it close. Looking up at him, beaming, she innocently giggled "So, what's yer name?"
"Joe, yours?"
"Chloe"
"Well, Chloe, it's a delight to finally talk to ya"
He regretted every word he muttered even though he truly meant them all. He simply wished he could deliver a sentence that sounded smoother, that would charm and melt her. His Chloe. His beau. He told her he was nineteen, which was a lie, but he didn't really believe that she was being wholeheartedly truthful when she said she seventeen. He didn't care. The minimum age to get in to this gig was sixteen, so he was fairly certain there was nothing to worry about. Standing in his arms she was a full foot shorter than he, with long mousey-brown hair that reached the small of her back. Making small talk Joe lowered his head towards Chloe. With each sentence, with each question and with each piece of personal information shared her face came closer to his. Listening intently to her words he studied the beauty of her face; longing to caress her pure white porcelain skin, he gazed deeply into her two deep brown holes for eyes and made his move to kiss her lips. They both felt the electricity and hoped to savour the taste of it for as long as possible. Time ceased to exist and the strangers that surrounded them seemed to vanish. They could no longer feel the pushes or hear the cursing. The music had seemingly died. These young lovers had fallen into each other, oblivious to everything else. None of it mattered anymore. Breaking the contact of their lips, Chloe whispered "It sucks out here. Let's go somewhere more private" Joe just nodded and let her take him by the hand and lead him through the crowded kids. Heading off to the toilets their lusty wishes were to be granted.
* * *
The air was needed. I had spent far too long standing in that crowded venue watching bands enter the stage; watching bands disappoint the audience and watching bands depart the stage, all the while waiting for the Pinkertons. For all the music that had been played, there was still a distinct lack of country-fuelled punk rock emerging from the main act. So now I was left outside. Desperate for air and in desperate need of cooling down, I had managed to sneak out through a side entrance and wasn't entirely sure how to get back in. Two o'clock in the morning on the Saturday before Christmas was not the best time to be wandering down alleyways in Chinatown whilst wearing a t-shirt soaked through with sweat and a pair of old, torn Levi's.
Turning a corner I could see the entrance to the club a few yards away from me at the end of an alleyway. However, standing between me and my return was a fight breaking out between two groups of kids. Now, based on the area I had found myself in, I was guessing this was gang warfare. Fuck! Good luck, Jerry, you're gonna need it to get back in. Luckily for me I was white, and even though I know shit all about gang-affiliation, I was willing to bet my remaining pound coins that at least one of these groups had ties to the Triads.
They were all too preoccupied with each other to notice me, so I could easily slip past the violence, flash the revolver stamp on my wrist to the bouncer and walk back through the door so I could continue to wait for the Pinkertons inside. Easier said than done. Turns out I wasn't the only person outside opposed to the violence. Turns out some of these gang-members liked to talk, but were reluctant to follow through with the scrap and were trying in vain to get to the safety of the all-night gig. It presented a peaceful chaos. Fellow gang members were patiently persuading their pals back to the fight. One of these persuaders was a foot in front of me and holding a blade at his side that stretched beyond his knee. Keep quiet, Jerry, stay out, they ain't int'rested in you, they won't notice ya. Don't worry, Slim, for all that is holy just keep your cool.
I really didn't want to be dealing with this shit though. Who would? If it wasn't my brother's birthday I would've been at home, or somewhere significantly better. The Pinkertons weren't worth all this. In truth, they only have one good song and that's about a hooker who beats the shit out of her pimp for holding out on her weed and then she sells his ass to the gay friends of her clients. That's girl-power for you. She could rip these kids to shreds.
As a lowly bystander watching on, the fight ran pretty smoothly for me. For all the knives they were wielding - not to mention the size of some of the blades - it was severely lacking in genuine violence. There were too many gang-owned panties getting caught in a bunch. As an uninvolved onlooker I became detached from the whole experience. I wanted to be inside. This gang fight was nothing to me; it seemed like it was just some kids overcompensating for small testicles. I just stood at the door, waiting to be allowed back in, and watched.
They all argued, held their big weapons and did little more. I wasn't really following the events, but as long as it was occurring the bouncer was adamant nobody was going to re-enter the venue. That was fine by me - it was light entertainment. Too light for some though. A couple of them backed away and headed towards a 1987 Volvo estate and popped open the boot. I was unconcerned with the baseball bat that the owner pulled out, but my attention was drawn to the long narrow cardboard box that his friend lifted from the car. It sent my – apparently slightly racist - imagination running wild. I started to envisage a long and very sharp samurai sword drawn into play. How naive of me. How very wrong I was. I soon began to wish my assumptions were correct. Out of the box slid the slender body of a pump-action shotgun. Forgive me for the panic that ensued, but it's a lot harder to be hit by cross-fire when knives are involved. I wanted to be no part of an accidental death this evening and with it I made my final plea to the bouncer. "C'mon man! You've gotta see that gun, this ain't nothin' to do with me. I'm white for fuck's sake!"
He bought it. I don't know if he even heard it through the fear for his own safety. The door just opened and those closest to it were inside in a moment, with the thick metal door bolted behind them without even a creak from the hinges. Returned to comfort inside, the madness ensued on the street with the frightening echo of the bang of the shotgun-fire exploding through the night air.
* * *
He didn't hear the bang but he felt it. The vibrations ran through his skeleton. Left in silence he awaited the response. The sooner the better. He was beginning to feel sick. A long time had passed since he reached his decision and he was fully aware of the consequences. It was a bold move and one he could truly live to regret. He had made his mind up. He knew he had now spent too much time with his eyeballs in his hands pondering what to do with his existence. Something now had to be done. A change had been required for too long now and with his eyes now open to this fact it was time for him to act upon it. He could no longer allow his life to drain from within him. He knew what to do. Finally - years in the waiting - he had come to his conclusion; there would be no going back on it. They'd open the door to him standing alone; they'd open the door to him laying his sticks to rest; they'd open the door to him turning his back on their girls and their drugs. They'd open the door, eventually. Growing tired of waiting he raised his fist to the door once more, and brought it down with a tremendous thud.
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