Chapter 4
(Gage)
“Nice, you made it!”
“Told you I would, fucker,” Gage grumbled, fist bumping Max, the former manager of Shriveled Rose who’d recently started managing the new band he’d asked Gage to come down and check out tonight.
He had a good idea of why Max had asked too, and no matter the offer, the answer was no. He would not consider going on the road with them or any other band, no matter how promising they were.
“Relax,” Max said. “I know that look.”
“And what look would that be?”
“The one you get right before you threaten to knock someone’s head off with a telephone pole and run them over with your bike.”
Grumbling beneath his breath, Gage decided to not even dignify that with an answer. Yes, it had been his go-to threat. When a thing got results, you stuck with it, especially if it meant the assholes around you calmed the fuck down and quit whatever shit was getting on your nerves.
“You made it clear to me when you got the job here that you intended it to be long-term, and I respect that,” Max said. “But if you like what you hear, I hope you’ll let me persuade you to run the booth when they cut their EP.”
Rubbing his chin, Gage gave careful consideration to the request and the time constraints he was already working under.
“Depends on when and how long they think they’ll need,” Gage said, refusing to promise anything yet. “And only if they blow my socks off tonight.”
“Fair enough. The two opening bands tonight are rumored to have promise; I’d love your thoughts on them and whether you think they’d be worth my time or not.”
“Looking to expand?”
“It’s easier to get bookings for a show if you already have a band on hand to get the crowd warmed up.”
“Good point,” Gage replied. “Who are they, anyway? Anyone I’ve heard of?”
“Maybe. The opening band is some local boys, Satellite Falls. The mid-band is Twisted Satin. Best I can tell, they are glam rock with a hint of punk. Not sure how that’s supposed to work, but I guess we’ll find out.
Opening band is grunge, mostly on the heavier side.
I’ve heard both good and bad things about them. ”
Gage schooled his features, refusing to let his surprise show at being offered the opportunity to see Song in action without having to go through the effort of tracking the band down.
“So what’s the bad?” He asked, not even acknowledging that he knew the name.
That would lead to questions. Gage wanted unrestrained answers before he tipped his hand.
Song and Zachy had an amazing time playing together over the weekend, and Zachy had begged, afterward, to spend an afternoon hanging out around the city with Song.
If the young man was going to land Zachy in a shitstorm in the process, then Gage would be forced to say no to his boy and explain why so Zachy would understand why his daddy was curtailing his fun.
“The singer has a bad habit of performing drunk, and the lead guitarist has a short temper and has gotten into more than just a few fights from what I’ve heard,” Max explained.
“And the drummer?”
“Haven’t heard anything bad about him,” Max said. “But a couple people did say he was the band’s peacemaker and had gotten swung on more than once trying to keep the singer and guitarist out of trouble.”
The pressure in his chest that had been building as Max discussed the band members instantly began to ease when he talked about Song.
“What’s the good?”
“Strong songwriting skills, kickass stage presence, energetic performances from beginning to end, good crowd interaction, and a rapidly growing following.”
“If it’s all true, I see why you’d be interested.”
“Looks like we’re about to find out if the folks I’ve been talking to were right or not,” Max said as the lights dimmed while five individuals arranged themselves on the stage.
For a drummer, Song was a little on the small side, at least compared to other drummers Gage had known over the years, but when he hit those skins, there was no mistaking the power as he launched into a wild, heavy beat that immediately brought the club to life.
A small mosh pit formed, heads banged, and even those seated away from the chaos on the floor dialed in to watch as they erupted into their first song.
The guitar player had mad skills, fingers dancing over the strings as he banged his head to the beat, chords blazing with the same fire and drive as Song exhibited.
Then the singer started to sing, and with how loud everything was, it took Gage a moment to realize that his growly voice, though powerful, wasn’t delivering the song in a way that allowed any of the words to be understandable.
How the hell had anyone determined their songwriting skills were strong if they couldn’t understand the delivery?
Beer in one hand, mic stand in the other.
Shit, yeah, his words were slurring; that’s why the fuck Gage couldn’t understand him.
From the look of things, he was using the mic stand to keep himself upright too.
Who the fuck had let him on stage like that?
At the very least, someone should have taken the beer away from him before he went out there.
Young.
Each and every face on the stage was young, despite the goatee the bassist sported and the close-cropped beard on the singer’s chin.
Gage watched the way the lead and rhythm guitarists played off one another and even wound up dueling, much to the delight of the crowd, especially those right in front of them.
Devil horns went up, and the action in the pit grew even more rowdy as the crowd grew in the back as more listeners flooded in.
No worries about all of this band’s songs sounding the same.
Each had its own distinctive tone and pace.
Over the six-song set, they created a wave, from heavy to heavier to damn near burning the house down with a song that sounded like grunge meeting a freight train.
Then they brought the set to a close with darker, grimier songs that were still fast, just with a different sort of pitch to them.
Those rose and fell in tempo, with a slower chorus, like the song was a dialogue between two very different individuals.
It worked, but it would have been far more successful if any of the words the singer delivered had been fully understandable.
He'd drained the beer in his hand after the first song, and after the second, someone in the crowd handed him another. He killed a third between the fourth and fifth songs and nearly crashed into the guitar player the one time he’d let go of that mic stand.
When Gage glanced over at Max at the end of the song, he saw nothing but disappointment on his face.
It still looked better than the daggers the guitarist shot towards the singer as soon as the final note faded away.
The singer was oblivious as he bellowed for someone to hand him another beer, while the guitar player hastily shoved his instrument into the stand and charged him, only to be cut off by Song and the rhythm guitarist. Song had moved so fast that Gage hadn’t noticed until he was ducking a left hook the guitarist threw as he tried to lunge over him to get at the singer.
“Damn, man, chill and crack a cold one!” The singer said, mic still hot and held in his hand, as he tripped over a cord and landed on his ass, laughing even as someone pressed another beer into his hand.
“I’m gonna kill him!” The guitarist bellowed so loud none of them needed the mic to hear it.
“Not in public!” Song growled, backing the guitarist away while the bassist tried to haul the singer to his feet only to get yanked down on top of him.
Beer sloshed everywhere as chants of "alcohol abuse" and "kill him here" went up from the crowd. Even from across the room, Gage could see Song’s cheeks redden beneath the spotlight, as the whole altercation was caught on video by over a dozen camera phones that were aimed their way.
“Uggggg!” The guitarist howled in frustration before kicking the mic stand over.
Each time he tried to go around Song and the rhythm guitarist, one of them cut him off, while the bassist finally managed to haul the singer back to his feet. Sloppy drunk, he clung to the bassist, making every step difficult as he stumbled and held up his beer in triumph.
“Saved it!” he bellowed.
He was rewarded with a round of cheers and renewed effort by the guitarist, who lunged and finally managed to catch hold of the hem of his T-shirt.
A tug of war ensued, as Song and the rhythm guitarist tried to make him let go while the bassist tried to pull the singer further away from him.
The shirt ripping was inevitable; only the part that ripped was the sleeve the bassist had grabbed hold of.
The singer landed on his ass at the guitarist's feet, and for a moment, the only thing Gage could see clearly was the flurry of punches the guitarist rained down on him.
Club security members were finally forced to get up there and help the rest of the band members break up the brawl, and even then, it took two of those big brutes to hold the guitarist back.
As he and the singer were dragged off the stage, Gage’s focus turned back towards Song, only to see the boy standing off to the side with the rhythm guitarist, one hand pressed to the side of his face.
“Shit,” Gage muttered, ignoring Max’s “what” in his haste to shove through the crowd so he could reach the stage.
The barricade that had been erected between the stage and the crowd had gotten shoved flush against it by the mosh pit, making it easy for Gage to use it to help him boost himself up onto the stage.
Song’s eyes widened when Gage stepped in front of him and gently reached to turn his head so he could see the damage.
“Didn’t know you were coming,” Song muttered. “Sorry you had to see that train wreck.”
“The only part that was a train wreck was your singer; the rest of you put on a pretty badass show that I couldn’t care less about at this moment. We need to get some ice on your face; it’s already starting to swell.”
“I caught an elbow trying to break them up.”
“Next time, just let your guitarist choke the life out of him and be done with it,” Gage said as he turned away from Song to motion to the member of the security staff closest to the stage.
“Grab me some ice from the bar, will ya?”
“Yeah, I got you, man,” the guy said before hurrying away.
“I’d have warned you that I was going to be here if I’d known this was where you were playing tonight,” Gage told him, not wanting Song to think he was up to something underhanded by coming here alone. “A buddy of mine manages the headliners and invited me to check them out.”
He left out the part about Max scouting them, especially with the way everything had gone down. Just taking in Song’s slumped shoulders and utterly dejected look, Gage knew he was even more embarrassed now than when the fight had broken out.
When security returned with the ice wrapped in some paper towels, Gage gently placed it against Song’s face and escorted him off the stage to the back, where a whole lot of yelling, mostly by the still enraged guitarist, was going on.
Sticking his fingers in his mouth, Gage let out an ear-piercing whistle that brought silence to the space as several heads turned his way, including the guitarist, who stood, blinking for a few seconds. Until he got a look at Song.
He immediately broke away from the men holding him back from reaching the singer a second time to stalk over, his fury morphing into apologetic shame.
“Shit, Song, I am so fucking sorry!”
“Apologize by helping me vote that fucker out of the band!” Song snapped. “I am not going to New York with him singing like that. They’ll burn the stage down with us on it, and it will be all his fault!”
“Fuck you, man, they loved me out there!” The singer bellowed across the backstage area.
For a moment, it looked like the guitarist was about to turn around and stomp a mudhole in his ass, then he took a deep breath, lips moving like he was counting as he blew it out.
“I have not taken enough anger management classes yet to deal with his shit!” the guitarist grumbled.
“Is that a yes to him being gone then?” Song asked.
“Can I punctuate it by launching him across the parking lot?” the guitarist snarled.
“No, but you can launch Mark if he doesn’t agree that he’s gotta go, ‘cause I have had enough of his bullshit too,” the bassist said to the right of where Gage remained beside Song, proud of the way he was taking charge of the situation by trying to rid them of a problem bandmate.
“Tonight was the last straw! “I’m done with his ass too; he’s out. ”
“Are we making this unanimous, or are you still on the Carson train, Mark?” Song called out, then winced and pressed the ice a bit tighter against his cheek.
“Consider the train derailed, and Carson, you can consider your ass fired,” the one Gage now knew was named Mark announced. “If we can’t replace you before New York, we’ll just have to cancel.”
“Replace this!” Carson snarled, grabbing his junk before promptly puking all over himself.
A collective groan went up, but not even one of his now former bandmates moved to help him. Song just shook his head and stood with shoulders slumped until Gage nudged his shoulder to get Song to look up at him.
“Want to listen to the rest of the bands with me and let me introduce you to my friend Max?”
“I doubt he’d want to meet me after what just happened.”
Snorting, Gage watched people give the puking singer a wide berth as he continued to projectile vomit beer all over himself and the floor in front of him.
“He’s seen worse,” Gage declared. “A lot worse. So how about it?”
“Yeah, let’s go. If I have to look at him any longer, I’ll be tempted to launch him across the parking lot.”
“Naa, he’s not worth getting covered in barf.”
His words not only caused Song to double over with laughter but also the rest of his bandmates.
It was way better than seeing him scowling and looking miserable.
Like Zachy, he was downright adorable with a grin on his face, and Gage was struck with a sudden and very powerful desire to make sure he never had a reason to scowl again.