Ben Williamson 06/21/00 Siren The venue is shit. Or, in the words of one of my more articulate Russian acquaintances, it "sucks my testicles". That's a bad thing, by the way. Crazy Russians. What gets me the most is the smoke. I know, I'm in a bar, it's supposed to be fucking smoky. Being asthmatic is probably the primary thing between me being quote-unquote Hardcore into the quote-unquote Scene. In California, people that smoke are treated like... leprous Old Testament adulterers that eat barbecue pork loin. Or something. I can see by your expression that I've mentioned beloved Cali more than enough times in your presence. Yes, I'm the one that chose to move to Orlando, so I should deal. Yo comprende. My friend-of-friends, Timb, fetish prince of Bel-Air, shows up. He's got his usual entourage of gothettes and rock-star wannabes on deck, all basking in his artistry. After the requisite comrade punch-hug-secret handshake combination, the first words out of his mouth are, of course : "This venue is shit." I kind of shrug at him, but he doesn't ask questions. I love that about him, sort of, but sometimes I wish he'd ask. He clanks around a bit in his bondage gear, secures drinks for his crew, then pulls me aside and tells me that he brought 'it'. I do my uber-cool stoic nod, then kind of shrug again as he hands 'it' to me. Again, no questions... we've much done weirder for each other in the past. That's what you get for knowing someone ever since you were a fetus. He's right though... about the venue, I mean. It's pretty scummy even for us, and I hear ambulance sirens nearby. Not that we're worried. I've got more machismo per cubic centimeter than any... short skinny guy. Timb's packing spikes, and he's got platform-heeled Cure fans to use as human shields if needed. Plus, who'd hit a man who's that sexy? It'd be like punching David Bowie : Bad karma, and you'd get mascara on your knuckles. Anyway, I wipe some beer and spittle off a chair and sit down, trying to ignore the sticky sensation on my back. I'm trying not to cough, but I'm sort of enjoying the sick blue patterns the smoke is making. Ooh, blacklight, how cool. The music isn't even worth mentioning, but Timb's mouthing "You'll dance to anything... by Depeche Mode." I get back up and we kill a little time, doing capoeira or cha-cha to darkwave and punk. People'd probably look at me funny, but I'm not 6'4" and pink. I think his entourage is already wondering why they paid the 7$ to get in to the place. My philosophy is pull some taffy, kick up those rivet boots and just get your goth on while you can. Sirens outside, bad music and bad pickup lines inside. A club like this is pure noise. Not just sound, obviously... everything. The air tastes funny, you feel sort of clammy and warm both, and even if you do have an epileptic seizure due to the lightshow, people will just think you're a slightly better dancer. I bide my time some more. Some dog soldiers of the music industry clear a little space on the stage, so I head back to my seat. Everyone else is clamoring to get up close. I cough into a bar napkin, heartened that no special prize comes up. Timb and some of his entourage take their seats next to me. I pass out some earplugs... they look at me as if I'm an idiot, but I insist. Call it charisma or stubbornness, they eventually comply. I'd offer a pair to Timb, but he's nearly deaf anyway. Helps his music, is my theory. He looks at me sort of curiously, because I'm fiddling with the table and I don't put in any earplugs. Up on stage the band's setting up their equipment. He gets it, all of a sudden and I do the wry smile thing. I love a brilliant deductive mind. There's a stillness, right before the band gets started. She's up there, fiddling with her turquoise guitar with the rainbow stickers, scanning the crowd, getting ready. She doesn't see me, of course. I'm reminded that, even if it's not her physicality that gets to me, that she is undeniably beautiful. I'm pulled to her, but something else pulls me right back. She takes a long, slow drink of water. They start into their set. Total earfuck, but I don't even hear the guitar, the bass, the cliched samples from the keyboard. It just washes over me and through me like water. Underneath the piercings, the dyed hair, the image, there's something about her, I'm not sure. Her hair used to be blonde, turns an almost-green during the summer. A little too skinny, makes her look fragile, but I know her better than that. I think. Timb's liking the music, maybe... even his fan club is bopping along. I still don't hear it, and I only even notice him because I've got good peripheral vision. After a couple of seconds, after an eternity, she opens her mouth - her lips are thin, not 'sensual' or 'beestung' - and she's singing. Just like that. She's singing directly to me, but she's singing directly to Timb too, and I want to kill him with my bare hands. She's singing right at every poor bastard in the place, and I feel like I'm radiating raw envy. It's the amperage that kills, not the voltage. I want to cry, but I'm too thirsty. Through the nicotine fumes and the stench of post-adolescent humanity I swear I can taste her. Some people sing about love, or loss, or want, or cliched crap like that. She sings about... possession? Raw, chafing, self-mutilating lust? Enslavement? No, she sings about drowning. I imagine her cracking her guitar over my head, biting semi-circles out of my shoulder, carving 'Zorro' down my spine with a switchblade. Feels pretty good. Please keep all hands and feet inside the vehicle at all time. She's not 'dark'... fucking Radiohead is 'dark'. She's... that pit inside the void inside the black hole inside the other pit that's sort of deep purple and makes you want to headbutt yourself to death at 3:17 am. But you know you wouldn't want to breathe a second if it wasn't there. I'd love her, if the idea wasn't so insulting. Anyway, the song's over. I'm screaming as loud as I can, but no one can hear me over the crowd. I did mention I've got weak lungs, right? Whole show felt like a few minutes... it's always over sooner than I'd like. Timb watches me, sorta concerned, cause I'm lunging for the stage. Pushing hard as I can towards the crowd, towards her, towards all 31 flavors of the little death. Not going anywhere though... it's like chasing a rainbow. Or more like being a gerbil on that god damned exercise thing. I know she was looking at me, right at me. Deep through my eyes, 'cause she wanted me half as much as I wanted her. I'm still feeling thirsty. The crowd flows away, the band's gone. She's gone. Timb looks at me, kind of shrugs. I don't ask him what he's thinking. My wrist is tender and abraded, but not bleeding. Mostly I'm glad that the table didn't give out. Feeling something between elation and post-traumatic shock, I return Timb's handcuffs. Again, I hear sirens outside.