Cuttin' Heads

6

6“We're Shattered Twilight, and we're here to rule the world!” shouts the leather-clad, facepainted ghoul on the stage.

“Aye, good luck with that, Morticia,” Ross says, chuckling and taking a swallow of his pint.

The first band of the night start their opener; a de-tuned dirge of a tune, all darkly ponderous guitar lines, slow and awkward tempo, the vocal melody a plaintive half whisper. The bass player, whose name Luce can't quite recall – Gaz? Garbo? - has been giving her the eye and a series of sleazy wee knowing grins since they'd arrived. Even now, on the stage - which isn't really a stage at all, just a slightly raised platform at the far end of the room - he's slowly gyrating his hips as he plays, staring straight at her in a manner she supposes he thinks is darkly seductive, but which is actually skin-crawlingly creepy. She shudders a little inside, cringing at the hazy memory of their brief liaison last year. She'd been really drunk.

Shattered Twilight have brought a pretty decent gaggle of Goths with them, and the area in front of the stage is crowded with about twenty slowly moshing, shoe-gazing figures, uniformly dressed in black. As promised, quite a few of Luce's students have turned up as well, and the cramped candlelit basement of the 13th Note is respectably crowded. It's a good turnout. They might even make a little cash from the gig, for a change.

They're sitting round a shoogly-legged table against the wall halfway down the room. Across from her, Aldo's surveying the crowd, nervously drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Like a lot of frontmen and women she's played with, he always gets a bit twitchy before a gig, but he seems more wound up than usual tonight. When they were putting the setlist together earlier, he was very deliberate about what songs should go where in their half hour slot, and during soundcheck he was pickier than usual about the levels, stopping their run-through several times to get the guy at the mixing desk to bring the guitar up, get more low end on the vocals, a bit less on the monitors. It's good to see him so motivated. Aldo can be hit and miss sometimes in his on-stage delivery, especially if there isn't much in the way of an audience. It seems like his new circumstances are the source of his focus tonight, and while she feels for her frontman, it can only be a good thing for the band. She hasn't seen Aldo look this hungry since they started out.

Placing her rubber drum pad on the table in front of her and getting her sticks out, Luce runs through her warm up exercises, going through her rudiments. She finishes her pre-show ritual by bending and flexing the muscles and tendons in her hands, wrists and ankles. She does this before every gig and every rehearsal, religiously so, and with far more devotion then she'd ever felt as a child during the complex rituals of Mass.

A daughter of devout Catholics – devout Italian Catholics no less – Luce'd never really caught the Jesus bug as a kid. All the elaborate bowing and kneeling and guilt and endless Latin recitals. It wasn't that she didn't believed in God at that age. In her simple, child-like way, she did, and she certainly liked the pretty dress she'd been given for her First Communion when she was seven. She just didn't think that God would be all that fussed about all the incense and hymns and sacraments and catechisms. Why would God or Jesus or the Holy Ghost care if you ate fish on a Friday or not? And it didn't seem fair that Brian McGill, the wee boy next door that she played with sometimes, would burn in hell for all eternity just because he was a Protestant. Surely God had other things to worry about with a whole universe to look after? Karen, Luce's best friend, had never shared any of her doubts. Karen never missed Mass in her life. She actually enjoyed going to chapel. Kind-hearted and achingly pretty, without a malicious bone in her body, Karen never went in or out of her front door without a wee splash of holy water and a heartfelt genuflection. Her unquestioning belief in the church and the Holy Trinity had been unshakeable.

“That dude at the bar,” Aldo says, interrupting Luce's memories. “I've seen him before.”

Glad of the distraction, she looks over her shoulder and sees the tall guy watching the band on stage. He looks bored. Dressed all in black, with wavy dark hair falling around his shoulders, at first glance he could be taken for another Goth follower of Shattered Twilight. On closer inspection, his smart leather jacket, tailored button-down shirt and trousers and high-shined shoes set him apart. On the bar at his elbow, there's an expensive looking camera next to a whisky tumbler. He's very good looking, his long hair and fine sculpted features, thrown into sharp relief by the dim candlelight of the basement bar, giving him a sort of rock n roll Jude Law look. It's hard to gauge his age in the low light.

“Right enough,” Luce says, turning back to Aldo. “I think he was at the gig in Ivory Black's last month. Maybe one of those freelance photographers. Did he speak to you after that gig? Try and sell you some pics?”

Aldo shakes his head. “Nope, which is weird, because he was definitely taking snaps of us that night.”

“So what's his deal?” Ross says, raising his eyebrows. “You think maybe…”

“Aye. Could be an A&R guy.”

Luce glances over her shoulder again and sees the guy looking back at her, a little smile on his face. He nods and raises his whisky glass in salute, but makes no move to approach their table. “He's definitely checking us out,” Luce says, turning back to Aldo and Ross again. “We should go over and say hello.”

“Aye,” Aldo says, and starts to rise from his seat. At that moment however, the frontman of Shattered Twilight brings their set to a close.

“Thanks for coming out,” he yells into the mic amid a prolonged rolling drum fill and a wall of muddy guitar distortion. “f**k you and goodnight!” Despite the abusive sign off, the little Goth crowd in front of the stage cheer and applaud lustily, chanting Twilight! Twilight! Twilight!

Their half hour of glory over, Shattered Twilight unplug guitars and unscrew cymbals, and Luce feels the familiar rush of queasy nervous excitement that always precedes going on stage. Now it's their turn.

“Guess the schmoozing's going to have to wait,” Aldo says, picking up his guitar. “Time to go to work.”

“Let's do it,” Ross says, getting to his feet.

“Listen, guys,” Aldo says, “Let's do this one right. If that guy is A&R, we need to make an impression, aye? No f**k ups.”

“No f**k ups,” Luce agrees. This is good to see. Aldo means business.

* * *

“Well,” Ross says, forty-five minutes later. His sleeveless Black Sabbath t-shirt is soaked, his big muscular arms and grinning face gleaming with sweat in the candlelight. “That went alright, eh?”

Luce can only grin in response. Her whole body's tingling with a peculiar mix of exhaustion and elation, her limbs feeling curiously weightless. Without a doubt, Public Alibi have just played their best set to date.

“Dude,” Aldo says, smiling and shaking his head, his long hair hanging in his face in sweat tangled ropes. “That was fuckin sweet.”

When they'd started the set, the area in front of the stage had been scarcely populated - just the handful of Luce's students that she'd strong-armed into attending, the two thirsty guys from Ross's work, and a couple of other random punters.

By the time they'd finished the last song, the standing area in front of the stage had been packed with a sweaty, jumping throng of people six or seven deep. Even the Goths who'd come to see Shattered Twilight had been up and getting into it. Luce knew that Public Alibi could knock out a decent set, but tonight they'd delivered a peach. They were tight, loud, and precise.

Aldo had most definitely meant business. He hadn't just played the songs. He'd attacked them. Owned them in a way he'd never done before, playing and singing with a confidence and controlled aggression that she'd never seen. Ross too had played a blinder, never missing a note and perfectly synching his basslines with Luce's rhythms to create that hallowed, perfect groove.

As for Luce herself, she knew she'd rarely nailed it like she had tonight. From her first four-count in until the final cymbal crash half an hour later, she hadn't played a single stroke out of place. Now, drenched in sweat and trembling, the three of them sit once again round their little table, drinks in hand, basking in a jittery buzzing afterglow.

That's when Luce hears a voice behind her saying, “Pleased to meet you. My name's Gappa Bale. Easy Rollin Records. We need to talk.”