2
JEM
I leavethe empty alley and return to the busy club, the contrast in sound pushing away thoughts about my weird encounter. The lighting in the space between the bathrooms and the door is brighter and girls queue outside. At least one of them recognises me, because I hear my name whispered. Beneath the heavy make-up and long, black hair, she’s young. Too young for me.Wow, I’m maturing. I laugh to myself, no, just getting too old for screwing girls in darkened corners. Not my style these days. Any more than a glance toward a chick, and I’m asking for trouble so I adopt my ‘don’t fucking talk to me’ stance and stalk back to the bar.
I order a Coke, again questioning my wisdom in surrounding myself with one of the drugs that fucked my life up. Alcohol. Why? Because in these bars I’m at the beginning, before I became Jem Jones, lead guitarist of the stratospheric Blue Phoenix. Where else can I immerse myself in the raw music that reminds me of the early days before I lost myself?
Suddenly, the band launches into their set, no introduction, just a jarring guitar pitching into a frenzied song.
Powerful. Arresting.
I turn from the bar towards the stage, encouraged I might hear something decent after weeks listening to wannabes who need to rehearse a lot more before they play in public. Bodies fill the sticky, wooden floor between me and the band; strobe lights pick out the band members.
Front of stage, mic in hand, is the red-haired girl.
What the hell? Her voice cuts into the sound, an energy and depth to compliment the overpowering music. She has the crowd transfixed—I’mtransfixed and that never happens. She’s fucking amazing. Beautiful. Intoxicating.
How can someone with the strength and presence holding the crowd by the balls, be weakened by the dickhead who held her throat outside?
The rest of the band members are guys and I smirk with recognition as I watch the lead guitarist. He’s good, not as good as me, but has a presence. He shakes his blond hair from his face and picks out a girl in the crowd before turning on the kind of smile I used myself.Tag, you’re it tonight. Yeah, there’re a fair few chicks fixated on this lean, muscular guy with the looks to match his swagger.
The drummer is half-hidden in the dim but pretty damn good too, and the bassist lost at the opposite end of the stage, intently focused on his performance. This happens— some people have no idea how to perform to a crowd. Blue Phoenix bass player Liam isn’t big into performing but he hides behind his long hair. This guy’s short spiky black hair hides nothing, including the piercings covering his face.
The more I stay, and the more I hear, I know Ruby Riot is beyond special. The acoustics in the place are shit, some of their gear crap, but with decent equipment and sound engineers, this band would rock the fucking world. The world needs to hear Ruby Riot and at that moment, I decide I’ll ensure they do.
I close my eyes to see what colour their music is – I see music as colour, always have, and I was pretty damn happy when I discovered I share this condition with Jimi Hendrix. I suspect the years of drug use are responsible for the synaesthesia becoming stronger over time, but I’m happy about that.
This song is purple; red and blue melded into a vibrancy to match her voice.
I don’t let the girl see me. I don’t need to—she knows I’m here. Other nights, when bands knew Jem Jones scouted, this reflected in their performance. I scared them into mistakes and if that’s likely to happen, the bands aren’t ready to step outside their pubs and club circuits. This chick? No. If anything, I suspect she’s performing better.
I guess I’ll find her afterwards.
Towards the end of the set, I disappear outside for another nicotine fix and when return, Ruby Riot has left the stage. I head to the Green Room, hoping to hell Mr Muscles isn’t the band spokesperson. The flaking blue painted door is ajar so I walk in.
“I said I’m sorry,” says the red-haired girl softly, then she turns. “Oh. You.”
The singer’s face glows from the performance and she drags her hair above her head, twisting the damp tendrils into a ponytail. The movement is impossibly sexy, her flushed face and wide-eyes adding to the almost innocent attraction. Her plain black tank top is soaked at the front, perspiration slicking her skin. This chick is hot. I blink. And too young.
“You never told me you’re part of Ruby Riot,” I say.
“Thought you might leave if I did.” She reaches for a bottle of water behind and when she wraps her painted red lips around the neck, I immediately picture them around my dick. Yeah, I guess some things will never change.
“Why would I leave?” I ask.
“Can’t see Jem Jones scouting out a band with a girl as lead singer.”
“Why not?”
She wipes sweat from her brow with the back of a hand. “Dunno. I’ve never seen Blue Phoenix with a female support band.”
“You’re not all chicks.”
She pulls a sour face. “That’s okay then, onlyoneof the band members is the weaker sex.”
“You’re twisting my words.”
Placing down the bottle, she fixes hard eyes on me. “What do you want, Jem Jones?”