After four rehearsals in Julie's garage, Hellakill feels ready to perform using Pattern Distortion's equipment. Rich from Lady Endorphin made it out to three of the jam sessions, although Casey, Lady Endorphin herself, has yet to make an appearance. Danny sat in on one rehearsal as well. He didn't play guitar, but sat quietly in the corner watching the others play. He followed the songs in his head, trying to remember the guitar parts that Jay had taught him when they practiced at home.
And although he still hasn't started playing with the band, Danny was successful finding someone to help breathe some life into the band's web presence. Benny, the pop-punk girl with pink streaks in her short black hair, agreed to help Danny and the two spent a few lunch periods in the McLaughlin Collegiate computer lab adding some flair to Hellakill's MySpace page, although with no pictures or MP3s, the content of the page is still sparse. Getting some pics and music to upload is the assignment that Benny gives Danny. Danny passes the word to Jay, who says he'll see what he can do.
On the Friday night of the Duke's gig, Peter brings his van around to Jay's house, and the Hellakill guitarist comes out carrying his little leftie guitar in its cheap gig bag. He climbs into the passenger seat and buckles up. "You bring the camera?" he asks Peter.
"Yeah," the drummer says, pointing to the knapsack on the passenger seat floor as he begins to drive. "I borrowed it from my roommate, so we better get it back in proper shape."
"Instead of getting it stolen, right?" Jay pulls out the little digital camera and looks it over.
"It wasn't my fault our gear got ripped off, man," Peter says. "I locked the door."
"I know," Jay says. "I didn't mean to make it sound like... shit, I was just joking."
Peter sighs. "I know. I guess I'm a bit sensitive. I still feel shitty about the gear."
"Well, we should have new stuff soon. We play Duke's, do the benefit show, and then go on a shopping spree with five grand to spend on new equipment, right? The way I break that down, that's a grand apiece for Steve and me to get new guitars and amps, twenty-five hundred for a new kit for you, with five hundred for extras. You know. Mikes and stuff. Maybe a P.A. system. We could just go nuts."
Peter doesn't say anything.
"Don't worry, man," Jay says. "Everything will be fine."
They pull up to Julie's place, and in the fading daylight they see Julie, Kathy, Ron and Scott of Pattern Disruption waiting on the driveway with their jackets on. The garage door is open and the band's gear is stacked and ready to be loaded. Julie waves as Peter backs the van up the driveway.
"Where are the other guys?" Ron asks when Peter and Jay climb out of the van.
"They don't have any gear to haul," Peter says. "They can take the bus."
"Nice." They load the drums and amps into the van, and Ron and Scott take their guitars and load them into the back of a battered grey compact parked across the street.
"You're taking the girls, okay?" Ron calls back to Peter. "We'll see you at the bar." Ron and Scott climb into the compact. The little vehicle coughs out some dark exhaust and they drive off down the street.
Peter and Kathy get in the front seats of the van, with Jay and Julie ending up together in the back seat. Julie is wearing heavier makeup than usual in preparation for the performance, her lips painted red, and the liner around her eyes dark blue.
"You look good," Jay says.
"Thanks," Julie says. She smiles and looks straight ahead.
Weird, thinks Jay, remembering the attention Julie had paid to him the last several times they'd met.
Duke's is a pub on the ground floor of the Grand Hotel, a rough hotel on the corner of Seventh and Franklin in downtown Millenburgh. Despite the hotel's ugly, fifty-year-old façade and the out-of-date décor in the bar itself, Duke's is a popular place. It's always packed on a Friday night, mostly with working class men and women out to get pissed after a shift. You get the older folks mixed in, with a few hippies from the university crowd who want to go slumming among the proletariat. It's a raucous room with worn-out carpets, the lingering stink of cigarette smoke from bygone days and the underlying tension of knowing that any given night could feature a brawl.
Peter parks on the street in front of the bar entrance. Ron and Scott are there waiting for them, and together they begin carrying in the guitars, amps and pieces of the drum kit.
Jay goes in with his own guitar and the snare drum stand. When his eyes adjust to the dim light, he sees Tyson and Steve sitting at a table in the middle of the room. They each have empty glasses in front of them.
"Gentlemen," Jay says to his friends. "Getting loaded already?"
"Ginger ale, my good man," says Steve. "What would you expect? We're consummate professionals."
"Terrific," Jay says, putting the drum stand down on the front of the stage. "Wanna get your consummate pro ass outside and help with the drums?"
Tyson and Steve lethargically get up and move to help. Jay looks up at the small stage. There is a projection screen down with a college football game playing on it. There is space behind the screen for them to set up the drums. There are small clutches of people in the room, standing in corners or sitting at tables, sucking at beer bottles or sipping happy hour highballs.
"Did you see the marquee?" Tyson asks as they step out into the chill air.
"No," Jay says. "Are we on it?"
"Go take a look."
While the members of Pattern Disruption and Hellakill pull amps and drums out of the van, Jay walks to the corner and looks at the illuminated sign hanging above the hotel entrance on Franklin Street. "Fri Hellakill," it reads. "Sat Sun Allsystemsgo."
"What the hell?" Jay says to himself. He turns and walks back to the group. "What's this shit? Allsystemsgo?"
Tyson grins. "I guess the bar wanted them for the whole weekend, but they've got a gig in Fort Wayne tonight. That's why we were only offered Friday night."
"Damnit," Jay mutters. "We're opening for them again."
Peter parks the van in the parking lot behind the hotel and the two bands head inside the bar. Once the gear is set up, they find a shadowy booth in the back and relax, waiting for their time to get up and perform.
"I've never been in here," Kathy says, taking in the vibe of the place. "It's... charming." She looks over at a grossly fat patron standing near the bar. The man's t-shirt has become untucked from his green sweat pants, exposing a wide swath of hairy belly. The man absently scratches his belly button while sipping from a highball glass.
"Yeah, it oozes class," Steve says. He nods to Scott, who displays dark blue tattoos up his arms. "You're probably the safest one in here. You'll blend in with the crowd."
"That's what I was going for," Steve responds wryly, looking at his tats. "I walked into the tattoo shop and said 'Gimme the Duke's special.'"
A squat, swarthy man with a bristly moustache and flat-top haircut comes over to their table. "Hey guys," he says. "You play at nine-thirty, okay? Two sets, right? When the game is over we raise the screen, you do sound check, okay? Sound good? You want drinks? Yeah? You order at the bar, okay? Sounds good? Okay, have a good show." He smiles and walks away.
"Nice talking to you," Steve says.
By the time the football game on the big screen is over, the bar is packed. There's a crowd around the pool table as people lay down quarters to mark their turn to play. The chairs at all the tables are full. Patrons line up at the bar as the middle-aged waitresses pour the mixed drinks and pull the bottled beer from the fridges under the counter.
There is a hint of electricity in the air, as the crowd starts to unwind from the work week. Stenches collide as the smell of too much perfume on the women mixes with the body odor of the men who came straight to the bar from work. Women with poofy hairdos laugh at off-color jokes made by men with trucker caps and handlebar moustaches.
The TV switches off and Peter, Steve, Tyson and Jay get up and work their way through the crowd to the stage. The white screen of the projection TV slowly retracts and the boys climb up on stage. Hoots and cries from the crowd greet them as they set about flicking on their amps. There is a console for adjusting the house sound system, and they methodically test the levels, hitting the drums, touching strings, speaking into the mikes, seeking the perfect mix. When they are satisfied, Jay hops down off the stage. "We've got a few minutes," he says. "I'm going for a smoke."
Jay walks outside without his jacket. The cold air hits him and feels good, making him awake and tense. There are other patrons standing outside smoking and talking in loud half-drunk voices. Jay lights a cigarette and tries to focus, seeking a level of consciousness suited to performance: excited but not agitated, pumped up but not nervous. Confident but not relaxed.
He sees a familiar figure walking up Seventh Avenue toward him. He takes a drag and waves to Rich.
The Lady Endorphin guitarist nods and stops. He has an Indianapolis Pacers cap pulled low over his eyes and his hands plunged into the pockets of a black denim jacket.
"What are you doing out here without a coat?" Rich asked. "You're gonna freeze to death."
"I just stepped out for a minute," Jay says. "We're playing in here tonight. Are you coming in?"
"Yeah. Julie invited me."
"Oh." Jay takes a drag on his cigarette, feeling a tiny, unexpected pang of emotion twisting in the pit of his stomach.
"You really shouldn't let yourself get too cold before you play," Rich says. "Playing with cold hands can lead to carpal tunnel syndrome."
"I'll be fine." Jay flicks the cigarette away. "Come on, let's go in."
"Yeah. It's freezing out here."
Jay leads Rich into the bar and points out the table where the members of Pattern Disruption are sitting. Julie sees them and waves. Rich waves back and starts moving through the crowd toward the table. Again, Jay feels a little pang.
"Dude, you ready?" calls Steve from on stage. Jay rubs his hands together to warm them and climbs up. The stage lights come up as he pulls his Sears guitar on. At his feet a long set list is taped to the floor. The list includes all of Hellakill's original songs, plus a generous number of covers to fill the two hours required of the band. First up is their standard opener, the original song titled 'Fractures.'
Jay rubs his hands together again and stretches his fingers, limbering them up. He nods to Tyson. Tyson nods to Steve, and Steve nods to Peter. There is a brief hush in the room as the crowd realizes the band is ready to play, and then scattered whistles and cheers.
The members of the band understand that these people don't know who they are. Although Hellakill has built a small fan base in the city, they are not foolish enough to think that they are such household names that the patrons of Duke's would know them or their songs. This audience has to be won over. They want good music, played well. And that is just what the members of Hellakill are ready to give them.
Peter bangs the high hat four times and the band snaps into action. Steve and Jay jump onto the riff. Tyson begins to sing, and the room begins to rock.
They play through 'Fractures' and another original called 'Girl Troubles' before stopping. Tyson pulls the mike from the stand and speaks to the crowd.
"Good evening," he says. "Our band is called Hellakill and we're very happy to be playing for you tonight. Here's some Hendrix for you."
Jay hits the unmistakable opening riff of 'Foxy Lady' and the crowd cheers. As he plays, Jay tries to look out into the crowd to the table where Rich and the members of Pattern Disruption are sitting, but he can't see them. The lights are too bright.
2008 © Nolan Whyte
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