Old Time Rock and Roll
No one check’d if it was plugged. 5 minutes on stage, we looks like fools. Pietro, he was ’em sound engineer or some’in, he was chuggin’ some ol’ fashion brew bef’re curtain. Burp, he says when I talks to ‘im. ‘Em fuckin’ sound’s good, he added. We had god fuckin’ mitzvah earlier. Now, sweat is colorin’ his gray #42 jersey shirt as he runs around, pig that he is, orderin’ his lackeys to check the goddamn mics.
Commoffit, Liza whispers to me. His goddamn job’s checkin’ the fuckin’ amps and he screws it up. I is getting fuckin’ pissed. I chews off her words, they ain’t mean nothin’ to me. Liza’s been complainin’ since Jersey. Ain’t seem to be nothin’ that pleases her. Damn good bassis’, rough in the sack, but, jesus lord, that mouth on her.
Drummer boy at the back, can’t seem to ‘member if he was Poutycrank or Genierubber, seems ‘gitated. Kickin’ his set and all. Liza’s naggin’ that he got in. Ol’ Timmy ain’t wanna come back to join us, says he gots family and shit. We picks up this drummer boy at Indiana. Been a bugger ever since. Calls himself the star, the messiah of drummin’ or shit.
This tiny girl in black runs over. Says Pietro says amp’s good. She says sorry. I sees in her eyes the chains of music. I wants to tell her to hang in, that payin’ your dues works out, but who was I? She reminds me that we only gots one set to play before this new-fangled indie-hipster-punkrock-whatever fuckin’ term they use has to go on.
Drummer boy ain’t happy we’re openin’ for that indie fuckin’ band. Liza and I knows better than to throw off bread. We hitches our guitars on our shoulders. Liza says sorry for technical failure. We starts to play that song that knows us.
Then, in one light, Liza was 20 years younger, laughin’, in a tight-bodied skirt. Drummer boy ain’t there, it was ol’ Timmy at the drums. Jerry was still alive, kickin’ it up at keyboard, and at the side good ol’ Yakit, before he wents to rehab. The lights were on me, in my habitat.
Then drummer boy’s burpin’ broke the light. Through the crowd of wanderin’ people, I spots the next set in their trendy clothin’ and ironic chains. Their hit single a flesh in the wound..
Here begins the 100 Songs Project, a 100-day writing challenge based on AFI’s 100 Years…100 Songs. Every day, I write a short poem, prose piece, or play based on, reacting to, rejecting, accepting, or doing something related to one of the songs in the top 100 list.