Hyper! (Vol.1)

Live Tonight

The pub was dimly lit. Strings of blinking neon lights hung loose above rickety wooden chairs and dilapidated circular tables, all of which were missing a leg or two. Tattooed bartenders were busy mixing drinks behind the counter, sometimes making a show of themselves by flipping their cocktail shakers—and failing in almost every attempt. Customers came in all shapes and sizes, though overworked men with droopy eyelids, reeking of cigarettes and sweat, were a heavy majority. Chatters were heard, and none of them made the slightest bit of sense. A crooked television screen was mounted high up the wall, displaying a football game mixed with static.

In the corner was a makeshift stage, a short elevated platform coated in a green mildewed rug. A singular chair was reserved for the platform. It was propped right next to a microphone, perhaps the only working electrical appliance in the entire room, along with the small portable speaker it was attached to. There was a pair of extra boomboxes kept in the storage room, but they went out-of-order ages ago, being the source of high-pitched squeals which might as well summon a horde of bats. The jukebox had stopped working since the eighties, and was only kept there for show, a museum display of sorts.

Nobody noticed the boy when he entered, taking silent steps past the crowd, an electric guitar slung to his back. Dodging glasses and bottles and random slurs, he slithered his way towards the stage, and took a seat.

He did nothing for a while. He just sat, looked around and observed, chin in hand. When he felt he was ready, he lifted his guitar and placed it on his left leg. Eyes shut, as if in a trance, he listened. He listened to the clinks of cups, rhythmic claps, hearty laughs, chorus of cheers when the Paris Saint-Germain scored their first goal. To him, none of it was mere background noise to be ignored. Every second had a beat, a harmony, a purpose. It was all music to him.

Gingerly, he plucked the strings a couple of times. Slow at first, then gradually picking up speed. The melody, alluring as it was, remained unheard to most. After all, he hadn't plugged in the instrument. He had no intention to start just yet. This was a mere warm-up.

Once he had a clear idea of which song to perform for the night, he did the formalities: jacking his guitar into the amp, adjusting the volume, tuning the keys to fit. He wanted to try something different this time. As much as he preferred Jagged Stone covers, he wanted to challenge himself a bit, see what happens.

He tapped the microphone. "Test, test."

People turned to watch.

"Ahem." He cleared his throat. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen." His voice was a soft baritone, one guaranteed to drive schoolgirls mad. "My name's Luka, and I'm gonna play for you guys tonight."

The concerned audience gawked and traded whispers. Whoever let this young teal-headed twink into La Bouteille must be mad enough. Letting him take over live music? That was on a whole new level of drunk.

Luka strummed a chord. "Here goes."

And so, he began the intro. It was a slightly different version than the one he'd heard in his mother's vinyl, with extra bars for the sake of improvisation. Silence descended among the crowds on tables. The bartenders paused mid-shake, mouths agape. Luka was used to this, the feeling of activating a black hole which absorbed all attention. He never made a conscious effort to switch on or off. The effect seemed to appear on its own, anytime he needed it.

He sang:

"I look at you all / See the love there that's sleeping / While my guitar gently weeps..."

Luka had spent countless nights of his childhood performing for people he'd never met, those who tended to underestimate him at face value. Whether it was a diner, a wedding, or some seedy nightclub, he always needed to compete with the more reputable kind of hired musicians: crowded swing bands, professional DJs with their laser lights and turntables, sometimes other boys with guitars like him, except for the fact that they'd lived past high school. He'd be lucky if he could snag a one-hour gig with a good paycheck, enough to add up to his meagre allowances. Much luckier if he could manage an all-nighter and contribute a significant amount to Juleka's school fees.