Rock 'N' Roll Singer

𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗘𝗘

23 November 1978
     I had spent hours poring over this stupid book, and the only cohesive bit I had was:

Stupid little schoolboy
Not your little play toy
You're the gum stuck to my shoe
Just can't seem to get rid of you

     The song started as the ramblings of a heartbroken teenage girl but managed to become something resembling a song. I had abandoned it after I graduated high school but, now that I met Bon, I wanted to get back into songwriting. I liked seeing the words I racked my brain over flow onto the blank pages of an old, pink notebook.

     I would have been lucky if it ever got recorded in the first place. No one in the Dumbskulls knew about it, and they wouldn't know until I finished. I wanted it to be perfect.

     The next 10 minutes were spent writing down ideas, crossing them out, and then realising that I liked that one line, so I would try to fix it up a little. Even though it was a bit trying, I was too excited to stop. I didn't want to lose the feeling surging through my body. Guess I have Bon to thank for that.

    You spend one night at a rock star's home and you suddenly feel as though nothing can touch you. I felt like I was soaring above the clouds (if my head wasn't there already). Ok, so I didn't feel that way at the end of the night, but it was worth it just to say that I had the experience to remember.

     That morning, just like the past two, I had been dragged down from my former position and brought back to reality. Back to the job that I always feared wasn't enough to keep up with the rent at Holloway House, and be able to support my mother and little sister, who were was still living in my old childhood home.

     At least it was a job I loved: working at a local record store called Mick's. When I wasn't ringing up customers, I was in charge of playing the week's Top Twenty hits. I was surrounded by music and music-lovers all day every day.

     On that particular day, Mick was putting up posters in the windows advertising new album releases. I never got used to the fact that I would be one of the first people outside of the band themselves to see an album in person. Sometimes, I would sneak into the backroom and hold the record in my hands before John could stock the shelves. The plastic wrap shined under the single lightbulb that buzzed overhead.

     Among the posters was one advertising none other than AC/DC's new album: If You Want Blood (You've Got It). It wasn't like a usual record, since this was a live album, which I noticed had been popping up a lot more recently. Personally, if I wanted to hear a group live, I'd buy a ticket.

     Mick wanted eager fans to come pouring in, but what he got were older customers that saw the image of Angus Young being run through with his guitar as "horrid," "inappropriate," and a myriad of other names.

     "What else would you expect?" I asked one dusty, old woman. She insisted on making her nails-on-a-chalkboard voice heard, but it was just way too much to handle too early in the morning.

     She stuck her nose up at me, called me a little witch, and dragged her young nephew out with her, who looked pretty bummed at not getting to buy a record he'd been eyeing.

     The album wasn't set to release for a few more days, but when the day came, I would use my employee discount to get it. Either that, or Mick would just give it to me if I persuaded him (by which I meant begging and groveling).

     Currently playing on the countertop turntable was "Grease," which had been sitting comfortably at the top of the charts for a while and annoying my fellow employees. I, of course, had a bit of a bias, seeing as how countless dollars from my paycheck went to seeing the film at the cinema. At least until they stopped showing it.