Rock My World - DabiHawks

Paradise City

POV HAWKS

The place smells horrible. Worse than anything I've ever smelled before, and considering the fact that I lived under a tarp on the highway for a few months when I was a kid, that's really saying something. Hordes of people reeking of alcohol abuse and sweat mesh together under the cheap concert lighting. The ceiling is less than eight feet tall, and if I wanted to, I could probably jump up and tear the lights down myself.

We can barely hear the band over the crowd screaming. The whole venue is the size of an empty grocery store, packed with people hollering and twirling and clawing at each other like wild animals. Everyone here is either high on adrenaline or high on some cheap illegal pills the shady guy out back is selling.

The band itself looks pretty rough, too. The singer looks unbelievably young, jumping up and down and belting into the microphone. She's wearing jean shorts on top of black ripped leggings, with a sleeveless button down shirt and long fishnet gloves. Her blonde hair looks ratty, parted sloppily down the middle and tied into two messy buns. It seems like they've been at this for a while.

Rumi and I have to push through the crowd to get a better look at the rest of the band members. She says something to me, but I can't hear it, so I just tighten my grip on her arm so we aren't split apart in the chaos.

The drummer– Twice, I think is his stage name– is wearing a mask for some reason. I remember seeing his picture online, though, and he kind of looks like Ryan Reynolds in Paper Man but a bit scruffier and on some hardcore drugs.

Rumi taps my arm again, pointing at the blue-haired bassist. She says something about his hands, but most of her sentence is lost to the cacophony.

The screeching feedback from the guitar catches my attention, and I'm quick to plug my ears to ease the pain. Really, I don't know what I was thinking, going band-hunting with Rumi. I do love the concept of the low-budget, anti-everything, anarchist punk bands, but my ears are so sensitive to noise and my eyes are stinging from the flashing lights. I think I'm going to pass out if I stay here any longer.

But then the feedback stops. The lead guitarist steps away from the speaker and towards the front of the stage, which is barely taller than my waist. I catch sight of his eyes, dark blue and smudged with black makeup, focused on the six strings of his electric instrument. His fingers move at the speed of light, so quickly and meticulously that I'm convinced they'll start a fire in this cramped shithole. I'm entranced, breathing in the piercing sound of the steel-plated strings while he dives into a haunting guitar solo.

For a moment, I forget all about the crowd around me. It's just me and this sweaty, angry-looking guitarist. His hands, forcing the instrument to sing for me. My five senses, tailored to absorb everything coming my way.

And then he sinks back behind the bassist. They stand back to back, leaning on each other for support, tired, sweaty, and half-alive. But they're smiling, big and coy, so I don't feel sorry for their aching bodies. The singer wraps up the song, and after they fuck around on their instruments a little longer, the singer screams a thank you. The crowd goes berserk, wailing and jumping and so on, while the band packs up their stuff and heads backstage.

I'm still a bit dizzy when Rumi drags me onto the stage, tripping after the band members. She flashes her VIP access card to the one security guard and the woman steps aside to let us through.

"Hey wait up!" Rumi calls, chasing the band members as they duck into their shared dressing room. She sticks her foot in the doorway, stopping the bassist from closing it, and flashes her VIP card again. "Can we talk? I paid extra money, see?"

"Can't you see we're fucking exhausted?" scoffs the lead guitarist from somewhere in the room. I can't see him from where I am, not with the door nearly closed. "Piss off!"