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The Headliner (2001)
It was that momentary pause that did it. Killed it. Killed the illusion. Broke the spell. I hope. I mean, I hope it was killed. It certainly was for me. |
Everything had gone the same as always; "according to plan" I might say, in ironic retrospect. Everything, that is, up until that pause. It's a wonder none of us ever wondered why it never happened before, or how they so squeaklessly prevented it. What's more odd is that few people wondered about it afterwards. Even now, I feel pas mal alone. |
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***
It had, by this point, become a matter of routine. Still, I will outline it for you in as linear a fashion as I can. It obviously wasn't a routine for you.
We dug the funk. I don't mean funk music, as in "Hey Man, Smell My Finger" (although we dug that too). I mean shit that's funky. Like a soundtrack that follows specific people around. A hip je-ne-sais-quoi, a youthful savoir-faire, more cool than cool. We were individualistic enough to make cool look anal, and cool enough to pick those who were not cool. We had fun. We laughed. Some people said we literally spoke our own language. This was true. We made up words all the time. They were
funky words. We had the funk.
We each had our own concretization of funk, as if funk was an essence, a manna which infused our surroundings, which we drew upon and sculpted. Was funk exuded by certain places and soaked up by us, then
exhaled? Or was it exuded by us, colouring the walls where we went like a cheezy advertisement for paint? I don't know, but we each manifested the funk in our ways. People said Lynn wore too much make-up. I said she wasn't trying to make it look natural. She was like a drag-queen, except that she was a straight girl. She wore bright colours and elaborate accessories. She danced with her eyes closed. She loved the funky words. And she was loud. Very loud. A lot of people couldn't handle being around her for more than a short while. We weren't trying to impress anybody.
Dennis was out there. Like, hippies and metalheads would meet him and with wide eyes tell me my best friend is "out there". He had long curly red hair and a red beard, but he was young-looking. His wardrobe was nondescript: plain t-shirts and sweaters, earth-tone cords. But he was weird. He liked to drive around for hours, especially outside the city. He danced like a Woodstock hippie after injecting Nine Inch Nails. He had a big heart, but he was unreliable. He was like Henry Miller or Jim Morrison, always wanting to break through the lie. Of course, the era of tangible meta-lies now documented only by paleontologists, he was a very confused guy because a lot of the time he didn't know what the lie was.
Marc was a chawch and a prep. He wore brand name clothing and relied on gay jokes. He was very witty and intelligent though, and was somehow progressive. He didn't actually hate gays, and he was often found in the company of hippies and funkies like ourselves. And he was funny. Damn funny. He was a weird paradox; his thought patterns and vocabulary were far ahead those of regular khaki-wearing ribbed-sweaters, but he was rooted in conservatism. And for all his bravado, he remained to do anything significant in his life at all.
I was the "freak". Honour student in high school, bachelor of arts, earrings, long goatee, blue polyester plaid pants, women's perfume, whatever floated my boat. I hated the mainstream and was always seeking to reveal lies behind corporate facades and pop culture. Yet I still loved to party.
Saturday nights we went to the club. I almost always drove, because I'm not a big drinker. In the car, we always played the cd by the band that had played at the club the week before. "The club" was Purge. It was a unique club with several rooms, all dingy, run-down, black, high-ceilinged, and hip. Purge had funk just as we had it. It was decorated entirely by things just on the edge of cool. Things that hoochies would call lame. Pictures of old toys, pictures of new toys, pictures of old people in old
clothes, and young people in old clothes. Old ratty furniture, weird neon signs. Purge had smoke machines that filled the room with that weird club-gas that we all hated but never complained about.
The downstairs room was for chilling. There was a bar, pool tables, nerdy classic arcade games, and couches.
The back room was for dancing. They had a dj in there spinning songs and techno tracks. Pixies, White Zombie, Beck, Blur, Elastica, Korn, Doors, all danceable stuff, mostly white stuff, except for some of the best-selling rap. The dj booth was high above the crowd. There used to be a tiny winding staircase/ladder that gave dancers access to the booth to make requests, but one night some guy fell off of it and hurt himself, so the management forbade use of the staircase by patrons. Thus no more requests. (Rumour has it that someone had slipped a drug in the guy's drink, a drug that specifically fucks up your balance.) That was fine thought, because all the tunes the djs played rocked. The djs always had the most current excellent tunes; we marveled at (and bragged about) how the local independent alternative arts weekly magazine (found in baskets at the two doors to the club) listed the same tunes as the djs played in the weekly top ten chart.
The front room was for live music. A big, high stage held the band of the week. It sounds ironic, and I guess it is, but they had a new band on that stage literally every week. Every week it was a band that we had never heard of. The strange part--and the reason we were there every Saturday--is that every band was good. Every week, the new music rocked. Our music-lives had been changed by Purge. We always bought the cd by the headliner, all of us. It wasn't even a question anymore. We used to joke about what we would do for music without Purge. It was crazy. Most of my large music collection came from Purge. We had a constant diet of new good music. I often bought the cd by the opener too, but not always. The opener slot was a good vehicle for up-and-coming bands, an excellent chance to get noticed. So glad were we to be provided with this endless menu of new stuff that we paid for gas, parking, cover, coat check, drinks, and cds every Saturday. We had no problem with it; we were supporting the music industry, our music collections, and our social lives.
Another weird thing about Purge is that they never announced who would be playing.
We never knew the name of the band until it hit the stage. This was fine, of course,
because the bands never sucked, but it was pretty different, pretty bold. This
was all Purge's selling point, dressed in the language of funk. "Purge:
Your weekly family reunion with a new cousin each time." "Have
your party at Purge, where the loot bags come out first." They boasted
that they "comb the continent" for fresh, talented new bands. They called
themselves the "alternative to alternative", skewering the industry
that co-opted the explosion of inventive music and implying that they rise above
business jargon and focus on quality.
This week, though, through some extraordinary chance, it was the one-year anniversary
of us going to Purge and Purge had been touting "an extra-special" surprise.
They were very vague, but the regulars knew it was the band. All the club was
saying was that there was something significant coming up this weekend. We were,
of course, totally stoked about it. We were tossing around ideas.
"I bet it's several bands," offered Lynn from shotgun as we drove down the Trail out if the suburbs.
"I bet it's us," said Dennis.
"Naw, it's always several bands, if you count the opener," I said.
"But what if they have several bands that aren't openers?" said Dennis, poking his head into the front.
"Yeah, like a subtle semantic shift is something extra-special at Purge," retorted Marc, staying in the shadows at the back, "'Oooh, I can't wait till Saturday, Purge has three bands on,
and none of them are openers!' How daring!"
"Shut up! No, like, I mean as in Band-o-rama-gig-a-thon style," said Lynn.
"Dude, they'd have to give us warning for something like that. No one could stay all night without planning ahead," I said.
"Yeah, we're not ravers," said Marc.
"I could do it," said Dennis.
"We know," said the rest of us. We were passing through the industrial/retail outskirts of the city.
"Harrumph!" Dennis harrumphed us, "Hey, maybe it's Ogden Nash!"
"Or maybe not," said Marc.
"Could be. Maybe it's extra special cuz it's not music."
"Yeah," I said, "And maybe Saturday Night Live will be a documentary tonight."
"Fine," Dennis gave up.
"Dude, it's probably just a band that did something really prominent recently," said Marc.
"Yeah," said the rest of us. There was a pause. We passed by the Westbrook mall.
"Oh, dudes, get this," Dennis chuckled, "I guess the headliner
band of the music awards last night just sucked. Apparently they screwed up so
bad that it was obvious they were lip-synching."
"Isn't it always obvious?" I said.
"What music awards?" Marc asked sarcastically.
"You know, the big ones last night, whatever they're called, I don't know."
"Oh those ones," Lynn said. Dennis prided himself on being clueless in regards to mass culture, and it was irritating.
"And how do you know this?" I asked, knowing this to be an essential question with Dennis. We were entering the downtown core.
"I overheard Jen talking about it today." Jen worked with Dennis at a pizza joint.
"I see."
"Yeah, they cut the song off halfway through and went to commercial."
"Right," I said, "And how did they pull that off?" We were amidst the skyscrapers and night-partiers.
"How should I know? I didn’t watch it. Stopped the tape at the bridge or something?"
"Could be," said Lynn, "What were they called?"
"I don't remember." We were passing in front of the club. "Total."
"What?" said Lynn.
"That's what they were called. 'Total'."
"Aw, DUDE!" exclaimed Marc. The line was huge. "Are we gonna get in?"
"Yes," I said, "There's still room in the parking lot."
"Oh good," he said sarcastically.
We parked and got in line. Everyone was buzzing about the surprise. Dennis and I started to have fun saying idiotic things very loudly.
"Dude, I heard it's Pete Best."
"Naw, it's Raffi."
"Sharon, Lois, and Bram."
"Sharon, Lois, and Bran."
"Aw, dude."
"Ginger Spice."
"Mass-culture-stuff-it-down-your-throat-flash-in-the-spice." There was a pause.
"Dude, I heard it's Kids in the Hall."
"Naw, it's Monty Python."
"He's dead."
"You idiot. He is not."
"I heard it's Monty Python and Pink Floyd."
"Now he is dead."
"It's Ron Jeremy."
"I'm surprised he's not dead."
"Yeah, they're screening his new film, The Empire Strokes Black."
"Dude, Ron Jeremy's not black."
"He isn't? He should be."
"Dude, it's Madonna."
"Naw, it's Britney."
"Naw, it's Madonna and Britney.
"Fighting."
"Wrestling."
"With Ron Jeremy."
"Who's not black."
"Yeah, non-black Ron Jeremy mud-wrestling with Madonna and Britney."
"Sponsored by Sega," Marc added. We were in tears.
"Okay that's enough, you guys," said Lynn.
The line-ups were always really long. It felt like we were in line for a year
every Saturday night. Every year there was a new band to see. At least it was
consistent.
When we got further up in the line, we saw our favourite bouncer, Mick. He looked tense.
"Yo Mick!" yelled Dennis.
"Waaaaaazzzzzzaaaaap!" I contributed.
"Hey guys." He was nervous.
"So, what's the surprise?" Marc asked, smiling hugely.
"Yeah Mick, who's playing?" asked Lynn.
"Hey! You guys know I can't tell you that," Mick snapped. Normally he was jovial, but tonight he seemed strained.
"Whoa," said Lynn.
"Dude, sorry," said Marc.
"Yeah man," said Dennis, "We know that, it's all good, we were just kiddins."
"Cool," Mick tried to lighten up, "It is gonna rock, though."
"Well, duh," said Lynn.
As we got closer to the front of the line we could hear the house music. I recognized the tunes and got stoked. I was bouncing up and down, saying stuff like "Oh yeah! Uh-huh! S'all good! It's your
birthday!"
"Dude, take it down a thousand," Marc admonished me. We were just behind the door girl's counter.
"Hey!" I exclaimed, "Don't you know there's an extra-special surprise tonight?" I replied.
"Yeah dude," added Dennis, "It's gonna be HAT!"
"Yeah," I said, "I saw them on tv last night! With Barney--"
"Hey shut up!" the door girl yelled. I froze.
"What'd I do?"
"Don't be flappin' your teeth around like that. You know how things work around here."
"Dude, I'm sorry, I don't know anything, I was just excited, jokesin, you know--"
"That's right, you don't know nothin', now keep your mouth taped."
I looked at Dennis with big eyes. We looked at Lynn and Marc. They shrugged. I was scared.
All the other staff was the same way. I couldn't resist, I would let drop small vague allusions to the band, and get stiff replies. The bartender, the coat-check girl, the guy-who-carries-those-huge-stacks-of-glasses-really-fast, the sound guy. We were mystified. We sat down in the front room and perused the weekly magazine.
"Dude!" exclaimed Lynn.
"Wha?" I asked eagerly.
"The number one band is the same as last week."
"So?" asked Dennis.
"So we've never seen that before," said Marc.
"Well, it's got to happen sometime," replied Dennis.
"I don't know..." I said.
"Yeah, something's weird," said Lynn.
"Yeah, it's you guys."
"Whatever." The house music faded. The opening band walked on stage. Five guys. They took up their gear. Two guitars, one bass, drums, vocals, one lefty guitarist with painted fingernails. They started. They rocked. They were one of the best openers I had heard at Purge. Dennis jumped in the pit. Lynn and Marc weren't so much digging it.
Dennis had no money at all, and I had cash for one cd. I wanted to wait to see which band I like more, so I didn't buy the cd, but we did check out the merch table. Even the musicians looked tense.
"Man, that shit was so good, I could even go home now," I said.
"Naw," said Lynn.
The wait after the opener was longer than usual. We waited, sitting at a table, curious, frustrated. Finally, a voice on the p.a.:
"We know you all have one question on your minds, and you've been waiting a long time for the answer! Well, we have the answer to that question, and here it is! Please give a warm Purge welcome
to..."
And then there was the pause. The pause in which your heart and stomach trade places. In which a chill rides your whole body for an instant. The pause which shakes your whole view of what's going on, of the way things work. The pause that whispers maybe things aren't all right.
And then... "Forty-Two!"
The crowd went nuts. Screaming, yelling, clapping. We looked at each other. We didn't know what to think. I mean, we had never heard of any of the bands at Purge, so we shouldn't have been surprised at not recognizing this one, but we expected some knowledge of why this was "extra-special".
The band came on stage. Five guys, same line-up as the openers, about the same age, too. Maybe it was the result of all the night's weirdness, but I thought they looked lame. Just wankers with hair spiked at the front and short-sleeved plaid shirts. They didn't say anything. They just played. And they sucked. Well, I thought they sucked. A new band every week for a year, and now this? Waiting in line for a year every week, and now we get this? I looked at the chart in the weekly magazine. No Forty-Two.
I leaned over to a guy who was into it.
"Who is this?"
"Forty-Two."
"Yeah. But who are they? Why are they extra-special?"
"Beats me. Maybe it's just the new sound; they sound a lot like Total." Fuck. More weirdness. I look at the musicians closely. Were they air-playing? Lip synching? One guitarist was lefty. I cleaned my glasses and fought my way to the front. I stared at Lefty's fret hand for a long time. During a drum-and-bass part I saw it. A scrap of nail polish. A tiny fleck, barely visible. And they were air-playing. I pushed my way back to my friends. Marc and Lynn were into it now. Praise be to freaks I thought as I looked at Dennis who was staring at the stage with his brow wrinkled.
"Dude," I said to him, "This is the opening band." He looked at me, than at the band. After careful scrutiny his eyes widened, his mouth opened soundlessly. "And," I punched
again, "they're air-playing." He went to the front and came back. He was as shocked as I was. Now the I remembered the behaviour of the staff. We told Marc and Lynn. I told the guy who had been into it. We told all the people around us. The word spread like prairie fire. I noticed for the first time that the security was higher around the stage than usual. It was higher everywhere.
People started booing. Throwing things. We stood back in a corner and watched as people tipped over a table. Forty-Two tried to keep playing (of course, the music was unruffled). Finally the singer was hit in the face by a boot and he dropped the mic. But his voice didn’t stop. The uproar doubled instantly. Full chaos erupted. It was ugly. We witnessed the ugliness of the desperate seeing their faith violated. People were
pepper-sprayed, beaten, and pick-pocketed. Miraculously, nothing happened to us, as we stayed back in our dark corner. Finally we saw police officers enter the room. Lynn caught the eye of an officer with a wave and he escorted us out. Outside were several police cars with young people in the back seats. We walked a bit and sat on the curb.
"That was fucked," said Dennis.
"No shit," said Lynn.
"Are you guys sure they were lip-synching?" said Marc.
"Man, dude, what the fuck, they so were," I blubbered.
"And they so were the opening band too,"
add Dennis.
"I don't know…" said Marc.
"We're all okay though, right?" asked Lynn.
"Well, yeah, except, what about Purge?" I said.
"Dude, that's some serious repairage they gots to wake up to tomorrow," said Marc.
"No," I said, "I mean, can we still come here?"
"Yeah..." said Dennis, agreeing with me, trying to find the words.
"I mean, what the fuck? Why did they do that? Bill a super-excellent night, then play the same band twice as two different bands, one lip-synching? That's messed. Why didn't they, I mean, what..."
"Well, we don't know that's what happened," Lynn protested.
"I do," I said.
"Yeah..." said Dennis.
"Man, let's get some pizza," said Marc.
"Yeah," said Dennis.
We walked down the sidewalk on the way to the all-night pizza counter. We turned a corner and came upon a huge van. The back doors were open and there were clubbers everywhere, some I recognized from the gig. There were clubbers in the van too. The side of the van said "Boom Bus" and in smaller letters "Shop and groove while you wait in line". The inside walls of the van displayed cds, and huge speakers blared bad pop music. A cheezy-looking chawch-wannabe-clubber approached us.
"Hey, you guys seen the boom bus before?" I just stared. "Yeah, you can listen to new music and buy cds while you wait in those long club lines.
"Dude," Dennis said softly, bowing his head. I clutched his sleeve and took a step backwards.
"You guys got any questions, you just ask me, cool?" said Mr. Young-entrepreneur-of-the-year.
"Yeah," Marc stepped forward, "Who's this playing right now?"
"Oh this?" his grin broadened, "This is the new debut cd by Total."
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