A Story of the Whiskey Hotel

June 13th, 2005, 11:37 PM.

‘Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky,’ the last line before Shane finished his solo later than a staged queue was planned to, but Angie began to play on, moving into the next track anyway. In the song Knock it Off, Shamus has a point where the sax switches from rhythm and takes the lead over the guitar. This time, however, the tempo increase was initiated by a three-second drone with all notes turned flat and an octave lower before the snap recovery seemed to return the drums to their recently maintained pop. Their instruments aged fifty years backward, then forward, and I’m unsure if anyone else noticed. The marionette act the track alludes to begins with Angie leading Marcus in an improvised and unrhythmic dance; her moves were meant to appear unpredictable, with steps and dips done to trip him up. During the line, ‘Show me what your control tastes like,’ there was meant to be an eight-count lead-in, but thanks to Shane’s shredding, its jerky resonance put Marcus starting on the four. So he moved drastically, and she followed the best she could, then it didn’t seem like the choice hers to refuse. Within a couple of lines punctuated by Angie's tiny break, ‘Burn you dust to dust at your own game,’ they were son in tune who was leading who was impossible to distinguish, and no matter her instrumental limitation, he moved more and more freely. Was he supposed to work her to death? I kept wondering as the crowd raved louder in their own cesspool of nature, melding together with mud that’ll dry to crusty statues.

His switches from methodically choreographed pop and locking to spastic flailing to the rhythm lead into somewhat recognizable jive-inspired moves completely missing the beat, which couldn’t be helping her blow as accurately. Not that there wasn’t plenty to worry about with jump kicks and spins as her solo at the three-and-a-half-minute mark grew more intricate. The backflip could’ve lodged the mouthpiece into her nose if her teeth didn’t take the brunt of the shakey landing. That’s when I was told to grab the co-pilot, get him to the stage and get him playing. I have no idea why Shane had such a conviction for a show they planned continuing as is, more flippant with my hesitation; I didn’t know he was capable, telling me to look at Angie’s face and the blood pack that seemed to explode in her face. I also can’t explain why he sounds like a woman. A raspy, three-pack-a-day woman, but it was loud, and flashing lights were ridiculing my eyes as I looked into the lighting work on stage.

Whoever he was, he started playing as soon as he had his saxophone set and faded into Angie’s part while getting him mic-ed up on the move. The fucking professional, I called him as I led him to the stage with another three minutes of the song left. When she heard him take over, Angie threw down her Saxophone in exhausted disgust but couldn’t take a single breath before she was back in lockstep with Marcus. Also in step, in motion, in the unbridled release of gyrating jollity was a generous portion of the stage front participating in the abrupt leaps that only a gymnast on padded floors and level ground could do without falling to the ground. Organizers had no idea when they packed them in relatively responsibly that they’d start throwing themselves into themselves in varying athletic abilities, standing back up through the madness around them and returning to Marcus’ seemingly direct orders. Anyone would have mistaken it for a mosh pit if they didn’t hear the genre rejuvenating a dying, midnight crowd into frenzied swings meant for the air ninjas hitting whoever didn’t and quite frankly fucking couldn't dodge if they wanted to. I heard Shane unplug his guitar, but by the time I saw where his dash to center stage put him, he was gaining altitude, battle axe in hand, held so tight the strings were pulling blood from his palms. His warrior’s curvet cleared the security line, and I’m pretty sure they would’ve been as bewildered as I if they were dedicated to trying to calm some for the sake of smaller or feminine-statured guests unable to stay or return to their feet. Who is he aiming for—"WAIT!”

Yes. Whoever they were, they were the only one in the crown untouched by what gripped the rest, accepting the mud splatter. I didn’t see what happened if or when Shane landed on them. When Knock it Off, Shamus finally ended, which would’ve entered into a cool-down acoustic number, Sonya and Janet, and the god-damn co-pilot passed out with only Janet dropping just long enough to take a knee for the final bass screws. However, Marcus had to close their eyes. Angie was finally able to acknowledge her broken nose and busted lip. She grabbed the mic from Marcus and let out an exasperated, “Nice try, fuck face,” as they walked/stumbled off the stage.

“Wait—wait. This took skill and passion I have never seen; the privilege I have to—Give it up for Angie Colfax, wild Bitches!” he led the thunderous applause needing an extra exhausted second to put the mic in the stand. “What a marvelous beauty; take a bow, curtsey, or whatever.”

Whatever she tried to do in front of the smoked-out crowd engulfed in a machine, I must have set up wrong and deployed thirty-seven minutes late. Jumbotrons could only convey part of what was happening to the way way back attendees; understandably, they saw Angie try something like a curtsey before collapsing and thought they had just capped an amazingly unclear performance. Joey was pissed, regardless of an otherwise outstanding performance.

June 13th, 7:26 PM

I caught up with the Whiskey with them believing I was ahead of Howard on the festival vibe and overpriced top sellers, although it looked more earned recovering in a memory erasing Tequila. He found me in his festive-esk get-up, wearing more beads than he had seen in his life, next to a Black Deaths merchandise tent, and had a shared spirit with Dynasty’s Calling bassist. Apparently, I’m licensed only to aid Whiskey Hotel affiliates, officially ending my days independently, covering what the hell I want is over. Oh no. Joey had given my name and face out per Howard’s instructions in accordance with Shane, who left Dotty wondering why the hell he was around in the first place. My couple of questions involved who’s for sure signing my checks for all this heavy lifting and when my noticeable raise kicks in. I may not have needed help surviving on the road, but roadie work is far more strenuous than changing pull-ups and getting tennis balls unstuck from under the couch.

First, I was tasked with helping Vikki to unload the rental truck of flags, props, and whatever instruments didn’t fit in the van. Dynasty’s Calling stage dressings are very Edo-period Japanese merged with Matrix coloring steeped in wake-up analogies highlighting some rejection of royalty. Over their few years on the rise to such an occasion, they wrote of Deitities that have slowly become part of their signature and, at times, were the only reason to listen to specific tracks on repeat. Stories of rock as told by its many gods. They were following the unfortunate performance of Black Deaths, plagued with sound issues they were too unprofessional to fix on the fly and twenty-ending minutes of half-shouted, half-mumbled songs amid technical excuses. Fact of it is, larger crowds aren’t for everyone, and they had no presence for playing to the proverbial cheap seats, mainly the fault of a lead guitarist ruthlessly butchering his own alleged work. However, those Concerts-Are-Life folk stumbling blurry-eyed and muddy across the grounds took these moments to hydrate, refuel, and the other basic necessity. Shit talk while scoring some experimental form of ecstasy that makes you comprehend the conversation between the kick drum and snare. Without Vikki recruiting Glastenbury’s finest volunteers, it wouldn’t have left the van. I had succumbed to the life of soon-to-be college dropouts and future members of the British Parliament half naked from attire to a general sense of welcome to the freak hood.

Marcus and Joey’s campaign across Great Britain had begun to look positive. The thirty-minute announcements brought a mass wave of migrating lost in their goofy world peace fantasies descending on their holy pyramid for the word thundering from the stage. The antics of a warm-up skit between her and V. Bradley will probably be the most note-worthy shit to come from him and his over-saturated synthesized playing in Dynasty’s Calling rock show. I guess it intrigued the stragglers who locked to them for modern prog-rock, but half of them had puke somewhere on their person, so why bother?

As I finished hanging some of their more brightly disorienting dressings (too many nuclear streamers and clever pool noodles of blue and gold for the mic stand), Janet caught up with me. Her greeting said, ‘pleased to see me,’ leaving me stuck on cynical during the attempt at calming small talk until the zip ties could stall no longer. She expected me to expect a tongue lashing from her, making her aggressive hug that was part pat down and split-second smile meant to come off as disarming. I couldn’t tell whether she was illustrating a power move or didn’t know her own strength, clearly keeping up with the kickboxing training. Who knew Muai Tai was a great de-ager? You ever have a father figure or coach, a handsy boss perhaps, that puts their entire hand wrapped around the back of the neck, making even the softest hands feel Catholic punishment approaching dressed like a nun two steps beyond capital?

Her long, convoluted speech basically equated that the Whiskey could use all the support alluding to my alleged ongoing nah-saying before their performance. There was a nod that I should stay alert, although I don’t think that was her interpretation. The Rolling Stones Magazine hint threw me a bit, but she could have been boasting about something she still thinks I’m doing. My place amongst them seemed to gel well, prepping instruments, mini rehearsals of intricate riffs, and something Sonya called, quote, loosening techniques. Of all of them crammed in a drafty greenroom off the backside of the stage, Sonya sat quietly in full Maitre d’ Hotel get up. No one bothered her meditation, but as Dynasty’s bass kicked thirty feet away, I wondered what the hell could cause a stare so undoubtedly focused, if on no particular point. I never thought Marcus and Angie would be so huddled as they went over queues for the act I hadn’t seen, but it didn’t seem clean enough for the stage. Hovering around those pages, freely flapping in the breeze, I did my best not to seem so eager to see a chapter name of a publishing company, any bold phrase except the text was puny from start to finish. Regardless, their sly looks at my sly looks instead of eye contact and consistent expressions of one-sided disgust that kept at it, not that I could eavesdrop hard enough amid shaking metal poorly assembled too many years ago. I was also meant to be helping Shane tune up, but he’s too good to need my help anyway.

He seemed nervous, but that’s not all. Looking at Angie off and on while he spoke vehemently on the subject of my newfound roadie position, now that I’m trusted to be some coordinator, for a reason I embarrassingly cannot uncover at this time. I didn’t volunteer, yet it was made clear that the privilege was mine. The tone shift running through my headset etiquette, code phrases custom to the Whiskey, guitar order, and other needy nonsense woke me from my cynicism. Broken glass would’ve looked less shattered by the list of his long of don’t while on stage, punctuated by one that seemed hyper-specific to the Whiskey. “Don’t interrupt the chant, don’t block the dance, don’t look her in the eyes,” he said with bulging eyes of his own, letting a strummed B string ring itself out.

The brutish type with only the thin sentences to quote from making, leaving interviewers hanging on each of his rumbling words, no matter how few. I considered myself lucky, but his haunted sent shivers no words could illustrate. When I asked, he shrugged. Showtime was in fifteen minutes for Marcus and Sonya, who planned to join Dynasty’s Calling for a couple of joint effort jams and a skit. As intimidating as Janet was, she would be my first one-on-one official regarding whatever I could get her to confess. That conversation goes as follows:

“May I sit?” I asked. She looked at me, startled but of my gull, not my presence.

“Yeah, just shut up about it,” she responded. Her eyes were loosely locked on the book, and I figured it was my best way in.

“Have you ever met the author? Figured you might want to get an autograph while you’re here.”

“Congrats, you met the bat,” Janet began. “Got a taste of that whack job’s nonsense, did you?”

“I’ve always been curious. What I am now is disturbed. You’re part of a real crazy band.”

“I’ve got an idea. Marcus; jumper wire,” she said.

He barely acknowledged the request as he dug into Janet’s bag near his foot and launched it blindly, frayed end first. With two strike any-fucking-wheres devised a contraption intertwine a freshly cherried weed cigar, practically mean from my professional opinion—" (sip water ha!) mostly burned to a fat roach. Her drag was flaming and explained in great detail the amount of toying these people did in their damaged little bubbles. As the tip sparked, again, practically, the match heads came closer and closer to an involuntary spasm that could and probably would remove my mustache and nerve endings beneath and then blew her swamp mouth as she handed it over like I had a gun to the back of my head.

“No fucking thanks,” I said. (Duh.)

“Then you shouldn’t have accepted it. Curiosity strikes before you can flinch. Fine, waste this opportunity because an old lady scared you silly. Your long-running career has you set for life anyway. What’s R&L Casting Co. up to these days? Co-eds or redheads?”

“Practically, rocking your own name, you dawg. Oww!” There’s that feeling. Every eye trained on my inner being trying to beat the Rubik’s Cube, my soul is derived of like those nerds on Youtube. I mean, what is that site even for? Janet’s cold, glassy facial expression draped over what a face is supposed to look like. Due to a pull on my hand, my arm even, I’m still unable to put into words accurately, I take the fucking hit. And passed it quickly. “We’re being serious, aren’t we? You know I’m here to handle the fear, or else I wouldn’t be covering you. When is the grit of this nit-wittery start?”

“We don’t know. Honest. Do you know what you’re into? Have you really caught on are your experience? You could be wrong about all of this.”

“I know you—this Voodoo shit you’re all trying to push with your sly looks, cheeky fucking tricks, and bad actors, it equates to thin smoke poorly veiling a teenager-level conspiracy is selling well, I congratulate you, but I’m here for answers, and these little distractions are getting old.”

“You’re a bad Journalist.”

“Everyone else falls for this—”

“Do you know why, no matter the cost, fate is fate, you’ve taken the bait, and suddenly you’re not as lost?” She asked.

“It’s your stage presence. Coaxing the crowd in your freaky nature makes them feel safe being different.”

“Then your story is done. Write the fucking article and move on with your life before your family moves so far; it’ll be just you and this freaky obsession.”

“Tell me what happened to Thomas Baxter, and the back of me is all you’ll see,” I said, taking a drag braver than I should have been. Unlike booze, it always seems like I’m the wrong generation for the craze. Regardless of living with rock stars, heavy smokers, and addicts of addiction itself, I could never hold my smoke.

“Over the Edge show, correct?”

“Yes.” It was the only time I happened to catch Sonya’s eyes moving, and the coy nature was for me exclusively. “Janet, for Christ’s sake! Several people have gone missing. Your shows have had tramplings, brawls, stage collapses—and records have plenty on why you’re a dangerous group with Zealots as fans are influenced to death. Especially if they’re coming back for a repeat performance. Keep your novelty acts; show me some accountability.”

“Anything else?” Janet asked.

“Why don’t you think that’s enough? It would be if that were what I told Rolling Stones about your response to the matter.” The smoke remained between us despite all evidence that that shouldn’t be possible, and her irritated eyes and cocked-up eyebrow appeared, if somewhat foggy, to be her answer.

“No. If you were a better Journalist, you wouldn’t have a job to do on stage. This would be all out in the open. You lived with Shane for four years, seen so much of what makes us, us; you're here working for us because you’re brandishing a snitch card with nothing to back it up. Who do you think we are? Killers? Dine and dashers with basements full of sex-trafficked pre-pubescent Ethiopians? Howard is embezzling, and Angie is a prissy know-it-all with enough money to bury all the leads you think you’re on the cusp of? Either get with the unrelenting real far more vivacious than a crime with a credible title in multiple languages or go lift some fucking boxes.” The match burst into a red giant celestial body in my fingertips and burned them and three others. She didn’t laugh or come back with a response; just waited for me to stop stomping it out on the floor. “We go on in ten minutes. Don’t fuck up our show.” She whispered something to Marcus as she grabbed her bass, which made him chuckle as she left.

“Hey, Ron, you should pay attention. You’re going to learn something new,” Angie said.

June 15th

Sonya lies in a hospital bed at Bridge Water as the only one unwilling to lie to the paramedics about the cause of her anxiety-laced ailment. Everyone else, and I mean everyone else, went to West Mendip. Arguably, Shane should’ve joined her or been detained for launching for Valhalla with an axe and a rebel yell. Turns out, no one has seen him since. Despite walking off the stage, Marcus was checked in by Vikki for his inability to stop talking or be understood. From what I overheard from a doctor reassuring Howard, he was suffering from an episodic mood destabilization due to the stress and feared that there was a possibility that these could be permanent. Vikki later said he was clearly speaking to someone; if we could see them, you wouldn’t bat an eye.

In regards to Janet, who, like me, refused the drive-through check-up lines full of those inflicted with mass inanition going from check-in to check-out with pamphlets on rest recommendations where beds aren’t all occupied, she began doing damage control with emotionless smiles and free pictures. One woman would stay overnight with charts that read like a mob hit where she would have to have survived one swim through a swamp wearing the most elegant of cement shoes laced with fashionable chains. Plenty of them are just like her, plus pulverized, but others are dehydrated, developing immune deficiencies that could remain for the rest of their days. But all, at least from the charts I could get a glance without the staff’s agitated shoving, were nearly void of Iron in the blood. Battle scars varied from sprained ankles to a piece of rib cage protruding through the skin. Their music may be mostly upbeat and, at times, soulfully slow for the heart of it, but never the soundtrack for a near-fatal mosh pit. Not that the reports will say any different to medical professionals. Smoke meant to be dry ice, which would’ve made Joey’s Gremlin Heart Homicide the banger it should’ve been, most of the front row was still begging to breathe to change the heavy smoke inhalation damage. No matter whether them having been stepped-on, rag-dolled used needle spread across clutter-covered mud puddles or left and lost out in Glastonbury, no one complained.

Catching up with Joey, who admitted abruptly, I should say, had never been to a Whiskey Hotel concert, I could see the date for the next stop on tour would be too soon for her. They all helped in the following day’s aftermath, feeling as guilty as the Whiskey should for the violent entanglement during the cut-short show. Of all things, not getting the entire hour I thought would bring the cavalcade of event planners, promoters, in the like fuming at the mouth for answers. What I found out through Janet is that Howard added a clause to their contract colloquially known as the Quality Addendum. An hour may have been organized, but if the promoters can find overwhelming disappointment from paying customers in what they got, refunds can be discussed. Discussed. Once again, despite nearly a hundred hospitalization on day one alone, no one regretted anything that would’ve stopped them from buying tickets if an encore had been offered. Sick or not, they had plenty to answer far before the tour continued.

June 16th

Its theorized end sparked the meeting at the Bridge Water facility reception desk, where Sonya finished her mandatory and apparently harsh, seventy-two-hour hold. Howard acted as her power of attorney on harmonious relations, so why not be her emergency contact? He’d explain and apologize for any of her actions like a groveling schoolboy standing before a nun and a yardstick. With Shane’s many visits, it’s fewer apologies and more bribes in signed merchandise because no explanation would do. In attendance or down the hall raiding a staff vending machine was Howard, Sonya, Janet, Joey, and on Marcus’ behalf, Vikki. With Howard wanting me to know what Shane was thinking, we discussed the travel issues when Joey cut in the conversation.

“Stop. Everybody, fucking stop. Are you all psychopaths, or have I missed what the fuck just happened? Were you thinking with this stunt, Sonya? I mean, who the fuck are you people?” Joey said.

“You need cool it, missy—”

“No, no, Howard, she’s got it right. Joey, I planned to play drums, and I would’ve sung a bit. Talk to Janet and probably Janet and, oh, yeah, Janet about her little stunt.” Sonya said.

“What?” Janet asked.

“What about your book—” Sonya said.

“Angie planned that; why do you think she’s checked in where the next gig is or was, based on Joey, here,” Janet said.

“Marcus just didn’t want to handle her again. I don’t fully know what that means,” Vikki said, barely looking up from a magazine.

“Yeah, I helped Marcus defend himself, nothing more,” Janet said.

“If you knew this was—” Sonya started.

“She’s right. But what would have happened to Marcus?” Vikki asked.

“Did he make those people act like that? Did he hire them beforehand to fuck us?” Joey asked.

“No one would have volunteered for that. HahaHAhaAahaHA.” Janet’s unsettling laugh startled the eavesdropping staff, who, without being caught, turned away from us in sync.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Howard asked, here for himself and the top bird he was chatting up.

“Well, Vikki? You’d be the closest. I was chatting with Ron about to part in his new feature if I can audition privately in his office with a couch for some reason.” Janet said. Sonya knew this was a lie but had no time to articulate an appropriate under-revealing response.

“Why? Vikki, did you know that was going to happen?” Joey asked.

“No,” she responded. “It was supposed to appear the other way around, Angie leading. Why they switched and why so painfully, I haven’t the clue. Could be the gimmicky saxophone.” Her snicker was not appreciated, regardless of the situation.

“She’s not some hanger-on. Correct me if I’m shitting in the wrong pot, but your fifth member isn’t so aligned with making music,” Howard claimed.

“You mean your client?” Joey asked, kicking the magazine holder at his shrug.

“Not the place Joey, trust me,” Sonya said.

“I have never represented her; she’s above my pay grade, as she put it. That walking screw loose got conned once or twice—” Howard started.

“She got roped into the Nickelodeon Slime Time programming back in ’98 and decided to expand her bachelor’s in business. She’s independent and has nothing but money managers to keep her flush,” Sonya finished.

“This is insane. Did none of you see them—” Joey interjected.

“I can’t unsee them,” Janet recoiled. “A lot more of them got in step with Marcus’ but I’ve never seen him so stiffly wild in coordinated awkwardness since his first time in the ring.”

“The point was to be the stringed conduit while she planned steps, random in appearance, while rigorously rehearsed.”

“When did they rehearse?” I asked to a wide-eyed stare from Whiskey affiliates plus Joey. No one answered me.

“He was trying to throw her off the entire time, make her slip,” Sonya said.

“That would’ve been terrible.” Again, Janet laughed, seeming far more unwarranted than the last.

“The count was a hundred and seven, but that was yesterday,” Joey started, “Just because no one has called for your fucking heads, and I—I truthfully disagree with that right now. MTV’s coverage was pretty comprehensive; you know that, right? That smoke meant for my song, RON, goes off late at the exact point nearly an hour later when Agie’s bleeding through the pain and you weird fucks are—poof, mind erased and don’t have a clue what you’re doing—”

“Shit, I’ve got to check those ratings,” Howard said to himself, quickly turning his slight panic into a power play for the receptionist, totally ignoring the twenty-year age gap.

“Let me know when you got’em, Howard,” to my surprise, Vikki said.

“What the fuck are you even doing here, Vikki?” Joey asked.

“Question of the hour, ladies and gents; Does the tour stop here?” Janet asked.

Howard went silent. Obviously, given the floor by everyone, he sipped the coffee he got out of Clarissa with the excellent creamer. The smug bastard mozied on over with the only steaming dixie cup for thirty miles, blowing a kiss that was caught by the less-than-polite miss with the robust figure. “Not that you really matter in all this, and I’m getting some much-appreciated calls proving THE WHISKEY HOTEL is returning to the forefront of rock. So, my concern, people, is, can you all roll with this? Who’s ready for France? Vikki, Janet…. The French fucking love you. How’s your crochet gauche? See, Clarissa, I get them a fresh vacation, and still, your smile lights up the room.

“Ungrateful,” Clarissa said.

“No respect,” Howard responded.

“Because what the fuck!? What the Fuck, Sonya.” I had forgotten that Vikki drove Joey here. “And Vikki, why are you here? With them.”

“Joey, there’s a lot to be explained, but it can’t be like this,” Sonya said.

“An explanation too much, then? Your bull shit with the Whore houses dishing out justice in Venezuela was already thin, and I don’t know how long I can go without hitting someone.” Joey said.

Even if you deserved an answer, not here, not like this. Something beyond the ever-lasting infinity has collapsed in pain in our backyard with more you can be mad at, or you can calm the fuck down, pack a fucking bag and be ready to rock your tits off like you love it, like the slags we are,” Janet said, interrupting Sonya.