Outsider (4 page)

She looked at the young, well cut man sitting
a few steps away from her, cut out of brown suit and brown hair,
and thought/knew, this guy could never understand that giving up a
career as a performer was not a sign of failure. Oh, she did love
singing and bashing her electric guitar on stage. Her only failure
was in her lack of management. She would have done gigs seven days
a week, twenty-four times a day. But she didn’t know how to sell
herself. She didn’t know how to compromise. And now there was
Second Look… How amazing. They had so powerfully impressed Sid the
Blasé. Sid, music lover to the core, who had seen so many bands,
heard so many voices, tasted so many styles. Quite a killing.

Solitary Sid, whose most unknown and secret
desire was so simply to be able to identify with someone, and who
had spent most of her life searching for this elusive super woman
who would validate her beliefs, and tell her
it’s ok, you’ll be
alright
, and it would be true. And now there were two. The
predatory wolf in her wanted to hate them, the sensible killerwhale
wanted to love them.

Isolated Sid, who couldn’t focus on music
anymore, and who could only contemplate her beloved guitar, instead
of picking it up and making it scream with cynical passion. Because
drugs didn’t do anything for her musical creativity. Oh yes, they
worked wonders on her writer’s mind. But couldn’t anyone see that
if she was not singing, she was shutting down?

Beyond music, there is only Death
, she
thought, but didn’t say it out loud, the ears of the psychiatrist
from too low a caste to deserve the truth from higher levels.

Shite, I didn’t know I could be so
self-centered and so contemptuous. What’s happening to me? I need
help. But who could help me.

Outside, the sky was unforgiving blue and the
sun heartlessly bright.

(First Set)

“
Feeling mean / Checking the scene / Oh,
I’m hot tonight / My body’s achin’ / Oh, feel like takin’ / A shot
tonight.”

(Nikki Lamborn and Catherine “The Been”
Feeney)

One hot night of British summer, the
fantastic rock band, the one and only Second Look, were performing
in a pub on the Chiswick High Road. If you were not there, you were
square. Beware. Well, that was Sid’s thinking to the very
least.

* * * * * * *

Alexi was not square, she was springy. She
had come along with two friends, as boyish looking as she, or at
least trying to be. The three of them were vaguely tattooed; with
at least one prominent tattoo each, in full view on a bare arm:
snake, dice, and dragon from the flash collection. Alexi had the
dice. They had short hair and grey eyes. Otherwise, even if Alexi’s
friends were both taller than Alexi’s 5’ 4’’ ¾, they all favored
cut-off combat trousers, preferably black to show off legs
obstinately pale.

They were three of these all-faithful
groupies following their beloved band all around London, even if
they were not wearing any of the band’s T-shirts, a winking eye
between the letter S and L in Old English script, or Terry’s and
Dawn’s eyes.

The band was most of the time these two
equally talented women. Dawn was quiet in comparison, but an
accomplished musician. Terri the singer was an unchallenged Scorpio
with a voice as powerful as a spell and the most efficient and warm
PR machine Alexi had ever witnessed. Terri knew most of the regular
fans by names and was always generously giving out beaming smiles,
pecks on cheeks and mighty bear hugs. Dawn was probably as
friendly, she just happened not to be as outgoing as Terri. But
always beware of sleepy waters.

The music room was noisy, smoky, crowded, and
alcohol was in many glasses under various guises.

Alexi started to watch the crowd, scanning
for landmarks, the usual groupies and the new faces Terri described
as “Second Look virgins”. She spotted the unmissable green mohican
with tattoos down both arms, savagely cutoff khaki trousers
spilling out more tattoos but only on one leg. The other leg
sported a long fresh scratch. Alexi had noticed her at a previous
gig only two weeks ago. The stranger had spent the night dancing
wildly on the rock beat, and harassing the singer in between songs.
She had proven no match for Terri’s sting. The feisty performer had
used the newcomer as a prop to make the audience roar with louder
laughter. Presently Green Mohican was looking contrastingly shy and
uncomfortable, while handing over to a very delighted Terri, a
bottle of some alcohol, in the middle of a 5-minute soundcheck.
Green Mohican hurried back to her corner by the paraphernalia
stall.

Then there was the big, busty blonde who
claimed to be a good friend of the band, presently keeping company
with a tall, long-haired creature whose cropped, black top revealed
a smooth stomach as pale as the rest of her skin. The dark eyes
were enhanced with dark kohl. The hair was a collection of black
and white strands. The sides of the head were smoothly shaved to
complete the gothic look. Alexi decided to cautiously categorize
her as one more undulating body for the dance floor. Her friends’
return with bottles of schnapps prevented her from checking the
footwear.

* * * * * * *

Green Mohican, who had decided that the name
of Sid Wasgo was the name to stick with and every other identities
were ripe for elimination on that very day, lived according to very
few rules. Rule number one: don’t go to people; let them come to
you (bait them if necessary but always let them come to you). That
was only partially explanatory for her solitary life. She actually
felt a bit low and part of her wanted to run away, run all the way
from the Gunnersbury tube station down to the Hammersmith shopping
centre. Only three miles. Her hip joints would have screamed
hateful abuses at her and her motorbike would have felt left out
and would have recriminated accordingly.

Terri leapt off the stage and made Sid’s
first rule worth resisting the voice of despair. She grabbed the
stranger’s hand in her firm grasp and planted a kiss on each cheek.
Sid could feel the solid strength; it was a warm and reassuring
feeling. She briefly wondered how much time the singer spent
working out at the gym. Terri was already talking:

“Did you write the story?” The story where a
rock singer was killed by a weredragon. Postal services had
exceptionally outdone themselves. Sid put on an amused smile, at
last back on familiar territory:

“Oh, how did you guess?”

“I liked it! I’m not quite sure about the end
though.” Looking around: “Tonight I’m not sure if I’m gonna get
killed or get fucked.” And rushed back to the stage. Leaving Sid to
deal with the choice of vocabulary.

She didn’t get a chance to wonder very long.
A guy called out to her. Because of her green mohican. Usual line:
he thought he had seen her before. He was an ex-punk. She was no
punk, but let him sway on the waves of assumption. In the general
hubbub and the loud soundtrack (Melissa Etheridge), her ears could
hardly deliver the words and their meanings to her weary brain. The
guy, who turned out to be a Mardi Gras reveler and therefore gay,
making life simpler for Sid, was on and on about music. What punk
bands do you like, what about the Sex Pistols and The Jam? No, Sid
wasn’t so fond of them. She didn’t say so, but it was actually
because she wasn’t fond of men. Marilyn Manson was one of the rare
exceptions able to amuse her, but she didn’t say so either.

“What’s your favorite band of the moment?” He
asked.

With her left thumb pointed back to the stage
she answered:

“They’re here tonight.”

“And your favorite band of all times?”

She thought hard, having decided to humour
him (shit, too good for my own good):

“Patti Smith Group.” Her favorite lullaby
when she was 18 and the fairground would blast her ears out late
into the night. Patti had always been there for her, helping her to
forget the noisy world.

The slightly speech-impedimented 37-year-old
struck with his best ace:

“You’ve got the hots for the singer! You gave
her a bottle of whisky!”

She corrected out of habit: “It was not
whisky, it was mescal.” And laughed, suddenly aware that after all
these years of rumours, legends and gossips, she was relaxed about
the assumption. Or was it the drugs? Back in the nineties she had
been credited with having the hots for Joan Armatrading. During her
too long stay in stinky Paris she had been suspected of fancying
her music partner (a very short musical association). And every now
and then, she had been told she was crazy for quite a few of her
favorite friends and acquaintances, mostly performers, for their
gorgeous looks or their tattoos or their piercings or their shaved
heads. When she had mentioned the name of the Bristol-based Rita
Lynch, she had heard the comments behind her back. But today, her
paranoia held at bay, she was beyond caring, and maybe beyond
reach. So, why not adding Terri from Second Look to the fancy “hot
list”. They would never figure her out. They would never understand
that Sid, or whatever her name was, was obsessed with music,
possessed with music and belonged to music. Her heart was probably
somewhere else, she probably didn’t know where herself.

* * * * * * *

Meanwhile, Alexi, Lita and Jenny, were
sipping their schnapps, contemplating an old Second Look sticker on
one of the big speakers in front of the stage: the fuzzy profile of
a smiling skull.

“Cool!” exclaimed Alexi. “It would make a
cool tattoo!”

The tapestry against the back wall of the
stage mesmerized Jenny. It reminded her of a childhood TV favorite.
This mighty rider only needed a
Z meaning Zorro
across,
instead of the name of the band.

And then at last, Second Look were on stage,
Dawn wearing a silver, shiny top, one of many stashed in her
wardrobe, and Terri a sober, black T-shirt affiliating her with
every possible bad girl in the world. One could expect her to live
up to the label. She started haranguing the audience, counting the
“virgins” sandwiched between the screaming groupies. Ah, the night
was about to be great. After a few words of appreciation about the
banners at their Mardi Gras gig the previous Saturday, Terri
launched her voice into their first gripping number. One of the
many variations on the
will you be the one
theme.

A heavily pierced and tattooed woman got up
and took the empty space between stage and tables, a look of
beatification all over her face. Green Mohican joined in, rhythm
had taken her body over. Sid’s second rule: never go on an empty
dance floor, too easy, second is best. Alexi decided to wait. Lita
and Jenny preferred a bit of a crowd.

For the second song, the audience watched Sid
dancing all over the floor, on her own, but proud and comfortable.
Wild, free. Her eyes darting left and right. Crossing swords with
the punters. Their eyes unknowingly transferring energy to her
manic feet, her supple joints and her moving limbs. The more they
looked, the harder she danced.

By the time Terri started to go on about
wearing the star of the sheriff
, she had had a few shots of
tequila and the crowd had warmed hot to her voice, to Dawn’s music,
to the point of breaking their restraining chains and taking over
the dance floor. Lita was pogoing just in front of the singer.
Alexi, who, like everyone else wanted to give the singer “five”
when she’d ask for it, was there, too. The ambiance was electric.
Alexi’s eyes were everywhere, spying on Green Mohican and every
woman with a touch of original style. And there was someone
attracting her attention more than Green Mohican or the charismatic
Terri for once. It was the unknown woman, whose black and white
hair seemed to cascade down so freely and fleetingly to her waist.
Whenever Alexi would try to catch her eyes, the stranger would
disappear behind a boring dancer. But Alexi was sure, this woman
whose looks were close to mesmerizing, this woman was occasionally
gazing at her, gypsy eyes staring at her very soul.

The first set ended and Jenny reminded Alexi
it was her round. The unknown beauty had vanished.

(Second Set)

“
Where are you / I’m looking for you /
Heaven help you / When I find you”

(Nikki Lamborn and Catherine “The Been”
Feeney)

To start their second set Terri didn’t bother
with any fancy introduction. Possibly weary of Sid’s reactions, the
writer having proven a bit of a wild card. Terri didn’t know that
Sid intended to be on her best behavior by then. This was what Sid
wanted to think, in her wildest dreams.

The singer started stomping the stage with
her heavy fancy boots, roaring loud and clear Janis Joplin’s
acapella prayer to The Lord, just in case He’d be in a mood good
enough to grant her wish for a Mercedes-Benz. She had swapped her
Bad Girl T-shirt for a black, lacy one; maybe God will be more
impressed. If not, it at least gave an extra opportunity for the
crowd to stare at her quality tattoos. Dragons, uncoiling their
long tails and spitting their fire, one on each arm, one Chinese,
one Japanese.

The whole audience thrived to sing along, and
when Terri waved the microphone in their direction for the repeat
of the first verse, they, of course, did badly, according to
Terri’s standards, and she told them so! Ah, performers, the more
talented, the harder on the fans.

The success thundered in the venue, but next,
it was
Take a Little Piece of My Heart
… She had the audience
under a tightly-woven spell, in the palm of her hand. She had
undisputed power over the enthralled groupies. Sid was watching on,
more and more carried away by the music and increasingly
overwhelmed by the denser and denser energy of the crowd, her eyes
needing to hook into people’s eyes on a more intense basis, for an
extra burst of energy. In between scanning the crowd she was number
one for audience participation.