So close and yet...
Mar. 8th, 2007 06:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: South Beach Part 5 Side B
Rating: PG with lots of cursing again
Word Count: 945
Ten minutes to go time found Primordial Assault getting ready in a distinctly metal way. Whiskey was the preferred liver destroyer and Nathan had only a fifth of his left to go. Anticipation and jitters had him moving, striding like a panther in the zoo in a smooth, never ceasing path back and forth across left wing of the stage where they waited for their cue. The house dj had done a decent job, hell of a lot better than the douche bag sound engineer, and was getting the crowd primed nicely with a diverse selection of heavier older shit in the Sabbath vein and newer tracks. Pantera, raw and unfiltered, boomed out of the speakers and Nathan tapped the hand not clutching his drink in tempo against his jean-covered hip as he walked.
It was a good point in time for Pantera. Primordial Assault played music in the same subgenre of the splintered world of metal and Nathan enjoyed listening to them, learning what to avoid and what to steal, modify until it met his own high expectations. Anselmo didn’t sound anything he did but there was something brutal about the band’s sound, dark and determined and full of a take-no-shit attitude that was nothing at all like the punk tendencies of other thrash bands. They slowed it down but kept it heavy and sludgy, almost like the blues but with none of the casual rhythm lilts. And it was nothing at all like what had nearly knocked him on his ass when those first notes had flown across the room when he’d gone to see Objective Morality.
“Shit!” Nathan swore, threw his now-empty bottle in the trashcan with enough force to shatter it. Three pairs of dark, heavy-lidded eyes turned to watch him and he took a moment to hold each and every gaze with his own cat-like stare. “Don’t fuck this up. Let’s get out there and show these Miami pussies what metal really is.”
A ragged chorus of agreement and then the band trooped onto the darkened stage. Dave settled behind the pared-down drum kit, Bill gripped the neck of his bass like he was going to choke the life out of it, and a greasy fall of black hair marked where Kuro – idiot took his nickname from Akira Kurosawa who directed the samurai flicks he watched over and over again – was ready with his guitar. Heavy thudding, a count of four and then another as Bill joined in on his lowest string. Two more measures and then Kuro started, long beats of notes purposefully discordant. Then, as his head and those of his band mates began to nod, the music suddenly rang in tune together, syrupy and swampy and the footlights came on, bathing Primordial Assault in an eerie blue glow as Nathan clutched the microphone and growled.
For about a nanosecond Skwisgaar had hesitated in the doorway to the bar shown on the vodka-stained flyer in his hand. He wasn’t going to bother, no need to see a band he had never heard of when it couldn’t be as good as Objective Morality by the simple reasoning that he wasn’t in it. But then his dildo of a manager had started in, harping on him about his responsibilities and all sorts of other bullshit that should have been the dildo’s job to handle in the first place. And so he’d laughed in the idiot’s face and stalked off, pausing only long enough to check his guitar with the desk clerk. He wouldn’t put it past the dildo to try and hold it hostage. Then, having no place in particular to go and no money BECAUSE HIS MANAGER WAS A DILDO, he ended up following Collins Avenue to the bar on the flyer. If nothing else, the tall blond reasoned, maybe the guy who’d left it for him would buy him a drink.
Bikers and thugs hadn’t been quite what he’d been expecting, given the crowd that had attended his own gig. Then again, Skwisgaar didn’t really know what ‘primordial’ meant and if he had, that might have eased some of his confusion. Given his appearance and the treatment he’d received during his last jaunt through the States, his brief moment of reconsideration was understandable. But then he’d sneered and gone into the dark, smoky club, elbowing his way up to the corner of the bar and pulling out a cigarette, smoking it with an attitude of absolute boredom that invited any fool stupid enough to try to start a fight. Much to his surprise and mild disappointment, he’d been left more or less alone. Almost ready to give up on the possibility of a drink, he’d been ready to leave and go in search of some pussy when the music started.
Nothing special at first, brooding and low and as yawn-inducing as all the death metal shit growing in popularity back in Sweden, he’d been caught metaphorically with his pants around his ankles when the low animal rumble of a voice washed over him. Against his will, he’d stared at the stage, mesmerized by the beast of a front man for an otherwise mediocre band. That voice had coalesced in the air around him and he found his fingers scattering ashes wildly as his fingers tapped on his cigarette to an unwritten melody heard only in his head. A minute later, when the deep, throaty voice had risen half an octave and yowled out a sound that shouldn’t have come from a human, sent the packed club into a thrashing frenzy, Skwisgaar dropped his half-finished cigarette on the dirty floor and fled back out into the too-hot Miami night.
Rating: PG with lots of cursing again
Word Count: 945
Ten minutes to go time found Primordial Assault getting ready in a distinctly metal way. Whiskey was the preferred liver destroyer and Nathan had only a fifth of his left to go. Anticipation and jitters had him moving, striding like a panther in the zoo in a smooth, never ceasing path back and forth across left wing of the stage where they waited for their cue. The house dj had done a decent job, hell of a lot better than the douche bag sound engineer, and was getting the crowd primed nicely with a diverse selection of heavier older shit in the Sabbath vein and newer tracks. Pantera, raw and unfiltered, boomed out of the speakers and Nathan tapped the hand not clutching his drink in tempo against his jean-covered hip as he walked.
It was a good point in time for Pantera. Primordial Assault played music in the same subgenre of the splintered world of metal and Nathan enjoyed listening to them, learning what to avoid and what to steal, modify until it met his own high expectations. Anselmo didn’t sound anything he did but there was something brutal about the band’s sound, dark and determined and full of a take-no-shit attitude that was nothing at all like the punk tendencies of other thrash bands. They slowed it down but kept it heavy and sludgy, almost like the blues but with none of the casual rhythm lilts. And it was nothing at all like what had nearly knocked him on his ass when those first notes had flown across the room when he’d gone to see Objective Morality.
“Shit!” Nathan swore, threw his now-empty bottle in the trashcan with enough force to shatter it. Three pairs of dark, heavy-lidded eyes turned to watch him and he took a moment to hold each and every gaze with his own cat-like stare. “Don’t fuck this up. Let’s get out there and show these Miami pussies what metal really is.”
A ragged chorus of agreement and then the band trooped onto the darkened stage. Dave settled behind the pared-down drum kit, Bill gripped the neck of his bass like he was going to choke the life out of it, and a greasy fall of black hair marked where Kuro – idiot took his nickname from Akira Kurosawa who directed the samurai flicks he watched over and over again – was ready with his guitar. Heavy thudding, a count of four and then another as Bill joined in on his lowest string. Two more measures and then Kuro started, long beats of notes purposefully discordant. Then, as his head and those of his band mates began to nod, the music suddenly rang in tune together, syrupy and swampy and the footlights came on, bathing Primordial Assault in an eerie blue glow as Nathan clutched the microphone and growled.
For about a nanosecond Skwisgaar had hesitated in the doorway to the bar shown on the vodka-stained flyer in his hand. He wasn’t going to bother, no need to see a band he had never heard of when it couldn’t be as good as Objective Morality by the simple reasoning that he wasn’t in it. But then his dildo of a manager had started in, harping on him about his responsibilities and all sorts of other bullshit that should have been the dildo’s job to handle in the first place. And so he’d laughed in the idiot’s face and stalked off, pausing only long enough to check his guitar with the desk clerk. He wouldn’t put it past the dildo to try and hold it hostage. Then, having no place in particular to go and no money BECAUSE HIS MANAGER WAS A DILDO, he ended up following Collins Avenue to the bar on the flyer. If nothing else, the tall blond reasoned, maybe the guy who’d left it for him would buy him a drink.
Bikers and thugs hadn’t been quite what he’d been expecting, given the crowd that had attended his own gig. Then again, Skwisgaar didn’t really know what ‘primordial’ meant and if he had, that might have eased some of his confusion. Given his appearance and the treatment he’d received during his last jaunt through the States, his brief moment of reconsideration was understandable. But then he’d sneered and gone into the dark, smoky club, elbowing his way up to the corner of the bar and pulling out a cigarette, smoking it with an attitude of absolute boredom that invited any fool stupid enough to try to start a fight. Much to his surprise and mild disappointment, he’d been left more or less alone. Almost ready to give up on the possibility of a drink, he’d been ready to leave and go in search of some pussy when the music started.
Nothing special at first, brooding and low and as yawn-inducing as all the death metal shit growing in popularity back in Sweden, he’d been caught metaphorically with his pants around his ankles when the low animal rumble of a voice washed over him. Against his will, he’d stared at the stage, mesmerized by the beast of a front man for an otherwise mediocre band. That voice had coalesced in the air around him and he found his fingers scattering ashes wildly as his fingers tapped on his cigarette to an unwritten melody heard only in his head. A minute later, when the deep, throaty voice had risen half an octave and yowled out a sound that shouldn’t have come from a human, sent the packed club into a thrashing frenzy, Skwisgaar dropped his half-finished cigarette on the dirty floor and fled back out into the too-hot Miami night.
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no subject
Date: 2007-03-08 12:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-08 12:19 pm (UTC)I'm sorry your day yesterday sucked. D:
no subject
Date: 2007-03-09 08:05 am (UTC)