Sick On You by Andrew Matheson

Author:Andrew Matheson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2016-07-13T16:16:54+00:00

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Saturday night at the Café des Artistes. Outside, for the first time, there is a huge blowup picture of the Hollywood Brats and a lineup fifty feet down the street. It is eight o’clock and inside the Café, well, the place is sardine-can jammed. This must be against every fire regulation in existence. Other than the front door I’ve never seen an exit, nor have any of the lads. If the IRA decide—on a whim, you know, the way they do—to bomb this joint we’re doomed. Nobody can move down here. The kids just sway or lean en masse to the bad pop hits pounding out of the speakers. The brick tunnels and warrens glisten with moisture and smell of cigarettes, perfume, beer, and tourists.

The five of us sit in the anteroom, just off the stage. We’ve been here for hours with no food, just cans of lager. We did a soundcheck earlier that is utterly pointless now that there is a seething, baying mob in the place. Through the frayed, red velveteen curtain we can hear them yelling for us, but we’re not moving until nine o’clock.

Lager, sweat, noise, and adrenaline; Lou keeps it light but we’re on edge, nervous yet itching to get out there and kill whomever Mr. O’Leary has sent to suss us out. American Brian looks like, any second now, he’s going to puke all over his brand-new Kenny Market stars-and-stripes booties. (What’s with Americans and their flag, anyway? They’re always either burning it or wearing it or staring at it, mumbling, with their hands over their hearts.)

Nine o’clock, and the DJ kills the vinyl. Now the crowd really goes at it, yelling and stomping their feet, chanting, “Hollywood Brats, Hollywood Brats.” Unbelievable. We’ve never heard that before. We’re standing up but we make them wait just a little more. Finally, at ten past, we can’t delay any longer, it’s getting stupid out there. Lou leads the way, entering stage right, followed by Stein, American Brian, Brady, then me. The joint goes psycho.

The stage is barely a foot off the floor, so standing at the microphone it all erupts right there in front of me. We don’t waste time, we don’t chitchat, we don’t introduce ourselves. We’ve got this congregation’s salvation and we hit ’em with it right where it hurts—and we do it quick. All it takes is those first two chords of “Melinda Lee” and we’ve got them in the palms of our hands. Look at them go, bouncing up and down. And I can’t believe it, but I’m starting to recognize some of these characters out front. Some of these boys I saw last week, and the week before that. Now they are wearing makeup. Well, I declare.

We usually slow it down for the third song, giving them Little Walter’s “Confessin’ the Blues,” but tonight there is no chance. They want what we do best and that’s fast and loud, and we do not disappoint. The crowd is pushing in waves from the back and idiots are crushing in on us, Japanese girls pushed onto the stage.

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