BiteMarks (19 page)

“
No, that was the last of it.”

“
Raise your arms above your head for a moment.”

I do as I'm told and he pats down my slim frame gently, running a large hand across the front of my thigh on the blind side to the crowd and grazing the crotch area for an instant. I lean into his hand.

“
Well, just pop back to the foyer later and find me if you need anything. I've got everything that you might desire near at hand.”

He emphasizes the last word and pats my arms back down to my sides, holding my eye contact for a beat and then winking.

“
I'll be sure to do just that.” I give him my best coy smile, touching his chest as I step past and slip through the open doorway behind him into the weird green gloom of the club's interior.

The foyer of the club is lit by acid green spotlights, and there are two sets of stairs trimmed with LED lighting in the same shade. The main staircase takes you up to the 'Arena' which is the central stage area with several bars and a large polished wood dance floor. There is a further wrought iron spiral staircase in the 'Arena', which leads up to the grandly named 'Balcony bar. Essentially  a few scabbed and scarred tables and chairs on a mezzanine above the dance floor, offering respite for those whose legs and body's have had enough for one night. The second set of stairs from the lobby takes you down into the 'Basement', which has another small bar along with a snack counter and a tiny stage for less well known and local acts.

We head down to the Basement, knowing that less people gather down there and that we won't have to queue for drinks. It also has the added advantage of playing a more extreme soundtrack, which appeals to my tastes and frightens off any 'trendies' that might be slumming it for the night. 'Trendies' is our term for those who think that it's okay to wear Calvin Klein and Ralph Lauren to a heavy metal gig, providing they're also wearing a skate chain and baggy jeans. The doormen routinely turn them away for their own safety, but every so often they slip through the net, and more than one has left traces of his DNA on the unforgiving steps outside. 

The door staff are not averse to the occasional bit of violence to liven up their nights, but with a sideline business in peddling class A's and B's to the clubs clientele, they are understandably not too keen on inviting a police presence to the premises. Hence the segregation of the mainstream from the more profitable metal crowd is maintained.

As predicted the bar in the Basement is nearly empty at the moment, and we are soon seated in discomfort on the unyielding wooden benches around the periphery with matching JD and cokes in our hands. The DJ is playing a track that sounds like someone being drowned in a bathtub full of mud to a backdrop of faulty air-raid sirens – fine by me but not suited to Meg's more refined tastes, she winces visibly.

“
What the hell is this supposed to be?” She raises her voice to make herself heard over the blare of the music.

“
Not sure. Might be something by The Berserker,” I shout in reply, cupping my mouth with my hands to direct the reply to her ear.

“
It's crap, let's go upstairs; the band starts playing in a little while anyway.”

I roll my eyes, but stand up and follow anyway, with Will bringing up the rear as we climb two flights of dimly lit stairs up to the Arena. A few nods register from regular faces with nicknames that I can't be bothered to remember; I nod in return and spot a gaudy poster on the wall. There is a stark white background with a vivid red, pink and black illustration depicting the characterized torso of a red stiletto wearing woman torn open to reveal a fetus amongst her innards. I recognize the poster as the cover of the album Coral Fang.

“
Looks like The Distillers are playing next month, who's up for that one?”

“
Don't think I've heard them,” replies Meg.

“
Me neither,”says Will.

“
Wait here then, I'll get something put on so you can have a listen.”

I head for the DJ's booth, the dread-locked occupant leaning over the side to listen to my request.

“
What would you like, my friend?”

“
Anything off Coral Fang, by The Distiller,s please.”

“
Probably going to upset the teeny moshers, but what the hell? I'll play Die On A Rope and see what reaction we get.” He laughs enamel white reflecting the glow from a strobe light.

“
Thanks.” I hop back down from the side of the box and rejoin the others. “The next track's a Distillers track, so listen up.”

The rapid bouncing opening bars of the familiar punky tune spring out of the vast speakers that line the walls, as well as from the tall stacks by the stage side. A couple of teens get up and start to pogo on the empty dance floor until self-consciousness gets the better of them. Around the edges some of the older men propping up the bar start to nod their heads in time with the music, taking small nervous sips from the rapidly warming lager in plastic pint 'glasses' and looking around them with chameleon roving eyes, striving hard to catch the attention of lone young females.

“
What do you both think?” I have to raise my voice a little over the top of the tune to catch their attention.

“
I like it, very punk.” Will makes a mock devil hand with two fingers raised like horns and pretends to head-bang to the beat.

“
Is this a female vocalist?” asks Meg.

“
Yes, but with a vocal like an angry lion.” I spring at her with clawed hands baring my teeth and she bats me away laughing.

The opening riff of a vaguely familiar song intervenes, pulling the attention of the room up to the raised stage. The crowd gives a small ironic cheer as the guitar technician who is testing the equipment takes an exaggerated bow. He puts the electric guitar back down and strums out a few notes on the bass guitar, frowning before altering the tuning slightly and trying again. The bass rumble through the large speakers seems to travel straight through your body and back out of the other side; you can feel it as much as you can hear it. Another roadie gives a drum roll on the enormous kit on a raised plinth at the back of the stage, then just as abruptly stands up and walks away, apparently happy enough with the set up. The roadie with the bass guitar adjusts the microphone stand and gives the microphone a couple of taps before he starts talking into it.

“
Can you all hear me, even the ugly sods at the back over there?”

“
YES!”The shout is accompanied by a ripple of laughter. 

He puts the bass back down and walks back off the stage with a wave.

People are starting to make their way to the forefront at the foot of the raised stage, and the security staff has created a small corridor between the stage and the standing and dancing area using low and slightly battered metal barriers. They begin to take up their positions facing the crowd. The purpose of the set up to allow them to identify and remove the injured when the mosh pit ignites, rather than a desire to keep us away from the stage itself.

The members of the support act, AFI, begin to file out onto the stage, taking up their positions with only the barest nods of greeting to the crowd. Veteran support bands tend to be aware that, not having broken the proverbial ice with a display of their musical talents yet, a lengthy introductory monologue can turn an indifferent crowd hostile.

The lead singer goes by the name Davey Havok if I remember correctly, and I can see the full 'sleeve' tattoos with their recurrent Halloween themes that have become his insignia. The other members of the band are heavily tattooed and pierced as well, but I am transfixed by their front-man's near translucent pale skin. He has deep set black eyes to accompany the evil looking host of pumpkin faces snaking around his toned arms; my interest is piqued already.

Before a band begins to play, particularly the band supporting the main act that the majority of the crowd have paid out cash to see, you can rarely tell what sort of reaction they are going to get.

Expectation sits like static electricity in the atmosphere, the crowd's faces are hard and blank, challenging the artists to impress them.

AFI's set kicks off with a roar and ends with an anguished howl of rage and pain. The middle is almost a blur, and even though I barely recognize a single song, I find myself making a mental note to buy their entire back catalog at the first available opportunity. The crowd surges, ebbing and flowing like water with the frantic guitars and thunderous drums, and I am sure that my eyes are locked together with the vocalists own as he moves from note to note with urgency and plaintive emotion dancing across his features.

Having been to many live gigs before, we have already edged our way to the bar at the side of the stage before the set draws to a complete close; knowing that in the inter-band scrum is almost impossible to get noticed by the helter-skeltering bar staff for long enough to order another drink. Several people are being splashed with water in the small enclosed area at the front of the stage,suffering from the crushing impact of a multitude of heaving and pressing bodies during the opening performance.

A pretty blonde girl with pink streaks in her hair wanders past with blood running down her chin from a split lip, probably as a result of collision with somebody's shoulder as they jumped up and down with the music. In the near darkness the blood looks thick and black like treacle, and she smiles with red tinged teeth as she catches my interest in her. I push my way over to her and touch the livid wound softly with my index finger, pulling away a dark droplet that perches on my fingertip like a small blister.

“
That looks sore, would you like me to kiss it better for you?” I ask cheekily.

“
Sure, but I think it also needs another drink to completely numb the pain.” She smiles broadly and I lean in smudging the blood like lipstick across her full lips and exploring the warm copper tang of her mouth with my tongue.

“
Funny, you don't look like a vampire.” She quips and wipes a dark sleeve across to remove the sticky blood residue from her face.

“
Appearances are almost always deceptive.” I reply and pass her my own drink.

“
The band is about to start up, but I'd like you to find me later,” she says.

I meet her stare and smile, then walk back into the crowd, quickly relocating Meg and Will near the huge speaker at the left hand side of the stage.

“
Tart” says Meg, aiming the insult at me and then pressing her lips close to my ear. '
'I
bet I can make you forget all about her after the gig.
”
She nips my ear with small sharp teeth, and then moves back to welcome Will back into the fold as the main act 'Cold' strut out onto the stage. 

The solo electric guitar opening to 'Remedy', the first track from the album: 'Thirteen Ways To Bleed Onstage', starts up, and the lights go out completely save for a single spotlight above the lead singers head that shrouds his features in a deathly blue and white glare. Motes of dust float in the air around his head and steam rises from his clean shaven scalp. His eyes are lined in blue and purple, giving the appearance of either deep bruising or recent disinterment.

The guitar comes to an abrupt halt and the anticipation in the few moments of silence that follow is smothering and unbearable. It ends when Scooter Ward pulls in a deep noisy breath and in his idiosyncratic choked and hollow tone bellows out the first line.

“
I don't love how you love, but please don't leave me here alone.”

The reaction is immediate and explosive, and in complete contrast to the surge and pulse of the crowd during the warm up act, a violent circling mosh pit starts up straight away, with people of all sexes, shapes and sizes hurling themselves together with complete disregard for their own safety.

To the casual observer the phenomenon is disturbing – a glimpse into Dante's Inferno – the tortured souls twisting together in mutual torment, but to us this is surrogate intimacy. The violent physical contact with strangers, the blood and bruises, these things are unifying, and we are an extended family that proudly wears its battle scars like badges of honor.

Familiar and well loved songs merge into one single voiceless meaningless wave as the perception of passing time shifts. There is nothing else now for the next sixty minutes, only the repetitive thud and smack of wet flesh on wet flesh, the bitter taste of salt sweat from whipping tendrils of hair. The mosh pit heaves and churns, a vast panting obscene tangle, a huge copulating beast. The floor would pulse like a heartbeat if my feet could touch it.

As suddenly as it all began it ends. The frigid night air – temporarily forgotten in the human forged humidity inside the club – is a slap in the face. The thronging crowd leaving as one is alight with the buzz of adrenaline fueled conversation. The host of merchandise pedlars, taxi drivers, food hawkers and drug dealers is another shock to the dazed senses. The night is alive with cloying aromas of marijuana and onions frying in burger fat; my t-shirt is wet shrink-wrap around my torso, saturated with cooling sweat and my body is pleading for respite from the sensory assault.