Post by Berlin Anderson on Aug 13, 2014 21:50:38 GMT -6
Dallas, Texas. Deep Ellum was a neighborhood that had the dense feel of history right under the surface, that a lot of people seemed to miss. The early train stations had stopped here, and with them migrant types, and with them... blues and jazz. And with the trains as well, early industrial development. And now, it was made up of clubs packed into the still-sturdy brick-and-mortar warehouses and the rehauled train repair stations, a strange juxtaposition with the new flyers in the windows and neon signs for Budweiser or Shiner Bock in the windows, no safer a place than back when Lead Belly and Blind Lemon Jefferson sang about its hazards. Grimy asphalt bustling with people, lit by strange dirty-amber streetlights, the zigzag of highway overpasses that took the place of the trains a literal stone's throw away. They were in the eastern shadow of downtown, skyscrapers looming with their own brilliant green neon outlines, or starry gold lights dotting, or facades so smoothly and flawlessly mirrored they cast the illusion of being one solid piece of glass.
It wasn't New York or Los Angeles, but this -- he was a lot closer to fitting in here. In a lot of the places he wound up making, he'd get mistaken for a member of the band. Here, a third of the audience looked about like him. Natural presence of somebody used to being on a stage might turn a head or two, but he wasn't an active distraction.
Inside, he heard the band go to break. Moments later they streamed out the back door, looking to catch their wind, some of them to get a smoke. He went for the bassist immediately, a strange gangly long-armed guy with eyeliner and harshly dyed black hair, and a collection of bad tattoos that looked like he'd gotten them out of gumball machines at random and applied them crookedly. Mike might look like a douche, but he knew music. "Sound levels still alright?"
"Yeeeeeeep." He took a long draw off a freshly lit cigarette and followed it with "good help's hard to find, shows ain't shit without it. You should stick around, man. Sure somebody could use a roommate, 'least short term. And hey, Nine Inch Nails and Soundgarden and Aerosmith are all coming through next week..."
"Can't." The mohawked man shrugged. "Gotta get my ass over to New Mexico, then back up to Minnesota to wrestle."
"Aw yeah, that's right-- man, I dunno how you keep it all straight. Why'd'ya do this when you've got your own stuff, anyway?"
"Because it's what I do." It wasn't a great explanation. He knew why he used to do this-- he'd been out of work on the wrestling for a long time, then he'd had money to make up still. "I'd tell ya I needed it for the distraction, so I don't overthink and obsess on the matches and get in my own way, but it's not like that's working out for me very well right now. Seem to be picking up a losing streak. Between that and how hard it gets on the road with the sleep issues, I'm probably gonna have to stop soon. Thing is, don't really know where I'd stop if I was stopping. Not anymore."
"Losing streak?" Words on an exhale of smoke, sounding deeper for it. "Shit, man. Why do you do the fighting anyway? I've seen some of the stuff you pull just messing around bored, you could do anything. Go be a stuntman. Train for Cirque du Soleil or something." It sounded funny filtered through a Texas accent-- Serk dew Sole-Layl. "Hell, get in with one of the bands with the big theatrical stage shows, expand your day job or hobby or whatever you call this. Easier'n gettin' punched in the face, right?"
"Sounds easy, doesn't it? Nah. That'd be like me asking you why you don't go into songwriting for Top 40 musicians, or go into being a session musician or something. It'd be an easier ticket, still kind of doing something you love, but it isn't what brought ya to the game, is it? Doesn't have the same draw." Berlin drummed his fingers against the brick wall, leaned back against it. "There was a philosopher that once said... well, to paraphrase? You'll run into a million paths in life. What you have to ask yourself when you're trying to decide which to take is, 'does this path have a heart?' There's nothing wrong with dropping a path that doesn't have heart, you're not disappointing yourself or anyone else really, because all these paths are the same in the end-- they all lead nowhere. Yet they're not the same... one makes for a joyful journey; as long as you follow it, you are one with it. The other will make you curse your life."
A silence stretched. "That's... pretty heavy stuff." Or maybe it wasn't, and Mike was just drunk. Hazards of having these conversations in this sort of environment. "I dunno if I agree that we're all going nowhere, but... hmm. In a way..." And then a car alarm screamed and warbled, cutting the moment to pieces. "Fuuuuu-- god dammit, I hope somebody does steal that motherfucker-- takes it far, far away--"
"Hey, look on the bright side," Berlin shouted over the blare. "'Least you aren't this fuck's neighbor."
It wasn't New York or Los Angeles, but this -- he was a lot closer to fitting in here. In a lot of the places he wound up making, he'd get mistaken for a member of the band. Here, a third of the audience looked about like him. Natural presence of somebody used to being on a stage might turn a head or two, but he wasn't an active distraction.
Inside, he heard the band go to break. Moments later they streamed out the back door, looking to catch their wind, some of them to get a smoke. He went for the bassist immediately, a strange gangly long-armed guy with eyeliner and harshly dyed black hair, and a collection of bad tattoos that looked like he'd gotten them out of gumball machines at random and applied them crookedly. Mike might look like a douche, but he knew music. "Sound levels still alright?"
"Yeeeeeeep." He took a long draw off a freshly lit cigarette and followed it with "good help's hard to find, shows ain't shit without it. You should stick around, man. Sure somebody could use a roommate, 'least short term. And hey, Nine Inch Nails and Soundgarden and Aerosmith are all coming through next week..."
"Can't." The mohawked man shrugged. "Gotta get my ass over to New Mexico, then back up to Minnesota to wrestle."
"Aw yeah, that's right-- man, I dunno how you keep it all straight. Why'd'ya do this when you've got your own stuff, anyway?"
"Because it's what I do." It wasn't a great explanation. He knew why he used to do this-- he'd been out of work on the wrestling for a long time, then he'd had money to make up still. "I'd tell ya I needed it for the distraction, so I don't overthink and obsess on the matches and get in my own way, but it's not like that's working out for me very well right now. Seem to be picking up a losing streak. Between that and how hard it gets on the road with the sleep issues, I'm probably gonna have to stop soon. Thing is, don't really know where I'd stop if I was stopping. Not anymore."
"Losing streak?" Words on an exhale of smoke, sounding deeper for it. "Shit, man. Why do you do the fighting anyway? I've seen some of the stuff you pull just messing around bored, you could do anything. Go be a stuntman. Train for Cirque du Soleil or something." It sounded funny filtered through a Texas accent-- Serk dew Sole-Layl. "Hell, get in with one of the bands with the big theatrical stage shows, expand your day job or hobby or whatever you call this. Easier'n gettin' punched in the face, right?"
"Sounds easy, doesn't it? Nah. That'd be like me asking you why you don't go into songwriting for Top 40 musicians, or go into being a session musician or something. It'd be an easier ticket, still kind of doing something you love, but it isn't what brought ya to the game, is it? Doesn't have the same draw." Berlin drummed his fingers against the brick wall, leaned back against it. "There was a philosopher that once said... well, to paraphrase? You'll run into a million paths in life. What you have to ask yourself when you're trying to decide which to take is, 'does this path have a heart?' There's nothing wrong with dropping a path that doesn't have heart, you're not disappointing yourself or anyone else really, because all these paths are the same in the end-- they all lead nowhere. Yet they're not the same... one makes for a joyful journey; as long as you follow it, you are one with it. The other will make you curse your life."
A silence stretched. "That's... pretty heavy stuff." Or maybe it wasn't, and Mike was just drunk. Hazards of having these conversations in this sort of environment. "I dunno if I agree that we're all going nowhere, but... hmm. In a way..." And then a car alarm screamed and warbled, cutting the moment to pieces. "Fuuuuu-- god dammit, I hope somebody does steal that motherfucker-- takes it far, far away--"
"Hey, look on the bright side," Berlin shouted over the blare. "'Least you aren't this fuck's neighbor."
