[ OPEN!!! ]
WHO: Roger Davis [cheapredlights] and hopefully lots of other people! OPEN LOG.
WHAT: A gig. Rock music, alcohol and dancing for all!
WHERE: Covo Club.
WHEN: I have no idea. Friday evening, around 8 PM.
Adjusting some final levels backstage, Roger glanced through his band for the status of their various messages. It was a pretty international bunch, them, and generally all of them spoke a mixture of languages. Mostly, as cliche as it sounded, they spoke the language of music. Roger knew what a tuned and ready guitar sounded like - his bassist knew what a good bass sounded like - his drummer knew what a correctly tightened drum was like. And so they all could figure out with a number of gestures, universal swears and a mixture of English, Italian, and Japanese.
Roger had actually rescheduled it himself, which was a big effort for the usually lazy frontman. He'd thrown some ads in the paper and stapled them on some telephone poles.
The club was pretty laid back, with a whole bunch of open space near the theatre for people to cheer and jump up and down and be excitable, tables, and then further back, a bar. Dingy lighting hung above the whole place, leaving the shabby little place in a relatively dim haze from the fog machine and the low lighting. Having taken a hit earlier today, he was feeling pretty good.
Stomping his current cigarette out under his boots, he shouted bad Japanese at the drummer to politely finish the fuck up and get ready. Wiggling his toes in the enormous steel-toed boots, his favorite thing from his old apartment in the city, he stepped onto the stage and played a couple of experimentally punk-rock notes.
And then he sung and everything was good. Roger loves his raspy, sulky voice helped out by cigarettes and screaming and he loves singing about fucking your girlfriend when you're not looking and fucking the government when it is looking. Really, it's a good time. In the crowd, people are moshing, drinking, buying stuff, or maybe even ignoring them. Either way, everything is cool.
WHAT: A gig. Rock music, alcohol and dancing for all!
WHERE: Covo Club.
WHEN: I have no idea. Friday evening, around 8 PM.
Adjusting some final levels backstage, Roger glanced through his band for the status of their various messages. It was a pretty international bunch, them, and generally all of them spoke a mixture of languages. Mostly, as cliche as it sounded, they spoke the language of music. Roger knew what a tuned and ready guitar sounded like - his bassist knew what a good bass sounded like - his drummer knew what a correctly tightened drum was like. And so they all could figure out with a number of gestures, universal swears and a mixture of English, Italian, and Japanese.
Roger had actually rescheduled it himself, which was a big effort for the usually lazy frontman. He'd thrown some ads in the paper and stapled them on some telephone poles.
The club was pretty laid back, with a whole bunch of open space near the theatre for people to cheer and jump up and down and be excitable, tables, and then further back, a bar. Dingy lighting hung above the whole place, leaving the shabby little place in a relatively dim haze from the fog machine and the low lighting. Having taken a hit earlier today, he was feeling pretty good.
Stomping his current cigarette out under his boots, he shouted bad Japanese at the drummer to politely finish the fuck up and get ready. Wiggling his toes in the enormous steel-toed boots, his favorite thing from his old apartment in the city, he stepped onto the stage and played a couple of experimentally punk-rock notes.
And then he sung and everything was good. Roger loves his raspy, sulky voice helped out by cigarettes and screaming and he loves singing about fucking your girlfriend when you're not looking and fucking the government when it is looking. Really, it's a good time. In the crowd, people are moshing, drinking, buying stuff, or maybe even ignoring them. Either way, everything is cool.