AU Bingo ficlet: "Strangelove Addiction"
The prompt is "Other: Band."
So be it, au_bingo. So be it.
"Strangelove Addiction"
Sydney sat in her godfather’s home theater, watching the newest episode of “Behind the Music.”
The voiceover intoned, “With both sisters now a part of supergroup Strangelove Addiction, the woman studio executives had reshaped and renamed ‘Laura Bristow’ was poised to re-emerge as Irina Derevko once more. Her authentic lyrics - and personality - could finally shine through.”
The images shifted from pictures of her mother’s glammed-up, perfectly coiffed promo pictures from 1970 to later images in black and white: Mom in simple jeans and a peasant shirt at the microphone, her playing acoustic guitar at a rehearsal, and then the three of them - Sydney as a child, and both her parents - walking along the beach in L.A. Her mother looked radiant; far more surprisingly, so did her father.
“She was turning a corner,” said the man on the screen - her godfather, who was captioned STRANGELOVE ADDICTION LEADER ARVIN SLOANE. “That much was clear. But when you face your true self - you also have to face your true darkness.”
The voiceover continued, over an image of crowds in a record store: “As the ‘70s became the ‘80s, Strangelove Addiction would make its boldest artistic move yet.” The screen showed the cover of the band’s final album, which had no pronounceable name, only the symbols <0> as a title. “And Laura Bristow’s tangled world would finally come undone - when ‘Behind the Music’ continues.”
The final shot, before commercial, was the famous newspaper photo of her mother’s car being pulled out of the river. Sydney closed her eyes.
“I think that’s enough,” said Sloane. He hit the controls to his home theater, which shut off the video and brought up the lights in the room. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Sydney said, then took back the lie. “I’m shaken up. But I knew I needed to see it, and I didn’t want to watch alone.”
Sloane leaned back in the red-velvet seats, like a teenager in a movie theater; only his posture betrayed that he had once been a rock and roll legend instead of what he was now - a prosperous vintner whose framed platinum records and “Strangelove Addiction” winery label were more advertising gimmicks than reflections of his true self. “You didn’t consider watching with your father?”
“You know how Dad is about her. He can’t bear to talk about it. Even now.”
“He’s angry. When a woman kills herself, leaves you with a child to raise - it must be an unbearable burden.” Sloane must have seen her flinch, because he continued in a more neutral vein. “Besides, your father never fit easily into the rock and roll life. Even behind the scenes, it was sometimes too much for him to take.”
Sydney had seen all the debates, from ROLLING STONE articles back when the band broke up to classic rock internet forums now, about whether her father’s heart had been broken, or whether maybe he’d never been the one who actually composed the songs that took Strangelove Addiction to four platinum albums and 12 number-one singles - whether there was some strange conspiracy at work. (Some though Arvin Sloane might have written the music as well as the lyrics - a theory, she’d noted, her godfather didn’t try hard enough to dispel.) Nobody seemed to understand that Jack Bristow was simply more at home composing classical scores for film than he’d ever been on a tour bus, or backstage at Madison Square Garden.
Nobody could believe that there was any life better than being a rock star - unless they’d tried it.
“How is he managing your success?” Sloane said.
“I think he still expects it all to blow up in my face.” Sydney sighed. Her eyes sought the large framed Peter Max portrait of Strangelove Addiction, circa 1974: Her mother defiantly clutching her famous blue guitar over her pregnant belly; Sloane in his long jacket and shades; Devlin; her aunts in long scarves and witchy clothes. Her father, of course, wasn’t pictured; that was how he’d always preferred it. “It’s as if Dad can’t bring himself to admit that the music industry doesn’t destroy everyone - because if he did, he’d have to admit we might have been able to save Mom, if we’d just known more, or done something differently.”
“That’s a shame.” Sloane seemed contemplative, as if he wanted to say more, but wouldn’t. “I wish his reaction weren’t so negative.”
“It isn’t always,” she said quietly. In her mind’s eye, she remembered the first time she’d played him some of the songs from her first album, just her and her guitar, sitting cross-legged in front of his fireplace. The small smile on her father’s face had told her more about his pride than words ever could. But was it wrong to wish for them to have moments like that more often? “It’s hard for him. He tries.”
“I’ve enjoyed watching you emerge as an artist in your own right.” His hand folded over her shoulder - a kind of touch she always found somewhat invasive, but was simply the way Sloane operated. “In this era of ironic pop and autotune, it’s fantastic to see someone emerge because of a true voice, and true lyrics. You’re more than a singer, Sydney. You’re a messenger.”
Sloane talked that way sometimes - about the “message,” as if there were something almost supernatural about it. That had been the fuel behind the phenomenal <0> album - and, some suggested, her mother’s suicide. But Sydney wasn’t the type to get caught up in rock and roll mysticism … particularly the kind fueled by hallucinogens, which she suspected had played a big role way back when.
“I should get to APO,” she said. “I wanted to check out a few set musicians this afternoon.”
“Good luck. And tell your father to call me, sometime.” Sloane draped his arm over her shoulder the entire way out of his beachside mansion, until she once again stood in daylight.
**
“You don’t look like a drummer,” Sydney said, amused despite herself.
“I know, right? Back when I was starting out, I grew a mullet, you know, business in the front, party in the back, but now I just have to wing it on the sounds.” Marshall Flinkman - the nerdiest rock drummer Sydney had ever heard, but also one of the best - grinned at her in unabashed hope. “And also, you haven’t heard remixes until you’ve heard Flinkman remixes. I have this one mashup of AC/DC and the Ghostbusters theme song - you know, who you gonna call?”
“I know.” Sydney had to grin at him. “Can you be here on Tuesday?”
“I’m on for the album?” Marshall looked like he might pop like a firecracker in sheer delight. “Oh, thanks Miss Bristow, I mean, Sydney, or is Miss Bristow more appropriate? I, uh - ”
“Sydney is fine. Get the schedule from Mr. Vaughn, okay?”
As Marshall excitedly babbled his details to Michael Vaughn, Sydney stole a few moments to study her APO Records liaison - or, as she sometimes thought of him, her handler. He was supposed to make her life simpler, and in a lot of ways he did. But the way he made her think - all the resolutions he tempted her to break, just with that sleepy grin - that didn’t make things simpler at all.
Although Sydney didn’t buy into her father’s fatalism about the music business, she had internalized one of his unspoken rules: Don’t risk your heart there. She’d dated Danny, a cardiac surgeon, for the longest time; now, in her phone, she had the phone number and email of a handsome journalist she’d met named Will Tippin, who covered pop culture - which was close but didn’t really count as being in the music industry, and oh, those blue eyes. But neither of them affected her the way Vaughn did.
Once Marshall left, Vaughn came to her and said, “We’ve got one more waiting for you. A backup singer.”
“I’m not even sure I’m going to need one.”
“I get that. But - there’s something about her, Syd. She kind of reminds me of you. It’s just a hunch, but I think you guys ought to meet.”
“I trust your instincts,” Sydney said, and his answering grin made her melt a little inside.
As she collected herself, the backup singer walked in. There was a certain resemblance, though it was hard to pinpoint exactly why. “Hey. I’m Sydney Bristow.” She held out her hand for a shake. “A tango singer from Buenos Aires, huh?”
“Nadia Santos.” Her dark eyes were troubled, but there was something genuine about her smile. “I’ve really wanted to meet you - for a long time.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Nadia took a deep breath. “Believe me, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”
**
So be it, au_bingo. So be it.
"Strangelove Addiction"
Sydney sat in her godfather’s home theater, watching the newest episode of “Behind the Music.”
The voiceover intoned, “With both sisters now a part of supergroup Strangelove Addiction, the woman studio executives had reshaped and renamed ‘Laura Bristow’ was poised to re-emerge as Irina Derevko once more. Her authentic lyrics - and personality - could finally shine through.”
The images shifted from pictures of her mother’s glammed-up, perfectly coiffed promo pictures from 1970 to later images in black and white: Mom in simple jeans and a peasant shirt at the microphone, her playing acoustic guitar at a rehearsal, and then the three of them - Sydney as a child, and both her parents - walking along the beach in L.A. Her mother looked radiant; far more surprisingly, so did her father.
“She was turning a corner,” said the man on the screen - her godfather, who was captioned STRANGELOVE ADDICTION LEADER ARVIN SLOANE. “That much was clear. But when you face your true self - you also have to face your true darkness.”
The voiceover continued, over an image of crowds in a record store: “As the ‘70s became the ‘80s, Strangelove Addiction would make its boldest artistic move yet.” The screen showed the cover of the band’s final album, which had no pronounceable name, only the symbols <0> as a title. “And Laura Bristow’s tangled world would finally come undone - when ‘Behind the Music’ continues.”
The final shot, before commercial, was the famous newspaper photo of her mother’s car being pulled out of the river. Sydney closed her eyes.
“I think that’s enough,” said Sloane. He hit the controls to his home theater, which shut off the video and brought up the lights in the room. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Sydney said, then took back the lie. “I’m shaken up. But I knew I needed to see it, and I didn’t want to watch alone.”
Sloane leaned back in the red-velvet seats, like a teenager in a movie theater; only his posture betrayed that he had once been a rock and roll legend instead of what he was now - a prosperous vintner whose framed platinum records and “Strangelove Addiction” winery label were more advertising gimmicks than reflections of his true self. “You didn’t consider watching with your father?”
“You know how Dad is about her. He can’t bear to talk about it. Even now.”
“He’s angry. When a woman kills herself, leaves you with a child to raise - it must be an unbearable burden.” Sloane must have seen her flinch, because he continued in a more neutral vein. “Besides, your father never fit easily into the rock and roll life. Even behind the scenes, it was sometimes too much for him to take.”
Sydney had seen all the debates, from ROLLING STONE articles back when the band broke up to classic rock internet forums now, about whether her father’s heart had been broken, or whether maybe he’d never been the one who actually composed the songs that took Strangelove Addiction to four platinum albums and 12 number-one singles - whether there was some strange conspiracy at work. (Some though Arvin Sloane might have written the music as well as the lyrics - a theory, she’d noted, her godfather didn’t try hard enough to dispel.) Nobody seemed to understand that Jack Bristow was simply more at home composing classical scores for film than he’d ever been on a tour bus, or backstage at Madison Square Garden.
Nobody could believe that there was any life better than being a rock star - unless they’d tried it.
“How is he managing your success?” Sloane said.
“I think he still expects it all to blow up in my face.” Sydney sighed. Her eyes sought the large framed Peter Max portrait of Strangelove Addiction, circa 1974: Her mother defiantly clutching her famous blue guitar over her pregnant belly; Sloane in his long jacket and shades; Devlin; her aunts in long scarves and witchy clothes. Her father, of course, wasn’t pictured; that was how he’d always preferred it. “It’s as if Dad can’t bring himself to admit that the music industry doesn’t destroy everyone - because if he did, he’d have to admit we might have been able to save Mom, if we’d just known more, or done something differently.”
“That’s a shame.” Sloane seemed contemplative, as if he wanted to say more, but wouldn’t. “I wish his reaction weren’t so negative.”
“It isn’t always,” she said quietly. In her mind’s eye, she remembered the first time she’d played him some of the songs from her first album, just her and her guitar, sitting cross-legged in front of his fireplace. The small smile on her father’s face had told her more about his pride than words ever could. But was it wrong to wish for them to have moments like that more often? “It’s hard for him. He tries.”
“I’ve enjoyed watching you emerge as an artist in your own right.” His hand folded over her shoulder - a kind of touch she always found somewhat invasive, but was simply the way Sloane operated. “In this era of ironic pop and autotune, it’s fantastic to see someone emerge because of a true voice, and true lyrics. You’re more than a singer, Sydney. You’re a messenger.”
Sloane talked that way sometimes - about the “message,” as if there were something almost supernatural about it. That had been the fuel behind the phenomenal <0> album - and, some suggested, her mother’s suicide. But Sydney wasn’t the type to get caught up in rock and roll mysticism … particularly the kind fueled by hallucinogens, which she suspected had played a big role way back when.
“I should get to APO,” she said. “I wanted to check out a few set musicians this afternoon.”
“Good luck. And tell your father to call me, sometime.” Sloane draped his arm over her shoulder the entire way out of his beachside mansion, until she once again stood in daylight.
**
“You don’t look like a drummer,” Sydney said, amused despite herself.
“I know, right? Back when I was starting out, I grew a mullet, you know, business in the front, party in the back, but now I just have to wing it on the sounds.” Marshall Flinkman - the nerdiest rock drummer Sydney had ever heard, but also one of the best - grinned at her in unabashed hope. “And also, you haven’t heard remixes until you’ve heard Flinkman remixes. I have this one mashup of AC/DC and the Ghostbusters theme song - you know, who you gonna call?”
“I know.” Sydney had to grin at him. “Can you be here on Tuesday?”
“I’m on for the album?” Marshall looked like he might pop like a firecracker in sheer delight. “Oh, thanks Miss Bristow, I mean, Sydney, or is Miss Bristow more appropriate? I, uh - ”
“Sydney is fine. Get the schedule from Mr. Vaughn, okay?”
As Marshall excitedly babbled his details to Michael Vaughn, Sydney stole a few moments to study her APO Records liaison - or, as she sometimes thought of him, her handler. He was supposed to make her life simpler, and in a lot of ways he did. But the way he made her think - all the resolutions he tempted her to break, just with that sleepy grin - that didn’t make things simpler at all.
Although Sydney didn’t buy into her father’s fatalism about the music business, she had internalized one of his unspoken rules: Don’t risk your heart there. She’d dated Danny, a cardiac surgeon, for the longest time; now, in her phone, she had the phone number and email of a handsome journalist she’d met named Will Tippin, who covered pop culture - which was close but didn’t really count as being in the music industry, and oh, those blue eyes. But neither of them affected her the way Vaughn did.
Once Marshall left, Vaughn came to her and said, “We’ve got one more waiting for you. A backup singer.”
“I’m not even sure I’m going to need one.”
“I get that. But - there’s something about her, Syd. She kind of reminds me of you. It’s just a hunch, but I think you guys ought to meet.”
“I trust your instincts,” Sydney said, and his answering grin made her melt a little inside.
As she collected herself, the backup singer walked in. There was a certain resemblance, though it was hard to pinpoint exactly why. “Hey. I’m Sydney Bristow.” She held out her hand for a shake. “A tango singer from Buenos Aires, huh?”
“Nadia Santos.” Her dark eyes were troubled, but there was something genuine about her smile. “I’ve really wanted to meet you - for a long time.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Nadia took a deep breath. “Believe me, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”
**