And nothing happened. Well, no one in the crowd harassed me to the point where I wanted recourse, anyway. When we walked onstage I was shocked to see how many people were there, crowded up against the stage and as far back as I could see. I felt all eyes on me, a feeling that I was starting to enjoy at this point, just a little bit. I also noticed how many girls were in the audience. Girls with their hands up in the air, mouths open in shrieks I couldn’t single out because it seemed like everyone in the room was cheering — and we hadn’t started to play.
Even if I thought Tom Manic was a douche, my chest swelled with pride that he was witnessing this show. It was impressive. I looked back at Socks, who’d sat down behind the drums and was giving me a giant grin. Edgar on my right stared out across the crowd, thumping his fist on his bass. I looked over at Fern, who had thrown her head forward. Her white hair fell over her face like a wedding veil. Hands reached out towards her from the crowd. She lifted one hand, pointing a delicate finger to the girls in front of her. It was going to be awesome.
And it was.
I didn’t even have to throw up on anyone.
There’s a famous photo that was taken of us after this show. We’re all sweaty and dishevelled of course, because we’d just gotten offstage, but I love the photo anyway. Socks is giving the most insane leer — showing all his teeth, and his hair looks like a bunch of wet straw. Edgar has his arms folded and his chin up, like he’s all snobby or tough or something, which is hilarious. He’s glaring. Fern’s hair is half-covering her face and she’s grasping my hand in one of hers, holding the neck of her guitar off the floor with her other one. The one eye you can see looks dark and wet, like she’s been crying, but it’s only sweaty eyeliner running down her cheek. I’m staring directly at the camera, my eyes ringed with melted black makeup, my lipstick smeared across my chin. It looks like smeared blood coming out of my mouth. I remember I felt such a sense of accomplishment when this photo was taken. I remember that I was worried my hand was going to bleed onto Fern’s — I was sure the scabs on my palm had opened up during the show, and I couldn’t tell if my glove was wet with blood or with sweat or both.
This was the night Colostomy Hag signed a record deal with good ol’ Tom Manic, even though I disliked him. I guess I should add that it would be fair to say, as Edgar pointed out, that I pretty much disliked everyone we met, so my opinions couldn’t really be trusted.
FORTY-TWO
Everyone knows the horror stories of disappointment and swindling that come with the two words record deal. Some people get pissed when a band they like signs a deal, because it means they’ve sold out. And I guess there’s still some residual imagery that comes with it as well — rock stars wearing sunglasses, on inflatable mattresses floating in pools, drinking out of coconuts, getting wasted in hotel rooms, smashing glass tables, and the old stuffies at the record label chuckling and shaking their heads as they foot the bill — oh, those crazy rock stars.
Well, it isn’t like that anymore, at least as far as I know. You can’t trash a hotel room, because nobody wants to pay for your ass, because bands don’t really sell billions of albums anymore. This doesn’t mean that musicians are down-to-earth, humble folks who are just happy to play music. Oh, no, there’s plenty of ego and entitlement. It’s paired with a weird, panicky feeling, though. I think some of these clowns who get on labels end up confused — they really do believe that the poolside lifestyle still exists somewhere for them. They’d do better to stick to their basement cocaine parties, where they can truly feel they’re partying like rock stars. The whole “why be a small fish in a big pond when you can be the biggest douche in your neighbourhood” syndrome.
And of course you can do all the drugs you want and go to greasy parties and end up with a nosebleed, eating Vicodin, and depressed about your syphilis. But nobody’s going to spoon you till you feel better, because there’s someone better-looking than you who wants to party.