Rocked Up

Gregg is talking to two ominous looking characters sitting at a table behind him. I’m surprised I didn’t notice them until now that all three members of B.S.R were sitting only steps away from us.

I used to love hearing the stories about them from the guys that worked at the theater with Mr. Robson. Folklore legends, rock and roll’s most dark and obscure band is right here - calling us down to the lowest. They famously turned down Ronald Ramsey and every other offer and remain independent till this day, for better or worse. I’d actually say worse, since a critical acclaim and a tiny cult-like following only gets you so far. Especially now that they’re looking down their noses at us.

I don’t like this attack, especially coming from these guys, these too cool old know it all rockers. Calvi and I take our aggression and both take aim at the drunken bully. No one dares to call us a fucking boy band and lives to tell about it.

We take a step toward him and Switch follows suit. I feel like we are three wolves, hair on end, snarling, and growling at this intruder.

The other two members of B.S.R stand up, the six of us stand off and ready ourselves for battle. Just as tension reaches that critical point where fists begin to fly, the bar room door flies open and an old friend barges in - Roar.

Roar looks like he had run through a battle to get here, out of breath and full of hate as he makes his way to us. He kicks chairs out of the way to clear a path and has the walk of a fighter ready for war. The Viking.

I feel a smile begin to form on my face because our team has suddenly become stronger in this fight. I look at Gregg with a little more confidence and bravado, but my smile quickly disappears. Roar does not seem to notice he has just walked in on the beginnings of a brawl, he was focused on - me.

Oh right, I think to myself remembering I stole his vehicle and had it taken away by the cops. That was back in New Mexico, but it doesn’t surprise me that Roar is a few days behind. Nor does it surprise me that he’s here for blood.

As if it’s in slow motion, I see Roar’s huge fist come toward my face, it gets bigger and bigger, then slams into my nose with a crushing force.

I fall back into the bar and for a moment I feel like I’m floating. I’m floating because my feet are not touching the ground, Roar is literally throwing my nearly limp body over the bar.

I’m half in a dream and feel very little and when I crash land on the other side of the bar I sense the beating is over. My vision is clouded from being punched in the face but I can see the old barman polishing a glass, seemingly unaware of the full-scale brawl that is happening before him. I can hear the chaos of punches and chairs being broken, but the sounds slowly fade away and the old barman disappears behind the curtain of my eye lids as I fall into a dream.

“Wake up.”

The words sound like they’re far away. There’s a small part of me that knows I’m lying on the bar floor but I’m trapped in space and unable to respond.

“Wake up, man.” I recognize the voice and I’m pulled back to reality. Calvi is shaking me, he has a black eye, a bleeding lip, and his face is red with fatigue.

“Did we get ‘em?” I ask, referring to the brawl that I obviously missed.

Calvi waves his hand back and forth indicating it was a wash. “Those old guys are pretty tough. Roar almost had them all beat but that fucking bartender jumped in and beat the hell out of all of us.”

I must still be dreaming because that old timer could barely lift a glass.

I stand up and take in the the mayhem left behind. It looks like a bomb has exploded. There’s the old barman, slowly picking up a chair from the wooden floor. The neon lights in the window flicker, the music coming from the speaker is very low and the room is nearly empty making the sound of the chair on the wooden floor echo.

My head is still foggy, in fact I feel like hell and I’m slow to compute my surroundings. I feel like I’ve exhausted my visit behind the bar by the way the barman is looking at me. My broken brain finds the exit and I stumble through the narrow opening bracing myself on the sticky surface.

My mind is slowly begging to clear but a sharp headache is causing me to wince. I feel like a ghost in a dive bar trying to understand how I’ve ended up here. I feel like a ghost because the fellas standing only feet away from me don’t seem to notice me. The barman does but I assume he is able to see ghosts, just like that barman in The Shining. Or was that the other way around?

Getting knocked out; it’s no damn good.

The fellas I am standing next to are Switch, Calvi, and the three members of B.S.R. Switch and one of the guys are sharing a hug. Calvi and another fella are sharing a laugh.

What the hell did I miss?

“Some help you were,” Switch says to me sarcastically.

The other guys laugh. Roar walks out of the bathroom looking like a Viking that was at the losing end of a battle.

“I think it is time to roll,” says Jack Willow, the band’s lead. He’s looking at the barman who is staring at Roar with cold, cold eyes. Roar is visibly fearful of the old barman and leads the pack out the door.

The dark city street is cold, all humidity from earlier has disappeared. The few people around look like a mix of nocturnal drug addicts, and drunk college students on route to Bourbon Street. There’s not much life around save a glowing light coming from an English-looking tavern up the street.

The newly formed gang is standing in a circle on the sidewalk apologizing to each other. It looks like the beginnings of very unhealthy friendships.

Meanwhile, Roar is ignoring the chitchat and is focused on me. My heart sinks. I am weak and fear another whack from him will be the end of me. He does not blink and takes three heavy steps toward me. I close my eyes and I prepare to meet my maker.

“I will forgive you, snake man,” he says into my ear as he gives me a bear hug, lifting me off the ground. “You owe me some money first, then I forgive you,” he adds.

I can imagine there were a few repairs and a tow truck that ran him a few bucks.

“I can start by buying you a beer,” I answer, looking up to Roar towering over me.

I can’t tell if this is the entertainment district or a warehouse district but we all start heading toward the light of the tavern like a moth into a flame. We walk in the middle of the broken concrete road, limping, strutting, gliding along in the afterglow of adrenaline. I’m floating along, still not feeling myself but the high energy of this crew of misfits is giving me a lift.

B.S.R are indie darlings who have kept their dark mystique as they have aged. They are the complete opposite of And Then. We are considered mainstream, basically created by the record company. We’re in celebrity magazines with our starlet girlfriends. People don’t go to vinyl shops and ask for our records, but they certainly would buy B.S.R. records with pride.