Part 31 (2/2)
The entire set was over far too quickly. They had performed the same length of time as the others somewhere around the forty-five minute to hour mark but they blazed through the songs with a tenacity that wrapped up out of nowhere.
Oddly, they didn't perform their main single.
With a swift bow, the band descended backstage amid the constant screams of Encore! Encore! Encore!
The lights dimmed, and n.o.body returned.
Undaunted, the mob continued to chant...
Until they all returned, picking up their instruments. This close, I could see that they were going through the motions there was no improvisation here.
But they also looked a little tired.
They really did want to stop for the night.
”Wow, these Alabama f.u.c.kers are plenty greedy, aren't they?” Trent joked over the mike to his band. ”What do you guys think? Think we should cut 'em off here, or give 'em what they want?”
What they want! The crowd bellowed. What they want! What they want!
”You don't get a f.u.c.king vote!” Trent shouted out over the sound system to them. ”But props to that organization, that s.h.i.+t happened fast! What, did you guys form a union while we were hydrating back there?”
The crowd continued to chant, and the band pretended to deliberate together over the microphones.
”I dunno, dude, I just put a pizza on...”
”They seem like a good bunch of folks...”
”I'm gonna miss my Jeopardy! re-runs, man...”
Trent finally turned back to the crowd.
”Alright! ONE more song! IF you're good! That means, you take the G.o.dd.a.m.n song and you like it! Is that clear? We good?”
The crowd was ecstatic.
”Fantastic. Alright, you might have heard this one a couple of times. Maybe not out here, I hear you f.u.c.kers have s.h.i.+t radio reception. Anyway, it's a little piece we like to call Wicked Wilds...”
Predictably, the entire mob went ballistic, and the entire band shared a satisfied grin amongst themselves as they began to perform.
Their sheer stage performance particularly that of their arrogant, mighty front-man took a fantastic song and only made it better.
”My lonely walk along the highway / A silent king with feet a-peelin' / Empire of dust that shattered my way / My soul regret, I've lost the feelin'...”
Trent continued along the refrain, choosing to skip the chorus the first time to let the guitarists show off. Meanwhile, he head-banged in place along to the tune of their riffs. Eventually, he jumped over to dreadlock guy to mimic his furious strumming for several moments, clearly enjoying himself.
I couldn't believe that someone this commanding, this indisputably famous, had even given me the time of day let alone fought four bikers to a standstill to protect me.
It filled my head with strange feelings.
Feelings I couldn't ignore, let alone control.
After a major guitar solo, he finally took his place back in front of the microphone and belted out the chorus that everyone had been waiting for.
”Reeee-yee-yee-ead my bones... broken, laid, and / Heeee-yee-yee-eed my moans... whispered, taken / Seee-yee-yee-eee my frown... buried, bathed in / Feee-yee-yee-eel my crown... dust and vapor...”
After another refrain, one clearly just for live shows, and another powerful iteration of the chorus, Trent stepped down and let his band have their moment to close out the set.
The electric guitar wailed.
The backup guitar sang.
The deep ba.s.s guitar droned.
The drums exploded.
And all the while, Trent simply stood there, hands on the microphone and head bowed, listening to the unrestrained power of his musicians.
That's when it struck me.
I realized, in that blinding moment, that Trent Masters was more than just some arrogant, c.o.c.ky a.s.shole. Underneath all his pride and self-importance, under his swagger and his gesturing, there was a depth to him a deep, dark depth visible even now.
He was a proper leader to his people.
He let them all have their turn in the light.
After the improvised detonation of instrumentation descended into a wicked, thirty-second drumroll against the ending drones of the guitars, everyone clashed together into one final, definite note. Right afterwards, Trent ascended to the microphone one last time.
”WE ARE TRENT MASTERS AND THE WHIPLAs.h.!.+ GET DRUNK, BREAK s.h.i.+T, AND HAVE A GOOD f.u.c.kING NIGHT! UNTIL NEXT TIME, YOU BEAUTIFUL SONS OF b.i.t.c.hES!”
The lights drowned the stage in darkness, and everyone slipped from their spots. This time, there would be no fake-out return to the stage, no matter how much the crowd screamed.
But instead of heading back with the band, Trent strolled straight towards us. Our little group was stunned as he latched onto my arm with a powerful, sweaty hand and half-dragged me backstage.
13.
Trent Within moments, we were back at the bus. I tossed her to my bed and quickly stepped into the shower, rinsing the sweat from my pores and the grease from my hair.
I was in and out in just a couple of minutes. I hadn't bothered to throw anything more than a pair of jeans on, antic.i.p.ating the direction of the next hour.
More accurately, choosing that direction.
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