The Clark Savage Junior Memorial Stadium was neither virginal nor experienced : it was the green groupie with only a few acts underneath its skirts and curtains. Its stage, lit with only the most pragmatic of spot lights embraced the uncoordinated costumes of five instrumented female figures.
“The secret sauce is subtle dissonance.” Asada Strangelove, universal set of paradoxically pretty pan-world traits, dropped the typically quirky bit of pith with a flip of burnished copper cascade revealing pale blue eyes set startlingly against the finely sculpted facial features of a hereditary Nefertiti.
“Smells like sphinx shit to me!” The green girl with the short shock of jet spiked hair fingered an impudent chord on her blaring, brick-red shoulder slung keyboard. “Do we really have to dig through your mystical mumbo-jumbo crap to find diamonds?”
The girl with the ’58 Fender Stratocaster pushed her thick black plastic rimmed glasses back up the bridge of her button nose with studied Geek determination. The statement of the gesture was larger than the facial foundation ; it required regular restatements. Her attire and appearance was what if Buddy Holly had rocked out all Johnny Rotten : the fifties style suit, slightly shoddy & hard-worn, was a full on Mod revival uniform stretched over androgynous, angular girl.
“She mean we all play like you, foul mouthed green girl!”
Dazzle Ardent unfurled a blazingly cherry nailed emerald bird in the direction of her potential Chinese bandmate.
“Pick your hole and climb on!” This was said with the ready ease of a professionally profane person.
Khimera Chang dropped the cartoony fortune cookie prattle for an excellently rendered dulcet Elvis cover of The Stones : “And I laid traps for troubadours / Who get lost before they reached Bombay.”
The pneumatic bottle-blonde drummer applauded raucously : “Great Dylan!”
“ Jagger, Suki2! “ Chang rolled her eyes, dramatically. “Geez, how can you call yourself a rocker if you can’t tell Dylan from Jagger?!”
The short, stacked Japanese lass executed an anatomically arresting heel to toe rock. “But I’m not a rocker : I’m a drummer!”
“Point to Ringo.” The statuesque Kenyan bassist, Ariel Cypher, dryly stated with a wry bass addendum strum of her mother-of-pearl Gibson Thunderbird IV.
Khimera launched her glasses clean off of her snub-nose with a snort of laughter ; Asada intercepted the eyewear mid trajectory with an uncannily accurate and seemingly effortless flick of her hand. She passed the primitive cybernetic device back to its decidedly relived looking owner.
“Chang, It’s inane arguing with the innocent and insane.”
“Which am I?” Suki2 pouted.
Asada tousled Suki Squared’s artificially gold tinted & green neon pipe cleaner wired Pippi Longstocking pigtails into an adorably asymmetric disarray.
“You’re insanely innocent...” The perfect diminutive ambushed her... “Su Su!”
The pout vanished almost as if it had never been in the place now adorned by forty five thousand watts of smile. It was as infectious as Ebola ; everyone in its luminous radius was infused by the giddy need to grin.
“Point conceded.” Khimera re-nested the nose gear. “Now how ‘bout we listen to the boss?”
Dazzle Ardent, keyboardist, shrugged eloquently.
Asada Strangelove employed one of the four Chinese words known to her as well as another newly minted epithet : “Xiexie, Khi!”
Chang’s two fingered salute turned quickly into a hasty specs reseating.
“All I meant, Dazzle--it was a little too soon to attempt calling her Dazz quite yet--, is that, with the exception of the drums, I don’t want any pure sound : I’d like guitars ten percent extra shrill side ; drums and keyboard play it like you’ve just slammed back your third Horny Bull.”
“Balls to the wall?” Dazzle appeared to be one for colorfully crude comments. Asada gave the girl a enigmatic glance before her eyes lowered subtly to the keytar that had not wavered a centremeter from Ardent's groin.
“Loudly & proudly!” Strangelove retrieved her skeletal Gittler guitar, and ripped off a raucously resplendent rendition of the main theme of Mars, Bringer of War.
Cypher, nodding her immaculately shaved skull in time to an internal bass line only she could hear, fiddled with her Gibson before injecting a raunchily propulsive paramilitary heartbeat almost in goose step with Asada’s stridently superlative guitar line. The others scrambled and bumbled into acoustical approximations, playing bumptiously until , fifteen minutes later, they crossed the near mystical threshold where strident synchronicity fused five discordant individuals into the arousing asymmetrical im-perfection of great rock and roll.
They finished two hours later with the flushed fervour of afterglow : Asada and Khimera, back to back, ripped the closing chords ; the lot of them exuding euphoric little yips before slumping self-indulgently to the too-new-to-be-scuffed floor of the stage.
Asada pushed sweat leadened hair from her eyes, and breathed, "Dazzle Ardent, if you want to be a member of this band, we need you to be who you really are!"
Ardent tried to be innocent, albeit in her rude way: "What's this shit that you're spewing?"
Strangelove parried Ardent's keytar nimbly with the neck of her Gittler guitar to reveal an impressive trouser swell. Ardent blushed angrily; was about to rail about being unfairly outed before Asada Strangelove, lead guitar of the nascent Fugue State, said exactly the right thing at exactly the right time.
"I don't just want good musicians: I want passionate musicians!" She looked pointedly at Ardent. "Can you be that musician?"
Dazzle's slack jaw of astonishment firmed up into a smile: "I motherfucking can!" The green Orion moved her keytar decidedly away from her less turgid but still impressive nether regions.
With two exceptions, the band accepted the revelation phlegmatically: Suki Suki pretilly giggle-flushed; Cypher drolly dropped, "You really are a nine inch pianist."
Everyone, with the exception of Su Su, thought that was funny enough for three and a half minutes of snorting, floor rolling gales of laughter.
"I don't get it."
Ardent corrected Cypher's estimate: "Ten."
“The secret sauce is subtle dissonance.” Asada Strangelove, universal set of paradoxically pretty pan-world traits, dropped the typically quirky bit of pith with a flip of burnished copper cascade revealing pale blue eyes set startlingly against the finely sculpted facial features of a hereditary Nefertiti.
“Smells like sphinx shit to me!” The green girl with the short shock of jet spiked hair fingered an impudent chord on her blaring, brick-red shoulder slung keyboard. “Do we really have to dig through your mystical mumbo-jumbo crap to find diamonds?”
The girl with the ’58 Fender Stratocaster pushed her thick black plastic rimmed glasses back up the bridge of her button nose with studied Geek determination. The statement of the gesture was larger than the facial foundation ; it required regular restatements. Her attire and appearance was what if Buddy Holly had rocked out all Johnny Rotten : the fifties style suit, slightly shoddy & hard-worn, was a full on Mod revival uniform stretched over androgynous, angular girl.
“She mean we all play like you, foul mouthed green girl!”
Dazzle Ardent unfurled a blazingly cherry nailed emerald bird in the direction of her potential Chinese bandmate.
“Pick your hole and climb on!” This was said with the ready ease of a professionally profane person.
Khimera Chang dropped the cartoony fortune cookie prattle for an excellently rendered dulcet Elvis cover of The Stones : “And I laid traps for troubadours / Who get lost before they reached Bombay.”
The pneumatic bottle-blonde drummer applauded raucously : “Great Dylan!”
“ Jagger, Suki2! “ Chang rolled her eyes, dramatically. “Geez, how can you call yourself a rocker if you can’t tell Dylan from Jagger?!”
The short, stacked Japanese lass executed an anatomically arresting heel to toe rock. “But I’m not a rocker : I’m a drummer!”
“Point to Ringo.” The statuesque Kenyan bassist, Ariel Cypher, dryly stated with a wry bass addendum strum of her mother-of-pearl Gibson Thunderbird IV.
Khimera launched her glasses clean off of her snub-nose with a snort of laughter ; Asada intercepted the eyewear mid trajectory with an uncannily accurate and seemingly effortless flick of her hand. She passed the primitive cybernetic device back to its decidedly relived looking owner.
“Chang, It’s inane arguing with the innocent and insane.”
“Which am I?” Suki2 pouted.
Asada tousled Suki Squared’s artificially gold tinted & green neon pipe cleaner wired Pippi Longstocking pigtails into an adorably asymmetric disarray.
“You’re insanely innocent...” The perfect diminutive ambushed her... “Su Su!”
The pout vanished almost as if it had never been in the place now adorned by forty five thousand watts of smile. It was as infectious as Ebola ; everyone in its luminous radius was infused by the giddy need to grin.
“Point conceded.” Khimera re-nested the nose gear. “Now how ‘bout we listen to the boss?”
Dazzle Ardent, keyboardist, shrugged eloquently.
Asada Strangelove employed one of the four Chinese words known to her as well as another newly minted epithet : “Xiexie, Khi!”
Chang’s two fingered salute turned quickly into a hasty specs reseating.
“All I meant, Dazzle--it was a little too soon to attempt calling her Dazz quite yet--, is that, with the exception of the drums, I don’t want any pure sound : I’d like guitars ten percent extra shrill side ; drums and keyboard play it like you’ve just slammed back your third Horny Bull.”
“Balls to the wall?” Dazzle appeared to be one for colorfully crude comments. Asada gave the girl a enigmatic glance before her eyes lowered subtly to the keytar that had not wavered a centremeter from Ardent's groin.
“Loudly & proudly!” Strangelove retrieved her skeletal Gittler guitar, and ripped off a raucously resplendent rendition of the main theme of Mars, Bringer of War.
Cypher, nodding her immaculately shaved skull in time to an internal bass line only she could hear, fiddled with her Gibson before injecting a raunchily propulsive paramilitary heartbeat almost in goose step with Asada’s stridently superlative guitar line. The others scrambled and bumbled into acoustical approximations, playing bumptiously until , fifteen minutes later, they crossed the near mystical threshold where strident synchronicity fused five discordant individuals into the arousing asymmetrical im-perfection of great rock and roll.
They finished two hours later with the flushed fervour of afterglow : Asada and Khimera, back to back, ripped the closing chords ; the lot of them exuding euphoric little yips before slumping self-indulgently to the too-new-to-be-scuffed floor of the stage.
Asada pushed sweat leadened hair from her eyes, and breathed, "Dazzle Ardent, if you want to be a member of this band, we need you to be who you really are!"
Ardent tried to be innocent, albeit in her rude way: "What's this shit that you're spewing?"
Strangelove parried Ardent's keytar nimbly with the neck of her Gittler guitar to reveal an impressive trouser swell. Ardent blushed angrily; was about to rail about being unfairly outed before Asada Strangelove, lead guitar of the nascent Fugue State, said exactly the right thing at exactly the right time.
"I don't just want good musicians: I want passionate musicians!" She looked pointedly at Ardent. "Can you be that musician?"
Dazzle's slack jaw of astonishment firmed up into a smile: "I motherfucking can!" The green Orion moved her keytar decidedly away from her less turgid but still impressive nether regions.
With two exceptions, the band accepted the revelation phlegmatically: Suki Suki pretilly giggle-flushed; Cypher drolly dropped, "You really are a nine inch pianist."
Everyone, with the exception of Su Su, thought that was funny enough for three and a half minutes of snorting, floor rolling gales of laughter.
"I don't get it."
Ardent corrected Cypher's estimate: "Ten."
