Thunderbowl - Lesley Choyce [3]
When the noise of The Mongrel Dogs finally faded, people stood up and cheered. I thought I heard glass breaking. Even when they were lousy, the Dogs knew how to stir up a place.
Then it was our turn. We had twelve minutes to set up. My guitar still didn’t feel right. Al’s mike had a bad ground and sounded like a huge mosquito. Drek was popping in plugs and throwing switches like a maniac. And before we were ready, this big light flared up and Stewy jumped up to the microphone.
“You ain’t heard these guys before and I ain’t heard these guys before. But we’re going to hear them now,” he said. Real intelligent. Two, maybe three people in the dark corners of The Dungeon clapped. I wanted to chicken out. Backstage, Drek had guzzled several beers. Al had inhaled a few himself, but I was stone straight and shaking in my shoes.
Then Al started tromping a heavy thud on the bass drum. Drek plowed into the keyboard three levels too loud. I was still wondering if I was ready when I felt my fingers start moving of their own accord. All at once we were making music.
In fact, we weren’t just making music; we were making mountains of sound. The Dungeon walls threw it back at us like cannon fire. Our amps were set way too loud for the place. I think the crowd was amazed. We looked like three rejects from a church choir. But Thunderbowl came on like an atom bomb.
I was so stunned by the power of the sound that I couldn’t do a thing but keep on playing. I tweaked the treble up a notch, cut in the phaser, lowered the reverb and let it cook.
It was one of our own tunes called “Ugly Intruder.” No one out there had ever heard it before. I forgot about the crowd. I forgot about the dumb Dogs backstage. There was nothing to think about but me and the band and our avalanche of sound.
We played for ten minutes and drove home every last note. Al sang a barely audible lead and Drek and I tried to do backup vocals, but I don’t think our mikes were even on. Toward the end, though, I had a long, crazy riff to play on my guitar. And you know what? It sounded good. It sounded better than I had ever played.
It was like my guitar and my fingers were doing all the work. I just stood there and watched. My fingers danced like fireworks. The lights sent mirror blasts of magic to the four corners of the room. And when I cranked the heat up to the absolute boiling point, we cut the song. Right on cue. Just like in practice.
The audience was stunned by the silence. The place was packed to the rafters and for a moment nobody made a sound. The houselights flicked on and the mob went into hysterics. People kept shouting, “More, more, more.”
I looked at Drek. His jaw was hanging down to his knees. Stewy bounded on-stage and grabbed my arm. He shot it up in the air like I had just won a heavyweight fight.
“Whaddya think?” he croaked into the microphone. The tide of human sound swelled. A legend had been born.
Stewy led us backstage like we were long-lost friends. “I think you guys have what it takes,” he said to us. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Richie. The guy looked hurt. It was not a look I had expected to see on his face.
“You’re all nineteen, right?” Stewy asked.
“Right,” Al and Drek said at the same time.
Somebody had put a bottle of beer in my hand. I didn’t have a chance to say a thing.
“Because if you’re not nineteen,” Stewy continued, “you can play here, but you gotta go backstage between sets. No hanging out with the customers or drinking. Otherwise I lose my license.”
I should have said something right then. But there was a beer in my hand and this nice-looking girl was giving me the once over. I sure didn’t feel like a kid.
“Okay. You got the job. You work Monday through Thursday nights. Set up by eight-thirty. Start