Music & Idolatry

Music & Idolatry

A Story by Leap

    

               Eclipsed by a duct-taped spotlight, a tangled mess of black instrument cables drooped over Dolly's shoulder like eels out of water. Power plugs mated with surge protectors, and beer was spilled in puddles of broken pint glass beneath him. Though things were hectic, Dolly had successfully morphed more than ten grand's worth of equipment into what the tribe called the 'Franken P.A.' Made up of amps, compressors and multichannel mixing boards shared by two bands, the Franken took shape and looked as ghastly as its name implied. The atmosphere cluttered into an oasis under the dim neon of a Friday night gig at Scotty's.

-- ~ --

So why do they call you Dolly, anyway?” Angelo’s beard dripped with foam as he licked his lips and asked this most typical of questions. Dolly was used to giving some superficial fiction behind the nickname, but he was too scatterbrained to be clever at the moment.

I know why.” Walking by, Jerry actually raised his hand out of excitement. “As a young folly, Dalton here played with action figures. Like six years ago, he got super f*****g stoned one night and told a bunch of us that he didn’t stop playing with them '‘til he was well into high school.'” Jerry even brought out the quotation fingers.

Angelo bellowed jolly laughter, raising the bar’s volume further. “Are you serious? F**k, that’s good.”

Yep…Iron Man was your number one right? I bet somebody's got quite the hard-on for Robert Downey Jr.” Nudge, nudge.

Dolly smiled through it. He tried to act like he was inside the joke, hoping it would dissolve quickly. "No, freshman year was the end of it." He nodded, curling his lips inward and sucking up the vague embarrassment. “Yeah. You know, I just had an overactive imagination. I was bored a lot. Still am.”

Shattered glass rang on the opposite side of the stage. Though not being the favorite sound to hear, the splash did provide a fine death for the joke.

Dolly was discouraged. The nostalgic mocking was one thing, but the possibility of voltage searing through his body during tonight's performance was gaining probability. He wiped as he went, paying great attention to the shards and fizzy-golden conductor pooling around the stage. Blood over bass strings caked after clotting, and while an audience may find that entertaining, playing becomes stunted and painful. He really watched the shards. Dolly didn’t want his passion to be painful.

-- ~ --

Dip-s**t outside wouldn't move his car out of the docking spot, even with dude from the bar asking and Andy waiting in the van to clearly pull in. So I showed him my 'O' face, and I think that scared him away.”

Thanks Dan. Good man.” A confidant and equal-minded soul, Dolly was glad to see Dan tonight.

Well, you know, some people quiver in my wake.” He said this with little sincerity and full-bore sarcasm.

"Did I tell you about the possessed, fortune-teller bum I ran into?" Dolly had forgotten about this, and he was sure Dan would find it as funny and remarkable as he did.

"What? No sir, you did not...go on." Dan urged as emphatically as Dolly expected.

Dolly sipped his whiskey sour and explained, "Okay, dude downtown, last week, just walked in front of me on my way to work, and he started rattling off nonsensical rhymes. I laughed, right..I laughed, but I was honestly intrigued."

"Yeah, yeah. A little bit of me would've been too."

"So, dude tells me this s**t once, and I'm like, 'that's nice.' But he keeps right on going, repeating the same few lines with his eyes closed. There was drool and twitching -- ugh, and the guy smelled like death, so I tried to shew him away." Dolly swooshed his hand to reenact the moment.

"Was it the same guy who threatened to get his 'Ethiopian sista' to teach us a lesson?” Dan asked, reminding us both of a previous incident.

"No, man. I don't know who this guy was. He just came out of no where. He was probably in his fifties, and was wearing those light-up tennis shoes. It was bizarre. I asked his name, but he didn't respond, he just kept repeating this s****y poem."

"Well, what was he saying?"

"'Someday, on a Sunday, you will find me and love me.' I remember that, then something about, 'along the water, in the world...come and get me...' I don't know. I forget the rest."

"That was it?" Dan almost sounded impatient.

"No. Here's the best part. So the guy had no response right, I told him to have a nice day and tried booking up the block to get away. Guy grabs my arm, and calmly asks me for a smoke."

Did you give him one?”

Yeah, of course. I obliged and lit it for him too. I try to be nice to bums.” Dolly was barely saddened by his distaste for humanity, but he could always spare a smoke or a buck for the less fortunate. He may have been a fundamentally solitary individual, but Dolly found himself very capable of compassion. “Anyway, all the sudden he straightened up, thanked me, saying he smelled roses in my future. He smiled, he was polite -- a complete one-eighty from a minute before. Then he just turned around and walked away whistling.”

"Roses in your future?" Dan pondered this, looking like the Thinking Man. "I don't know, man. That's...that's something. Well, good for him for conning you out of a cigarette.” Dan cocked his head at Dolly, considered the story a bit longer, then snapped out of it. “What time you guys on tonight?”

Ten as usual. It's nice to see you buddy. Especially stuck in the throes of drunk townies.” Dolly said and nodded in every general direction.

Yeah well, Hitler had the right idea, he was just an underachiever.” Dan joked and shrugged a 'whatcha gonna do' kind of gesture before heading to the bar.

               Dolly and Dan tended to be rough on other people; on the rest of the world. They felt like they were observing the cancer of common sense in modern times. Neither could understand why everyone felt so entitled, yet knew so little. The two could banter for hours about their dissatisfaction with society at large. They both lived on soapboxes, and they knew it.

               As a man who was admittedly bothered by his unrelenting attitude towards discontent, Dolly found the only positive side to his daily state of mind was the fact that he could, at least, acknowledge his pretensions. He was constantly aware of how little actually pleased him, and as much as he tried to tone it down, he still found himself trapped in cynicism. He related easily to others who used satire to hide vulnerability, but as of late, Dolly himself was growing dull with negativity. He'd grown bored with it. He annoyed himself with it.

               Dolly sat at the bar by himself for a while. He pretended not to notice the people around him. He tried to be invisible. His intent was to waste as much time as possible, staring at the badly painted blue walls. As he shredded a wet napkin, Dolly was really watching the patrons under his own microscope. Given enough time, he could find scrolls of flaws in people he didn't even know. He watched how superficial the bartender was; how everyone was her friend...for a tip. He watched a meat-head break the rack on the pool table so hard, two balls flew off and landed with a clud, clud. He must have been far too manly to actually be good at the game.

               The clichés piled up when Dolly heard, “Asians are from Asia, Japanese people are from China.” He sighed, and dipped his head. Chewing on ice, Dolly made his way back to the stage to finish up. On his way, he watched girls (barely out of high school) sip their beers like hamsters because they hated the taste. Their much older dates would continue buying the girls drinks, thinking they'd have a more eventful night if the ladies blacked-out. In truth, while the girls would feign interest in some other a*****e, their dates would go home alone again and jerk-off to reruns of Project Runway.

                Apart from his immediate family and a tight-knit group of artistically inclined peers, most people were just terribly uninteresting to him. Like others in his tribe, Dolly saw most people as parodies of themselves. As more and more zombies roamed the earth, Dolly and his disenchantment retreated.

                He knew his unhealthy psychology bred an illogical disdain for other people. And he wanted more than that dissatisfaction. He wanted to be content.

After sleepless, thoughtful nights, Dolly saw his break from such an aggressive mediocrity as a physical, tangible catalyst. He saw it as an escape (separate from music) of which he could touch, smell, taste and see -- not just hear. A manifestation he could interact with; grow with. Music filled his head and heart, but music could not listen back or kiss him goodnight.

              Dolly wanted to fall in love.

-- ~ --

Steve gradually made his way to his side of the stage while Dolly organized cables. Steve's mood was comparable to Dolly's this evening. None of the tribe members were skilled at hiding behind graceful formalities, so one's mood tended to effect the others'. Dolly wanted to have a good time. Although the show was turning out to be an exercise in redundancy, Dolly was feeling more and more like changing his point of view. He was intent on making his world more luminous. Thus, he might be able to radiate and influence.

                “It tastes like hate-sex in my mouth.” In a crinkled-nose fashion, Steve slapped his tongue and snapped his lips open and close like a goat with a mouth full of cud. Slap, slap, plat, blat. He finished his last gulp and sighed.

                “Better?”

                “Better.”

                “Bring your new pedal?” Dolly asked while both musicians expertly guided their looped pedal boards out of their cases.

                “Pshaa, f****n' of course. Why wouldn't I?” This was a reasonable question.

                “Oh, I don't know. I should've known better.” The two knelt next to each other, hooking lines in and out, bringing hot signals to life. After a decade of playing together, they really didn't need to discuss stage logistics anymore. It was a routine, and it held a sort of unspoken understanding of how everything was supposed to go. The band was tight musically, as well as being aware of their own unique system, technique and commonalities. “At any rate, good. That extra gain and mid-range kinda makes me wet...especially on solos.”

                “Yep. Me too. I'll have to ease back tonight though. You should too. More people -- less room for waves to move. We were too loud last time. I couldn't hear a thing.”

                “Agreed. We did sound good though. The P.A. worked beautifully. Let's hope for the same to--”

                “Hey!” A native to the Portland bar scene, Tommy G greeted the band the only way he knew how: Loudly. “Hey, how's the Cockblister kids? Hope you guys are meltin' out the cold of your bellies with some whiskey tonight.”

                Steve recoiled. “Tommy G, goddamn it. You know our names. Use 'em.”

                “Oh come on now, it's to be expected. This is America. Where everyone's measured by occupation.” Dolly mouthed these words out bone-dry, but it was honest enough to strike a chord.

                “Nah man, listen. We're victims. Victims of work.” Then Tommy G raised an emphatic cheer.

                “So then we're rock stars tonight, not retail-chain-working w****s.” Steve interjected, leading both Dolly and Tommy G to nod at good logic.

                “That's f****n' right. Now buck the f**k up, and get yourselves drunk, boys.” Tommy G raised another cheer far too fast for Dolly not to cringe. “And now listen here,” swiveling the pointed pinky detached from the rest of his pint grasp, he quieted, “I brought a photographer wit' me tonight. He's a good, good friend. We go way back.” He extended the 'a' of the word. “Rock 'n roll, and make 'em feel at home, you hear?” And with that, Tommy G tipped his hat and swayed his way out to the patio.

-- ~ --

                The tribe's time was almost at hand. Both the band and its followers were glowing with anticipation to dance. Bry slumped his way on stage to tune his toms, and he was grinning wildly. This was a bit of a rarity for such a, typically, mellow guy.

                “What's up buddy?” Dolly asked like a friendly skeptic.

                “I bought new sticks.” Seemingly pulling them out of thin air, Bry flashed the new bundle of sticks along with his teeth. Dolly was amused by his sheer excitement over a few pieces of wood. It was a little admirable, though.

                “Drummers.” Steve laughed and gave Bry a half-patronizing pat on the back before leaving for one last smoke.

                “This is random, but you notice how many people are in a crowded bar right now, staring more at their phones than anyone they came with?” Dolly asked Bry as he slung his bass on.

                Bry gnawed on bottom lip while he studied the bar. “Actually, yeah. I try not to think about it though. Let's give 'em something else to stare at, shall we?.”

                 “Absolutely.” Dolly confirmed, and turned his amp on. While drums and bass were present, Steve conversed on the patio. Dolly struck an open D and rumbled the hanging mirrors. Not only did this wake up the followers, the low frequency also cued the front man. As Steve made his way across the dirty drum-rug, the leather booths filled up. When the jukebox stopped, the cheering started, and cheering was a welcome sound to all three in the band. The boys were anxious to do what they did best.

                 Launching straight into the first song without introduction, the band felt lighter than usual. Their timing was impeccable, the levels seemed alright, and the band's view of the crowd was like an atom's particles bouncing and swaying to the vibrations. With a nice turn-out and Angelo running the board, the musicians found their expectations held as high as their heads.

                 Dolly manipulated sound. He flailed it around, then brought it into swirls. His experiments made him feel more alive the louder they were. He became entranced, as did Steve and Bry, in acute muscle memory. There were times when all of them forgot that anyone was watching. So it's no wonder Dolly was unaware of the petite beauty in the corner who watched his every bead of sweat fling off into the light.

                 Until his eye caught an unfamiliar face mouthing out Steve's lyrics, Dolly had missed her bobbing knees, her banging head, and her riot-girl howls. She was a pixie; a brunette wearing a flannel tunic with black leggings. Her hair was short, her eyes were sharp and intimidating, and her turquoise feather earrings complimented her creamy skin well. Now stitched into his sight, the girl in the corner captivated Dolly enough to cause his head to go dumb; his fingers to go numb. His first flub of the night was a doozy. Although his recovery was smooth, he knew Bry and Steve were cracking up with inner-dialogue. Most of the audience was fortunately drunk. It all sounded pretty good to them, but the girl...she heard it alright. Dolly caught a glimpse of her pummeling gaze. His heart almost stopped by the sight of her smile. And she was smiling at him.

-- ~ --

                 The show had wrapped up with bouquets of slurred compliments, and the hoards of poisoned fans stumbled on. With only a handful of stragglers, the bar's volume finally dwindled down to raspy versions of the patron's 'inside voices'. The band had taken a short rest before breaking down and loading the van back up to its brim. Dolly had seen his mystery lady still mulling around the bar with his long-time friend Brea, so he figured it safe to assume he had an in. Despite the one excusable f**k-up, Dolly felt the whole thing surpassed his expectations. He felt he measured up to more than a retail-chain-working w***e -- if only for tonight. Dolly felt contentment.

                 Once content, he wanted to remain there. Dolly was no stranger to contentment, but for him, it always seeped into complacency. A dwarfed, grotesque pseudo-representation of happiness would appear and immediately begin diluting itself until all that was left was a lingering throb. His intentions were present, he only needed it to coalesce and come with open arms. Dolly thought it possible to find his muse for enlightenment in the smile from the corner.

                 He finished being his own roadie as swiftly as the gear would allow, and he scanned Scotty's like a dharma bum, triumphant at the peak of a mountain. He spotted Brea and tried to act casual, but he was more curious.

                 “Dolly! I'm soooo glad I found you. I-I have something to tell you..." Tilting her head back like a champion lush, Brea inhaled deeply and squinted off to another universe before blowing out barley-scented breath right up Dolly's nose, "I think I'm literally dying from inside my uterus.” She then hugged Dolly for a good thirty seconds, burying her head into his neck.

                 “Bummer. Thanks for that darling. I'm sad to say, I can't help you, but you can help me. You brought someone tonight. Who is she?”

                 “Ohh, that's Cara. She's my new co-worker. And, holy s**t, did she have her eye on you. I think she's out back. You should say 'hi' while you're still sweaty.”

                 Dolly's heart grew frantic as he sounded out her name. “Ca-ra. Alright then, thanks lady.”

                 “You're very welcome. By the way, you guys rocked tonight.”

                 He ventured out the patio door preparing a small, corny speech, but no Cara was to be found. Disappointed, Dolly wiped the sweat from his palms and cleared his sore throat. He felt himself pouting again, and he upturned his head to sigh at the stars. He cursed the heavens under his breath.

-- ~ --

                 Dolly was ready to be home, in bed, moping and watching astronomy documentaries. The concert was a success, so the night wasn't a total wash, but he dwelled on Cara's resplendent smile during his walk to the parking lot. He quietly berated himself for waiting so long to get to her.

                 “S**t. That's what I get.” He kicked the gravel and whispered, “Doesn't matter. I'll live.” Dolly knew nothing would envelope his upcoming dreams as much as her face. Brilliant and shining, she was a flannel ballerina moving through space, time and poetry...straight into him. He hoped to see her again soon.

                 Upon approaching his car, Dolly saw a piece of paper taped to his driver's-side window. The paper glimmered through the rain droplets. Its whiteness was almost hard to see in contrast to the white of the Taurus. Squinting his eyes under the orange streetlamp light, Dolly was almost certain it was a ticket. “F**k.”

                 As he pulled his keys out of his pocket, he was surprised to see the note attached from the inside of his locked car. Once next to his door, he could see the ripped edge and realized the paper was from a spiral notebook. He looked around cautiously before getting in the car. The aroma of a rose plumed about the cab, clinging to the frosty air.

                 Thinking it was a joke, Dolly set the note on the passenger's seat. He decided he would ignore it until he was home and in better light. Feeling like a cigarette, he lit one and turned the ignition just far enough to power the CD player. He closed his eyes and leaned back into the headrest, recounting the evening's events like a slide-show. His mind coursed through his performance and over-analyzed what he could have done better. Flashes of pretty faces interrupted his movie in strobes. They started out subtle, but as he sat there blowing smoke out the window, they became more and more intense. They pinched him; struck him like shocks of electricity. Dolly opened his eyes confused and realized that he could still smell a fresh rose. He glanced at the note with more intrigue, but he picked it up as if it were an inconvenience.

                 As he unfolded the page, a poem was revealed. At first, the writing sounded cheap. Dolly felt a bit like he was reading a greeting card. Handwritten, delicate and simple, the words and rhythm fantasized a life not yet lived; a love not yet made. The poem was an invitation. Each syllable, each alliteration dug at Dolly's memory. Line by line, familiarity crept in.

                 Void of any name or signature, the page consisted of just four memorable lines. Dolly read them again and again. The acrobatic accents of each letter began to pull on every tender heart-string. His happiness in that moment gradually reigned supreme, causing his eyes to water with surprised joy.

                 Through the saline blur, Dolly no longer felt absent of something to worship. His new idol seemed potent and far from false. Cynicism fell by the waste-side, and an unexpected notion of faith took its place. Although he understood little about the phenomena, he felt a calm because the message was clear.

                 He stubbed out his cigarette, put the car in drive, and turned up the music. He smiled, stretching his face in a way only he could appreciate. And as he turned the engine over, Dolly began reciting the prose aloud as if the words were his own, “Someday, on a Sunday...”

       

© 2010 Leap


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Amazing ending sweetness. I loved it!

Posted 13 Years Ago


dude, f*****g awesome! we're definitely on the same page, check out Adventures In Tourland

Posted 13 Years Ago



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Added on November 7, 2010
Last Updated on November 15, 2010

Author

Leap
Leap

Portland, OR



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