This story was adapted from a chat play between myself and Mark_44.
The noise of the club is dulled outside the little back room as the bar fills the orders for last call. The walls are tagged with graffiti and gig posters. I walk in, all five-foot-three of me, with a wide grin and my phone in one hand and a bottle of Stella in the other. My skin is light brown. The sides of my black hair are shaved quite close, but the wild long tuft on top flops from side to side and into my face, while a small bundle of dreads trails behind. There's a little silver hoop in my left brow and a stud in the left lobe of my pointy nose. Silver anarchy As dangle from my ears with multiple random studs lining above. Stacks of thin bracelets on my wrists are held up by bangles embossed with skulls and orange eye shadow fades away over my heavily mascarad eyes, the black paint nearly forming angled Nubian parallelograms around my dark brown eyes with pupils wide and glossy, between the whites gleamed vivacious and bright. I'm totally high.
I'm wearing a front knot crop top in black with cold shoulders, partially revealing the barbed wire encircling my upper right arm with a scarlet heart ensnared within. The top wraps over the small round lumps of my breasts and my little black lace bra. I have more ink down the right side of my ribcage, some text in Punjabi. A belt of bold hoops wraps my waist over the tattery black skirt that covers most of my chunky thighs, and the tattoo on the outside of my right one of a sorceress with flowing hair, long dark robes and a confident sneer, with sparkly energy flowing between her outstretched hands. I stand there in clunky black high top platform shoes and take a drink from my beer. "Hey, I'm Jaz," I say. "Nice to finally meet you in person."
The person that I'm introducing myself to is Kent Burton, the lead guitar player for the band Crafted. He's over six feet tall, lean and blonde. His black t-shirt is all sweaty from playing the set and his hair is sticking to his temples. It was a big show at the swanky Sound Room Cabaret here in Seattle, as the Chicago underground blues rockers have several independent albums and a large cult following that always draws wherever they tour. I've arranged to interview him for my blog, as I often do with indie bands, but this time will be different. This won't be pen and paper (although I will transcribe it). I'm going video. It's something new.
"KB," he answers, smiling down at me. He offers his hand and I stuff my phone into my bra for a moment to grasp it. "And who are you? Ruby Rose?" he teases and the rest of the band laugh as he pulls the top off a bottle of beer and takes a good swig.
"Cheers," I say, not at all intimidated but genuinely excited, as I move to clink bottles with him, then the other members in turn. I've done my homework and am in fact a rather big fan of the band, so I know all of them by name although I've never met them in person. "I'm HardCoreJaz," I introduce myself. That's my blog, a take on my own name Jaspreet, or Jaz. "I've got over twenty-thousand followers but I don't think I'm as popular as you guys. Welcome to Seattle, by the way."
"HardCoreJaz? Seriously?" says Kent. "You were like our first big social media fan! I've followed you for a few years now." We clink bottles again. "Fuck yeah little lady! You're real as fuck! Honestly it's a total pleasure to meet you. Take a seat." Then he grabs two more beers and hands me one. "So what did you think of the set?" he asks.
"Oh, killer set," I say, my eyes narrowing and my mouth curling into a sly grin as I seat myself and take the beer that he offers. Then I down the last few gulps of my original Stella. "You guys have great sound. Is that your own sound man?" I ask and sip from the new bottle. Then I take my phone out again and check the settings, preparing it to record.
"Who do you think writes the songs?" he replies and I realize that I've worded the question ambiguously as I was actually referring to the dude behind the mixing board that I hadn't recognized. I decide not to bother clarifying as I'm drunk and high and he probably is too and I'll just confuse the fuck out of myself. "Are you recording this?" he asks.
"Not yet," I tell him. "Like I mentioned when we emailed, recording a video interview is new for me," I explain. "So if this goes well then I can branch out in what I do, you know, more than just print words." I look back up to him, meeting his green eyes. We're close and I can smell the sweat on his body, the exertion of his adrenaline on stage, the masculine energy still fresh. "So is right here fine? And will it just be you, or the others going to be involved?" I ask before taking another swig.
"Why don't we find somewhere more private?" Kent suggests. "We've got a limo outside. The hotel the venue booked us is only five minutes away," he says as he looks me over and I get a subtle shiver. "I mean ... if you're comfortable with that."
"A limo? Haha, wow, high rollers," I laugh. "All right, fuck yeah," I shrug. "Shit, I'll have to get my jacket from the coat check, though. Should I just meet you 'round back?"
"Haha, rocker girl," he laughs with the rest of the band. The other guys seem a bit distant but easy going. "We'll meet you there," Kent instructs me.
My eyes linger over my shoulder at him as I leave the room. I don't take long, five minutes tops, and three of those were spent waiting in line for the coat girl. Of course I had to chug the rest of the beer before I left the building or the bouncers would have turned me into a pretzel, so now I'm wonderfully light headed, half staggering down the alley in my clunky shoes. My silvery satin jacket is cropped and is trimmed in black at the collar cuffs and zipper and I drop my phone into the inside pocket. I need to make sure not to lose it because I'm pretty fucked up. The car is a huge stretch job, so long that I'm not sure how it managed to turn down the alley. My balance is coming back to me as I lean down to the rear passenger window and rap a knuckle on the glass. The door clicks open and KB is there.
"Welcome back, rocker girl," he greets me playfully and scootches over in the seat, making me some room. Once I climb in and settle next to him, his arm slides around me. "We're all set! Let's get going!" Kent announces. I scan the scene. The band is all there and there's a bunch of other girls as well (hey, if they can all fit!). There's a blonde, some dyed hair, short skirts and long legs. The shaggy drummer is cozy with a chubby one with big tits in a low scoop velvet top and the handsome chiselled singer has a little Asian pixie in leopard print in his lap. This could end up being some party by the looks of it. "So what are you rebelling against little girl?" Kent teases me. I pull the door shut and the car begins to roll out onto the street.
"Nothin' at the moment," I shrug. "Just being who I want."
"Good answer," he smiles. "That's where personality, and more importantly music, is supposed to come from." He rests his hand on my shoulder for the ride. "So are you a musician too Jaz? Or are you just an admirer?"
"Just an admirer.
Big
time admirer," I answer. "I love it all, but really I'm a writer, hence the blog." He wasn't kidding. The hotel is close. The car is already slowing and pulling to the curb mid-block. It's the fuckin' Fairmont. Crafted lives large.
"Here we are. You ready for your exclusive, little miss reporter?" he teases me again. We spill out onto the sidewalk and there's a couple of photographers taking our picture as we enter the hotel. "Hope you don't mind. Not like it's goin' anywhere important right?" he says lightly.
"It's all rock 'n roll," I confirm. My step is bouncy, the ecstasy I dropped earlier fuelling me with energy. We walk into the hotel with various followers trailing behind. Then we cross the lobby and cram into the elevator. Kent guides and holds me in front of him, pressing his groin into my back.
