basement club behind amanda's flat--1999--winter

"If you still waaaant me, please forgiiiiive me..." crooned a female backup singer, her voice lost beneath an exuberant snare march. A dark room, illuminated by candles and green fairy lights strung through the metal rafters. They called the club The Corn Husk and, in spite of its filthpunk decor and dusty air, it was one of the most coveted underground venue spots in central London. If you were on that cinderblock stage, you were a SOMEBODY.

Behind the stage, waiting for their chance was a two-man cover band without a name. Both of average height, average appearance... one with a swooping haircut and eyes aligning to a zero-slope. He was meticulously tuning an ancient acoustic by ear -- the only way to do it, so he claimed -- and attempting to sneak glimpses of the audience. The tiny, chilled room was positively crammed. Many kept their winter clothes on, as it was nearly as cold inside as it was out. "Shhhhhhh-it," he whispered to himself, releasing one of the pegs as a strand of wire frayed on his fourth. "No, no, no, no... ahh... hold on now, darling..." He spoke to the instrument as he would to a lover. "Just a minute or so more. All I ask. Kev," he spoke up, turning to his bandmate. "Do you have any spares left?"

"Oh, shit, you're kidding."

"As though it's my fault?"

"You're the one letting them rust away like that!"

"It's endearing!" he defended. The one called Kevin let out an exasperated sigh and began rummaging through his satchel for their shared ziploc of spare strings.

And somehow among the smoky air, heavy with the scent of cheap beer and martinis stood none other than Amanda Potter. Sure you were somebody if you were on that cinderblock stage, but your audience varied from London’s coolest to freshmen university students still high off of the feeling of getting away from their parents.

With the assistance of a few friends from her English literature class, Amanda found herself in a foreign club wearing what may as well been a stranger’s wardrobe. A leather jacket and an oversized, red and black button down were nearly forced onto her. Even with her own pair of chunky, high heeled Oxfords and black tights she felt off- who would even pair that kind of stuff together?

Amanda fingered her choker as she threw back another shot; her friends were chattering about the next band announced, but she struggled to contribute much more than a mumbled ‘mhm.’

"Your name is the only word, the ON-LY-WORD-THAT-I-CAN-SAY-HEY-EY..." cried the lead, his breath releasing a faint mist of red wine on those in close proximity to the stage. "SAY!" he shouted with great finality, placing the mic back on its stand and stomping off behind the back wall to sob bitterly into his gray shirtsleeve.

Kev's companion looked at him with false sympathy, giving him a little pat on the shoulder as he gingerly rested his right hand on the bridge of his guitar. "Brutal?"

"Fucking wondrous," said the lad through his tears. "Get them, sap. Get them good."

"Right."

The next band went up to the tune of "Trevor Sum--blagh and Kevin Schmidt." And so, they began to play. Gently, Trevor crooned along to the soft, soothing minors and leads. "I feel you creeping, I can see you in my shadow... when I drive up in my Lamborghini Gallardo..."

Amanda looked up, trying not to choke on her drink. Who had the balls (or lacked the intelligence) to go up there and sing some American rap star's hit to a bunch of Indie obsessed college kids? She squinted, her vision slightly hazy due to the fact her contacts were a week out of code combined with the smokey air.

She turned to one of her friends, tugging on their sleeve.

"Aye, Angela, did you catch the name of the singer?"

Angela turned, pieced eyebrow raised. "Fancying 'im? But I dunno, Trevor Sumsomething." She leaned forward, now curious as to what this Trevor Sumsomething looked like. "Go tap that shit. Just for the night though. Still."

"Keeping it classy, Angela. But no, the guy just looks like he'd be pretty chill to talk to." Amanda shrugged, and then turned back to Trevor Sumsomething.

Trevor flipped his bangs from his eyes, smirking at the audience like a jester for a king. The volume picked up a tad for the chorus. "And smack that, all on the floor. Smack that, give me some more..." He spied their table and lingered a moment; he'd always had a thing for goth-esque chicks. "Smack that, 'til you get sore..." The audience in general, aside from a few chortles from the less condescending, was rather difficult to read.

Amanda continued to eye him, curiosity peaking. A lot of these guys were drunk off their ass or had inflated egos, meanwhile this one seemed genuinely glad to be here. She wouldn't follow Angela's advice, but there was no hard in talking to the guy.

Plus his hair flip reminded her of Wallace's old friend. What was his name, Clinton?

They skipped the rapping sections, so it wasn't long until their single came to a close and they were off the stage.

"He was giving you the eye," chimed her other classmate, twirling the toothpick around in her martini. "If I've ever seen anybody give anyone the eye, that was definitely the eye." She was quite the featherweight with a pixie cut to match. "Some eye it was."

Amanda chortled, "Giving me the eye my ass. These seats are so far away I bet he couldn't even see us, thank you miss I Take A Decade to Get Ready Angela, plus those stage lights probably can blind a person."

"You're a veritable lighthouse!" teased Martini, giving Amanda a playful smack on the shoulder. "Could very well spot you from the top of the Eye."


(oh my god i'm sorry for the blatant england reference ugh barfs all over place)

Amanda stumbled a little; if she was a lighthouse she would be notoriously for being poorly built. In hindsight adding chunky heels to an already tall girl was not the most brilliant idea. But of course, she let out a girlish giggle, "You guys are goons. We're just a group of useless majors in a crowd of hundreds."

"You're the height of the bloody DOOR," she exclaimed, her amusement building with every comeback. She took a long dribble from her glass and giggled, accidentally bubbling some out through her nose in the process, followed by a loud exclamation of how much the olivine acid burned her nasal membranes "OWWWW!!"

Trevor rested his guitar in its case and clicked it shut, followed by a padlock. This was his /baby/, that much was clear. After that, he followed his bandmate's lead into the crowd to schmooze and perhaps meet that rather attractive goth lass.

idk come in whenever cant write in actual chat 2day wow

Amanda was (unsuccessfully) trying to smother her snorts behind her hand when she noticed Trevor moseying through the crowd and in their direction. She turned around from him, quickly checking her hair in her small compact. Sure she wasn't looking for anything, but hell, first impressions meant everything, right?

"I really dug your cover!"

Holy shit I am an idiot what the bloody hell DUG?! What is wrong with me oh my god get your shit together he's going to expect a response soon what the hell Amanda.

The clearly intoxicated Master of Ceremonies stepped lively onto the stage, gripping his microphone tightly. His jaw hung slack, but his eyes were laughing while he watched the duo walk off.

He cleared his throat, and began speaking in a slurred voice. "Riiiight..." He cleared his breath, and laughed slightly in the microphone. For a brief moment, he reflected how out of all the nights in the year, this was easily his favorite. Introducing mediocre cover bands was what he lived for and dreamed about for all the other 364 days.

"Anyway, that was Trevor Summerfied and... aaaah... the other name is smudged. Well, fine fine. We have no time to waste-because, it's time to give a hand to the Itchy Twats!" He pointed towards a boy's band peaking out from the wings.

He clapped loudly into the microphone, threatening to deafen the entire audience, as he jumped back off stage.

"You're an itchy twat!" somebody hollered from the crowd.

Trevor looked over at her from casually pretending to speak with somebody else. "Oh," he said, smiling. "Thanks, that means a lot. I was honestly really worried about doing that one, you know, considering the sort of general standing of hip-hop with this crowd and all... but, yeah." He gave a slight laugh.

Amanda nodded, pushing a piece of hair behind her hair. "You pulled it off really well. I'd rather listen to that than the nonstop, drunk Indie crap!" She let out another giggle, stealing a sip from Angela's martini .

Angela was not amused.

"Well, between you and me, I completely agree. I mean, not that I'd rather listen to my own music. Of course not. But this is really... meaningless, most of these lot. I mean, there are no dynamics, there's nothing... life-changing about any of it. Their lyrics, their chords... it all seems so cardboard." He shook his head. "Ahh, sorry for ranting on like that."

Amanda nodded, "It's no biggie. It was basically entirely true. Every song is either not getting the girl of your dreams, or getting her and losing her." Noting Angela's lack of amusement, she ordered up her own drink.

"But hell, have you heard that American pop song by Britney Spears? One hit wonder, I tell you. Even their music is heading in the same direction. The grand majority of music seems to be."

"Far too many of those nowadays," said Trevor, giving another disapproving nod. "One hit wonders, that is. Can we not have a bit of solidity in life, once in a while?" he wondered aloud, ordering himself a highball.

"Amen. I mean, it's not like I dislike the shit because everyone like it's, I just dislike the shit because it's... well it's shit. I still have guilty pleasures like that Britney Spears girl, but sometimes I just want to have a band that really means something, y'know?" Amanda sighed, taking a sip of whatever the hell the bartender slid her way.

"I won't lie. I've never honestly tried to mean a word of anything I've said, ever. My entire life's been nothing but prattle."

"I'm right on the opposite side of the spectrum. I spew prose filled crap left and right like I really do mean it, and it screws me in the end. Shouldn't there be some happy medium?"

"If only," he whispered, reverent. "If only."

Amanda suddenly grinned, nudging his shoulder. "Goon, you have me doing it right now- in a crowded night club of all places! We ought to be making illiterate and unimportant small talk."

"But I think I like this a lot better."

[get off the computer at 6:30 am why are you even up]

He smiled back, shrugging. "It's a nice change of pace, I guess."

[up at 5:30 to get ready]

"It is! Are you going to school in the area?" Please be at Pendragon, please be at Pendragon...