"Oh, but I'm smoking. I can not give you the best wishes for Easter, not with fire in his hands."
We see them arrive in civilian clothes. Clean shirts, jeans sober. They look healthy
alien to us: the difference between us and them is evident at a glance.
We are on stage and feel the sounds, but our guitarist is missing: it works, 90 km from that stern-faced and bare stage of engineers and foremen. Look at us as we look at a virgin boy trying pathetically to have it stand on end in front of an old hooker butter. Contempt, that hurts me, I respond with vulgarity and ugliness, everything is a crap and do not try to make things more pleasant. Unexpected shit. I'm frustrated, uncomfortable.
front of the great leaders that not even pretend to meet us, to the left of them, always clean, healthy, united and confident after a soundcheck impeccable. We look at how Rocky Apollo looks. It is too much for my inferiority complex, I become angry. I think shit, now your bitch in me drag it to cease, her kiss will be my taste, I'll mark my dick on fire with glowing. But I know that is impossible.
And then after that they are stripped of their civilian clothes and become the stars. They occupy the toilet for over an hour is a riot of shiny black leather pants, lace, studs, leather cuffs, gels, amphibians, platform shoes, sleeveless shirts or network, ties indigo and other trinkets. Plus: makeup, the makeup, a black furrow in the eye area as Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner, dark lips and other details there and then I give a shit to notice. Redefine a new standard for the noun Poser.
The team in this new and colorful dress is even more bold and sporting a complacency that feeds the monster in me. I watch them and I take refuge in the vision of me, flame throwers in their hands, give fire to the huts of a village in Cambodia, while women blackened and children run screaming. It's a paranoia level two, the one that precedes the vision of the hydrogen bomb that destroys the global flora and fauna.
Hours go by, we play for third after us and it's up to them. Thanks to all, is a wonderful evening and an extraordinary opportunity for emerging groups and so on.
Every movement is accurate, precise, controlled, no trimming, no jarring. He kisses the guitar solo after a neat, clean, the drummer stands up and crosses his drumsticks to the sky for captatio benevolentiae , she is enthusiastic, not Roiti seemed to me that before the change of clothes. They stop in the right places to collect the applause. I think to me that Stone in a key moment for the dry throat, I think the people who do not understand when a piece is finished and applauded in mid song, then you tired of being taken aback and stop clapping. Shit.
But for some reason my paranoia set at a level now I see myself with a sniper rifle that pricked the occupant of the car passing in the presidential Elm Street in Dallas. Kennedy has the face of that guitar. Hatred does not scatter helpless humanity in its entirety, but aims only to that pitted face fucking in odor of sanctity.
ends in a blaze, come down from the stage as if everything had been already decided, just like when we were up. Their music is obvious, banal, and the victory will be the same way. What the fuck are we doing everything I mess when you know how it ends. The indigo sky above St. Antiochus.
After the fifth group, Menarche tells us with his usual stiff anger that within ten minutes, a representative from each group will go on stage: we will inform the winner.
I'm going to smoke and drink a sip out of my vermouth, includes the desire to quietly devastating hooliganism good pupil but he feels no obligation to fund public censing of the first class. At the side entrance of the pub a stray nestles against the wall, resigned to the cold has my same look.
while I speak with others, seems nice people and apparently the only one to feel that way. The others do not feel great sympathy for the first class that are just between them, but maybe I'm there I see something more. I see the eternal perpetuation of the mechanism of Paraculo that inevitably triumphs, in their eyes I see the look of a shark to show-biz nearly complete, there is still little, just enough time to enter the front door, and perhaps not even my age, I see the monographs on rock television, everyone talks about how all the great people and great musicians. Pino Scotto crapped them. Pino Scotto incenses them.
Here, we go on stage.
"The winners are the Gethsemane." says, and goes from the stage and hurriedly visibly annoyed but not its heroes, before whose performance as if he enjoyed titillate the prostate. The Gethsemane. On the face of Stephen
pitted Gaeta and all Soulost is painted in disbelief, mouth and eyes open wide as one who hath been realized to have been robbed of what was rightfully hers. It lasts an instant.
not possible. It is not POSSIBLE.
But yes, you prick. Where is your God now?
After giving my sincere congratulations to the winners, I stop to shake hands with him, who has just seen her little world falling apart, and say any two words, only for a better look at his face. Now we are not so different, and suddenly even it looks so much healthier. Perhaps indeed, even before it was just my illusion, maybe I was biased.
Winners remained unaltered at first, smiling a bit 'more and I also have a beer while talking about playing together and math rock. Nobody give a fuck about this shit the competition, in effect, except to them. And suddenly I have a little 'pity.
I understand them. Even to me they said I was the best that I could become whatever I wanted, I was pumped, and for some 'me are drunk. But then I realized, long ago. In a violent way, perhaps, but I realized that not worth a shit. I accepted.
But he continued to drink it, and from time to time he poured a little more 'in the glass. It is now, incredulous, below the podium with me.
While we joke and we exchange addresses, sadly I see them carry their stuff here and there, some of their friends is black and gets angry silence to my brother. It is a sad scene, and I feel guilty even though I hate the fact that in silence.
While I'm about to put the car so I see him not far away, sitting on a few pieces of equipment. His girlfriend comforts him, and is more than what I have: a can of redbull to keep me awake during the return journey. Nothing stroking or endorphin for me, just bitch caffeine. But after all, I have no reason to be comforted. I
hello with his hand and he answers it.
This time I am sincere. And I feel like a worm. ZOMG
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