Part 4 of Rock and Roll is Dead
Across town, that same noise sounded like a hammer to his head
as Hubie got back to his dressing room.
He picked up the open bottle of champagne and took a swig.
The door behind him opened. “Thirty minutes to the meet and
greet.”
Hubie threw the bottle at the door. It smashed on the wall with
a crash. “Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!” he screamed.
“Tell the others to do the fucking meet and greet.”
He opened a bottle of vodka and took a swig. He thought of
the ladies in the front row. Jesus. Could be fun. But he already
had his own high priestess of pain and sex. He checked his phone.
He thought of the smell of her perfume, her leather, her kiss. She
would be here soon. He pined for her, for the oblivion she brought.
He looked at the itinerary. A thirty-date swing through Europe.
Like a funeral march. Then he could bury this band. He would
be free of this business. They have been fucking over rock and
roll since the beginning. Anywhere you got art, talent, fire, you
got some arsehole who thought it was his job to represent… himself,
mostly. Well, fuck ‘em all.
He thought back to the early days, when they were hungry,
confident. The rush of playing and recording music, meeting
people. The connection at the shows. Even before all this,
music has been everything. Up in his room. Learning old songs,
discovering the classics. Writing his first songs.
It was simple then. He didn’t have much. But he had the music.
He looked at all the crap in his dressing room: like a police
report already written out, it was just missing the handgun. His
ears rang, but he could still hear music and voices from the
hallway.
He felt like breaking the TV but couldn’t muster the energy. He
looked at Terry’s smug card on the table, it was on everything,
all over town. Bring Your Ghost to the Fire, presented by Terry
Anders.
Whose fucking band is this?
He felt his anger rise but didn’t move. He just had to stay alive.
So many ways to lose yourself, and he was barely hanging on.
He picked up the acoustic guitar and it took all his effort to
strum a loose A minor chord.
‘One day, some way, we’re going to rise up…..sing my song’
He sighed.
‘My song… My song’
Fuck off Terry.
There was a knock at the door.
“Go away.”
“It’s me,” came a voice from the other side.
It was her. She didn’t wait; she opened the door and walked in
wearing black boots, her hair high tumbling down. She crossed
the room with confidence, slipping off her coat revealing a tight
leather dress.
“Did you miss me, bitch?” she smiled, and they kissed. She
held his face close.
“I brought you a present,” and she put a few pills in his hands,
which he quickly swallowed.
‘Good boy,’ she smiled as she took off his shirt.
Hubie forgot about the fans, the music. He forgot about the
guitars, just another part of the business
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 