[It's pissing rain, but that doesn't stop Eddie and the Dead Girls from playing and it sure as hell doesn't stop Tommy from watching. And while the crowd starts out smaller than the band deserves, by the time the amassed wet souls are yelling lyrics back at the stage to fill the void left by the speakers (how does she take that so in-stride? when the guitars peel back out across the field it feels like it was maybe intentional, like maybe they all standing there were complicit-) the act has drawn more bodies to fill the open patches where grass has become mud and they're getting closer to each other's shoulders as everyone moves to the heavy rhythm that carries the girls through their set.
Tommy had never heard of E&tDG before he and Joel got pulled onto this particular circuit late, about two months ago, to fill in for some pop bluegrass act that dropped out over "creative differences" that apparently included a keg dropped onto the drummer's foot. He'd caught the set the first time entirely by accident and had stood there watching, pulled by the crowd and the vocals of the lead singer, into being almost an hour late for a dinner he had to catch up with a few Ironside buddies.
He's listened to everything since then. The records. The shows. Some bootlegs that had surfaced - and not been subdued, it seemed - of videos from concerts taped back when the band were still openers that had started to draw crowds bigger than the acts they were fronting.
She's like a goddamned avenging angel up there.
By the time the set's over and the girls have vacated the stage and left the dark field vibrating in the aftermath of heavy bass and raw vocals, Tommy's drenched but happy, his nerves buzzing pleasantly under his skin. The crowd loses it's focus and begins to straggle toward the exits as the pole lights pop on with heavy thunks, signalling the end of the night. No more encores, no more show. The vendors and food trucks that had fought against the rain begin to pull down signs and shutters. One more tour date struck through the list. Tommy doesn't have the black tshirt that designates crew, but pushes his muddy boots up toward the stage and security lets him through with a flash of his lanyard. He swaps a fist-bump with Terry, who manages most of the sets - including The Miller Brothers - and gets put to work.
Thoughts of the text-chain on the phone in his pocket aren't even on his mind as he ties wet curls back into a small tail and starts unplugging equipment. Not sure he'd deny having a school-boy crush on the lead singer if asked but tonight? Ain't nothin' but work to be done. Acts don't stick around to break-down; there's no dumb hopes sitting on his chest of a few sent messages meaning anything more. He's a fan but he's also a musician himself and the shine of brushing elbows gets worn down pretty quick. Eddie doesn't know anything about him beside an unlisted number. Tommy trades jokes with guys as he coils wire with sharp, fast strokes. The rain's lightened to a tossing spit that looks like snow in the hard overhead lights and they're in good spirits.]
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Tommy had never heard of E&tDG before he and Joel got pulled onto this particular circuit late, about two months ago, to fill in for some pop bluegrass act that dropped out over "creative differences" that apparently included a keg dropped onto the drummer's foot. He'd caught the set the first time entirely by accident and had stood there watching, pulled by the crowd and the vocals of the lead singer, into being almost an hour late for a dinner he had to catch up with a few Ironside buddies.
He's listened to everything since then. The records. The shows. Some bootlegs that had surfaced - and not been subdued, it seemed - of videos from concerts taped back when the band were still openers that had started to draw crowds bigger than the acts they were fronting.
She's like a goddamned avenging angel up there.
By the time the set's over and the girls have vacated the stage and left the dark field vibrating in the aftermath of heavy bass and raw vocals, Tommy's drenched but happy, his nerves buzzing pleasantly under his skin. The crowd loses it's focus and begins to straggle toward the exits as the pole lights pop on with heavy thunks, signalling the end of the night. No more encores, no more show. The vendors and food trucks that had fought against the rain begin to pull down signs and shutters. One more tour date struck through the list. Tommy doesn't have the black tshirt that designates crew, but pushes his muddy boots up toward the stage and security lets him through with a flash of his lanyard. He swaps a fist-bump with Terry, who manages most of the sets - including The Miller Brothers - and gets put to work.
Thoughts of the text-chain on the phone in his pocket aren't even on his mind as he ties wet curls back into a small tail and starts unplugging equipment. Not sure he'd deny having a school-boy crush on the lead singer if asked but tonight? Ain't nothin' but work to be done. Acts don't stick around to break-down; there's no dumb hopes sitting on his chest of a few sent messages meaning anything more. He's a fan but he's also a musician himself and the shine of brushing elbows gets worn down pretty quick. Eddie doesn't know anything about him beside an unlisted number. Tommy trades jokes with guys as he coils wire with sharp, fast strokes. The rain's lightened to a tossing spit that looks like snow in the hard overhead lights and they're in good spirits.]