There was some scattered applause and a few whistles, nothing terribly enthusiastic however.
"As has been the case for the past six weekends," O'Donnell said next, "our main event for the night will be Heritage's most favored and respected local band, those crazy boys in leather, those wild advocators of the illegal and immoral, The Boozehounds!"
This time the applause was louder, longer, and had some enthusiasm to it.
"Morons," Matt said, just loud enough for Jake to hear. "They're cheering a bunch of hackers, not because they're any good, but just because they don't suck as much as every other local band."
Jake kept his mouth closed. He had heard Matt's argument about The Boozehounds many times before. Besides, his nervousness was now reaching a peak. Were they really about to walk out there and play for these people? Were they really?
"But first," O'Donnell went on, "I'm pleased to present to you our opening act. This is a new band doing their very first live performance for you tonight." He chuckled. "So cut 'em a little slack, huh?"
There was some laughter at his words. A drunken voice from just behind the front row shouted out: "Fuck 'em! Bring on the Hounds!" A few other voices echoed this cry and a round of spontaneous applause erupted for a few seconds.
O'Donnell waited until it died down and then said, "Well, I'd love to, but the Hounds are still backstage warming up with their pre-set groupies. You know how it is? They get real cranky if they don't get a little skull before they come on."
More laughter greeted this.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Matt moaned. "Let's just get this shit over with."
"So anyway, I think you'll like these five young men I've slated for the opening slot. They're good musicians doing all original material and they're one hundred percent, bona fide Heritage grown, just like all the bands here at D Street West. Let me introduce to you now, for the first time in any venue, but certainly not the last... Intemperance!"
The applause was light, nothing more than a few people being polite. There were no whistles, no calls, no encouragement from anyone other than Michelle and her table and a few others, scattered around the club, who knew Matt or Coop or Darren (Bill had virtually no friends-certainly none he knew well enough to invite to a concert).
"C'mon guys," Matt said. "Let's fuckin' do it. Remember. We rock."
"We rock," everyone else repeated in unison.
Matt held out his right hand, palm down. Jake slapped his down atop it. Coop's hand landed atop Jake's. Darren's came down next. They all looked at Bill, who was staring at them, mesmerized.
"Put your fuckin' hand down, Nerdly," Matt growled. "We need to get out there."
Bill finally got the idea. He slapped his trembling hand down.
They held the position for a moment, a spontaneous act this time, but something that would be repeated every time they performed together after.
"Let's do it," Matt said.
"Let's do it," the rest echoed, drawing strength from this gesture of camaraderie.
They walked out on the stage. As they did, the stage lighting clicked on, bathing them in hot, white light. The crowd quieted a little, waiting, sizing them up.
It was Bill's job to power everything up. He stood by the master soundboard, his fingers hovering over the panel. To avoid a feedback whine he waited until Jake, Matt, and Darren had picked up their instruments and walked away from the amps they were leaning against. Once they were clear, he hit the switches one by one. There were a few pops and a slight hum. Jake swirled the guitar pick in his fingers, resisting the urge to strum the strings a few times to get the feel and check the sound, and walked to the microphone before him. He felt the heat of the lights burning into him, could see the dim faces of the crowd. They were all looking up at him, their expressions as widely varied as the people themselves.
From behind him came the ting of one of Coop's cymbals, an accidental strike as he sat down, Jake was sure. A muted bass string followed it as Darren took a grip on his instrument. Jake twirled the guitar pick in his hand once more. We're gonna fuck this up, a pessimistic part of his mind insisted. No way we won't. We're too nervous, too inexperienced to pull off a forty-five minute set for a crowd like this. We're a fucking garage band!
"No," he mumbled to himself, far enough away from the mic to keep the word from being picked up and broadcast. He took a deep breath. "We rock," he whispered. "We fuckin' rock."
He leaned forward, his mouth close to the mic now. "Good evening, D Street West," he said, his voice echoing through the venue. "We are Intemperance. Welcome to our show."
With that, it was out of Jake's hands. That was Matt's cue. He didn't hesitate a second. His pick came down and struck the open low E and A strings, the most basic of rock guitar sounds. It blared from the amp, the distortion and the effects giving it a somber, almost dark tone. He let it reverterbrate for a few moments, long enough for the crowd to realize things were starting, long enough for the more musically sophisticated among them to think, Big Fucking Deal. So he can play an open chord. And then his fingers clamped down on the neck at the sixth fret, halting the sound. The pick struck again and again, rapidly, surely, while his fingers danced over the low E, the A, and the D strings in a complex pattern, blasting the unique riff for Descent Into Nothing out into a crowd for the first, but certainly not the last, time.
This got the crowd's attention, as had been the intention when Matt and Jake decided to open with this song. It was a powerful riff, complex and moving at the same time. Attention grabbing. Matt played it four times in a row without accompaniment, ending the fourth with the open low E and A for a few seconds and then a brief mini-solo grind of the higher strings. As the guitar solo faded out Bill came in, playing a five second solo of his own on the piano. That too was allowed to fade out, leaving a brief silence in its wake. The crowd was looking at them, silent, considering, contemplative, their judgment now reserved, at least for the time being.
Please, Jake thought, staring out at the crowd, his fingers poised to start playing his part of the song, his nervousness and stage-fright now at its peak, don't let me fuck this up.
Coop hit his drumsticks together-one, two, three, four. On four, Jake's pick came down, hammering out the backing riff. Simultaneously, Matt began to play the main riff, Bill's piano backed the both of them up, and Coop and Darren began providing a solid beat for the rest of them to keep time to. It came out of the amps with a near-perfect blend, the combination of the five instruments producing sweet rock and roll music.
Jake's body began to move with the rhythm, his shoulders and head shaking back and forth as his fingers picked the strings and grabbed the frets, finding the right spot every time and at exactly the right moment by feel and instinct-feel and instinct instilled by practice and repetition. He looked out at the crowd, watching their faces, seeing heads nodding, seeing lips pursed in surprised respect, seeing the contemplation in many faces becoming deeper. So far, so good. Now it was time to see how they liked his singing.
The opening reached a minor crescendo and then settled into the main rhythm. As it did, Jake leaned forward, his mouth two inches from the microphone. He had another brief moment of sheer terror. What if they hate my voice? What if my voice breaks? What if I forget the words? But it was too late to back out now. He was committed. The only thing to do was the best he could. When the music reached the proper moment his mouth opened and he began to sing.
"All at once it's upon you
"The pleasure and the need,