Matt, Jake, and Darren all moved around much more than they used to. In their earlier gigs they had tended to stay near their respective microphone stands, shuffling back and forth a little, but only shifting position during the guitar solos, when Jake would step back near Darren and Matt would step forward. These days both Matt and Darren kept their animation levels high while Jake sang, moving back and forth behind him, occasionally playing back to back or shoulder to shoulder. Jake did the same when his mouth was not required on the microphone, stepping back and joining the other two, occasionally doing a little spin maneuver. When it was time for a guitar solo, Matt would bend backward, or forward, or would force the neck of his instrument up or down, making it look as if the act of producing the music was a painful, difficult endeavor. This showmanship added an element of spontaneity to each performance, especially since Matt forbid them from choreographing or rehearsing such maneuvers in advance. They never went overboard-there was no dropping to the floor and scooting along on their buttocks, no licking of the guitar strings, no leaps from the amplifier stacks-instead, they simply let the rhythm and their instincts guide them. In this way, each Intemperance concert was unique.
As Jake performed, looking out over the crowd and making eye contact with person after person, the lyrics coming out of his mouth and transmitting through the amplifier, his hands moving up and down on his guitar, bending and pressing the steel strings with his left, his pick or his fingers hitting them in a series of complex rhythms with his right, all was copasetic in his world. Playing music for a crowd was what he loved doing most of all, making even sex pale in comparison. It was a difficult job-keeping his lyrics straight, keeping his riffs in time-but it was one he was good at and he thrilled with each song that went off without a hitch. The high it gave him was more powerful, more satisfying than even the best weed, the most potent cocaine, the smoothest booze. Thoughts of Michelle and their break-up, the sense of loss, pain, and incomprehension that had run through him constantly, they were gone while he played, as were thoughts of how he was going to make his next rent payment, how he was going to afford new tires for his car, whether or not his parents were right and he should start trying to put his talent to better use. There was no room in his mind for anything but the show, anything but the crowd he was playing for, for the music he was helping to make. Like a fighter pilot on a mission, an athlete in the middle of a game, he was in the bubble, and nothing else mattered.
By the halfway point of the set, after a solid thirty minutes of playing under the hot stage lights, Jake was dripping with sweat. His long hair was damp with it. His white, button-up shirt was sticking to his chest and back. He was not breathless, however. Not even close to it. After a year of dancing and jumping and singing and playing three nights a week for sixty to seventy minutes at a time, his body was actually in the best shape it had ever been in. Being a rock music performer was the equivalent of taking a high-impact aerobics class, complete with the endorphin rush that came when things really got smoking.
The endorphins were flowing freely as they did their last song of the set, Who Needs Love?-one of their most popular numbers. They ended the song with a longer and more potent flourish, drawing it out and then finally hitting the last chords. They let the last hums of the instruments slowly fade away as the crowd erupted into cheers and applause once again.
"Thank you," Jake said, tossing his guitar pick into the crowd. "Thank you very much and goodnight."
The band gathered together, linked arms, and took a bow. They walked back to the alcove and the cheering continued, growing louder even. This was followed by the stomping feet and the cries of more, more, more.
All five of them drank mightily from their water glasses, alleviating a little of their thirst. They allowed themselves two minutes to rest and to hear the glorious sound of the crowd calling for their return and then Matt said, "Let's do it." They hit the stage again.
Jake did a brief introduction of their new song-It's In The Book-and they launched into it, the fast-paced riff from Matt's guitar getting everyone's hands clapping and waving even before Jake began to sing. They then did their final number of the night, one of their raunchier and hard-driving tunes, Matt's The Thrill of Doing Business. Another drawn out, carefully rehearsed ending, another group bow, and they left the stage for good this time. There were shouts for another encore-there always were-but they died reluctantly away when O'Donnell turned up the houselights and took the stage himself.
"Intemperance everybody!" he shouted. "Let's hear it for them one more time!"
The crowd gave it up once more, as requested.
The band gathered backstage and sat down near their equipment cases. This was the cool down period, when they let their heartbeats return to normal, when they let some of the sweat dry up. They talked about how the show had gone-all thought it had gone exceptionally well tonight-while they guzzled water and smoked cigarettes (all except for Bill, who still hadn't picked up that particular habit).
"Well," Matt said after fifteen minutes, "let's go get it done."
"Yep," Coop said with a sigh. "This is the fun part."
They trudged back to the stage to clean up their mess. The crowd had thinned considerably with the end of the show but there was still upwards of three hundred people out there, smoking, drinking, and dancing to the jukebox music. As always, those remaining gave a cheer as the band reappeared. They all waved back casually, acknowledging it, and then went about the task of breaking down their show.
As part of his closing remarks each night, O'Donnell always asked the crowd to please refrain from disturbing the musicians during the stage clearing process. As a result, they were pretty much left alone as they disassembled the drum set and hefted amps and wound up electrical cable. Occasionally a fan near the stage would tell them "great show" or "you guys rocked tonight", but no one seemed to expect an extended conversation at this point in the evening.
Once all the equipment was packed into the two vans and secured, they went back inside through the backstage door. Adjacent to the bar supply storage room was a small locker room for the performing bands' use. Since it only contained two showerheads the five of them matched quarters for bathing order. Jake and Coop came out first and second tonight so they stripped off their sweaty stage clothes and fired up the nozzles.
Jake, who had never been a fan of the locker room environment, showered quickly, running a bar off soap over his skin, dumping some shampoo and conditioner on his hair, rinsing, and then vacating for Matt, who had drawn third place. He dried off and put on a fresh pair of jeans and a tattered black T-shirt. He combed out his long hair and then slipped back into the tennis shoes he had worn on stage.
As he was heading for the door Matt passed him, fresh out of the shower now, completely naked except for a towel slung over his shoulders. "We're gonna get us some fuckin' cherry pussy tonight," he said. "How's that sound?"
Jake didn't answer him. He knew Matt wasn't talking to him. He was talking to his own penis-an instrument he conversed with almost as much as his guitar. Jake shook his head, told his bandmates he would see them out there, and then slipped out the door and into the hallway.
When he walked through the service door that led from the backstage area into the main lounge, there was the usual crowd of people loitering around. Dozens of females and about half as many males made a point of staking out this location after the show in the hopes of being among the first to socialize with a band member. This used to overwhelm Jake in the early days-how everyone wanted to talk to him, to touch him, to be near him-but he was used to it now.