Chapter One Woven Blu
They had hit rock bottom. For clarity sake, I must state that I am not referring to the local gay bar Rock Bottom, but the colloquial phrase rock bottom. After their last gig at the local organic free trade coffee shop ,Beaners, the singer and bass player had announced their departure to form a new two piece band. As everyone knows, however, a two person band composed of a bass player and singer could never find success in today’s music market. Regardless their departure left only drummer Iron Nick and the guitarist, Max Bastard. It had become apparent that in order to maintain their climb to fame in the Atlanta indie scene they would need to find some suitable replacements.With defeat in their hearts and ten dollars apiece in their skinny jeans, they returned to what had previously been the band’s shithole apartment in midtown.
Now, however, everything had changed. In what had previously been a love and weed filled ransacked studio flat, Little was actually different except for one white line. Not the kind that Iron Nick indulged in before each show, mind you, but one composed of tape down the middle of the room. On one side of the room was a drum set that had clearly been tossed roughly from its previous position in the center of the room to the far left corner. Max Bastard’s guitar was where it remained prior, in the bathroom, which thankfully was on their side of the line. I should take a moment to inform the reason why the band’s break up did not involve anyone moving out, but instead using a shittily taped line down the center of the apartment. In short? The band’s “meteoric rise” to success had been less than real, in fact the coffee shop gig was their first real gig since they played at a cousin’s bat mitzvah last year. Cash was far tighter than their used up old groupie. Upon their discovery of the white line in their rat’s nest of an abode, the next sight they beheld was the presence of their recently broken off band mates.
It would probably be helpful to reveal to you their wonderful God given names. The vocalist, Damian Damian, a skinny twig of a motherfucker. He looked a little like Anne Frank if she’d been discontent with her weight and decided anorexia was her only way out. Lastly, Blain Macadew, the malcontent Richie Rich type from Buckhead. He stood 6 feet tall and rocked a classic rock Tee at all times, however if you asked him what his favorite song of theirs was he would clam up quicker than my first wife when she found me wearing her lingerie when she arrived home precisely thirty minutes earlier than I had expected. However, unlike how she took away my kids and dog, she will not allow me to get distracted from relaying the details of this subpar band of nobodies.
To get back to the situation at hand, however, the band mates were all coming to grips with the new living situation and the uncomfortableness inherent to a predicament as odd as theirs. Iron Nick, as per his rock N roll demeanor, did not give one solitary fuck regarding the state of disarray his drum set was left in and in fact looked at the deeper meaning behind it such as how death is wicked cool and life is bleak,The most odd part of the new living situation was how stringently Blain treated the crooked white line. He would not do so much as make eye contact with his two estranged band mates on the other side of the make believe barrier. Since the four of them had all returned to their dwelling place, Damian Damian had immediately began furiously working on his etch and sketch, the method he used to record all of his lyrics and song ideas. He found that the etch and sketch was the last true untapped artistic resource and found the irony of his anti corporate mindset being perpetrated through one of the biggest names in children’s toys more than pleasing.
It had been an odd and strained day for the ragtag quatrain made only worse by the arrival of their only groupie. Tesa was a girl who was as indecisive about her hair color as she was about which band mate she loved that day. They had never been on a tour out of their state but they had taken her to see the Eiffel tower many a time. Young love never changes. Upon her arrival, the dynamic in the room shifted from one of a cliche mexican standoff to a game show and she was their Steve Harvey. Blain, who the rest of the band suspected had yet to lose his cherry, led the charge with a pathetic “Hey Tess.” He certainly had a way with words. Max Badass followed in his usual loquacious style with a short nod and then returned to noodling on his rusty old guitar in his bathroom. Giving a nod and smile to the apathetic guitarist, she summarily noticed the line upon the floor. “This shit, again?” she said with exasperation in her tone. Tesa, as a long time supporter of the band knew that they split up and pulled out the same piece of tape every couple weeks.
Chapter Two White Lines and Dollar Signs
Approximately ten minutes had passed since Tesa began admonishing the gang for their routine split up and pushing them to go through their usual sessions of trust falls and meditative breathing. This normally worked more due to the acid she would slip in their beers than the trust falls, as none of them were particularly good at catching or falling with coordination. She was without a doubt their saving grace. They tentatively took a break from their unspoken policy of remaining without speaking at her urging and decided to make an attempt to face the issue that had led to their breakup. “ Woven Blu? How come you got to choose the name this month. You chose it the month before too.” mumbled Blain, not wishing to risk his already minimal involvement in the group. “I just am trying to curate a vibe, guy. It has a deeper meaning beyond what you could even get.” bit back Damian Damian. He hadn’t started the band but had actually replaced their original singer who they had let go of, not for lack of vocal ability, but because he didn’t have a dope ass name and the rest of the gang preferred a frontman who had a name that was an instant hit. Decked out in seemingly Home made garb, Damian Damian stood at an impressive 5’6 with an insecurity to match. He combatted this insecurity through reaching out to what he saw as social disparity and fighting it through such effective means as only riding a bike for transportation and actively dismissing anyone who wore anything name brand. He was a hero.