Snippet #2500906

Psychosis' dedicated little merch table stood parallel alongside all the rest, arranged out against the side wall of the venue, with a shitty little placard type thing taped down to the front of it, labeled 'Psychosis'. Seemed kinda asinine, seein' as all the tables-- at least, the ones being staffed at that point, which was pretty much all of them now that Izzie, who had little patience for bothering to find somebody to hold the Psychosis merch fort in her absence, had arrived-- were adorned in shirts and CDs proudly emblazoned with the names of each band. Then again, she mused absently as she cracked open each box and scattered about a few shirts, hoodies, and CDs across the table for display purposes. I've been deciphering death metal band logos since before death metal was even a genre. I guess some people might not have had quite as much practice.

At the table to her left, the vocalist from Aborticide was fighting a veritable war against the swarm of avaricious metalheads who were swamping her in their eagerness to walk away from the show with something to show for what Izzie presumed was their favourite band on the billing. Male and female metalheads, united in their obnoxious quest to beat their competitors to the prize merchandise before it all got sold off. The singer took their money one by one, exchanged a little casual, breezy small talk, passed along whatever CD or shirt or whatever her customer at the time had shelled out cash for, and then, once the masses abated and gave her a little breathing space, she counted off the quantity of the band's merchandise revenue thus far with the grin of somebody who's just raked in the big bucks. Straightforward. Easy. Nothing strange or disconcerting about it.

It was the same when she headed off to join her bandmates up on stage for sound check and people began milling over to Psychosis' merch table. Izzie loomed over the merchandise amassed there like a specter of death (metal), the judge, jury, and executioner at the gates of hell itself, peering down at each prospective soul that found within itself the audacity to stand before her, but whatever humble, fleeting semblances of conversation she exchanged with those who approached out of curiosity or in hopes of snagging some merch were nothing of particular note.

"Hey, I hadn't heard you guys before tonight, but you were fuckin' sick! Nice vocals, too!"

"Thanks."

"This all the materiel you guys have got out?"

"Yep. That one's our first EP, and this stack here is our debut album. Just put it out a couple months ago."

"Sweet. Can I get a copy of each?"

"Hm. I think that can be arranged, sure. On just one condition."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. You give me sixteen bucks."

"Sounds like an agreeable exchange. Lemme just grab my cash..."

"Lovely. Pleasure doin' business with ya."

"Hope so, 'cause this won't be the last business you guys'll be getting outta me!"

All so very... well, ordinary. Really, that was what struck her about it all sometimes, the mundanity of it-- because it hadn't been this way back when she'd first begun playing music 'professionally'. Not for her, and not for many other female musicians back in the nascent years of death metal. Back then, when she'd made her very first forays into playing metal as a way of life with Vivum Excoriari in '89, she would never have been so... so bold as to present herself openly to the crowd off the stage. It hadn't been fear; it had merely been a lack of will, a lack of desire to put up with the shit she'd known she would inevitably have ended up putting up with. It had been easier, despite being the vocalist, the very voice of the band, to just huddle herself away in the fucking backstage and let the other members handle public relations so she wouldn't have to deal with yet another asswipe complimenting her by telling her that her vocals weren't too bad, for a girl, or asking her if her boyfriend had gotten her 'into metal' even though she'd been listening to-- even though she'd been living this shit since fucking Welcome To Hell had been the pinnacle of extremity, or completely seriously asking how many of the other members she'd had to fuck to get where she was now. It was enough to dread people drunk off their asses climbing up onto the stage because she wasn't sure which of them was gonna try and cop a feel at her because their booze-addled brains were prompting them to reveal the simple reality that they thought she was there for their sexual amusement; she didn't need to deal with it off stage as well.

But none of those efforts had proven successful in the end. It had taken a lot of pain, and a lot of misery, and a lot of mistakes, the final demise of the band she had founded and help build from the ground up, and the quiet, forlorn question of whether it would be preferable to just quit the whole business before Izzie Martinez had decided not to take any more of this shit-- to refuse to let it take this one joy in her life away from her.

And here she was, twenty years later, openly staffing the merchandise table, conducting all the business transactions, maintaining brief conversations in which the words 'for a woman' or 'boyfriend' never appeared (except for one dude who stopped by the merch table for no reason other than to irascibly inform her that his boyfriend had refused to shut the fuck up about her band the past few days and that he hoped she was happy for having put him through that hell). She'd just watched the woman about to get on stage to bellow her lungs out get all but submerged in an ocean of metalheads whose wandering hands were seeking out not a swift, jarring delve into humiliation and degradation but a shirt, or a new CD to take home. It wasn't all perfect-- it wasn't even necessarily very good-- but things were at least changing, and that was more than Izzie had thought could ever be said back when she'd been wondering whether or not it was worth it to bother trying.

Her little venture down the cracked and greying streets of memory lane didn't last long, of course-- it came to a swift demise as the return of her bandmates yanked her back to present day. She tuned back into reality just in time to hear Cormy, who had apparently seen fit to let the whole 'merch' thing go-- at least just for now-- loudly prattling on about what was to be done after the show.

"I dunno about you lot," he declared with his little chest puffed out proudly as he led his two bandmates through the throngs of metalheads toward the merch table. "But I for one am not one of those assholes who leaves the show without seein' all the bands play. And as the most senior musician present-- at least until we reunite with the old warhorse herself-- I absolutely shall not permit you younger folk to engage in such despicable behavi--" He was unceremoniously cut off as a couple of particularly immense fans, apparently clean failing to see the drummer in front of them, shoved past him; the drummer gave a yelp of remonstration, glared at them as they walked off completely unaffected, and indignantly straightened out his battle jacket. By that time, of course, he could not continue, because they'd reached the merchandise table, and Izzie was commenting dryly, "If I'm the 'old warhorse', you must be the band's very own donkey."

"Donkeys perform invaluable services in third world countries," Cormac pointed out stiffly.

Izzie hesitated little in her repartee. "Cormy, for all your little acts, I'm hard-pressed to believe you've ever been within a couple thousand lightyears of a third world country in your life. And no," she added, as Cormac opened his mouth to retort. "That one part of Boston with a couple homeless people doesn't count."

"Hmph." Cormac crossed his arms across his chest in an expression of defiant defeat, before deciding it was perhaps best not to dwell on this subject any longer than was necessary. "We're thinking of going out for a drink after the show. Y'know, take advantage of this last two day stop over we got for ourselves. You plan on comin'?"

"Ah yes." Izzie's voice was so laden in sarcasm it was a wonder the weight of it didn't sink to the floor. "Because when I'm tryin' to have a drink, I enjoy nothing more than to be surrounded by asinine noise, watching drunk asshats being drunk asshats and paying way more for each drink than it's actually worth."

"Guess that's a no, then."

"That's a fuck no. I for one intend to take advantage of the layover by actually getting some sleep."

Cormac gave a snort. "Really are gettin' up there in the years, aren't ya? Soon you'll be playin' shows sittin' down."

"Watch it, 'lil whippersnapper," the Colombian guitarist growled dangerously. "I may have twenty years more than you bearin' down on my shoulders, but I'm also twice your height and could bench press four of you with my little finger, so you best keep your wits about you."

Having been put firmly in his place, Cormac took on an expression of great sorrow, before a twinge of hope alit upon his features. "Well, what about the--"

"Ten bucks a piece."

And so, his hopes and dreams thusly crushed, Cormy resigned himself to grumbling away beneath the din of the venue, which soared to a rising cheer as the lights dimmed for Aborticide. And so the night went on.






So too did it go on all the way down the lines of merch tables at Legion's particular slice of territory, where the four musicians that comprised its line up stood centered around a little eight year old child. Helen normally wasn't much one for attracting attention to herself-- just another trait she'd inherited from her mother, one supposed, at least when it came to off-stage antics-- but she couldn't deny she was delighting in being the center of attention here. Certainly she was reveling in the compliments of Alex's bandmates, particularly when Chris looked at her mother and announced that she was the coolest kid ever. Helen was disinclined to necessarily take that to heart, of course-- not so much a matter of modesty as merely a recognition of hyperbole-- but then, it wasn't like she'd ever met anybody else her age who enjoyed a good Possessed song every now and then. If anything, her love for the music her mother showed her, on those precious weekends they had together, had earned her the alienation and derision of her classmates, which... well, she couldn't lie, it wasn't fun, and kinda stung. But if she was gonna have to choose between playing an act in order to gain her classmates' acceptance, and unabashed appreciation for this crazy noise she voraciously ate up and was always looking for more of, then she'd prefer to spend the break times off alone in the fields fondly recalling the tune of an Incantation song she was particularly fond of, and looking forward to the coming weekend so that she could really listen to it again.

Whoever had said that kids needed to maintain a vibrant social life in their youth to function properly clearly had forgotten to add 'or a couple good Immolation records, one or the other, really'.

"The coolest kid ever? Don't I know it," Alex remarked with a hint of a smile as her hand went from Helen's hair to her little shoulder. "When I was her age, the heaviest thing I'd ever heard was olonkho-- meanwhile, she can hum you every song off Horrified note for note. You got any clue how humbling it is when your own kid is more metal than you ever will be?"

"Mom, don't exaggerate," Helen urged, a smirk pulling at the corners of her own lips as she looked up at Alex before glancing back to the other three. "There are a couple notes from the solo off Maggots In Your Coffin I still can't nail."

Liam, who had up until that point kept quiet for the most part, spoke up at that point, and Helen nodded affirmatively. "When I'm at my mom's for the weekend, she shows me how to play some stuff on her guitar. Which is a little difficult, as it's about twice my size--"

"You'll have one you can actually play on soon enough."

"-- but also, I wanna learn how to sing," Helen finished, before a rather vexed expression briefly creased her brow. "Er, not sing. I wanna learn how to... how to do that thing the person from Infester does. You know, the..." She made a raw, strangled noise with her throat, prompting Lestari to nearly collapse into the table amidst uncontrollable fits of silent laughter; meanwhile, Alex couldn't help a brief chink in her composure as she cracked a smile and restrained a laugh. Helen looked at the two of them curiously, and Lestari was quick to assure her with a note she handed to Alex to read off. That was very... uh, unique! You're well on your way! Well, you're well on your way somewhere, anyway.

Helen just about glowed.






Not long after, as Aborticide took to the stage, Alex offered to take Helen out into the crowd so she could experience the show 'for real', and the two of them traipsed off. She never let the kid step foot in the mosh pit, of course; there was some crazy ass little dude in a battle jacket in there doing some sort of bizarre-ass dance that was either an ancient chicken spirit mating ritual or a badly failed attempt at inebriated moshing, and everybody was kinda givin' him his space, so Alex didn't pay much attention to him. She hoisted her daughter up onto her broad shoulders-- her jacket having been cast aside back at the merch table so Helen was in no danger of being impaled on one of the spikes-- and stood a couple of people down from the mosh pit, close enough to the stage to get a good perspective on the performance without being in danger of being suddenly enveloped by the expanding mosh pit as was wont to happen every now and then.

Intermittently, between each band's set, they returned to Legion's merch table so that Alex could help out with the business side of things and Helen could gush about the bands. So far, it appeared Aborticide was her favourite; "They're like Repulsion meets Demolition Hammer!" she enthused jubilantly. "And that singer! She sounds like Steve Reynolds except even angrier!" It just about got to the point that Lestari had to point out in amusement, Those motherf-- Reminding herself of the nature of her present company, she'd quickly erased the embryonic blasphemy before amending, Those usurpers of our throne have set the bar so high you're not even gonna care when Legion goes up to play! Of course, Helen still had to ask what a usurper was, but the meaning got across eventually anyway, whereupon the kid took to profusely assuring everybody around her that Legion was still totally the best band on the bill and anybody who disagreed was clearly not a true metalhead.

"Oh dear," Alex had lamented dryly. "I've created an eight year old metal elitist."

But of course, the time eventually came for Legion to ascend to the stage and finish the night off right. Alex delved off quickly into the venue's little bar cranny, and found Michael there nursing a beer-- probably still on his first, he'd always had the constitution of a naked mole rat and he didn't look too inebriated just yet. "Enjoying the show, I hope," she deadpanned as she approached, and he turned to face her with an eyebrow raised. "It's funny, you know," he remarked. "Here now at a show for the first time in years, hearing this stuff again..."

"You're reminded of why you loved it in the first place?"

"I'm reminded of why I don't anymore," he corrected with a chuckle. "Who was that band that said 'if you used to be metal, you never were'? I think they'd like to have a few words with me."

"Were loinclothes involved? It coulda been Manowar."

At that Michael admitted an open laugh-- maybe he was a little drunker than she'd thought-- and shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Could be." His expression grew a little more serious, though, as he added, "So I take it the time's come for you to hit the stage?"

"Yep. You gonna come watch Helen while we're playing?"

"Of course." He clambered up off the bar stool, toting along his plastic cup half-filled with beer, and almost made a show of steeling himself for what lay ahead. "Let's get this over with, I guess."

"Oh come now, Michael," Alex tossed back dryly as she turned to lead the way. "Don't be so cynical. Who knows, you might even like it."

He kept oddly silent at that one.