Out of the Band

Galen walked from the fog of dry ice and on to the stage like he always did, owning it, until there was only the mic stand between him and his people. 

But there was no roar this time, no blinding spotlight, no desperate desire in the eyes of the boys and girls pressed against the barrier. There were no waves of love hitting him like a tangible, psychic pressure, filling his heart and brain, the feeling that had sustained him for so long.

The auditorium was empty. 

A few cleaners picked up crushed plastic beer glasses and dropped them lethargically into polythene sacks, ignoring the stage. Various members of the road crew were on stage, moving gear about or crouching by the equipment, tinkering. Prepping for sound check, the purgatory of lost rock bands.

Galen recognised most of the crew, they’d been with the band for years. But they wouldn’t meet his eyes, wouldn’t even look at him. He knew they laughed about him.

“He’s even worse than on the last tour.”

“It’s the dope. Can’t handle it.”

“How can you be that fucked up and still think you’re the Messiah?”

They never said it to his face, not even the rest of the band did that. They used to call him The Head. As in big. As in dick. But none of them had lived the lives of saints, especially early on. 

Fuckers. Disloyal fuckers. He’d made this band. His songs had bought their penthouses.

Galen tried out a couple of his old moves, just for fun, but they seemed foolish now. He stepped back from the microphone. It had been set a couple of inches too low for him. 

The stage was lit up by harsh overhead lights so the techs could work. He could see naked cables snaking across the floor, the wear on the speaker cabinets, the old flight cases propping up the laptops at the back. Without the magic of stage lighting the mystique was spoiled, the atmosphere sucked away. It was one of the reasons Galen hated soundcheck. That, and having to hang out with the rest of them while they pretended the crew were important, or worse, their mates. 

No one noticed any of them when he was out front. 

A black sheet was draped over Zhero’s drumkit so it resembled a pile of forgotten furniture in an abandoned house. The kit had grown since the last time Galen bothered to look. Zhero always had to have one more drum to bash, one more hi-hat. It was compensation for his inadequacy. Look at me, I’m over here behind the kit! Look at me! Galen had always hated Zhero’s hi-hats. Total shit.

He wandered about the stage. Here was Mikey’s old bass, propped up against a speaker. He played every single gig they ever did with that bass. Mikey was all right. Uninspiring, but all right. Did his job, nothing too showy, stayed in his spot.

Der Stuka was another story. His little empire was over on the other side of the stage. The prick’s ego was in direct proportion to the number of guitars standing upright and gleaming like they were on parade. Crew swarmed there like flies, tuning, polishing, replacing strings, hoping they’d do it right, because if they didn’t there’d be hell to pay. And they called Galen The Head.

Stuka was a miserable little cretin, but he wasn’t stupid. He had plenty of gutter cunning. To think how he’d turned them all against him, first the rest of the band, then management, then the record company. Whispering, always whispering. He’d worked hard at it, and it was persistent, insidious work. 

Galen realised now that Stuka had always resented him—right from the start. His power. It was Galen they all wanted. The fans used to run past Stuka and the rest to get to him. Galen did the interviews because he had something to say. Stuka never had the charisma, the spark. But he was patient and clever and he was happy to take the money and his share of Galen’s light while he chipped away at his foundations. Galen swore it was Stuka that let that guy with the bad dope backstage in Boston.

He returned to the mic. Time had passed. The crew were gone and he stood alone. The fans were beginning to stream in, the obsessives staking their claims by the barrier. They seemed younger.

Stuka had always wanted him out, and Zhero backed him up, and Mikey said nothing when it all went to shit after Boston. Stuka picked his moment well. 

What hurt even more was who they replaced him with. Riley! Stumpy Riley, one of Zhero’s drum techs. He’d been creeping around for years, kissing arse like it was part of the job, and then overnight he was out front, in Galen’s spot.

The auditorium here was big, wherever it was. The band had more than held on to their audience. Too safe to feel a real edge? Uncomfortable with genuine confrontation? Then why not try counterfeit rebellion, with a few tattoos and haircuts and nothing inside. A covers band. Sell-outs. Fucking actors.

The place was filling up. Band t-shirts, body art, hair, the uniform, the usual. Galen couldn’t hear their voices now. They weren’t calling his name. Everything was insubstantial, somehow, like reality was being dialled down, decohering. The light faded and changed, dying everything in a deep, velvety red.

The band were walking on to the stage. Galen’s stage. To play Galen’s songs. To his audience.

The dry ice swirled about him, enclosing him like a cloak, obscuring his view, all those faces, until they were less than memories. He’d undone himself and the truth of it finally hit. He was destroyed and the band played on. And he understood then that the dry ice was not dry ice at all, but the mist that divides the first and the second stages forever.