The Killer Queen

Rosalind Bennett. 34. Artist and Repertoire for Vital Noise Records.

[rosalind-bennett-blog]

Ant:

No. Oh, no. Already? Now? Today? This particular moment, when the rest of the band, including the one bound for rehab, was strewn about this very nice, very, very nice house, snoring through the tail end of a truly raging bender? Of course. Absolutely. It took effort, powerful, aching effort, to return the smile. But return it he did, with a tune up to his posture and a solid handshake besides. “I’m he, yeah. Yes.” London? He’d guess London, for this one. Funny. Cross a bloody ocean, and a continent, to boot. Still - London calling. 

“Ah… I’m… afraid the rest of the band, they’re tuckered right out. Jet lag. Probably won’t be joining us for some time, the afternoon, I don’t… know…” Ant hesitated, there in the door. Then clicked it shut behind him, and flourished a hand out towards the front patio, genuinely lovely little thing, clifftop on the hill there, overflowing with heady lilac bushes and a spread of lounge chairs. All in one piece. “Why don’t we take some sun, then? The view’s mint, you wouldn’t believe…” Unless, of course, she’d been here for a while, and it was entirely normal for Ms. Bennett here to be surrounded by palm trees and golden sunshine and ocean as blue as… well, blue as an ocean you’d dream up, anyway. It probably was. He’d bounded down the front steps, leading the way with genuinely earnest, ever-so-slightly desperate energy. “What I mean to say, is, we’re deeply grateful, truly, for the accommodations. It’s - I’ve never even seen a house this size, if I’m honest.” He was, too. About that much, anyway. 

A handshake. Hmm. That was different. Rosalind was never one to expect chivalry from the types that Vital Noise were inclined to hire – nor would she ever want any loud, overly virtuous displays – but compared to the utter horror she’d been expecting, this was something of a pleasant surprise. “Right,” she said quickly, just barely returning the smile. “Well, I’m glad I got the right one of you. Nice to meet you.” There was never any harm in being polite, she’d always thought.

At least, before any madness started.

“Oh, Oh, that’s fine  – “ She waved a hand as if to dismiss the idea that she was doing anything more important than dropping in to say hello, though this wasn’t strictly true. “I’m sure we’ll all, erm, cross paths eventually.” Her eyes flicked around as she took in the view. So the rumors really were true then. What her employer lacked in orderliness, they seemed to more than make up for in style. Her place as alright, sure, but this –! “You weren’t kidding,” she says, nodding approvingly. She reckons she’s not supposed to let on that she’s so green as to still find the complimentary Vital Noise housing less than dull herself. “It’s not me you should be thanking. Anyway.” Her eyes catch his again, and a sudden wave of nosiness overtakes her. “How are you finding it all, then? The land of sunshine and flat vowels?”

Has it started to do your head in, yet? she thinks, but doesn’t say.

[rosalind-bennett-blog]

Closed for: @moon-shiines​

Location: The Beehive. An industry party with many of LA’s shiniest specimens present.

Time: Evening.

Rosalind’s eyes flick around the sea of people milling around her. She imagined that when most people were asked to conjure an image of the phrase “work party” or its worse cousin, the dreaded “mixer”, they probably pictured a dreary, sedate affair, full of half-hearted chit-chat and dismal grey lighting.

For better or worse, the industry-wide bashes attended by the Big Three’s execs were anything but sedate, and never – never – dreary. Between the blaring pop and the buzzing chatter of tens of schmoozers doing their best to mingle, you nearly had to shout to be heard.

Speaking of which . . . As much as all the blatantly-obvious attempts at Ingratiation seen at these gatherings irk Roz, she has to admit that they can be useful at times – and perhaps she’s just spotted one of those very instances. Across the room from her sits none other than Cassandra Walker, one of LA’s most beloved rock goddesses. (Not a word Roz likes to use much herself, mind you, but there were always exceptions.)

Rosalind can’t quite help taking a hard look at the woman, despite her instinct not to stare. Roz had wondered over the years whether Ms. Walker might ever fancy moving from her dusty old label to newer more . . .vital climes. And now, she appeared to be on her own, for once. What a chance!

As quickly as she can, Roz attempts to make her way across the room, her excitement mounting the closer she gets. She’s nearly there, mentally preparing her brightest smile and most pleasant handshake when –

“Whaaa! Shit! Hey!” Somehow, Roz has collided with a small, large-eyed blonde – sending wine flying down and across herself n in the process, soaking her new dress.

Would it kill this woman to be more careful? she thinks. She steels herself not to say it. “Jesus, sorry! We must’ve just  . . .” She looks down at her drink-soaked outfit and sighs, before returning her attention to the other woman. “Are you – are you okay, there?“

[rosalind-bennett-blog]

paulietopaz‌:

There’s a coil in her shoulders as the band name is mentioned – she almost expects her own hair to stand on end; like a cat that’s had water flicked at it. There’s too much drink in her to hide her reactions in the same way she would if she were under a watchful pair of eyes of a label manager.

Dark eyes follow the slender woman as she rises and agrees to change the song, and Paulette indulges herself in another gulp of her drink.

“Put on Cash, if they have it,” she requests, voice rasped as she swallows.

“Alright, madam. Whatever you wish,” she says with a light laugh as her eyes scan the available options, hoping to treat the assembled company of exhausted zombies and somber drunks to something easier on the ears.

Despite her own irritation with gossipy conjecture, Rosalind can’t help but wonder how one of the Gemstones had managed to get herself an apparently un-scrutinized night out. She supposed the poor saps had to have some time off, but from what she had heard, they kept terrible hours, rehearsing all manner of musical bilge in the glittery abominations they’d been coaxed into.

“There. . .we. . .go!” She turns back to the disgruntled Gemstone triumphantly as “Folsom Prison Blues” begins to reverberate out into the bar. Country as a genre still feels slightly foreign to Roz, even after 5 years living full-time in these sunny American climes. But she’ll take it, nonetheless.

“So,” she says as she settled back into her seat, raising her drink to her lips before continuing. “Is this a celebratory trip to the pub, then? Or, a consolatory one? Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word.” 

[rosalind-bennett-blog]

Mary Jo‌:

“Oh!  Sure.  Sorry.”  Mary Jo shuffled to the right, letting the stack fall back on itself with a soft thump.  One hand shook hidden by her side.  The woman just wanted to look at the records.  Obviously.  Maybe she was in the clear.

“You weren’t actually talking to the albums, were you?”

…Or maybe she definitely wasn’t.

“I–well–it’s–”  Her erratic heartbeat chopped up every sentence that came up her throat.  She hung her head for a second, palms cupping her red hot cheeks.  A deep breath, and she rose back up, still not quite meeting the woman’s eye.  “I know it’s silly, but…I’ve listened to them so much, they feel like old friends.”  Just another thing she picked up from her grandfather.

Roz’s eyebrows moved up just slightly as she waited for the young lady in her midst to get her words together. She’d certainly seen some pre-show routines that could be classed as every bit as odd as this. In the grand scheme of things, having a chat with your favorite deceased songbirds was . . .?

Well, okay, it wasn’t normal, exactly. But maybe, if she thought about it, it was only slightly weirder then repeating a self-affirmative mantra to yourself before a set, or turning around in circles and swearing to dispel bad luck.

Maybe.

“Oh, right!” she says, her lips curving up slightly. “Well then, if they’re like old friends, I’m willing to bet you have a favorite, hmm?” Could you, when they sat there, dumbly posed however the photographer wanted? It wasn’t as if she expected monologues from her own nearest and dearest, but she liked a pulse, at least. “I’m always looking to add one or two records to my collection, you see – whether they talk back or not.”

[rosalind-bennett-blog]

Marimar:

Mari couldn’t stop herself from letting out a soft laugh. She wasn’t aware she’d been staring like a dead fish. Stealing glances her way, yes, but Mari thought she was being subtle. Apparently not. “I was just…” Wondering if you were Rosalind Bennett, Harry Bennett’s daughter…the Harry Bennett…

She simply couldn’t bring herself to ask. It felt far too much like those fans who’d lose their heads around their favorite acts. Mari wasn’t like that; she prided herself on staying cool always. “I was wondering where you got your bag? It’s just totally bitchin’.”

Rosalind did her best to take in the woman in front of her as subtly as she could manage. She seemed almost disconcertingly perky, now that she’d opened her mouth.

But of course, it wasn’t as if Roz was unused to these sort of people. Wannabe stars and intense superfans were an occupational hazard that she’d learned to deal with since her own days waiting eagerly for a favorite band to come on stage and (hopefully) blow her mind. “Yes?” she nodded slowly as the other woman attempted to get the words out.

At the sudden mention of her accessory of choice, Roz’s eyes immediately flicked down to the item in question. It wasn’t that remarkable, was it? What great fuss was there to be made about a beaten-up shoulder bag? “Oh. Thank you!” she says, a slight furrow of confusion lingering on her brow. “It’s ancient, this thing. I might’ve gotten it in a shop in the North end. . .” She pauses to think this through. “Yeah, yeah, that was it! Celia’s, near Wichita Wishes, I think. It was ages ago that I found it though. But who knows. Maybe you’ll find a –” The word sticks slightly in her mouth.” . . . bitchin’ . . . bag of your own near there.”

Her eyes flick back to the band, as if to signal the her attention was drifting, then back to the woman again. “Was that all, or . . .?”

[velichors]

Keira Knightley | by Thomas Whiteside for ELLE UK, July 2014

[rosalind-bennett-blog]

Ant:

Less than a year ago, they were blowing out pub speakers in Bristol. Yesterday, they’d been in New York City. Times Square, the Garden, all that. Now, the Vale had hopped a whole bloody continent, to the land of sunshine and sweet record deals, cheap weed and the sort of beaches you saw on postcards. Not bad. But what seemed so very especially mindboggling, at the moment, was just how quickly four young men could take a truly lovely townhouse in Los Angeles and make a complete fucking disaster of it. Ant had been up early, picking his way through the mess of half-unpacked trunks that were spilling shredded jeans, skinny ties, and denim held together by patches all over the den. Not his - he’d at least dragged his things to his room. Even started hanging a few shirts up, before somebody came tearing in howling about the complimentary tequila. 

It had, in fact, been damn good. Less of it would have been even better.  First order of the day was something, anything, to wash that taste out. Sonny had made sure they were well-stocked with tea; that blessed man, that damn angel. Sipping on that, Ant had started sweeping dirt and pottery shards off those fancy terracotta tiles - plant pots, casualties of the night before. The pothos might be done for, but maybe he could save the poor snake plant. He was searching through the cupboards for a bowl big enough to perch it in when something - not his hangover - knocked, solidly. Who would that be? Neighbors? With a quick, quiet scramble for a shirt and a splash of water, Ant sped through the foyer. (They had a foyer. Fucking mad.) He took a breath, made one last attempt to slick his hair back into some kind of order, then opened the door up. Lady; fit, standing there with her shoulders squared like she meant business. “Yes,” he nodded, as neatly as he could. There was someone here. Why did it have to be him? “Ah - yes…” Ant fumbled, blinking in the already too-bright sunshine. “Can I - can I help you? With anything?” Almost definitely not, shit, he had his hands full keeping himself upright. And the door frame was doing most of the work, too.

Roz’s eyes flicked up and down as she surveyed the figure perched shakily in front of her. Tall, not repulsive-looking, but evidently not a teetotaler, going by the look of him. Well, well. She could be confident in finding the right house, then, that was for sure. According to the photos a few receptionists had been passing around, girlish blushes lighting up their cheeks all the while, this was probably the bassist.

“Morning.” Rosalind straightened up slightly at the sight of him, almost more out of habit than anything else. She could always make a good impression, even if the talent considered it an accomplishment to wake up before 12.

It should be noted that Roz hadn’t joined in with any blushing earlier.

“Yes, I guess so,” she said crisply. “I’m from the label, so I thought I ought to, you know . . .scope you all out, really.” She manages a slight smile. “Just a social call. You’re not in trouble, if that’s what you were thinking.”

Well, not yet, anyway.

“Rosalind Bennett,” she says, sticking out a manicured hand. “You’re. . .Doyle, yeah? Anthony Doyle?”

[rosalind-bennett-blog]

Sonny‌:

@rosalind-bennett || closed

At the sound of someone entering his office, everything atop Sonny’s desk shook. 

“Agh! Fu–”

The head of the A&R rep collided with the underside of his desk. If that was not reason enough for skepticism, his attempt to play it off as if he’d been searching the floor for something–rather than stuffing all 6′4″ of him beneath the desk to sneak a nap on company time– would have done the trick. 

“Roz! I, uh– Can I help you with something?” 

A lack of sleep still clung to the circles beneath his eyes, darkening them. Sonny knew this, but he was determined to play it off. If anything, he could blame the ragged appearance on the late night with the band. The sleep-wrinkled shirt, though…

 “If accounting is still asking for those receipts, just tell them I’ll bring ‘em down there myself. It’s been a real ‘mountains and molehills’ situation with them, you know?” 

Roz tried to look as poker-faced as she could at the sight of her colleague’s current choice of position. Not that this was a novel occurrence, mind you. She was beginning to think that it might be more considerate to wear soft-soled shoes in the early morning, instead of the deafening specimens that were currently adorning her feet.

“Sonny,” she said, a tiny snatch of amusement creeping into her tone. “Good morning.”

Now, Rosalind Bennett would never be the first one to say that a job managing the antics of Vital Noise’s talent pool was a cakewalk, but she had a distinct feeling that whatever in hell had happened to Sonny overnight might be one for the history books.

But, then again . . .

These days, a workday where everyone was able to stand upright for longer than 10 minutes seemed like an anomaly.

“I’m afraid you’ve read my mind, Mr. Cash,” she said, striding over to perch herself on the edge of his desk. “I’ve stalled them ‘till this afternoon, but they’re getting twitchy.”

Her eyes locked back onto Sonny’s disheveled state with visible concern. “Okay, out with it! What in god’s name was the molehill this time?”

[rosalind-bennett-blog]

@marimarxagui

Location: Smoky Hollow Bar

Time: Late evening

Rosalind couldn’t quite help herself from bobbing along to the music, as a slightly bedraggled-looking group of aspiring rockers strummed and belted away. Nothing too noticeable, of course. She had a professional relationship to maintain, after all.

Compared to the usual sea of wannabe celebrities, this particular bunch was . . .sort of alright. She doubted that she would chase them down for a chat at the end of the night, but at least they could hit some of the right notes at the right moments.

Just as the crowd rumbled with applause as the current song came to a close, Roz became aware of a presence hovering close by. While this in itself wasn’t that unusual during a set, she had the distinct feeling of being watched. She turned to see a female figure in her midst and said, slightly coolly:

“You know, generally it’s good to introduce yourself, rather than staring like a dead fish. Can I help you with something?”

[saelenie-deactivated20200227]

Romy and Alain

[rosalind-bennett-blog]

The Landslide!

The Landslide — What was your character’s first love like?

Rosalind’s first shot at “love” – though she’d be mortified to think of it that way now – was a protracted, largely silent crush on a singer-songwriter named Fredrick, the son of one of her father’s musical pals.

Roz was even more terrified of expressing her feelings at 18 than she is now, but after several months of hanging around in Fred’s orbit, turning pink at every inconvenient moment when he was near, she decided to confess her feelings.

The pair haven’t seen each other much since that disastrous evening, but whenever they do, Roz tries to comfort herself with the knowledge that  he appears to have grown more and more pretentious by the year.

She can only hope the same doesn’t apply to herself, mind you. 

[rosalind-bennett-blog]

The Moondust — Where does your character spend their paychecks?

Given the pace of her life, Rosalind isn’t the type to plan lavish vacations, or spend hours upon hours enjoying plate upon plate of tiny circles of ludicrously expensive cuisine.

These days, she figures she spends an embarrassing amount on her morning coffee at the Bean Genie café. She maintains that its offerings are much better than its moniker.

Otherwise, she often gives in to the temptation to snag a few extra items for her closet when she’s jetting around in London, New York or otherwise looking for talent. How many knee-high leather boots can a woman have, you ask?

Quite a few, in her case.

[californiadreaminghq]

I heard it on the grapevine…

In honor of our very first round of acceptances, and all the fabulous apps you all prepared for us, we’ve got a special ask meme for you based off the very characters we were so lucky for you all to have brought in!

If you can, try and send a couple to whoever reblogs the meme – nobody likes to feel left out! Participation isn’t mandatory of course, but we think it will be so fun! Don’t you?

The Cherry Bomb — What is your characters favorite outfit to wear out on the town?

The Desperado — What does your character do in their downtime, when they need a little self care?

The Fame — If your character were to grace the headlines of a tabloid, what would be the juiciest bit of gossip the readers would find out about?

The Heart of Glass — Who is the person who means the most to your character?

The Hot Blooded — If your character were to leave the city, would they be the same kind of person they are right now?

The Killer Queen — What was your character’s family like?

The Landslide — What was your character’s first love like?

The Levee — What would be the title of your character’s autobiography?

The Missing Angel — Does your character have a hero? Who is it?

The Moondust — Where does your character spend their paychecks?

The Night Flyer — How does your character react to authority figures or being told what to do?

The Personality Crisis — What is your character’s greatest vice?

The Stardust — Does your character like to be alone, or do they prefer to have people around?

The Stranded — How does your character show that they care about those close to them?

The Wildfire — What is the worst lie that your character has ever told?

[gxldlxghts]

starter: open to all

location: purgatory pub, south

time: late night

“Hey, babe,” Paulette calls to the other from her stool at the bar, angling her body towards them with a beer in one hand and a crumbled five dollar bill in the other. 

“I’ll give you five to turn this shit off and put on another song. Any other song.”

Ironic, seeing at the song that was currently playing on the jukebox was by her band.

[rosalind-bennett-blog]

Rosalind’s eyes flick over to the owner of the voice that’s suddenly accosting her. 

Paulette Fields. Of course. She was almost pleasantly surprised that the other woman could actually spend her evening out like this without being bombarded by an eager public. Her face was everywhere these days, it seemed.

“Oh, what a shame!” she calls, her face going dark and serious for a second. “I just love the Gemstones!”

She waits a beat, wondering what reaction that might get, and then hops up, looking pleased with herself. “Just pulling your leg.” she says with a laugh as she nears the jukebox. “No need to bribe me. A change from this tripe is definitely payment enough, thanks.”

[auldcine]

Merle Oberon as Catherine Earnshaw in Wuthering Heights (1939)

[rosalind-bennett-blog]

Date: 1968, shortly after Violent Vale is signed to Vital Noise

With: Anthony “Ant” Doyle, @antonthebass​

Where: Violent Vale band members’ residence, California

Few people were likely to call Vital Noise’s offices quiet (Yes, yes, everyone’s already heard the jokes, thank you.) But these days, the level of buzz was verging on the spectacular. The name on everybody’s lips was Violent Vale, the label’s new hot ticket, and Rosalind could practically feel her colleagues quaking with anticipation of their arrival in the States.

So, of course she just had to check them out for herself.

She knew the address already, of course. It was by far the nicest of the pads the label offered. These grungy, growling Bristolians were Vital Noise’s biggest – and hopefully best – investment, so it wasn’t as if they were going to throw their newest recruits in a hole in the wall.

As she crept up towards the door, she couldn’t help but wonder what she might find behind it. Whatever they were like, she could handle it, surely.

Right?

“Excuse me,” she said, as crisply as she could, after a knock. “Is anyone here?”

[rosalind-bennett-blog]

Mary Jo‌:

Wichita Wishes very well may have been Mary Jo’s favorite place in the whole city.  The stacks and stacks of records as far as the eye could see, that delightfully old smell…it was a place her grandfather would have loved, and that’s what she loved the most.  Not to mention it was only a short walk from the apartment.  

Most of the time, she didn’t even buy anything.  Just walked around the store, fingered through her favorite artists and stared at their album covers, and well…talked to them a bit.  Like today, for example.

“Dino, you and the boys are behaving, right?  And don’t try to lie to me, because Bing told me some stories.  And there’s Ella, glowing as usual.  Ella, I know I say this all the time, but this is my absolute favorite picture of you–”

That was definitely a footstep she heard behind her.  A finger stayed propped against the record stack, but the rest of her turned around on a dime.  Were her cheeks as red as they felt?  “Oh…uh…”

It occasionally crossed Roz’s mind that Wichita Wishes was not exactly the first place people would expect to find her. ‘Rosalind Bennett in – in a thrift store?! I mean, really!” She could conjure the reaction with ease. Always with a slight emphasis on her surname, of course. But the selection here was very,  very good much of the time. Who was she to pass that up? And maybe she’d find something to wear too. You really never know.

She eyed the selection of wares in front of her. The Who peered collectively up from some concrete, not too far away from an old blue Dusty Springfield sleeve. She was sure she had spent some pocket money on those back in the day. Did she still have them? she wondered, running a thumb along the edge of one, near the top of Ms. Springfield’s beehived head.

She wandered slightly farther down the display, and soon any thoughts of her youthful record collection were dispelled by some kind of murmuring nearby. Someone trying to remember a lyric?

No, maybe not.

“I’m – I’m sorry to bother you,” she said quickly. “But do you mind if I slip past?” She caught the eye of the murmurer and gave the woman a quick, not unfriendly little look.

That might have been it for their interaction, had Roz’s curiosity not gotten the better of her. “Were you –? You weren’t actually talking to the albums, were you?” she said, almost before she could stop herself.