juliusrowe·:
A relaxed drinking hole on most nights, tonight Allied was overrun with friends and supporters of the band, casual punk-rock fans, regular patrons, total newcomers, all mobbing the venue till it seemed close to exceeding capacity. The old floor groaned beneath the crowd’s weight. The opening act could barely play their instruments, plucking the same chords over and over with the amps cranked up; each tuneless thrash sounded the same as the one before. And somewhere in the midst, surrounded by rockabilly goths and art students in pleather, Julius stood with a drink in one hand, free arm folded across his body, looking crisp in dark trousers and a rolled-sleeve linen shirt, watching the stage thoroughly unimpressed. Less visibly, he was itching for a cigarette. The Galouises were in his back pocket— only the thought of fighting his way out of the crowd (and then back in) stopped him. So he drank his drink (Cuba Libre, little too heavy on the Cola) until the first glass was empty in his hand, then looked around for the easiest way back to the bar, knowing that there’d have to be more. If he couldn’t smoke, he would drink. Not too much— he still needed some recollection of this shit-show to put into words tomorrow, or else this would all be for nothing, just a waste of precious time. He couldn’t afford to suffer meaninglessly these days. The least he could expect, after a long, wearying night in this cramped space, listening to some art-punk band from Gowanus (which, if their demo was anything to go by, would be its own test of endurance)— was a paycheck for his trouble.
Julius shouldered his way to bar and ordered a refill (“A rum and coke?” the bartender clarified, raising both brows; at which Julius released a petulant sigh through his nose, probably unheard, and simply nodded). Tasting it to discover this one was almost straight rum, he turned around and edged out a small space where he could lean backwards and scan the room for Sonata. They’d arrived together, but gotten separated after entering the dark and the noise— was that their curls, barely visible above someone else’s head? Maybe; but the curtain of people closed again, and he lost sight. The lighting in here was the seedy red of an Amsterdam street. Faces were blurry, indistinct, like photo negatives hanging in a darkroom, not yet fully exposed. Julius placed his drink behind him on the bar and rested his elbow, trying to ignore some girl’s faux-fur vest (in here? in this sweaty hell?) encroaching on him, tickling at his forearm. He had never liked punk. Not the hoarse yelling, not the clumsy, repetitive two-riff melodies. Not the mantra of hard, fast, loud with no regard for anything else. And maybe the anti-everything mentality had been radical, once, in a different era, but it seemed childish now: a staged tantrum was hardly revolutionary. Someone shrieked with laughter too close to his ear. Julius pulled himself upright and scowled, freshly annoyed— then, by some miracle, saw Sonata materialize out of the densely-packed crowd, their face saturated in the same red light. “I was starting to think you left,” he called out, moving closer. He spared Fur Vest one last disgusted glance as he stepped around her. “Called an Uber and went to see that Agnès Varda screening in Bushwick. Not that I would’ve blamed you.” Close enough so that neither would have to shout, Julius leaned against the bar again, and frowned thoughtfully at the question. What was the band’s name? It was something unimaginative. Something that almost rhymed, but not really. “Fred’s Under the Bed.” He scoffed. “Not the worst name I’ve ever heard, but— certainly in competition.” As they ordered their drink, the request for wine made his eyebrows rise. “You sure you don’t want something stronger for this?” For the second time, his own glass was almost empty; Julius took another swallow of rum, felt ice cubes click against his teeth. “I’m not kidding, Sonata, their demo sounded like someone took the “Ambient Spooky Sounds” CD from a haunted house, then overlaid it with like, Mongolian throat singing, ASMR-style.” A slow shake of his head followed. “Honestly, it’s incredible what people get away with calling music these days.”
Allied was most definitely not Sonata’s usual scene. Their preferred night out was that of elegance, of the ballet or an opera house or any amphitheater filled seat to seat with the echoing of woodwinds. Allied was, at the least, a bedazzled college basement show with local bands they’d never heard of before and had no intention to research later. Though, they would, as they always did out of loyalty, read Julius’s article on the lineup tomorrow. If anything they could vibe, and found that maybe on a less crowded evening they might even enjoy the place, but the surplus of sweaty indie boys from Bushwick failing to start up a mosh pit on this fine evening was making it rather difficult to entertain the possibility.
Sonata held themself well, but every once in a while through the night they looked like a panicked child searching indistinguishable faces for their father at a carnival. Luckily, they’d just managed to spot their father, making their way through. A soft push, a polite tap on a stranger’s shoulder to get by, and being body slammed into a sandwich between two broad women stood as little obstacles on their Odyssey style journey to Julius. “If I couldn’t find you in the next ten minutes, you know I might have.” they half joked, leaning against the bar and resisting the urge to do gimme hands as the bartender came over with a much needed drink. “I’m trying to fathom how some people find this so enjoyable, but I’m still waiting for...you know, the good part.” their lips finally curled into a smile, knowing they had enjoyed some parts of the night. “Any good notes for your review? Do you actually speak to the band, or only listening?”
They scoffed when Julius revealed the name of the band that night, followed by a dramatic eye roll. “Quick, top five worst band names you’ve ever had to write about.” they joked, “Well, top four.” Sonata’s head tilted as they stared down into their drink, contemplating the suggestion to enhance it for their own benefit. “I don’t really drink often.” they admitted, shrugging, “I’m afraid to see what I’ll be like if I start slamming down the tequila right now.” they laughed, but they weren’t entirely joking. “Besides, the wine keeps me sumptuous, I need it to fight off all the perspiring men with pony tails drinking Bud Light.” Sonata threw their head back in a laugh at their friend’s humor, and they never put it past Julius to be brutally honest. “Gosh, I don’t know how you do it. I’d be terrible at writing reviews. I would either be too nice, or too mean.”
