Rock Out With Your Gock Out Jam Concert
who: OPEN to ALL where: The Arctic on a Friday Evening
It's funny how the lyrics and the treble vanish when she's sat on the stool behind the kit, all thuds and rat-a-t-t-tats. The drummer in any band is the unsung hero. Maybe not as unsung as the bassist, because there's a thousand posts online about how drummers don't get the credit they deserve and a thousand memes about how nobody really needs the bassist but like, you know. We suffer together and die like comrades.
Other things vanish when she's playing with The Tigs, pounding wood on mylar. Like the fact she's flirting with disaster every second of her life now. At her day job she's a walking temper time-bomb. At her night job she's literally on the menu, especially if the scuttlebutt about that one lady from Bean-Town are to be believed.
But here, behind the drums? Woo, baby. That's the sweet-spot. The one place everything's okay and she can't fuck up because nobody cares if you hit a snare a nano-second off rhythm but you. You just spin the stick and make it look like you meant to do it out of pure rebellion.
The Jam's fun, some kind of charity thing for a local shelter called New Moon and it's focusing woman-led music acts. It's a forty-five minute set and then bam-pow, it's time to clear out and let the next band take its turn. After that, she's at the bar opposite the more mental part of the Arctic's mosh-pit. The whole place smells like wolf, and that's good because she can sell it as homework to the Fellowship and she can sell it as just another Friday night to everyone else, wolf or otherwise.
Oh, another thing that isn't awful - this massive honkin' pile of 10 cent wings that just landed in front of her alongside the coldest looking beer she's ever seen. She makes a friendly, wide-eyed look of excitement to the person beside her.
"Want one? You may have..." she holds a finger up. "... One wing. Flapper only, the drums are mine and you will lose a finger."
