Another gig polished off. If he had to play one more encore of fucking Rebel Rebel, Jack swore that some wannabe groupie was getting a kicking. Or else an RCA executive. Jack was a bitter man. His skin crawled at the fact that his own musical style had been shelved in favour of limpid tweenie glam. He wasn't Marc fucking Bolan. He was Jack Orwell, Jack Orwell the punk prophet. He had messages to get across, messages that ran deeper than any bullshit about savage jaws. Jack could slip in his messages here and there, but the style of the music neutered them. There was only so much you could do with glam rock.
An unholy clang and clatter filled the stage as Jack threw his guitar to the ground and headed out. His backing band called after him, but he wasn't doing any stupid meet-and-greets tonight. He just had to get out. He didn't want to sign anything, didn't want to see anyone. The quicker he were back in his flat, alone, the better. He didn't even want sex. He wanted a warm bed and a drink. Alone.
As he found his way down the steps from the stage door, disoriented and stumbling somewhat in the dimness of the street, he saw a face he knew. Jack barely knew his own face from a cake of soap, but here was an unmistakeable old friend. “Julia! Julia, it's been so long.”
@movierole
