added October 4, 2005 (revised November 8, 2006)
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"You actually showed up," you said, hoping you didn't sound too grateful.
"Well, we love the complimentary peanuts," Andi said.
"And we love to goof on the music nerds, present company excluded," Julinda said.
"Yeah, uh, the nerdiness here can reach stratospheric levels, I guess," you said.
Batty Bat Mon quit playing. "Th-th-that's all, folks!" said its leader, 21-year-old Ray O'Malley, to scattered applause.
"You're dethpicable," you said loud enough for just your companions to hear. They both laughed, apparently forgiving your lack of nerd-bashing enthusiasm. None of you had clapped.
You took the stage ten minutes later. Someone had neatly painted a large black scribble on the wall behind you. Maybe less than half the audience of maybe 40 clapped, another big step up for you. You sang and played the keytar, a strap-on keyboard shaped like a guitar. You'd bought the keytar, your first and only one, a cherry-red Milaga Key Freedom KF-100 Deluxe, for thirty-nine ninety-five at the local pawn shop, your first day in the city. You'd wanted to look modern, like an MTV star, only less MTVish.
"I'm Free Government Cheese, and no, I don't have any," you told the audience. Your set opened with "Fashion Show," a song about the time you were "walking down the street" and "saw some sights that were pretty neat." You described those sights in your most girlish voice, the one only slightly more feminine than your normal voice: "A blackjack in lipstick and red high-heeled shoes / A shotgun in panties of sweet baby blue / A grenade in a mini that showed off her thighs / A warhead that smelled like Chanel Number Five." The waltz percussion setting on your keytar gave the song what you considered a spoofy aura of fashion-runway sophistication.
"And now a little something for the baby boomers," you said before launching into "Hippies Never Die (They Just Smell That Way)," sung in your most boyish voice, what you called your grown-up voice, the one lowered maybe an eighth of an octave. "Filthy flower children / You need a shower, children / For an hour, children / Well, maybe two / Pee you!" You had nothing against hippies other than their sloppy fashion sense, but you had to give your audience what it wanted sometimes if you expected to reach the big time. Indeed, a segment of the Feedback Loop audience found your song hilarious or at least funny; the scattered laughs following "Hey, man, go take a trip / Away from me with those stinky armpits" lifted your spirits, though not quite to stratospheric levels. During the instrumental bridge you played what you'd hoped would sound like Doors-style organ riffs on your keytar, but they sounded to you more like the duhs of the dumb Southern hound dog from the Whiz Kid Weasel cartoons. Your lack of proficiency under the organ setting had made the song sound better somehow, in your opinion, and you'd never even liked that hound dog character, your mother having forbidden you from making fun of what some people today would call the "mentally challenged."
Then you said "Now this next song is a tribute to the biggest force for good in this country today. Yes, even bigger than Mr. T�.Uh, I don't mean to brag or anything, but I worked my ass off writing this song. No, really, I need an ass transplant�.Anyone got a spare ass in their junk drawer?" Some audience laughter. "Well, anyway, this song really means a lot to me, and I hope it'll really mean a lot to you too." A brief pause, then you performed "Ronco," in which for the next 32 seconds you screamed "RONCO!" over and over while marching in place and alternately pressing the lowest C-sharp and the highest C-flat keys on your keytar.
After the mild applause had died down, you said "Now I have a very important announcement to make about this next song. I want to say right up front that when I wrote it�I was not on drugs." You pantomimed lifting a joint to your lips and taking a long drag. "Drugs are bad. Our president opposes drugs. The first lady opposes drugs�.Huh." You pantomimed lifting a joint to your lips and taking a longer drag. You paused. You glanced at the scribble behind you. "I love modern art. Don't you?" You paused again. You went right into "Panic at the Picnic," an almost bouncy tune in which you robotically recited lyrics you were making up on the spot: "There's a panic at the picnic / The coleslaw is glowing red / The mashed potatoes are doing the mashed potato / And, uh, the s'mores are complaining about the fall TV schedule."
Your set closed with "Fleen the Obscene." You set your keytar to Latin percussion and sang about the titular character. "He's a singer in a band / But that don't mean he's grand / He's got a sticky hand / He'll getcha in his lair / He'll tear off your underwear / And say not to touch his hair." Your advice to any "little girl" who meets Mr. Obscene? "Run far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far away / Either that or turn gay." The song lasted over ten minutes, almost half your set, growing more frenzied, you twirling around, hopping up and down, shouting "Yeah!" and "Rock 'n' roll forever!" and "Sid lives!", rubbing your keytar keys, pounding your keytar keys, an audience member or two shouting "Yeah!", you purring "Fleen the Obscene / He's real obscene" over and over until you suddenly stopped playing and said "Thanks! Good night! Don't bite the bedbugs!" More than half the audience clapped this time, some with enthusiasm, your spirits inching toward stratospheric levels.
When you were 39 years old in 2004 and sitting at work, skimming through the arts and entertainment section of your favorite on-line news source instead of writing that e-mail to your corporate buttboy of a boss explaining why you'd failed to complete your latest assignment, you found an article about the 1980s revival among rock musicians younger than you. These musicians had driven up the price of genuine Eighties musical equipment such as that "guitar/keyboard hybrid known as the keytar"; one "prized" keytar, the Milaga Key Freedom KF-100 Deluxe, no mention of its color, had recently sold "for over $400 on an Internet auction site."
"Keytards," you said to yourself with a forced chuckle.
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At least I've never watched Hardcastle & McCormick....Fiction, Home.
� 2005-2006 David V. Matthews