CHAPTER 30

Early April, 1992

It took Jessie all her will power and persuasive ways, but Kim eventually conceded to an American tour. A short American tour; so short, Kim insisted, that the country would barely realize they had arrived before they left again. Jessie had only shaken her head, smiling, saying the States weren’t that bad.

            “Well, Miss America, I’m only going to tour your precious country on one condition, then.”

            “And what condition would that be, Ms. Kissably?”

            “Festivals.” Kim got up off Jessie’s couch, shaking a finger at her half-American friend. “You can’t tell me you didn’t see this coming from a million miles away. Festivals are so much more real, they’re--”

            “So much more the kind of thing Andrew Eldritch gets himself into.” Jessie smiled. “For being a femi-nazi, you sure do put a lot of stock in Eldritch.”

            “Ah, but the stock I put in him is nothing compared to how much I look up to Siouxsie as a guide and role model. Therefore, you shut your pretty little American mouth.” Kim didn’t know why, but she was suddenly feeling playful. She was filled with the same evasiveness as when she had first met Jessie, only without any of the prior distrust attached.

            “I’ve heard you talking more about Eldritch as of late, actually.” Jessie turned her back to Kim in an effort to hide her smile. Best to play the game properly, after all.

            “Then you’ve been hearing things.”

            “My, you get defensive so quickly.”

            Kim took Jessie’s shoulder and spun her around just in time to catch the last of her smile before she composed herself. “You’re accusing me of idolizing a thing with a prick,” Kim reminded her firmly, fighting back her own smile.

            “Your words, dear Kissably. Not mine.”

            Kim studied Jessie’s brown eyes for a long time before she finally let go. “Damn, you’re good.” She took a step back. “I don’t even know what the game was, but I think you’ve won already.”

            “Is everything a game for you, Kim?” Jessie had lost her light tone.

            “Life is a game. I just haven’t figured out what the rules or prizes are. I’ll stumble across it eventually.”

            “Or at least you hope you will.”

            “It can’t be that difficult to figure out the meaning of life. Hell, we’ve been able to figure out the recording studio. Nothing’s more complicated than that.” Kim retreated back to Jessie’s couch, drawing her legs up onto the cushions. “Recording in two groups yet having at least seven definitive tracks, figuring out playback and throwing in backup vocals, getting those computer synth sounds that are all the rage. Though I don’t understand what’s so impressive about letting the world know you can make a computer sound like it’s playing an instrument.”

            “It makes the appearance of being groundbreaking.”

            “But it’s been done before.” Kim sighed. “Everything’s been done before.”

            “Kim Kissably and the Red Lips Sextet hasn’t been done before. No one else would even dare imagine letting a group be so varied. And how many bands out there can actually play their own instruments, anyway?”

            “Less and less as the years go by.” Kim drew her knees up and hugged them. “See, that’s why I have a problem with our new way of recording.”

            Jessie sat on the floor in front of Kim. “Talk to me.”

            “We’re in there in the recording studio playing together as a band, minus two. But the guitar and bass both have separate amps, Chatha’s got her sax mic, Ebony’s got a piano mic, and I’ve got my mic for vocals, and they’re all so isolated that the sounds don’t mix. Listen to the vocal track, you can’t hear anything else in that room, even though you hear it when you’re recording the song. How freaky is that?”

            “The mics are just really in tune to their section. Besides, you can hear a faint bit of Chatha’s sax under the piano and vocal lines if you really listen.”

            “Fine, okay, but what’s the point of us recording together if what we do is then split into separate tracks and smoothed out? Isn’t that just saying right there that we can’t play? I don’t bloody well like it.”

            “We can go back to recording it as one mass sound in one track if you want.”

            “Nah, then that complicates things what with adding Elke and Heather’s work.” Kim shook her head, frustrated. “The Beatles recorded one track masterpieces for their entire beginning, and look where that got them. We’re only on our second album, and we’re giving in to the ‘way things are done’ in the bloody industry. And now we’re going to tour the bloody States!”

            “Kim--”

            “Nah, I’m just saying... This is why I need the festival atmosphere. You’re up close and personal, in the sunlight, in the open air. You can see th’ fans, Jess. See how much they get out of the music. There’s no being blinded by any bloody stage lights, unless you’re the headlining band and get forced to play the evening show. I don’t see us ever being big enough to be the headlining band, though, so there are no worries.”

            “You don’t envision endless triumph and glory for us anymore?”

            “Why would I bloody well want to? This is where we get without the stress of ultimate fame. How much of a mess are we going to be if we ever become a platinum sellin’ band?”

            “You have strange ideals, Ms. Kissably.” Jessie stood up. “Come with me.”

            “Where?”

            “The recording studio. I want to show you that there’s some worth to the multi-tracking after all.”

            “You’re a stubborn little American.”

            “No more stubborn than you, my British friend. Let’s go.”

***

The mixing room now had pictures of the grrls in goth on the walls. It had been Chatha’s idea. Since Kissably and the Sextet was still a relatively new band in Beggars’ that was doing considerably well (especially since many of the label’s veterans were still unknowns), “cool an’ neato” pictures of the grrls should serve as inspiration to everyone else recording here.

            Since Chatha got her way almost as often as Kim did, James Carroway didn’t even try to tell her that favoring one band wasn’t a good business practice. Besides, they were artistically dark pictures where none of the grrls (except Ebony) looked like themselves. The first picture, just to the left of the door, was of Raine and Ebony. The gothic pianist was sitting on the floor with her fiancé kneeling behind her, holding her close to him. They were both wearing utterly goth clothes, and the only splashes of color were their green eyes, deathly purple blush, and a blood red sash that Ebony had tied around her waist. They were goth royalty, guarding the mixing room forever.

            To the right of the door was Chatha, looking nothing like the pink grrl that the band knew. Her hair was slicked back, several shades darker under the gel, and instead of her usual simple navy blue eyeliner, Ebony had given her intricate black trails branching down to her cheeks. She had her head tilted back, and was staring into space. Her arms were crossed, half hiding a tightly clinging burgundy and black shirt. It was made of patches of mesh and velvet, alternating the colors and materials. It cut off short on her arms and abdomen. The skirt she was wearing consisted of two long rectangles of burgundy velvet. It fell to the floor, but as the two pieces were only attached at the top, it didn’t do much to conceal her legs. Her left leg, the only one visible in the shot, had leather wrapped around up to her knee from a Greek-style black sandal.

            Chatha actually had a copy of that picture in her apartment, right beside one of herself in The Dress, where she was sitting on the floor, almost lost in the folds of the pink skirt, resting her elbows on her knees and lost in thought. She’d spent a good ten minutes showing Kim the differences. “Bad me, good me! Bad me, good me!” Granted, she hadn’t needed that entire ten minutes to make her point, but she felt that it would sink in better that way.

            The last picture was above the window looking out into the big white recording room. This one had Kim and Jessie in it. They were standing on opposite sides of the picture, holding a black shawl between them. The shawl had caught a draft in the room, making it look almost alive in the picture. This picture, Lucius had explained to them, was to show the connection of opposites.

            Kim and Jessie were indeed opposites in that picture. Kim’s hair was pulled back into a severe bun, with only her two blue strands hanging free. The shirt she was wearing had been described by Ebony as a “business slut” look. Her official name for it, and the main causal factor for Kim agreeing to wear it, was the Anti-Femme Shirt Fatale. It was, basically, a black button up shirt. Only, right under the breasts, there were no more buttons, and the two sides of the shirt tapered out to make triangles that ended below the waistline. The sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and the top three button were undone so the collar hung open wide (and only two buttons were actually holding the shirt closed). The back, which wasn’t seen in the photograph, was practically nonexistent. The material around the shoulders and neck went all the way around, but the only other thing holding the shirt in place were ties at around breast level; the tighter they were secured, the higher the risk of the two front buttons being popped. Kim had had it tied up as tightly as possible. To make a full outfit out of it, Kim had agreed to model the Anti-Femme Skirt Fatale as well. This was a heavy black denim skirt that dragged on the ground. One catch, though. It opened above the knees, falling into a triangle of open space that ended beside either foot. And since Kim was wearing knee-high boots with insanely high heels, it was easily seen that this created something like two spikes at the bottom before the skirt leveled off.

            While Kim was severe and scarce, Jessie’s look was free and wild. Her hair was tousled and everywhere, for the first time since Kim met her. Her dress was black and long, and seemed to flow even in the still picture. The sleeves opened at her hands and fell to the floor, cascading against the skirt. It was velvet and chiffon and silk, classic, timeless, light as air. Kim really had to wonder whether or not her half-American friend was a goddess every time she looked at the picture.

            Jessie noticed Kim staring at the picture. “You ever going to wear that on stage?”

            “What?”

            “The anti-femme stuff. It would do a hell of a lot to promote Eb’s company.”

            “Maybe if she does it in something other than black. I’m not going on stage wearing all black. That seems almost like a betrayal.”

            “So try plaid and black. Or army green. Or something.”

            “Or something.” Kim looked away from the picture. “So what’s so good about the multi-tracking?”

            “This.” Jessie pushed two levers up, then the bass and vocal tracks from Forgetful Forgettable started. “You can isolate. You can listen. You can understand how the music interacts.”

            “Don’t you mean how the musicians interact?”

            Jessie put her hand on Kim’s shoulder. “I thought we would know that without the multi-tracking.”

            After a moment of hesitation, Kim put her hand over Jessie’s. “I try my best to forget these things,” she murmured along with the song. “To quit wishing for happiness that has left me behind. I’d rather live this life forgettably and naïve than try to find a new way.”

            “What happinesses have left you behind?”

            “Too many to count.”

            Jessie rested her forehead on Kim’s back. She spoke softly, but Kim could still hear her. “Maybe you just let them leave you. I don’t see that you deserve losing them. Any of them.”

            “Life’s not always fair.” Kim reached out to the mixing board and turned the vocal line off, so only a haunted bass was left behind. “There are times when I feel I’m falling.” Her voice was thick. She closed her eyes, realizing that was the opening line to a song that had to be written. “There are times when I’m down on my knees. Tell me why I keep on falling... Tell me why. Please.”

            Jessie sighed and pulled back. “Maybe because you keep rejecting the things you need the most.”

            “Maybe.”

            “So is that going to be your newest song?”

            “I don’t know if I can fill it out, but it wants to be.”

            “Can I help fill it out?”

            “Nah. I’m sorry, Jess, but writing one song with you was enough. I’m a lone bitch. Don’t play well with others.”

            “And do you run with scissors, too?”

            Kim smiled softly. “Sometimes.”

            “Didn’t you learn anything in grammar school?”

            “Apparently not.”

            Jessie stepped past her, adjusting things on the mixing board. “Let’s check another song.”

            “That song being?”

            In response, Jessie started the vocal track for Teaching Spiders to Cry. “It’s not that difficult to share, you know. You don’t have to play well with everyone else, but you should choose one person close to you who you can trust.”

            “I do trust you.”

            Jessie reached into her pocket and took something out. She set it down on the mixing board. It was a small black plastic spider ring, rather cheaply made. “Look what I found.”

            Kim couldn’t help but smile. She picked it up, turning it over and over again in her hand. “Isn’t that just classic?”

            “It was on the bottom of my closet, apparently since last Halloween.” She plucked the ring out of Kim’s hand. “Think you could teach this spider to cry?”

            Kim’s eyes went dark. She pulled away from Jessie, staring out into the white recording studio. “I already told you, there’s nothing more pathetic than a weeping predator. Except maybe some cheapass children’s Halloween toys.” She killed the sound in the mixing room, and would have stalked out if Jessie wasn’t in the way of the door.

            “I still don’t understand what your sore spot here is.”

            “You trying to get into my mind. That’s my sore spot. There’s no room for you in here, Jess. There’s no room for anyone. That’s why Gwen left me, y’know. Because I can’t fit anyone other than me into my mind, or into my bloody heart. It’s that simple.”

            “I’m not asking to get into your mind, or into your heart.”

            “But you are. With all this evasive psych stuff you pull. Trying to prove you know me better than I know myself. It’s bloody disconcerting!”

            “Especially when I’m right?”

            “Who said you’ve ever been right?”

            “Kim...” Jessie touched her cheek lightly. Kim flinched away, hitting the mixing board. She ground her teeth and stared intently at the switches and levers so she wouldn’t have to look at Jessie.

            “You’re difficult,” Jessie whispered.

            “I’m a grrl, remember? A danger bitch, remember? A fuckin’ femi-nazi, remember?”

            “Which means you shouldn’t be scared of your own kind.”

            “But you’re not my own kind! You’re so bloody proper, Jessie, it scares me. You’re all calm and collected, and your hair’s always straight and your clothes are never wrinkled and you don’t need to wear makeup to feel like you look good enough. You’re not always worried about whether or not you’re bloody well thin enough to satisfy the things that you hate the most in the world! You’re nothing like me. You are not a hypocrite.” Kim covered her mouth, waiting until her urge to scream subsided. She dropped her hand, afraid that she’d make herself sob instead. “You have a path in life, a future, something more than a bunch of pig-headed sluts. If the Sextet broke up, it wouldn’t hurt you. It couldn’t.”

            “How can you say that?”

            “You’re the brains behind us. Every album we’ve sold has been because of you. You produce, you manage, you keep us together. Without you, the band would have ended at Stone’s Throw. Most likely because I would have killed myself. Not that that even bloody well matters.”

            “Kim.” Jessie took her shoulders and gently turned her around. “Don’t say things like that. I stand to lose as much as everyone else if anything happens to this band. I’ve never been happier. I can’t imagine a life where you aren’t there. I can’t wrap my mind around a world where Chatha doesn’t wake me up at six o’clock every morning with some new inane thought. There’s nothing without the energy of the music we’re able to make. I’m never leaving this band, Kim. I’m never leaving you.”

            Kim pulled Jessie close and hugged her fiercely. “I’m sorry I’m being such an arsewipe,” she whispered against Jessie’s neck. “I’m just scared. I see our end before us, and I can’t live through that. I can’t bloody well survive past this band. I’d be dead without you. Over and over and over again, Jessie, I need you.”

            Jessie kissed Kim’s forehead, then tilted her chin up and kissed her cheek. “We are forever. I promise you that. Beyond this band, beyond the pettiness we’ve all brought into it. There are some people meant to have each other; that has to be the case here. We keep each other sane, keep each other real.”

            “But you’re so sane and real on your own.”

            “That just says you have a lot left to learn about me, Ms. Kissably.”

            “How long do I have to learn it?”

            “The rest of our lives.” Jessie closed Kim into another hug, and they held onto each other for a long time.

This chapter includes lyrics from Forgetful Forgetable and Love Beyond Pain, off the grrls' second album, Blackened Princess.
The lyrics were written by 'Kim Kissably', and are © LL Hager, 2000 and 1998, respectively.

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