“Stage is still dark,” he said.
The instruments were in place, two dull red spotlights reflecting weakly off the polished wood of the guitars and drum kit.
The crowd began to chant. “Blind Eye Moon! Blind Eye Moon!”
“Heeeey, Monkton.” The man’s voice was cajoling now, full of humour.
“No support band?” Patrick asked, looking down. His friends smiled and shrugged.
The chant grew louder. This band had really ardent fans, Patrick thought. The red spots winked out, plunging the stage into total darkness. The crowd began cheering and baying, feet stamped in a one-two, one-two-three rhythm. People began clapping the same rhythm. Voices rose with it. “Blind Eye! Blind Eye Moon! Blind Eye! Blind Eye Moon!”
A massive distorted guitar chord slammed out through the PA and the crowd exploded. Patrick winced against the combined volume as the stage burst into view from the multicoloured array in the ceiling. Three men stood across the front of the stage, each with a guitar, the one on the left the bass player. All three wore black clothes, black sleeveless t-shirts, their arms a mass of colourful tattoos. Their faces were pale with heavily kohled eyes, long hair, two black, the one in the centre blond. Behind them a woman stood behind her drum kit, also in black, also heavily kohled around her eyes. Her lips were painted blood red and her hair was long and straight as vibrantly scarlet as her lipstick. The guitar chord rang on, then the woman raised her sticks, struck them together one-two-three-four, then attacked her skins. The guitars all kicked in together, tight as hell, and the roaring of the crowd was lost in a powerful, thundering riff, galloping along with double kick drums underneath like a machine gun.
“Holy shit!” Patrick said to himself, dropping back into his seat, nodding his head along with the music. “This is instantly brilliant!”
The riff pounded on for a minute or more, then the blond guy in the centre started to sing over his rhythm guitar. His voice was powerful, reminded Patrick of Layne Staley in tone, but with more gusto. The woman at the drums provided backing vocals, their style something like a super-thrashy Led Zeppelin. Big riffs, complex bass runs, relentless drums. The lead guitarist frequently broke into solos that were intricate but never too long. After the first couple of tracks the band showed some diversity of talent by dropping to a low, slow ballad about the difficulty of love in the modern world. Then the pace increased again.
During a lull between tracks, Ciara said, “I think the locals are right. Blind Eye Moon might be one of the best bands in the world!”
“Are there any out of towners in tonight?” the lead singer called out.
The crowd booed and hissed, and the singer laughed. Ciara stood up, and Patrick grabbed her forearm. “Don’t, love! Let’s just enjoy the band.”
Ciara smiled down at him, began to sit, then the singer said, “I see you up the back there, with the brown hair and red t-shirt! Where are you from?”
“Ireland!” Ciara called out. She pointed to the siblings. “And Germany.”
“I can’t hear you, what was that?”
Voices rang through the crowd, people passing the message on.
“Ireland and Germany?” the singer said. “Wow, that’s a long way from Monkton! Get down here, this next song is for you.”
The crowd parted, most people smiling, warm gestures to come on, get forward. Patrick shook his head, embarrassed to look in any eyes, but he enjoyed how excited Ciara was as she bounced up and trotted away.
“Coming?” he asked Torsten and Simone.
“Sure, let’s go.”
They made their way towards the stage, the crowd patting them on the back and shoulders, laughing and coaxing them along. Right at the front, among a group of sweating, grinning superfans, the lead singer put his guitar around behind his back and crouched to be at eye level with them.
“What are your names, mates?” He held the mic out to Ciara. Patrick noticed his fingernails were painted blood red. In fact, all the band had blood red nails. And the deep black makeup around their eyes wasn’t just smudged kohl, but jet black with dozens of thin filaments, like capillaries, spreading out around the orbit of the eye and over the cheekbone. They had to be wearing contacts too, because their irises were all a deep crimson. The overall effect was quite stunning.
“Ciara, Patrick, Torsten and Simone,” Ciara said. “We’re from Dublin, they’re from Frankfurt.”
“And don’t you both make lovely couples!”
“We’re a couple. They’re brother and sister.”
The crowd laughed and jeered, and the singer grinned. “Sorry, I shouldn’t make assumptions. Well, I’m glad you’re here tonight. I’m Edgar, on bass is Howard, on lead guitar is Clarke, and our lady of the skins is Shirley.” The crowd whooped and cheered again. Edgar stood up, swung his guitar around to the front. “It’s good to meet you, Ciara and friends. Enjoying the show so far?”
“Are you kidding?” Ciara said with a laugh. “You guys fucking rock!”
Edgar grinned again. He was handsome, beguiling. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, we fucking do.” He clipped the mic back into its stand. “And this one’s for you. It’s called Far From Home.”
Clarke began a lead guitar melody, haunting in a minor key. The hairs along Patrick’s forearms bristled. Shirley tapped a single beat on the closed hi-hat, the effect with the guitar hypnotic. It reminded Patrick of early Metallica, like the opening to a track from Master of Puppets. Edgar picked a counter melody, the whole tune rising, swelling. Howard began soft bass runs.
The crowd swayed like ocean seaweed, forcing Patrick and his friends to move with them. The music filled the venue, and Patrick’s mind. They were so tight, so technically perfect, yet emotionally charged. The melody ground its way deep under his skin. Then Edgar hit a power chord that thumped into Patrick’s chest, made his heart race. Then another, as the melody and the ticking of the hi-hat continued. When Edgar hit the third power chord, Shirley matched her hi-hat with a bass drum, doubled like a heartbeat.
Then Edgar leaned into the mic and roared, “When you’re far from hoooooome!” and sound exploded like a supernova. The drums were furious, the bass raced, the guitars ground a sonic attack, the best riff Patrick could ever remember hearing. The rest of the words, the song, the rest of the gig, was lost in a maelstrom of powerful music and physical exertion. The four of them stayed at the front, immersed in the crowd, dancing, leaping, sweat-soaked and euphoric.
This is the best gig I have ever been to in my life, Patrick thought to himself as he danced.
And all too soon, it was over. Edgar had announced it was their last song, but Patrick didn’t want to believe it. When they finished, thanked the crowd, entreated them to come back again next time, Patrick was devastated. Loss clawed a hole in his chest.
The crowd thinned, but the four of them stayed up near the stage. The house lights went half up and the spell was broken. They were in a pub in a country town, somewhere on the south coast of New South Wales, miles from anywhere.
Edgar grinned at them as he put his guitar into a case, handed it to a roadie. “You have fun?”
Patrick could only nod, but Ciara couldn’t stop talking. She told them how much she loved the music, their energy, the lyrics were just so true, such universal truths.
“I love your accent,” Edgar said, head tilted to one side. “Hey, you want to come back to the Manor?”
“What’s the Manor?” Patrick asked.
“It’s our place. We have a little party there after gigs. In The Gulp.”
“In the what?”
“The Gulp.”
Patrick grinned, shrugged.
Edgar laughed. “I forgot, you’re not from around here. Next town up the coast, it’s called Gulpepper. But everyone calls it The Gulp. We live there.”