The first time we heard our song on the radio, we freaked. The DJ had given us fair warning, so there we were on the Sunset Strip, ignoring songs we’d usually be rocking to, waiting for those notes we’d practiced and shaped and lived with for months and months. The four of us plus Sylvia—Todd at the wheel with his arm around his woman, Stefan riding shotgun, Doug and I in the back. We cruised past the clubs in the afternoon sun, imagining SAVAGE NIGHT on the marquees of places we dreamed of headlining—The Whisky A Go Go, The Troubador, The Cathouse. We’d opened at some smaller places, but here we were on the verge of breaking into the scene, maybe even nationwide. The record label told us if we scored well in Southern California, they’d give us a big launch with the first album.
We had the windows down, the speakers saturated, our stage boots and tight pants on, hair sprayed perfectly, shirts open to our chests. Sylvia’s eye make-up and miniskirt were turning me on, and I wanted to break Todd’s arm. But when she looked back and winked at me, I knew everything was going to be all right.
I’ll never forget. “Rock of Ages” by Def Leppard ended and we tensed up. The station hit its promo tag, then a commercial. We groaned. Silent through the whole bumper crop of big concerts that weekend, wet T-shirt contests, guitar and drum shops. Then another promo.
The DJ: “…a band that’s been driving you all crazy in the clubs is ready to spin it’s first single. This is a hot track, guys and gals, so turn it up LOUD and bow down to Savage Night with “A Hell of a Woman”…”
And Todd’s voice, alone and compressed, “I…got…burned!”
We kick in on “burned,” a gritty piece of work, bass tracking the guitar riff an octave down, the drums almost stuttering for two bars before we lock into a bad-ass blues/metal rhythm.
I was surprised we could hear it, all of us in the car screaming at the top of our lungs, holding the devil horns rock salute out the windows, other rockers on the sidewalks flipping us off or cheering us on. I don’t remember ever feeling that good.
Doug said, “We used to do this back home, remember? Except it wasn’t our own song!”
“Hell yeah, but look at us now.”
“This is awesome, man.” He had a smile to beat back darkness.
I pumped my fist and said, “Just you wait. This is only the beginning. It’s going to get even better.”
END
About the Author
Anthony Neil Smith is also the author of Psychosomatic, Yellow Medicine, and Hogdoggin’. His fifth novel, Choke on Your Lies, was published as an e-original for Kindle and Nook earlier this year.
He is the publisher of the noir webzine Plots with Guns, and is the Director of Creative Writing at Southwest Minnesota State University.
Visit him at http://anthonyneilsmith.typepad.com and http://plotswithguns.com
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