Daylight

Joe's POV

The flight over from Manchester to—where the hell were we today? I wondered—somewhere in the southern US…well, it sucked, to put it plain.
Jesus, I was sure they’d told us Warped would start somewhere else, where it wasn’t so fucking hot and where there was some shade. Ah, but who knows? It was a fucking long flight, and now it was over. Thank fuck we had a driver to take us where we needed to go; we’d never’ve been able to find our way. Plus we were all jet-lagged from the endless travelling.

Me brother Tom, our bass player and lead singer, swung his long legs out of the car and set his feet on the blazing blacktop. The heat was fucking unbelievable, nothing at all like the clammy Northern summers we were used to, all damp and rainy, with only the sun once in awhile. I felt like I was frying in this sun, it was so different from the sunlight we had in England.
Tom lit a smoke. “Bloody hell,” he bitched, “where the fuck are we?”
“Dunno,” I answered, squinting into the awful brightness. “I see the AP trailer, and all the other Warped shit, so we’re in the right place. What I wanna know is, where the fuck is our manager?”

Right that moment, Peter showed up in his own car, as if he owned the place.
“Right, boys,” he called as he got out, “isn’t this splendid?”
We all looked round us, not knowing if he was having us on or not. Londoners.

“Fucking splendid, Peter,” Glenn, our drummer, finally croaked out in a serious tone.

Peter beamed in return. “Just the beginning, boys, of your takeover of America!” he boomed, rubbing his enormous hands together as if he couldn’t wait to get started. Like he'd be the one playing to crowds of kids in this frying sun.

I could see Tom rolling his eyes, though Tom had on his sunglasses. We all knew Peter was full of shit, but he was also fucking ruthless when it came to his business, which at the moment was us.
We knew he’d die for us, but he’d take as many others as possible along if he had to. We just hoped we didn’t have to go along, if the time came.

Bryan, our rhythm guitarist, mopped his head with a towel he’d brought along.
“Any chance of a beverage, m’lord?” he asked of no-one in particular.

He was always fucking with people, pretending to be an idiot from the North of England. But I tell you, he’s the smartest Northern idiot I’ve ever met. He was a sot, to be sure; he drank and sweated like a pig most days, and that was offstage. Onstage, he was a fucking monster, flailing about the stage and hurling his body round like someone havin’ a bloody fit. And he’d be fucking liquid by the end of a set, but by God, he’d have the crowd insane and jamming round the merch tables to buy our shit.

The Madmen could always count on good old Bryan to wind them up.

Anyway, we were just standing round in this terrible American heat, wondering, like Bryan, where a beverage might be had, when not five metres away, anther car pulled up, and four lovely birds got out. At least, I thought they were lovely, all different shapes and sizes and hair colours, Americans of course. Two blondes, a brunette and a redhead. What I couldn’t imagine was why a bunch of tourists would be showin’ up to Warped. The first show was two days away, y’know?
I saw one of the birds, a redhead, walk off towards the Warped trailer. Then another redhead—I must’ve died and gone to heaven—comes walkin’ out of the AP trailer, and the two of them started squealin’ and jumpin’ up and down when they saw each other. Some kinda reunion, I thought. But then after a brief convo, the second redhead comes walking over to US.

She was gorgeous. When she got closer, I could see she was a bit older, but that didn’t bother me; I like a woman with experience.
Then I saw the tape recorder in her hand.

“Hello,” she called out. “I’m Vivian, from AP. Could I talk to you fellows for a few minutes?”
Peter presented himself to her. I couldn’t quite hear what he was sayin’, but the amount of bullshit bein’ flung her way was considerable.
She smiled and laughed at him like she knew it was bullshit, but she pretended to take him seriously, it looked like. He flung a hammy arm round her shoulder and gathered her in.
Poor thing.

“Boys,” Peter boomed, “this is Vivian, from AP. And she’s been telling me just now that the young ladies you saw over there”—he pointed to those four lovely birds again—“are NOT just fans, but are themselves a band known as the…” he stopped and looked at Vivian for reassurance. She nodded.
“…the Daylight Bathers, from Chicago, I believe? Is that right, m’love?”
Vivian shuddered a little at this show of affection. I know I would’ve too.
Tom called out, “Peter, you’re crushing her. Maybe you oughta loosen ‘er up a bit, eh?”

Our manager relaxed his hold on the lovely lady writer, who looked much relieved. Peter then produced the Warped schedule from his pocket.
“…And it looks like those very same ladies will be opening on your stage,” he finished.

“Bloody hell,” Tom said again, this time reverently, fixing his vision on the darkest of the four birds. Shiny black hair was his main requirement for a girl.

Bryan furiously mopped his head; Glenn adjusted himself as neatly as he could.

As lovely a sight as they were—and I had my eye on the redhead, of course—I couldn’t help but feel a bit resentful. The whole fucking tour laid out before us, and we get to follow a bunch of girls? Who knew what they were like, what they played?

Peter and Vivian seemed to read our thoughts; well, mine anyway.
“They kick ass,” Vivian advised us proudly.
“That’s good,” Bryan said vaguely, his gaze still fixed on those birds. Dear God, it looked like they were the only ones around. Jesus, not a chance for us, with all those other blokes around.
Oh well, I guess I’ll be handing it to meself quite a bit this tour. Can’t have everything