Before The Night's Out

With a force like no other, his arms would be thrashing out a beat that shot through the atmosphere. And, it too, like its surroundings - comes crashing down: Bringing with it everything and anything; in one final, sheeny smash.

Following close behind, tinny simmering feeds into a littered silence. This lures us to a close: To the end. So used to it, we still expect to hear the steady thunk of bass pumping on. But, unlike our hearts - it doesn’t continue. Even after the most shredding solos and last-moment pelt-downs, that drumbeat of our own somehow, always carries on. Our hearts, even when the show is over - refuse to stop. No matter how hard we’ve been thrown down, they keep on. Just keep on beating. Endless relentless heartbeats.

***

At that moment, the dirty silence engulfed me. It wasn’t, however. It wasn’t silent. Not at all. Under the surface, in which Aurian and his Fender guitar were sliding closer to me - was the inconsiderate, muffled buzz of a microphone I had previously thrown to the floor. Liquorice tangled at my feet, weaving its way around an undefined route, at one point lapping over the side of a grungy shoe-polish toned box. From which, an even worse, higher, discordant, otherworldly and indistinguishable sound rung on: consistent… persistent.

I had to make it stop.