Look At The Street Lights, What A Pretty Sight
You Say That You Love Me.
“Come on, let’s get you up again.”
I knew my voice meant nothing to him. He was long gone into a land of unconsciousness where he would only dream about a big, thick blackness. The floor was cold compared to the heat that hit you as soon as you stood up, it always left your body with a condensed feeling. For a crowded room, I felt as though it was just myself. That was the thing about this generation, everybody fended for themselves. Everybody except me. I lifted his head up, resting it on my lap. I slapped his cheeks gently a few times, watching as a redness slowly spread over them. He was already flushed, alcohol had the power to do that. Then his eyes fluttered opened, exposing dark pupils staring up at me; they always did open that way.
____________________________________________* * *
(Three months earlier.)
I stood at my regular location, camera in hand. There were many familiar faces around me. Sometimes I wondered what made these people want to come back. The cheap beer was always stale tasting, the bar was always too crowded, and the music was always too loud. The bands weren’t even that great. I liked to tell myself that I was there just to take pictures and go. I liked to tell myself that I despised the cheap, stale tasting beer, the over crowdedness, and the loud music.
I watched as the second band of the night took the stage. I could recognize the lead singer simply just by viewing how he wore his guitar. He always played his guitar high across his chest, it was different. The bassist laughed something out into his own microphone, and the crowd began to yell back at them. The guitarist hit a few chords, causing more yelling. Then finally, the lead singer began to play as well and they started into their first song of the night.
I held my camera up, getting a shot of the lead singer as he tilted his head towards his microphone. He looked down at me, continuing to sing. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look angry. He never really looked angry.
A couple of pictures later, I grew tired of standing up. I put my camera into my bag, taking one last look at the band before pushing myself through the shoulders of the crowd and walking back to my apartment.
____________________________________________* * *
Months passed. I had moved to London. I had gotten a bigger apartment, a better camera. I had forgotten about the tiny bar in Dryburgh that had the cheap, stale tasting beer, the over crowdedness, and the loud music. I told myself I was happy.
I pushed myself to the front of the crowd. They moved willingly seeing as I had a camera strapped around my neck. They assumed I was some sort of important, professional person. I worked for myself, I fended for myself. Everyone has to if they want to survive.
I waited, watching as four men walked onto the stage. I sensed a familiarity. I recognized the lead singer. His guitar still remained slightly higher than normal on his chest. He had cut his hair shorter than the last time I had seen him. The bassist yelled something out to the crowd, receiving yells back at him. It seemed to amplify his mood, he continued to yell as the lead singer fixated on the neck of his guitar for a second.
The bassist and the lead singer made eye contact for a second, then the music began again. I started to take shots of them. I told myself I had enough pictures after the first song, but this time I decided to stay and watch.
They really weren’t a bad band. I felt myself beginning to smile, swaying along with the people who were surrounding me. The lead singer looked down at me again, tilting his head to the side. It was hard to pick out his eyes from underneath the massive curls, but I could see them shining. Then he smiled, he smiled at me; and for a second it felt as though it wasn’t ‘Claudia’ he was singing about.
They played a quick set, although they stopped after every song to have a quick drink. It felt like minutes and they were off. I decided not to stay up front for the final band, so I pushed against the crowd and made my way to the back of the venue. The air wasn’t as humid and smothering as it was amongst the crowd. The crowd of mostly underage teenagers who chose to pick this particular night to rebel against their parents.
I sat myself up onto a barstool, minutes passing by as I sipped on an ice water. Someone walked towards the bar, their hood up and their pants rolled up slightly. I could assume that it was a man. I could smell booze lingering off of him, along with the smell of cigarettes.
He shouted the name of a drink at the bartender, and then turn to look at me. I could only see massive curls. I looked away, trying not to smile. The new fan in me wanted very much to look back at the man and tell him how much I liked his band’s performance. But I was supposed to be a professional, I was supposed to be used to meeting bands regularly. The truth was, I had never spoken to any of the bands that I’d photographed. It was more of a hobby than a job.
“You take pictures of the band, don’t you?”
I turned slowly, shrugging. “Does it bother you?”
The man shrugged his own shoulders, lighting up a cigarette and lifting his drink up to his lips.
“We’d like to see them.”
I felt something tingle inside me, there was a sudden sting of happiness that I had not experienced before.
“I’ve got more than tonight’s show.”
“I know.”
I gave him a number to reach me at, which was actually just the number to my apartment at home. He said goodbye, and headed off to wherever the show’s after party was. I was left sitting on the small barstool, clutching a glass of no longer ice cold water.
____________________________________________* * *
After a week of waiting, I had almost given up on the mystery band. I knew their name now, but they were still somewhat a mystery to me.
One day, my phone began to ring. After a few rings that I normally tend to ignore, I grabbed the phone off of the hook.
“Yes?”
“Hi, this is Pete.”
Something told me that this was it. This was them.
“You there, mate?”
“Yes, I am. Sorry.”
I had a brief conversation with ‘Pete’, who declared himself as the guitarist for ‘The View’. They had a gig at another venue, and wanted to know if I’d be prepared to take more pictures and bring along the ones I’d already taken. I tried to make it sound as though I were busy, but I still said yes. I said yes quickly, maybe a little too quickly. I told myself that I didn’t sound desperate though.
____________________________________________* * *
I piled into a small building, already filled with too many people. I had my bag held tightly in my hands, waiting to see someone that would take me backstage. I was nervous. I was sweating. I was biting the inside of my cheeks, tearing at the skin with my sharp teeth.
“Oi, you there.”
I turned, seeing a man pointing at me. I followed behind him as he pushed through a few kids and we entered through a door.
I looked around myself as I followed him. It was only a small tiny hallway, but it looked as though there were just as many people here than there were outside, except these people were all staring directly at me. I walked past them all, my shoes clunking on the floor.
“Just go in there, they’re warming up.” grunted the man, shoving me towards the door.
I swallowed dryly, tasting nothing but the scent of cigarettes and booze that lingered in the air everywhere. I knocked first, but nobody opened the door. I roughly twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open.
I saw the four guys sitting around a table. My eyes headed straight for the lead singer, sitting with his jeans rolled up, legs crossed, and cigarette in his mouth.
“Hello, I’m Pete.”
I shook the hand being held out at me, and threw the pictures down at the table. They introduced themselves. I felt my cheeks twitch when the lead singer mumbled out ‘Kyle’, but I just nodded and told them my name. I listened to them ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’, and it was nice to be complimented. I watched Kyle as he glanced over the pictures of himself, he seemed to focus on the pictures of the rest of the band.
“Lots of nice pictures of you, Kyle.” said Pete, nudging at him with his elbow.
I felt myself turning a bit red, putting the pieces of hair that fell before my eyes back behind my ears. Had I accidentally taken more pictures of Kyle than the rest of the band? Had I become one of those photographers that liked to focus on one main person in the band?
I left them looking at the pictures so I could get a good spot in the crowd to take more pictures. They said to meet them afterwards. I took one last look at Kyle as he downed another drink and went to pick up his guitar.
I didn’t get to meet them after the show. Kyle had passed out onstage, and was being incredibly sick in the backroom. They assured me that they would call again sometime, and that they really appreciated me taking the pictures for them.
I still remember watching Kyle being dragged by Pete and Mo into the hall. His shining, dark eyes slowly opening after Keiren gave him a few quick slaps to the cheeks. He stared out at me. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look angry. He never looked angry.
____________________________________________* * *
A few weeks later, I found myself waiting in line at a small coffee shop. I ordered a small latte, taking it carefully from the clerk’s hands as it was handed to me. I began to walk slowly back to my apartment, then I noticed a familiar figure.
I knew it was Kyle just by the way he had his jeans rolled up to his ankles. His thick, curly hair was blowing all around his shoulders, almost engulfing his face. He had a cigarette clenched tight in his hand. He noticed me, and began to walk towards me. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look angry.
He didn’t say anything when he had finally reached me. He just turned his direction and continued to walk next to me until I sat at a park bench.
“Sorry we haven’t called.”
His voice was groggy, and he looked tired.
“It’s alright. I’ve got the pictures if you ever want them.”
He just nodded, taking a long haul out of his cigarette.
“You’re not like the other photographers.”
I nodded, “I’m slightly new. I don’t expect to me as go-”
“No, your pictures are great. But you, you don’t seem like a photographer.”
I pondered what he’d said for a minute, and I just shrugged. How did anybody seem like a photographer? I was unaware that there was a certain type of person for the job.
“You seem too nice to be in this business.” he added, taking one last puff before throwing his cigarette on the ground, squishing it underneath his white sneakers.
I just laughed a little, holding on and grasping to the straps of my purse. My hands were becoming clammy, and my eyes shifted a bit. I felt like he was staring at me. Testing me.
“I’ve got to go.”
I stood up as he did, holding up my hand as if to wave goodbye. He began to turn around, then turned back to face me.
“There’s a band I like playing at the same place we played at last, you could go if you want.”
I nodded.
“I’m going.” he added, waving goodbye at me.
____________________________________________* * *
I didn’t know how I got there, or how I managed to talk myself into going: but I ended up at the venue. The venue was incredibly clammy tonight, the rain outside had brought more humidity. I wasn’t at the front of the crowd this night, and it felt weird to be lingering out around the back.
“Someone go get Pete!”
I heard a familiar voice, and looked behind me. Someone had fallen off of their barstool. I could tell by the rolled up jeans and the hair that it was Kyle.
“Is he okay?” I asked quickly, looking over at Keiren.
Keiren shrugged, kneeling down to slap him across the face a few times. Nothing happened. I knelt down next to Keiren, dropping my purse next to me.
“Kyle, mate. Get up.” shouted Keiren, giving Kyle’s face another few slaps.
I felt something warm and moist slide into my hand, and I glanced down to see a hand. Kyle’s hand. I looked over to see glistening, dark eyes stare into mine. Keiren gently pushed me out of the way to help Pete pick him up.
I watched as they dragged him into the hallway, my hand still feeling as though Kyle was grasping it. I looked down, trying to spot my purse. It was gone.
My purse that had my wallet, my phone, my apartment keys, and my camera: gone. Then it hit me. That was the thing about this generation, everybody had to fend for themselves.
____________________________________________* * *
I stood behind the bar, hauling out a beer to pass to some young kid. I knew he wasn’t eighteen, but I had no choice but to serve him; he had ID. Why not let kids waste their money and brain cells, I was getting paid for it, wasn’t I?
I frowned to myself at how my life had changed drastically in the last few months. But I wasn’t a photographer. I wasn’t cut out for it. I wasn’t cut out for any of this, but here I found myself trying find a way to belong here. Trying to find a way to belong in a scene like this, when everybody knew that the only people who survive are those who fend for themselves.
I saw him stumble out of the corner of my eye, he must’ve just gotten offstage. It wasn’t long before he had stumbled, his left foot getting caught up in the part of his jeans that he had rolled up on his right leg. He didn’t fall, he kept walking over to the bar. He hauled himself onto a stool, and just sat there looking downwards. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead shut his mouth again. He threw his arm across the counter, propping his head on top of it.
“Kyle, you okay?” I asked curiously, leaning in a bit closer.
I saw through his hair that his eyes were shut. Somebody accidentally bumped into him, sending his body slowly off of the barstool. I hopped over the counter, kneeling down next to him.
“Kyle?”
I didn’t get any response.
“Come on, let’s get you up again.”
I knew my voice meant nothing to him. He was long gone into a land of unconsciousness where he would only dream about a big, thick blackness.
“Come on, Kyle.”
The floor was cold compared to the heat that hit you as soon as you stood up, it always left your body with a condensed feeling. For a crowded room, I felt as though it was just myself. That was the thing about this generation, everybody fended for themselves. Everybody except me. I lifted his head up, resting it on my lap.
I slapped his cheeks gently a few times, watching as a redness slowly spread over them. He was already flushed, alcohol had the power to do that. Then his eyes fluttered opened, exposing dark pupils staring up at me; they always did open that way.
I felt a clammy hand slide into mine, grasping it tightly.
“You’re too nice for this business.” he whispered, clinging onto my hand.
I sat there, as he smiled at me. For the first time, he smiled. Amongst all of this, I couldn’t help but miss the cheap, stale tasting beer, the over crowdedness, and the loud music.
I knew my voice meant nothing to him. He was long gone into a land of unconsciousness where he would only dream about a big, thick blackness. The floor was cold compared to the heat that hit you as soon as you stood up, it always left your body with a condensed feeling. For a crowded room, I felt as though it was just myself. That was the thing about this generation, everybody fended for themselves. Everybody except me. I lifted his head up, resting it on my lap. I slapped his cheeks gently a few times, watching as a redness slowly spread over them. He was already flushed, alcohol had the power to do that. Then his eyes fluttered opened, exposing dark pupils staring up at me; they always did open that way.
____________________________________________* * *
(Three months earlier.)
I stood at my regular location, camera in hand. There were many familiar faces around me. Sometimes I wondered what made these people want to come back. The cheap beer was always stale tasting, the bar was always too crowded, and the music was always too loud. The bands weren’t even that great. I liked to tell myself that I was there just to take pictures and go. I liked to tell myself that I despised the cheap, stale tasting beer, the over crowdedness, and the loud music.
I watched as the second band of the night took the stage. I could recognize the lead singer simply just by viewing how he wore his guitar. He always played his guitar high across his chest, it was different. The bassist laughed something out into his own microphone, and the crowd began to yell back at them. The guitarist hit a few chords, causing more yelling. Then finally, the lead singer began to play as well and they started into their first song of the night.
I held my camera up, getting a shot of the lead singer as he tilted his head towards his microphone. He looked down at me, continuing to sing. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look angry. He never really looked angry.
A couple of pictures later, I grew tired of standing up. I put my camera into my bag, taking one last look at the band before pushing myself through the shoulders of the crowd and walking back to my apartment.
____________________________________________* * *
Months passed. I had moved to London. I had gotten a bigger apartment, a better camera. I had forgotten about the tiny bar in Dryburgh that had the cheap, stale tasting beer, the over crowdedness, and the loud music. I told myself I was happy.
I pushed myself to the front of the crowd. They moved willingly seeing as I had a camera strapped around my neck. They assumed I was some sort of important, professional person. I worked for myself, I fended for myself. Everyone has to if they want to survive.
I waited, watching as four men walked onto the stage. I sensed a familiarity. I recognized the lead singer. His guitar still remained slightly higher than normal on his chest. He had cut his hair shorter than the last time I had seen him. The bassist yelled something out to the crowd, receiving yells back at him. It seemed to amplify his mood, he continued to yell as the lead singer fixated on the neck of his guitar for a second.
The bassist and the lead singer made eye contact for a second, then the music began again. I started to take shots of them. I told myself I had enough pictures after the first song, but this time I decided to stay and watch.
They really weren’t a bad band. I felt myself beginning to smile, swaying along with the people who were surrounding me. The lead singer looked down at me again, tilting his head to the side. It was hard to pick out his eyes from underneath the massive curls, but I could see them shining. Then he smiled, he smiled at me; and for a second it felt as though it wasn’t ‘Claudia’ he was singing about.
They played a quick set, although they stopped after every song to have a quick drink. It felt like minutes and they were off. I decided not to stay up front for the final band, so I pushed against the crowd and made my way to the back of the venue. The air wasn’t as humid and smothering as it was amongst the crowd. The crowd of mostly underage teenagers who chose to pick this particular night to rebel against their parents.
I sat myself up onto a barstool, minutes passing by as I sipped on an ice water. Someone walked towards the bar, their hood up and their pants rolled up slightly. I could assume that it was a man. I could smell booze lingering off of him, along with the smell of cigarettes.
He shouted the name of a drink at the bartender, and then turn to look at me. I could only see massive curls. I looked away, trying not to smile. The new fan in me wanted very much to look back at the man and tell him how much I liked his band’s performance. But I was supposed to be a professional, I was supposed to be used to meeting bands regularly. The truth was, I had never spoken to any of the bands that I’d photographed. It was more of a hobby than a job.
“You take pictures of the band, don’t you?”
I turned slowly, shrugging. “Does it bother you?”
The man shrugged his own shoulders, lighting up a cigarette and lifting his drink up to his lips.
“We’d like to see them.”
I felt something tingle inside me, there was a sudden sting of happiness that I had not experienced before.
“I’ve got more than tonight’s show.”
“I know.”
I gave him a number to reach me at, which was actually just the number to my apartment at home. He said goodbye, and headed off to wherever the show’s after party was. I was left sitting on the small barstool, clutching a glass of no longer ice cold water.
____________________________________________* * *
After a week of waiting, I had almost given up on the mystery band. I knew their name now, but they were still somewhat a mystery to me.
One day, my phone began to ring. After a few rings that I normally tend to ignore, I grabbed the phone off of the hook.
“Yes?”
“Hi, this is Pete.”
Something told me that this was it. This was them.
“You there, mate?”
“Yes, I am. Sorry.”
I had a brief conversation with ‘Pete’, who declared himself as the guitarist for ‘The View’. They had a gig at another venue, and wanted to know if I’d be prepared to take more pictures and bring along the ones I’d already taken. I tried to make it sound as though I were busy, but I still said yes. I said yes quickly, maybe a little too quickly. I told myself that I didn’t sound desperate though.
____________________________________________* * *
I piled into a small building, already filled with too many people. I had my bag held tightly in my hands, waiting to see someone that would take me backstage. I was nervous. I was sweating. I was biting the inside of my cheeks, tearing at the skin with my sharp teeth.
“Oi, you there.”
I turned, seeing a man pointing at me. I followed behind him as he pushed through a few kids and we entered through a door.
I looked around myself as I followed him. It was only a small tiny hallway, but it looked as though there were just as many people here than there were outside, except these people were all staring directly at me. I walked past them all, my shoes clunking on the floor.
“Just go in there, they’re warming up.” grunted the man, shoving me towards the door.
I swallowed dryly, tasting nothing but the scent of cigarettes and booze that lingered in the air everywhere. I knocked first, but nobody opened the door. I roughly twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open.
I saw the four guys sitting around a table. My eyes headed straight for the lead singer, sitting with his jeans rolled up, legs crossed, and cigarette in his mouth.
“Hello, I’m Pete.”
I shook the hand being held out at me, and threw the pictures down at the table. They introduced themselves. I felt my cheeks twitch when the lead singer mumbled out ‘Kyle’, but I just nodded and told them my name. I listened to them ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’, and it was nice to be complimented. I watched Kyle as he glanced over the pictures of himself, he seemed to focus on the pictures of the rest of the band.
“Lots of nice pictures of you, Kyle.” said Pete, nudging at him with his elbow.
I felt myself turning a bit red, putting the pieces of hair that fell before my eyes back behind my ears. Had I accidentally taken more pictures of Kyle than the rest of the band? Had I become one of those photographers that liked to focus on one main person in the band?
I left them looking at the pictures so I could get a good spot in the crowd to take more pictures. They said to meet them afterwards. I took one last look at Kyle as he downed another drink and went to pick up his guitar.
I didn’t get to meet them after the show. Kyle had passed out onstage, and was being incredibly sick in the backroom. They assured me that they would call again sometime, and that they really appreciated me taking the pictures for them.
I still remember watching Kyle being dragged by Pete and Mo into the hall. His shining, dark eyes slowly opening after Keiren gave him a few quick slaps to the cheeks. He stared out at me. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look angry. He never looked angry.
____________________________________________* * *
A few weeks later, I found myself waiting in line at a small coffee shop. I ordered a small latte, taking it carefully from the clerk’s hands as it was handed to me. I began to walk slowly back to my apartment, then I noticed a familiar figure.
I knew it was Kyle just by the way he had his jeans rolled up to his ankles. His thick, curly hair was blowing all around his shoulders, almost engulfing his face. He had a cigarette clenched tight in his hand. He noticed me, and began to walk towards me. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look angry.
He didn’t say anything when he had finally reached me. He just turned his direction and continued to walk next to me until I sat at a park bench.
“Sorry we haven’t called.”
His voice was groggy, and he looked tired.
“It’s alright. I’ve got the pictures if you ever want them.”
He just nodded, taking a long haul out of his cigarette.
“You’re not like the other photographers.”
I nodded, “I’m slightly new. I don’t expect to me as go-”
“No, your pictures are great. But you, you don’t seem like a photographer.”
I pondered what he’d said for a minute, and I just shrugged. How did anybody seem like a photographer? I was unaware that there was a certain type of person for the job.
“You seem too nice to be in this business.” he added, taking one last puff before throwing his cigarette on the ground, squishing it underneath his white sneakers.
I just laughed a little, holding on and grasping to the straps of my purse. My hands were becoming clammy, and my eyes shifted a bit. I felt like he was staring at me. Testing me.
“I’ve got to go.”
I stood up as he did, holding up my hand as if to wave goodbye. He began to turn around, then turned back to face me.
“There’s a band I like playing at the same place we played at last, you could go if you want.”
I nodded.
“I’m going.” he added, waving goodbye at me.
____________________________________________* * *
I didn’t know how I got there, or how I managed to talk myself into going: but I ended up at the venue. The venue was incredibly clammy tonight, the rain outside had brought more humidity. I wasn’t at the front of the crowd this night, and it felt weird to be lingering out around the back.
“Someone go get Pete!”
I heard a familiar voice, and looked behind me. Someone had fallen off of their barstool. I could tell by the rolled up jeans and the hair that it was Kyle.
“Is he okay?” I asked quickly, looking over at Keiren.
Keiren shrugged, kneeling down to slap him across the face a few times. Nothing happened. I knelt down next to Keiren, dropping my purse next to me.
“Kyle, mate. Get up.” shouted Keiren, giving Kyle’s face another few slaps.
I felt something warm and moist slide into my hand, and I glanced down to see a hand. Kyle’s hand. I looked over to see glistening, dark eyes stare into mine. Keiren gently pushed me out of the way to help Pete pick him up.
I watched as they dragged him into the hallway, my hand still feeling as though Kyle was grasping it. I looked down, trying to spot my purse. It was gone.
My purse that had my wallet, my phone, my apartment keys, and my camera: gone. Then it hit me. That was the thing about this generation, everybody had to fend for themselves.
____________________________________________* * *
I stood behind the bar, hauling out a beer to pass to some young kid. I knew he wasn’t eighteen, but I had no choice but to serve him; he had ID. Why not let kids waste their money and brain cells, I was getting paid for it, wasn’t I?
I frowned to myself at how my life had changed drastically in the last few months. But I wasn’t a photographer. I wasn’t cut out for it. I wasn’t cut out for any of this, but here I found myself trying find a way to belong here. Trying to find a way to belong in a scene like this, when everybody knew that the only people who survive are those who fend for themselves.
I saw him stumble out of the corner of my eye, he must’ve just gotten offstage. It wasn’t long before he had stumbled, his left foot getting caught up in the part of his jeans that he had rolled up on his right leg. He didn’t fall, he kept walking over to the bar. He hauled himself onto a stool, and just sat there looking downwards. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead shut his mouth again. He threw his arm across the counter, propping his head on top of it.
“Kyle, you okay?” I asked curiously, leaning in a bit closer.
I saw through his hair that his eyes were shut. Somebody accidentally bumped into him, sending his body slowly off of the barstool. I hopped over the counter, kneeling down next to him.
“Kyle?”
I didn’t get any response.
“Come on, let’s get you up again.”
I knew my voice meant nothing to him. He was long gone into a land of unconsciousness where he would only dream about a big, thick blackness.
“Come on, Kyle.”
The floor was cold compared to the heat that hit you as soon as you stood up, it always left your body with a condensed feeling. For a crowded room, I felt as though it was just myself. That was the thing about this generation, everybody fended for themselves. Everybody except me. I lifted his head up, resting it on my lap.
I slapped his cheeks gently a few times, watching as a redness slowly spread over them. He was already flushed, alcohol had the power to do that. Then his eyes fluttered opened, exposing dark pupils staring up at me; they always did open that way.
I felt a clammy hand slide into mine, grasping it tightly.
“You’re too nice for this business.” he whispered, clinging onto my hand.
I sat there, as he smiled at me. For the first time, he smiled. Amongst all of this, I couldn’t help but miss the cheap, stale tasting beer, the over crowdedness, and the loud music.