The Sparkle Lounge: The Overture (Prologue)

The Overture

The dragging sound of heavy fabric sliding upon a slick surface echoes throughout the auditorium. Gears grind with age and rust as the crimson curtains are pulled back from the stage to reveal the lone protagonist. A light filters through the dusty air and illuminates a circle around him. He is a man, or rather, a boy; with a round face and large blue eyes and chocolate brown curls: the Epitome of Innocence. In his arms is a guitar, and he is smiling to the audience in the naive manner that can only be expressed by an individual not fully-aware of the situation.

A figure moves in the darkness beside him and the spotlight flickers; and for a split second the boy's smile falters and his eyes break contact. The sound of slight movement is as audible as a gunshot, echoing on the infinite and empty seats.

What is a better venue for an audience of ghosts?

The Savage

In a near-distant future, unfortunately

Is it human nature to ask too many questions? I would hope so, because it seems that I've been a bit more inquisitive lately but I've already got enough abnormalities to deal with.

“Sometimes I wonder why I am here” is a thought that I sometimes (often) say aloud, like just right now. I'm sitting in front of one of those mirrors with the fluorescent lights bordering the top; the ones that accentuate every blemish and pore. Not to sound conceited, but I think my reflection looks the same despite the lighting. Although I must not be that conceited, I think I look equally as ill-proportioned in front of every mirror. I've got one of those faces I suppose. One of those “looks seventeen but is actually twenty-one” faces.

I'm putting on eyeliner, because why the bloody hell not? The Mutt tells me that it makes the blue of my eyes stand out or some sod. Because the people come to see my pretty boyish looks and gorgeous locks, not hear my song, huh?

“Did'ya say somethin', Zeb?” Holden's groggy, 'I shagged my girlfriend last night and it was awesome' voice is audible from the opposite side of the room. He's laying on one of the two beds in the flat, and he's got his arm draped over the lump in front of him and his other hand running through his short, bed-matted fair hair.

“No,” I simply reply. For a person who's got a lot going on inside, I've never got much to say, it seems.

Holden gives me one of those sleepy, dopey smiles. He's a charming lad, honest. A bit on the shorter side, though, but he's got a pretty, pointed face and raspy London accent. It sometimes boggles me that he's only been with one person, and is still with them for that matter. Not that he would seem like the guy to jump from relationships, he's just attractive enough to not have much of a problem doing it.

“Are you performin' tonight?” Holden asks while getting out of bed.

“Yeah,” I reply, applying the eyeliner and looking at Holden through the reflection of the mirror. He kind of nods and heads straight to the bathroom; the sound of the door closing and the realisation of the half-empty bed causing the sheet-covered lump to stir until the fabric cascaded off and revealed Sal.

Sal is something else, I swear. I sometimes have to remind myself that she's a real person, instead of some form of earthbound deity or supernatural creature. Not to say that she doesn't have faults, which she does, but she's a compendium of perfect. If you know what I mean. A controlled demeanor, yet not too distant. Very attractive and not a total ass. Holden's a lucky man.

Well, I suppose Sal is too, in her way.

As I finish with the eyeliner, I could hear the sound of sputtering water and the creak of rusty pipes struggling to come to life through the cracked and pale tan walls. Sal runs a hand through her platinum mane until her finger catches a knot, which she then works apart with an expression of dazed concentration.

“G'mornin', Zeb,” Sal eventually says.

“It's actually noon, but thanks anyway.”

I've only seen Sal move so fast twice in my life before.

“Shitshitshitshit.” Sal is scurrying around the room, looking for what I assume are her clothes. The steelyard is not one of those places where just a brassiere, briefs, and socks will suffice, I suppose. She tosses on a tee and has her trousers halfway on when she's halfway out the door, holding her trainers by the laces. “Tell Holden I had to leave for work,” Sal says breathlessly before shutting the door.

Ah yes, the toils of the average civilian. Although, at least her income is a bit more, er, stable. The music business has never been that reliable, and when the economy fails it's the arts that takes another blow to the gut. So here's the true question: How many musicians does it take to pay monthly rent? Well, two, including Holden and I, and if you've got a really shabby place and a flatmate's generous girlfriend to help every once in awhile.

There's a stained, time-worn sheet of paper taped to the mirror and I have a habit of looking at it even though I have every word memorized. A work schedule, if you will. A work schedule that is posted outside of the doors of the Lounge and in a select few non-employees possessions, that is. It simply says that tonight's my night, which is Monday, and as well as Thursday. Holden's my opener tonight, and has his own night on Wednesday. There are various other names of musical acquaintances.

Sal technically works for the Lounge, and receives a ridiculously small royalty, mainly because the already miniscule percentage has to be split between her and one of her mates who she collaborates with. Sal and so-and-so are co- and occasionally primary song writers of the performers of the Lounge. Co-, for Holden and I at least, who always bring our own cards to the table as well.

It's actually starting to bug me now that I think of it, about Sal's mate. They're flatmates and partners in crime yet I can't remember his damn name. Now that I really think about it, I don't even think I've seen him in person. Him. Hell, it could be a bird for all I know.

Holden comes out of the bathroom, clad in nothing save for a towel and his hair dripping all over the bloody carpet.

“What's Sal's mate's name? Y'know, her flatmate?” I blurt out as soon as he comes into view because it's honestly killing me by now.

“Eliott,” Holden replies quickly, examining the room with a look of worried confusion. “Where'd Sal run off to?” Ah. Elliott. Those three syllables have saved me from a few hours of distracted and uncomfortable strain of the memory.

“Work.” I say it immediately and distant, because now my mind has convinced itself that it knows what this Elliott looks like and I'm beginning to get quite annoyed with my selective memory.

Holden becomes his nonchalant self once again, and is rummaging through a drawer for underwear and god knows what.

“Have I ever met 'im?” Which is a significantly less creepy question than simply asking what the bugger looks like.

Holden drops the towel and begins changing, his eyebrows raised in a thoughtful manner. “Ah, probably. He's the really tall and leggy lad, got those crazy green eyes and is obviously a dyed blond.”

“Thanks, Holden. Really narrows it down, 'specially since I'm aware of everyone's hair colouring habits.”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you done with the mirror, yet?”

Several hours later

To say that The Sparkle Lounge is in the bad side of town is an understatement. It's located in an abandoned cinema, one of the last to be boarded up in Sheffield, in fact. Due to it's tendency to stray away from most illegal activities, it could be easily said that the Lounge is merely a fleck of gold submerged in a cesspool of seedy bars, clubs, and crumbling apartments.

Home sweet home.

Holden and I are walking down the sidewalks in our typical battle-ready stances. That is, with a scabbard or two visible.

When I was a kid, I would never expect to see two flamboyant lads carrying around weapons causally like the way we do now. We do it because, well, that's what you've got to do in times like this, in places like this, with people running around like this. Like that bird I nearly just ran into. She gave me a look that I thought only the sadistic creeps in movies expressed. She also had the sheath of a pistol visible.

And that's why we do what we do.

The distance between the Lounge and our flat is only a block away, which isn't too bad. Although, it is bad enough that Sal usually has to give us a ride back home after since our performance ends around midnight.

We're walking rather fast, which isn't unusual, and I keep having to remind myself to slow down because Holden's strides don't cover nearly as much distance as mine. It's not that we're running short on time or anything; the sun sets in about half an hour and the strip becomes a new kind of hell when it's dark.

*

I just nearly died and you missed it. Or, should I say, I was the one who missed it. As Holden and I were approaching the entrance, looking suave as hell, one of the marquee letters—the E in particular— unlatched itself and fell, missing me by the mere inches.

This is a dangerous business, I tell you.

*

The Lounge is one of those places that could serve as a perfect example of the term: “don't judge a book by it's cover”. It might be notorious for AWOL marquee letters and fading paint, but as soon as you walk inside... Well, it's different. Everything is magenta and violet and gold and all the shades in between; bright and new. Because of it's past purpose of being a cinema, it still has the ticket booth and the counters and four theatres. All still being used, mind you, but not always for its original intentions.

We immediately enter Theatre I and begin setting up the stage. I'm tuning the guitars and Holden's dragging out amps and scrounging for input cables when I decide to voice an idea that's been humming for awhile now.

“I think I'm gonna use an acoustic bass tonight.”

“What... Instead of a guitar?”

Holden looks horribly confused to the point of disgust.

“Yeah...” I begin, rather sheepishly now because I didn't particularly expect that kind of reaction. “Whenever you got the lone singer, you always expect a guitar, y'know? You never expect some guy by himself with a bass...” I'm doing that damn thing now because I can't help it. I tip my head slightly and let my fringe fall in front of my eyes and make myself look busy with whatever's in my hands because I get embarrassed so easily. Just from talking a bit too much. Bloody damn habits. And then I get more embarrassed from getting embarrassed. It's ridiculous.

Holden's used to it by now and isn't phased. “Once a bassist, always a bassist, I guess. You can't really do chords with a bass, though.”

I shrug. “People are going to just focus on my singing, anyway. If we had a complete band it would be different.”

Holden looks like he's considering it and breaks into a smile. “You know, I've actually thought of that. Sal and I on guitar, you on bass... Sal knows a kid that plays the drums like a god. We could do the vocals, like a duet or somethin' unless we find someone.”

And then the Mutt walked in, golden curls swirling and donning Ray-Bans despite being indoors. He had a bird I'd never seen before at his side. “Start heading backstage, lads, I'm opening up the doors.”

I have come to the conclusion that the full title of the Lounge was inspired by one of the backstage rooms. I get the idea that the “sparkle” comes from the stage lights and all, but there's one particular backstage quarter that's luster is at an entire different level.

I'm not quite sure if it's a common knowledge of the musicians here, but Holden and I have a tradition of staying in there before performances. Usually it's during the spare minutes before taking stage, but in other cases it has served as our primary inspiration room. Every performer has a set of keys to the building and I have found that in the solidarity of it's walls, anyone could momentarily find themselves as a maestro.

Maybe it's the offbeat atmosphere of the room, how there's always the faint sent of incense and a consistently and perfectly blooming sunflower in a vase at one corner—and I have no clue who waters it. In the centre, on top of a ornate rug that looks like it could have belonged to a Romani during the 70's, is a dark magenta, velvet sofa with gold and green designs that has enough give to be multipurpose. Holden and I are sitting on it, cracking our knuckles listening to the muffled sounds of tonight's audience.

Eventually, there's a knock on the door and we both hear the Mutt say, “Opener needs to head onto stage.”

Holden begins to walk to the door, but then gives me a quick glance. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful, love, absolutely gorgeous,” I reply with exaggeratedly raised brows and pursed lips. Holden rolls his eyes and gives me a naturally enchanting smile that seconds my reply before leaving the room.

I've seen videos of concerts with arenas packed with thousands of people, all singing in unison with raised fists. It is a sea of acquaintances, yet must be the peak of intimacy for human capacity, because never in my life have I seen people as a whole be so serene. Of all of the things that my birth narrowly missed, it's the golden age of music that I reminiscence about the most. Nostalgic, yet lacking the experience and memory.

*

This is no arena, and I have concluded that I will never see one. I peer off into a drying puddle rather than a sea. A theatre packed tightly at quarter-capacity, with an audience containing the dying breath of humanity's creativity and sanity. Excuse my melodrama.

Nevertheless, it's nice. Quaint. The air of serenity is present and the rush of performing as well. Then again, what I feel may not even be close to authenticity, but I don't really care. It's a thing called passion, you know. I am the Hester Prynne of modern society. A savage amongst worse.

The thirty or so people of my audience have their eyes glued to me as I walk upon the stage, acoustic bass in hand. I was able to hear through the walls that Holden had warmed them up well. I find a stool and sit upon it, and without warning dive into a set of Bb eighth notes. This will be my first time performing this number live; Holden and Sal and I had only perfected it a few nights ago, with the assistance of the non-present Elliott, of course.

There's always a slight look of surprise from the first-time audience members whenever I begin to sing. I always assumed it was because of my pitch, which is naturally high and clear. I usually perform after Holden as well, who sings with even more rasp than which I speaks with. I inwardly praise the Mutt frequently for the way he sets stuff like that up. He must value diversity and the need of idiosyncrasy, the “shock factor”, on the same levels as the talent itself.

I reach the chorus and I can already see heads bobbing. I think I can relate with most performers in the way that I feed off of participation. I love it. I especially love it when they love it.

There's a segment of the song that we as a group rehearsed but I can't do now because my hands are busy with the bass. During the chorus is a clap, just a short, simple “clap-clap”. I can imagine the song being a hit and arenas with thousands of people doing that along to the song. Clap-clap. I forgot to ask who's idea it was to add that to the song, probably Sal's pal now that I think of it.

And then, as if on cue, I hear it. Clap-clap. I'm singing and at the same time examining the audience for who did it because Sal is at work and I know for certain that Holden's waiting backstage, but they have disappeared until the chorus returns and I'm not familiarized with the song enough yet to just skip a verse for the sake of experimentation.

Then I see him.

In the dimness amongst the audience seats I can see a motley mop of cheaply coloured blonde and brown locks. Holden was right, it was damn obvious. There's a slight movement of the lights and I catch a glimpse of glimmering green eyes. Second row. Third from the right. And he's breaking Theatre rules by having his trainer-clad feet propped up on the back of the seat in front of him.