Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,68

total city planning nightmare built upon greed and excess.”

“You’re so cynical,” said Gray.

“No, but, I’m just being honest,” I said.

“Don’t get any of your cynical honesty on me,” said Gray. He smiled. “And stop saying No, but.”

We watched the city kaleidoscope by: diner, dealership, temple, taqueria.

Finally Gray parked. He lifted the gull wing open and stepped out into the hot night. I peered outside. A modest line of young Gothic enthusiasts stood before the infamous Miss Mayhem stage, under an incandescent marquee bearing the name of the band Gray had noticed on his phone back at the house: THE REPUGNANTS.

Dazzled, I set foot onto the exotic shore of Sunset Boulevard.

Gray led me to the front of the line and received an immediate dap and hug from the bouncer there.

“So you’re back?” said the bouncer.

“Long story,” said Gray. “Good to see you, man.”

The bouncer gave him another hug and unhooked the velvet rope. He pointed the brass end at me. “Please don’t let me catch you drinking, little brother.”

Gray led me into the velvet-hued cavern and headed straight for the empty bar, where he got a beer for himself and a club soda—the classic choice of sober gentlemen throughout history—for me. The club was half empty; we easily scored a high-top in the darkness at the back of the room.

Gray lifted his glass. “To memories. Memories, god.”

“When did you play here last?” I said.

Gray gulped, then pointed with his beer. “You’re gonna be up there soon.”

I gulped, too, but out of rising terror. “I’m realizing that.”

“You need proper orientation before your big night—that’s why I brought you here,” said Gray. “And you’re gonna learn a thing or two about showmanship from this band. They’re pretty wild.”

“Wild how?” I said.

Gray just smiled, somehow psychically triggering an eruption of sound. The show had started. Then he settled in and watched—studied.

Up close, I could see how Gray’s eyes danced; how they caught every dot of light from the stage; how they noticed even the smallest twitch of the guitarist’s fingers there.

“System of a Down meets LCD Soundsystem,” said Gray right into my ear, like a secret. “Disco dressed up as metal, very, very smart.”

I could hear it now. “No, but, they’ve got everyone fooled.”

“It’s not a trick,” said Gray.

“So more like a schtick.”

“Stop judge, judge, judging,” said Gray, exasperated. “Just watch.”

I shook my head at myself. What Gray was saying was Stop thinking. Start being.

So I watched. The lead singer, his eye sockets blacked out with makeup, groaned and howled into the mic. He sawed away at his guitar. He pointed at the crowd. The crowd pointed back.

At one point, he slung his guitar behind him and flung the mic in tall arcs, like chain whip tricks just above the heads of the audience. He reeled it in just in time for the next verse. Then he summoned his guitar back around his torso and led the band charging in to thirty seconds of solid headbanging that commanded all before him to do the same.

“How is he doing this?” I said.

Gray leaned in. “They believe in him. Once people believe, their minds open up to just experience everything.”

Gray kept me close to give me a steady stream of commentary. The performance wasn’t just about the clothes or the moves. It was something ineffable.

“These guys are freaking cool,” I said. “It’s not great music, but—”

Gray looked at me. But?

“But it’s fun,” I said. “Fun is the point.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Gray with a grin.

Gray hustled off for more drinks—to beat the intermission rush—and in the subsequent lull we drank in relative quiet while the audience queued up at the bar or the bathroom or the entrance to smoke outside. I watched as a woman air-guitared to her friend, who headbanged in response; after a few seconds of this they reached some kind of accord sealed with devil horns.

It was the stupidest, most beautiful conversation ever.

Gray watched them, too, with a wistful look.

“What was your band called?” I said. “When you played here last?”

“Nausea,” said Gray, still watching. “Most people don’t know this about these clubs on Sunset, but unless you’re Radiohead, you have to pay to play,” said Gray. “Your band buys a wad of tickets up front; then it’s up to you to sell the tickets to recoup your costs.”

“How spectacularly exploitative,” I said.

“We were sick of the scene,” said Gray. “We did not recoup our costs.”

Gray sucked a bitter gap between his teeth, then found the energy to smile again.

“What was your music