Phil chugged his beer when the lights went down and ripped a monster of a belch. “Right. Well, I’d better go down then. Don’t want Andy to panic or anythin’.”
Siggie nodded her head. “I think he was when you guys didn’t show up here.”
“I was nervous,” he said with a complete air of innocence. “Had to have a breather and find my balls before I could go up there.”
Unfortunately, I’d just taken a swig of beer, and instead of spraying it all over the table by laughing, I sucked it down the wrong pipe and ended up choking. The idea of Phil nervous before going on stage was absurd.
Siggie thwacked me hard on the back.
“Shit—” said Phil, alarmed.
“Just—go!” I gasped. “Fine!”
He rolled his eyes and rubbed my back until I was only wheezing.
“You all right?” he asked gently.
I nodded, not trusting to open my mouth.
“All right.” He kissed my brow before heading down.
Devil’s Advocate had just finished their first song.
Siggie and I watched the next two, singing along with Andy. They really were a great live band. The crowd was wild, and a mosh pit formed. The band had accumulated a decent die-hard following just by playing the New Orleans circuits and a few gigs in the surrounding towns. I had a feeling that they’d made it this far all because of the woman sitting here with me.
Although they did play some cover songs, most of what they played was their own stuff. Andy’s voice was in no way near as deep as Phil’s, but he had the gritty quality needed to sing “Broken Deviant,” and I wouldn’t mind hearing Andy have a go at it. I supposed the backing vocals were a good range for him though as his voice was similar to Jason’s, who usually sang that part.
“Broken Deviant” was the off their second album, Moniker Mayhem, and was a heavy, dark anthem of socioeconomic apathy. It was a little odd, considering how extremely wealthy they all were now. Maybe when it was written—no, Phil had grown up with wealth even though his personality didn’t scream privileged upbringing.
“Holy shit, you guys, do we have a surprise for you tonight!” cried Andy into the mic, his excitement rubbing off on the crowd.
Siggie and I stood up to lean against the railing for a better view.
This was what I loved—the energy swelling, the vibe rising to the rafters.
Will kicked off the beat for “Broken Deviant,” followed by Mojave’s pounding bass line and Thom’s wailing guitar.
“What a sad motherfucker,” came the fathomless dark voice of Phil fucking Deveraux through the PA system.
The crowd went fucking apeshit! Every voice in the place was screaming.
Phil walked out from backstage on the left side, microphone held up to his mouth, his presence commanding the attention of every single pair of eyes. He was fucking huge. His persona on stage was flat-out godlike.
“You pitiful piece of shit/
Got more money than you know what to do with/
None of it can get you what you truly need/
You got the whole world at your feet/
But you choose to snort and shoot and fuck your way through it/
All this vice and pussy, as far as the eye can see/
Ain’t gonna change a thing, motherfucker!/
You loser, you miserable creep/
Keep lookin’ for it, you ain’t gonna find shit/
What you want is priceless, but you’ve turned yourself cheap.”
For the first time ever, I realized this wasn’t about socioeconomic apathy. This had nothing to do with the self-absorbed, vain wealthy class taking for granted all the things the rest of the world worked themselves to death for. This was about him. This was what Phil had felt about himself when he wrote these lyrics. My heart now ached for the young man who had hated himself this much. Damn it, Phil.
He rubbed the heel of his palm over his heart.
Does he feel it, too?
Phil opened his mouth to belt out the chorus, Andy joining in.
“You think you can hide behind this?/
You think you can fool me?/
Motherfucker, you’re a special kind of idiot/
Just another rich shit, pussy-ass bitch/
Snort it! Shoot it! FUCK IT!/
I see nothing but shiny garbage, you pissant/
You fuckin’ broken deviant.”
Revelation aside, I was in complete awe of Phil, like I was every time I saw him on stage. Although the band sounded fantastic, I thought that, even if Devil’s Advocate played like shit, no one would give a crap because Phil carried the whole damn thing.