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All Yesterday's Parties (Chapter 60)
🕑 Added 2023-10-19 19:47:26 +0000 UTCSeveral days rest was all the band got before the inaugural night of their residency had come upon them. It was an intermittent rest, whose peace was disturbed by an ever increasing amount of demands and requests. Shop owners the square over were asking the band to come visit more frequently— being seen in their shops was good for business— but even Sylvia struggled to keep up with all the free food, amongst other gifts they received. The band as well was whisked away to Kyrietone the day after recording to settle matters relating to the album's packaging. It was an exceptionally chilly affair, which Mareby-Roquefort handled in Floyd's stead as Floyd could not yet bear the sight of Neil so soon. Aster's initial designs for the cover were discarded on the grounds of being “too avant-garde” and she began to wonder if she might seriously end up tearing Neil Applegate's face off.
The idea was eventually floated of a photo-shoot outside of the record shop— the photographer having argued that the crowd of wild fans around them would lend an air of “authenticity” to their popularity— to which Aster agreed essentially under duress, and through clenched teeth and rabid scowl.
For his transgressions the photographer was cursed to burn through reel after reel of film trying to scour this scowl from Aster's face. He likewise struggled in vain to keep Sylvia stationary or temper the comedic caricature Marion was inhabiting which he argued was projecting “toughness”. Cecil looked completely disinterested and was more invested in trying to mask his great displeasure with the whole situation, which included being gawked at by the frantic crowds like an animal in an exhibit.
The end result of all this was that the several days in between the end of their session and the first night of the residency melted away like a candle under a blowtorch, and the band was back at it in no time. Aster's voice, although having healed slightly since the whirlwind session, was still hardly in working order, and so the band concocted the plan of having Sylvia and Cecil cover Aster's raspy voice with the harmony arrangements which had been surprisingly well received during recording.
They arrived at the venue a quarter hour before they were to take the stage, so that they did not have to bear being in the same building— The Strawberry Set being a repurposed wine cellar which offered only two relatively small rooms— as The Cherubs for long. In detail, the plan regarding the separation of the two bands as promised by Eugene was that the Cherubs, upon finishing their opening set, would exit the venue, at which point the Love You Forevers— just arriving— would be whisked in to take the stage. Soundcheck was to follow a set of careful instructions from Aster, as dictated during a preliminary test earlier in the week, ensuring that all they had to do was arrive and play. This arrangement was to be repeated for each show that month.
However, reality, as it often does, had a different idea. The crowd for opening day was so significant that not only did the Love You Forevers need to arrive early before safe entrance was all but impossible (the Peppermint Plains P.D. would not agree to escort), the Cherubs could not expect to leave until well after the concert was over. The band was only made aware of this change when Floyd madly funneled them into the van almost an hour ahead of schedule.
Aster was beside herself in fear at the prospect of meeting the band again. She— the one who had led the charge into the Cherubs' radio spot and ruined it— was now doubled over in excruciating stomach pain at the mere thought of confrontation.
“I'll kill 'em if they get near me!” Marion had boasted, winding up his arm like a cartoon short and receiving a stern talking-to and finger-wave from Sylvia, as well as admonishment from Cecil.
“You'll do nothing of the sort!” Floyd screamed. “This residency is integral to your career, you hear me?! You can play all the shows you want, but not even a hundred of them will be equal to this position!” Floyd, whose powdered face was now blotched with patches of nervous sweat and redness, and whose neck was wrung with angry veins, excused himself as the van pulled into the back of the venue, and the band exited.
A line of fans, which luckily did not recognize the tour van, had already been a fixture outside of the venue for some hours, and its length now reportedly took it down the street and around the block. Marion was not allowed to go out and check this time.
From there, the band were chauffeured secretly through the building's back entrance by none other than August Oakley, who received them like a sinner seeing a sign of God in the night. It appeared as though he could be under no greater joy, and this showed in every word he said and every action he took.
“Do you feel that?!” he hissed in roguish delight. “It's in the air!” Sylvia's eyes went wide with terror and excitement, eager to hear the answer.
“What?!” she yelled, looking around, “What's in the air?!”
“The electricity!” he purred, pursing his lips in a smile. Cecil rolled his eyes. “It's like a farmer with the weather; you can tell when a great show is on the horizon. I feel it. The air is heavy with anticipatory hearts!”
“I just want to rock the roof off, man,” Marion grumbled.
“And you will, dear Marion! But first, we have a surprise for you!”
“No,” Cecil interjected immediately. “No more surprises. Just keep us separated, and let us play the show. That was the deal.”
August crooked his neck and looked at Cecil with a mock frown. "But there's a surprise waiting, Cecil."
Aster's heart was thrashing. She was sure they could hear it.
"I don't care, August. I know Floyd is up there. There has not been one time in my life that—”
"A surprise?!" Sylvia exclaimed, and began rushing up the cellar stairs.
"Sylvia!" Cecil cried, looking up the stairs in anguish.
“She's going to kill them,” Marion grumbled, heading up after her.
“Goddammit, goddammit,” Cecil muttered, acquiescing and following.
Aster had no intention of joining, but as Cecil and then Marion left in turn, Aster was left with no choice but follow the group and face the Cherubs, or stay down in the silent green room with a perfect stranger.
Better be electric fucking tuners, she grumbled, as she began to hurry up after the group.
They entered to the sight of Floyd in a crisp blue petticoat, strutting about like a peacock with new plumage. March was seated at the bar hunched over, while his bandmates were gathered around a table in the far corner of the room, talking idly. Eugene was at his own table, watching Floyd dejectedly.
“Jesus, man. Leave them some respect,” Marion grimaced, coming into the room. Floyd, seeing him, halted and smiled wildly.
“Do you remember my dream?” he asked through this smile.
“To haunt mine,” answered Cecil.
“To sign a rock band!” Sylvia shouted, throwing up a little punch.
“Exactly!”— a slight flurry of spit exited his mouth with this— “I was put down, I was kicked, I was laughed at!”
“I told you they only chuckled.”
“Silence, Cecil!” he shouted, and withdrew his right arm which he had been holding against his back.
“Floyd, not like this!” Marion screamed, falling to the floor instinctively. Floyd's arm drew his arm out and extended it towards the band. In his hand was a vinyl record, sheathed white cover.
Aster stepped forward, her eyes locking onto the object.
“Is that?” she murmured.
“Yes!” he growled, narrowing his eyes. “Your first ever single!”
With those words, the room suddenly directed its attention squarely on Floyd. The staff who had been scurrying about in quiet panic to open the venue, Marcy and the Cherubs' roadie who had been hauling in the last of the equipment, and the Cherubs' entourage themselves slowed their paces, and although in the case of the latter attempted to make it not obvious, could not help but wonder what sounds it contained.
August had directed an employee to set up a record player on stage for this very moment, which Floyd, basking in the captured gazes, walked primly towards. He leaned over the player, unsleeved the record, and as if he were holding a crown jewel, set it down atop the platter with the most delicacy his fine hands were capable of. In his mind, he was crowning the royalty of Peppermint Plains; it was a delicacy he had waited half his life to bestow.
“Ladies and gentleman!” he proclaimed with relish. “What you are about to hear is a testament to the strength of perseverance in the face of a world which wants nothing to do with you! A world which says can't manage a successful rock band, which says that your schemes are hair-brained, which won't even give you the time of day!” Floyd was now screaming, clutching the record.
“Aster, I can't wait!” Sylvia shouted, bouncing on her soles.
Aster's little heart was pitter-pattering in anticipation.
“So many sleepless nights I spent in doubt, heaped upon me by ignorant masses who thought they were fit to judge, and which my ignorant self accepted as righteous criticism—”
“Floyd, get on with it!” screamed Cecil. He remonstrated Floyd with a severe gaze, sharpened with irritation by his nervous eyeing of the Cherubs all the while. His face was flushed deep red, mortified to be doing this in front of them. “Just play the record, Floyd!” he urged in a low voice.
Floyd smashed the play button before dropping the needle onto the record. From the venue's P.A. came the crash of a sugary sweet pop intro, which intensified in a matter of seconds. It built up in harmonic complexity, layering the air with a blanketing of sweet tones like a many-layered cake. Aster's lead vocal came in and suddenly the room was pulled into the song's bosom by a hook none could escape. Floyd looked wildly down at the record, spinning in its cradle, like he was beholding the mouth of God. A wild, ecstatic smile split his lips, and he began to laugh madly.
It was like a whirlpool was opening up in the fabric of the room; the loudness was so definite that it took everyone into it, and nobody, not even the furious, indignant snarl of March could betray the realization that what they were hearing was something completely beyond anything which had been heard before. Even Cecil was oblivious to Floyd's hysterical cackling; he was doubled over in disbelief at how the song sounded even better than it did in the session.
I helped write this? he thought.
“Aster, it's so good!” Sylvia shouted, clutching her friend's hand as she jostled in excitement.
“Listen to that backbeat, man!”
Aster was bowled over with a feeling unlike any other she had ever experienced. That black disc, rotating so serenely, was like a plastic form of the cosmos, swirling forever and carrying so much within its bounds. It represented a distinct demarcation between Aster's pure fantasies of musical success, and the actual, physical proof of it.
“Sísí has told me every copy has sold out,” Floyd said with much joy, turning to the group. The group lit up, and looked at one another in disbelief.
I can't believe it. This isn't real.
As soon as Side A ended, Floyd turned it over to play the Love You Forevers' version of Johnny Vallerie's hit. In this quick repose of silence, Aster's stunned elation held like mist above morning ground, but in that mist she caught out of the corner of her eye the sight of March at the bar, hunched upon his stool and shifted in the direction of the band. Aster turned her eyes away, but could no longer focus on anything but the sensation of his gaze burrowing into the back of her head.
It was like trying to ignore the sun while traversing the desert. His visage was a featureless, ever-present shadow in her peripheral, whose pressure pressed down upon her sense of elation as though determined to kill it— to crush and suffocate it wholly. It soon became so overbearing that at last the song faded from her ears, leaving a stillness accompanied only by the stinging awareness of his and his bandmates' presence. She was overcome with a mortification that this display of their music was a public taunting, that this was as nearly ghastly a display as was her intrusion on their radio show.
It was at this moment where March finally shifted himself completely around on his stool. Aster, seeing this motion, could not help but watch. His eyes were glazed over in a lethargic haze, like breath blown on the windowpanes through which one sees the world. He adjusted himself several times, for he kept unintentionally slipping from his stool, and settled his gaze severely on the group.
"I hope you're happy," he sang with a slight slur. "Hope you remember the little guys when that single takes you to the top of the charts." He raised his glass, half full of gin, and crooked his finger, extending it like a dead claw.
"I hope you remember tha' lil' guys," he repeated, draining his glass with a quick motion. "Because it's with their bodies... that you build your ladder."
“Fucking prick!” Marion shouted, jerking forward.
"Don't listen to him, Marion!" Sylvia cried, holding him back. Aster was watching in stunned silence.
"Sounds to me like you're just jealous!"
“Marion! This is not the time for” Floyd shouted back
"Jealous?" March slurred, chuckling ironically. "Why shou'd I be jealous of those... who can't sleep at night?"
Eugene, brought over by a nod from August, approached March looking like he'd been tasked to tear his own teeth out. He was followed by the rest of the Cherubs in a funereal procession, wearing masks of deep mortification. Cecil had silenced the music, providing the event a somber, dead silence which filled the gaps of March's diatribe.
"Just remember the little people,” he once again proclaimed. “And, most of all—” He took a deep breath and perched forward on his stool, though his motions were unsteady and the stool rocked dangerously on its legs. “Remember how you took it all from them, how you took Kyrietone away."
Aster had been watching in stunned silence what she interpreted— in agreement with Marion— as nothing more than a jealous tantrum. A feeling of rage bubbled up in her, clouding the guilt she held towards making them the unwitting audience of their new single, fueled by what seemed to be his inability to handle competition.
I fucking struggled while you were the best around! Aster screamed internally. You didn't see me getting shitfaced; you didn't see me throwing a fit!
The indignation eclipsed all guilt she had for overshadowing him, because it seemed he really wasn't someone worth feeling sorry for.
And then those words shattered her righteous position.
Aster's lip trembled. Kyrietone?
March caught Aster's eyes and smiled. His entourage had now surrounded him, and were now in the process of moving him from the stool.
"Yeah, that's right,” he said, pushing the group back while maintaining his gaze on Aster. “Because Kyrietone signed you, they didn't have any more reason for us!"
“March!” Arthur barked, pushing him with increased fervor.
“Come on, man. This isn't like you!” cried Cortier.
“What do you know about me?” March shot back, grinning. He shoved Eugene's grip off with a forceful push and looked back at the room, before heading backstage of his own accord.
Aster felt as if he had left a flash-bang in his wake. A faint whistle— a high-pitched hum now hounded her ear, which showed no sign of abating. A numbness took over her body, and the sympathies of her entourage and the Strawberry Set passed over her like water on rubber as their dulled, pitiful murmurs snuck under the incessant whine.
Arthur returned from the green room some minutes later with a solemn expression, approached Aster, and extended a hand.
"I'm so sorry," he said with marked shame, turning his eyes downward. Aster, for once in her life, accepted it, receiving his gesture with absolute confusion. "You didn't have to take us on as openers, but you did. I appreciate it. I apologize for March. I've known him since we were kids. I don't know what's happened.”
His pained expression was like the flash of a ghost in the night. She stepped back, and tore her eyes from him.
“If you'll excuse me, I have to get back. Who knows what that idiot will do,” he concluded, and headed back in the direction of the green room, slowly, like he was dragging an invisible ball and chain behind him.
The tethers of time were cut, and the minutes until the beginning of the show loosed themselves like a blur in front of Aster's eyes. A cacophony was now pouring through the entrance, the warning cries of an audience intent on tearing the place apart.
The Love You Forevers coalesced into a group which was escorted by Floyd and August. From the green room Eugene shepherded the Cherubs, knitted tightly around March, as they made their way towards the stage. Aster and March passed each other, locking eyes. He smiled, though his gaze looked as though he were peering a hundred miles away.
“Listen to that crowd,” Marion murmured when they were safely down in the green room.
“The flooded the room like water,” Cecil remarked.
“Like liquid gold!” added Floyd.
The screams and cries poured into the small old cellar like heaven had sprung a leak and allowed the world to listen. Aster was leaned against the damp, cold wall, staring blankly into nothing while Sylvia rubbed her back soothingly. She was startled by several low thuds— the sound of March fumbling with the microphone.
"Strawberry Set,” he began querulously, still slurring. “You have been good to us. So it's only right we share this big announcement with you!" The crowd responded with a chattering of excitement, while the green room grew silent. Perking up their ears, all in the room searched each other's face for a clue what he meant.
"Did they get signed?" mumbled Cecil in curiosity. This sent a jolt through Aster, who suddenly perked up and began listening intently, desperate to slather this hopeful balm all over her aching heart. Eugene however, looked terrified, and gazed on towards the source of sound as though something evil were calling him.
"It breaks my heart to see you robbed like this! But the world is insistent that some things shall never be; the world rewards criminals and deceit; and if you have any dream in your heart, hide it like you would your last penny, because it will pry it straight out of your open chest if it has to. That is to say, as of this show— The Cherubs are no more."
—
What followed was a string of events Aster could barely put together— a slideshow of pandemonium and confusion bound together only by the whining pitch in her ear which soon rose above even the screams of the crowd.
There were flashes of vision in which Floyd's contorted face seemed to convulse in shock, anger, and delight. She perceived with sickening vividness the white pallor which came over Eugene. He remained gazing up into the staircase as chaos ensued, still struck in a way as though something were before him, wounding him personally and deeply in a way from which he would never recover.
"They didn't tell him," flashed the thought through Aster's hazy stupor. The way he crooked his head so innocently as he looked up at the sound pouring in looked like a dumbstruck baby witnessing a lightning strike.
He must have been as dazed as she was, for, as he began to finally return to the world, he began stumbling all over in his attempt to make his way out of the room.
The Cherubs' set which followed held all the significance of wind rushing in the far distance; nothing more than a dirge played on a ship that was going down. It blurred together, and seemed to be over the second it had begun. Before Aster knew it, and long before she had any chance of collecting herself, the Cherubs were proceeding down the steps into the green room, behind them a maddening, cacophonous roar which seemed to fill every crevice in the world. A throng of confused people were scattered about and following in their wake, chiefly Mareby-Roquefort (who had arrived at some point in the chaos), who was striking violently at his notepad, preening into the eyes of the descending band as he tried to rip any information he could from them.
A rippling white-hot fear jolted through Aster at the sight of them, and she felt as though the small room had been filled with fire. She backed against the stone wall and pressed herself against it, but it was of no use; the band drew nearer, and her heart traveled her esophagus into her throat. She tore her face away in such a manner as that she would not have a chance in the world of making eye-contact with them.
And yet, the band didn't seem to notice either her, nor the rest of the Love You Forevers.
"March," Eugene called out in a broken voice, grabbing his shoulder as he tried to make his way to the exit. March slapped his hand away, the crack of which emanated throughout the room. "March, listen to me!” he yelled, determined to halt him and reaching again for his shoulder. “Can we not talk this out? Listen to me! We've been through worse than this; we'll make it through!"
March wheeled around, looking at Eugene violently.
"Are you fucking kidding me?! Worse than this? I look like an ass! We have been fucked over at every turn by that stupid fucking band!” He pointed at the group with all the animation he could muster, while drawing closer to Eugene. “And where were you while it happened, Eugene?”
Eugene's bottom lip quivered; he backed away instinctively as March got in his face. The rest of the Cherubs drew nearer, ready to intervene.
“Where were you to stop it from happening? They should be the ones suffering!” he shrieked, his eyes wide open and glaring at them with a maniacal glare, his hand and finger outstretched. “You fucked it all up!”
The Love You Forevers and their entourage had no recourse but to watch all unfold in silence; even Marion saw no use in attempting to pick a fight; an insight gleaned from years of starting them.
March brushed off his former bandmates, and began to turn from Eugene, who seemed to cower in front of him.
“I don't ever want to see you again. If anyone ever asks me for a manager I'd recommend them a fucking corpse before you,” he concluded, and left out the backdoor into the rainy, winter night.
The room was dead silent, save for the roar of the crowd upstairs. Nobody knew what to do, what to say. At last a silent sob could be heard, and Eugene's frame began to shake. Floyd began silently shepherding The Love You Forevers up the stairs to take the stage, as the remaining members of the Cherubs gathered around Eugene. Aster, like a witness to a horrible wreck, straggled behind, and though it benefited her not in the least, kept her eyes and ears fixated on the sight as she receded up the stairs.
"You know it's not true," said Arthur, taking Eugene in an embrace. "You were a great manager."
"We wouldn't have even had a chance if it weren't for you!" followed Cortier, attempting to feign a hopeful smile.
James grabbed both of Eugene's shoulders, and looked him dead in his swollen, moist eyes. "We'll be back at it in no time— you know us! There's no way we can keep from playing,” he gave with a laugh. “And you know you'll be the first one we call when we do."
And thus the sight of the Cherubs and Eugene at last receded from Aster's world as she and her band were whisked through the door into a room that seemed to be the very definition of chaos. Hundreds of screaming faces lit up in contorted frenzy as they set their eyes on the band; their cries so loud that it sounded as if water were boiling within Aster's ear drums. The familiar adrenaline washed over, but she was so stunned that she took to the stage automatically, and fell into the show with no thought at all.
It seemed remarkable how the world went on even when she stopped bothering to try. Even her own body was content to take the reins when her mind had absolved itself of continuing. She stared down into the massive crowd before and below her. Their eyes feasted on her like hungry flowers before a parting overcast; they were scanning her so intently, like they couldn't believe she existed. Aster herself could hardly believe anything now.
