Instructions for Dancing(24)
Martin: Truth
Me: We’re just going out to get to know each other
Cassidy: Rt. So u can have bttr chemistry when ur dirty dancing with each other
Me: BALLROOM DANCING IS NOT THE SAME AS DIRTY DANCING
Cassidy: Come on. It’s sex with clothes on
Martin: Truth
Sophie: Omg, Cassidy
Cassidy: What?
Cassidy: She’s basically the heroine in 1 of her romance books
Martin: She doesn’t read those books anymore
Cassidy: She’ll be in love by the end of act 2
Me: You understand that real life doesn’t have acts, right?
Martin: Truth
CHAPTER 21
Not a Date, Part 2 of 3
THE CLUB WHERE X is playing is a hole in the wall. With no windows. And very dim light. A cave, basically.
I peer into the near darkness from the doorway, wishing for a spelunking helmet, which is not something I’ve ever wished for before. I don’t see X, but our plan was that I’d watch the show and we’d meet up afterward.
So far only a handful of people are here, some at the bar and a few others at the tables in the back. At the front of the room, a small elevated stage is already set up. I spot an electric guitar with an X Machine sticker leaning up against an amp. I can’t believe he’s really going to get up there and sing and play in front of a bunch of strangers. I can’t believe how nervous I am for him.
I look away from the stage, suck in a deep breath and immediately cough that deep breath back out. The air smells like smoke, beer, pee and the cleaning products they use to (unsuccessfully) cover the smell of smoke, beer and pee. I choose a table as far away from the stage as I can find. I don’t want my nervousness to make him nervous. Not that it would. But still, to be safe.
The show’s supposed to start at six, but (by law) rock shows are not allowed to start on time. People trickle in over the next forty minutes until the club is packed. Finally, a short white Mohawked guy dressed all in black leather goes up to the mic. His skin, including his face, is almost entirely covered with tattoos.
“Welcome to Ricky’s Club,” he says in a thick English accent. “I’m Ricky. We got a good show for you tonight. First up, X Machine, all the way from—”
He stops talking and yells backstage. “Where are you lot from, again?”
“Lake Elizabeth,” yells a voice.
“Right,” says Ricky. “Lake Elizabeth.” He looks backstage again. “Where the fuck is that, then?”
“Upstate New York,” says the same voice.
Ricky faces the audience. “There you go,” he says. “Upstate fucking New York.”
I watch the crowd, trying to gauge their enthusiasm. It is tepid.
My nervousness spikes. I really want him to be good. Not just good, but great. As great as he thinks he is. I don’t want this impossible dream to break his heart.
Before he leaves the stage, Ricky announces the band that X Machine is opening for—“hometown favorites Better Daze.” The crowd reaction is not tepid. Probably half the audience are friends of theirs, but enthusiasm is enthusiasm.
The house lights dim even more and all three guys walk out onstage. I remember a little about them from our LaLaLand tour. Jamal’s the drummer and Kevin’s the bassist. Kevin used to play keys, but he started playing bass after Clay died.
X picks up the electric guitar and walks to the mic. Up there he looks different somehow. Maybe it’s because his dreads are loose around his shoulders. Or maybe it’s the way the stage lights make his brown skin glow slightly blue. His eyes search the crowd. It takes me a second to realize he’s looking for me. I throw my hand into the air and wave.
He waves back and a few people in the audience turn to look at me.
“Hey, everyone,” he says into the mic. His voice is deeper than I’m used to. “We’re X Machine. We’re from Upstate fucking New York. This is our first gig in LA. Thanks for coming out. This song is called ‘Prom.’?”
In classic rock-and-roll-drummer fashion, Jamal slaps his sticks together and calls the count. “One, two, three, four.”
I expect—and the audience expects—a hard, driving tempo, but that’s not what we get. The song is slow. Too slow.
X’s voice is too melting smooth. He’s basically crooning over the midtempo rhythm. The lyrics are too sweet and earnest—something about corsages and promises.
One of Dad’s favorite sayings is don’t bring a knife to a gunfight. All I can think now is don’t bring a ballad to a rock concert. The audience starts to fidget.
But then they launch into the chorus, and the whole song changes. X’s voice takes on an edge—not angry, but hard. The tempo increases.
I don’t wanna go
I don’t wanna go
I don’t wanna go to prom with you
The rest of the song is pretty much about everything that’s wrong with prom—the tulle, the bow ties, the crappy music, the pressure to make out and move around the bases, the unrealistic expectations that you’ll one day marry your prom date. It’s hilarious and catchy, and by the end everyone is hating on prom right along with them.
“That beginning fake-out always fools people,” X says after the applause dies down. “This next song is called ‘Race Is Stupid.’?”