2. Billie

2

Billie

“As mentioned earlier, Miss Richmond, the guys don’t answer personal questions. Nothing about their past or present,” Kaye Cavendish, Gutless Void’s manager, repeats for the tenth time as if I’m a small child who needs repetition to understand.

“I’ve got it. The questions will be strictly about the music.”

Kaye nods. “Good, good. That’s how I got the guys to agree. Satan, especially. He told me the first time you ask anything personal, he’ll walk out, and that will be the end. So this is very important.”

We walk backstage, where all the roadies are setting up for practice. My stomach flips. Gutless Void is the only band that gives me the same high I had in my late teens, sitting in an old decrepit shack listening to two eighteen-year-old boys play.

“You a fan?” Kaye asks.

I nod. “You could say that.”

Kaye smiles as if she’s discovered the mystery of the universe. She’s probably thinking I’m some bimbo who’ll write whatever she wants as long as the guys throw me a compliment or two. She doesn’t know I got where I am because I ask hard-hitting questions and keep it professional. Kaye may be a woman, but she’s working for the man, and the man always assumes we’ll buckle at the knees at a few superficial compliments.

“The guys will be out in a few minutes for a short set. They like to check the mics and the correct placement of the instruments. Nothing’s gone wrong in years, but they like the hands-on method. They want the fans to get the show they paid for. No one in the music industry cares about their fans like these boys do.”

Kaye is buttering me up, putting the guys on a pedestal. I already know how much they care about their fans. I know they give back to the community. I’ve seen all the local stories about how they feed the homeless at soup kitchens, work at food banks, and give generous contributions to small grassroots charities. None of this is unusual for celebrities. Charities bring about tax write-offs, publicity, and help clean up unacceptable behavior. But not Gutless Void. These guys do their good deeds on the down low. The only way anyone knows they do any of it is from random cell phone pictures posted here and there on social media.

I’m lost at the appearance of the stage. Instruments light up with various spotlights. I shut down the world around me. A spiritual energy floats on the empty stage. A world of possibilities, a hushed paradise creating a surge of passion that heals and rejuvenates.

I startle at someone bumps my shoulder, and a deep, familiar voice says in my ear, “Excuse me.”

I move aside, and Satan from Gutless Void brushes against my body. I’ve had many rock stars touch me over the years, some innocent, and others with lewd propositions. But this is the first time my body feels like it will ignite.

The band is a lure: four ripped guys wearing gas masks, tight black pants, and long coats. Their antics on stage also raise the blood pressure of women all around the world with their gyrating movements that mimic all kinds of sexual activities. The visual is so believable that many swear they’re having sex on stage.

The beat of the drums rings out in the amphitheater like a thunderous roar from the skies and fades into something similar to summer rain. The band’s drummer, Blaze, is one of the best in the business. It’s rare for a drummer to create a rollercoaster of emotions in less than ten minutes, but Blaze does that and then some.

The other two members are also brilliant: Mayhem, the keyboardist, the Mozart of rock’n’roll. The man blends electronic, jazz, and classical into a new fusion that’s never been done before. Then there’s Striker, the lead guitarist. That man’s fingers move on the strings like he’s chasing the devil through hell.

The four of them are pure magic, something many record executives try to manufacture but can’t. Recreating a sound as raw and uninhibited as Gutless Void is like searching for a nugget of gold in a rushing river. It springs from pain and passion. You can’t repeat something so primal with a manager and random musicians. The band merges into a musical symphony that bends convention.

“You’re a fan, aren’t you?” Kaye asks, pulling me from the hypnosis of their music.

“Oh, yeah. I still remember the first time I heard ‘Grave of the Undead.’ It was like those lyrics were embedded in my soul. I’m not sure what it is about the band, but they’ve always spoken to me. Well, except for the album Rich Poor Man, I’ve always been a bigger fan of Satan’s and Blaze’s lyrics than Gunner Shaw’s. An opinion many don’t share, but the band’s lyrics are much more visceral without Shaw.”

Kaye chuckles as if she’s in on a secret I’m not privy to. “You’re a real one. You know many compare Satan and Blaze to Lennon and McCartney?”

“No offense to the Beatles, but they’ll never compare to Gutless Void. Lennon and McCartney were brilliant, but I always assumed they were too scared to look within themselves. As well-crafted as their songs were, they lacked a level of pain. And you know what they say: the best songs are written from personal pain. Without it, there’s a lack of invoked emotions.”

I turn away from Kaye, and right there on stage, Blaze is bent over, and Satan is fucking him. “Um, are they doing what I think they’re doing?”

Kaye grabs my shoulder and tries to pull me from the stage. “We’ll meet the guys in the green room.”

But there’s no way I’m missing out on this show. I dig in my heels and force Kaye to push me away. “The show’s just getting good.”

“Remember, the guys have the final say on the interview, and that part cannot be in your article.” Kaye sounds exasperated.

I’m not surprised. Must be a handful dealing with these guys.

***

Two hours in the green room, and not one of the band members has shown up. I stay where I am as the opening band plays, catching up on emails, but as soon as their set ends, I head to the side of the stage in time to catch Satan strapping on his guitar.

He turns his head and nods toward me. His eyes are intense and eerily familiar, golden honey like the beam of a lighthouse bringing a sailor safely to shore. He clears his throat, and the crowd goes wild. They chant his name until it echoes through the amphitheater.

Looking directly at me, he says. “Remember when you took the pain away, Billie Goat Gruff?”

He strums the same old beat-up Fender guitar from a time when he only had three adoring fans, burning me with the lyrics of “Disarm” by The Smashing Pumpkins.

My throat dries up, and tears I haven’t cried in eight years spring from my eyes.

Lars.