Page 34 of Bassist With Benefits
Alan went easy on Jeremy. Instead of his usual violent assault on the drums, he played a standard 4/4 beat and ended with comical ba da bump on his snare.
Jeremy leaned back and laughed. His long hair billowed around his arms like a dark cocoon. Someone from the stage crew moved Jeremy’s mic onto the drum platform so the audience could hear him. “That’s all you got?” Jeremy asked into the mic. “This is gonna be cake.” He produced a series of deep baritone notes from his bass, grooving his hips and whipping his hair around.
It was pretty fucking awesome to hear the grungy rumble without the other instruments, but it could never stand up to the boom of Alan’s Pearl kit. “Alright,” Alan said into the mic. “The kid gloves are off, Kagan.” He pounded his snare, rolled into a loud round across his toms, smashed his cymbals, and kicked his fucking double bass drums until his calves cramped. Then he threw his drum sticks to the stage floor, stood up and bowed.
The crowd went nuts.
Jeremy rolled his eyes, unimpressed. He plucked a few deep notes, but Alan interrupted him with a steady thud to his bass drum. “Someone thinks they’re pretty fucking funny,” Jeremy retorted.
The fans laughed and hollered.
Jeremy plucked on his bass, and again Alan interrupted him with a few kicks to his bass drum.
Jeremy gave Alan a frustrated scowl, but there was a smile behind it. He planted his foot on one of Alan’s kick drums and let his hair fall back while he let out a long string of notes on his bass.
Alan took a fresh pair of drumsticks from the holder and christened them on his snare. He added a beat to Jeremy’s rhythm, creating a backbone that called for a melody. The louder he banged on his drums, the more intensely Jeremy plucked on his strings. Alan pounded his double bass, smashed his cymbals, and threw his sticks as far as he could across the stage. One landed somewhere in the space in front of the barricade, and the other was caught by a fan at the front of the pit.
The crowd was going wild, shouting and screaming, throwing cups and water bottles. They pounded their fists into the air, while crowd surfers tumbled to the front of the arena.
Alan stood, turned to the camera lens and said, “That’s the way it’s done!”
He wrapped his arms around Jeremy and the two exchanged what looked like a brotherly hug, but it meant so much more than anyone knew.
The after-party, sponsored by one of the tour promoters, was pretty fucking posh. Held on the top floor of the Devon Energy Center, the view of Oklahoma City sparkled in the distance at every turn of the head. Twin Media had several cameras perusing the party, obviously the reason for the upscale celebration. The advantage of a promoter party was that there was an abundance of catered food offered at every turn. And it wasn’t on Bulletproof’s dime.
A waiter passed with a tray of pastry puffs filled with lobster, and Alan stuffed one into his mouth. He chewed on the toothpick for a few seconds, and then discreetly flicked it to the floor.
“I saw that,” Jeremy said, coming up behind Alan.
“Are you spying on me?” Alan asked, his chest filling with lightness at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“Not really. But you had the same look on your face as I did when I tossed an undercooked scallop in the corner a minute ago.”
They both laughed.
“By the end of the night there’s probably going to be more food on the floor than on the tables. Drink?” Alan pointed his thumb toward the bar.
“Sure.” Jeremy wrapped his arm around Alan’s neck and they headed to the bar station a few yards away.
The close body contact had Alan’s blood pumping. He wanted to return the affectionate gesture with an arm around Jeremy’s waist, but resisted. A friendly arm over the shoulder expressed friendship and amity. A reciprocated arm around the waist would arouse suspicion, and there were plenty of hangers-on in attendance who wouldn’t think twice about blasting an incriminating photo across social media channels in a matter of seconds.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.
Alan looked at Jeremy. “Are we doing shots?”
“What kind of shots? Jack? Tequila? Johnny?”
“So many choices. You decide.”
The bartender leaned forward. “Can I make a suggestion? How about I make you one of my special concoctions?”
Alan and Jeremy looked at one another and then nodded to the bartender.
The bartender picked up a bottle of vodka, tossed it in the air, caught it behind his back and poured a shot into a silver pitcher.
“Whoa! Pretty fancy,” Alan said.
The bartender gave Alan a broad smile. He took two more bottles of liquor, twirled them in his hands, and then simultaneously poured two shots into the pitcher. He grabbed the beverage gun from under the bar, twisted it around his back, and added a few splashes of cranberry juice to the mixture.
