Page 123 of Naughty Dreams
But to write that song, he had to start by finding his music again. Just as Roy said.
He didn’t want to. The part he had to wake up to do this wanted to stay asleep. Wanted to be dead, if he was being honest. Wanted to be beyond feeling.
But he knew what pain was. He knew how to endure it, and he knew what he could find on the other side of it.
DJ moved to the stage. He dropped to his heels to check his amp and straightened, testing the guitar and stompbox settings with random licks that blended with what Trey, Sy and Miles were doing. They’d started a bluesy kind of jam, killing time until he shit or got off the pot.
Find me in the lyrics. DJ joined in, connecting to the rhythm they were playing. After a few seconds, the worry dropped from their faces. Sy gave him an encouraging flourish on the drums and called out. “You know any early Metallica? Miles is all over their stuff.”
A subtle hint that they needed to stay in Miles’ comfort zone, or take it easy if they went outside of it.
That energy was building inside of DJ, and suddenly the rip current he’d been flailing against wasn’t something to fear. Hewasthe rip current.
He transitioned to a different riff. A powerful and very recognizable one.
“Master of Puppets,” by Metallica. He'd spotted Miles' distortion pedal, and if he was “all over their stuff,” DJ figured he could take the chance.He heard ashitfrom Trey, saw Miles’ eyes widen. Sy’s mouth spread into a grin from ear to ear as he jumped in with the drums, up for the challenge.
The song dealt with addiction, which made DJ think of Tal, but it was the sheer technical challenge of the song he embraced, the fantastic power, the way it could pull in everyone listening to it with its crazy battle-in-the-heavens-between-the-angels sound. He didn’t have to think. He just followed where it led him.
As he stepped up to the mic, he was aware of Tony at the high top with the women, his eyes narrowing.
He launched into the first verse. The music already had the metal-heads in the place head bobbing, fists striking the air. Even the non-metal heads responded to this song, the vigor of it getting everyone revved up and tight. It was sex, life and death, dancing, joy and rage. Everything in a song.
Then there was the word Master, used over and over again. The context—addiction—became far less important to him.
More is all you’ll need…
Obey your Master.
Master.
Master.
Master.
Call his name, because he’ll hear you scream…
Roy had heard him screaming, deep inside. DJ turned his gaze to him, locked and held. His fingers moved over the frets, and his pick struck the strings with the precision born of thousands of hours of playing, pounding out the song, working calluses that had become soft. He was aware of the crowd’s energy going through the roof, of Sy laying down the drums with precision, creating a sweet scaffold for Miles to hang onto, even though they were working their asses off to keep that solid pocket.
His voice was out of practice, hoarse on the screaming notes, but that was good. He needed to make sure he didn’t sound too much like himself. Plus, it was a song meant to be edged with savage pain and despair.
There was a bridge in the song where the music wistfully wandered off, then built back up to the hardcore sound. He didn’t want that. Instead, he stepped back after that lastMasterand signaled a song change. He looked toward Sy. “How about Down? You choose the song.”
Down was a New Orleans sludge metalband that reallyleaned into those blues roots, and they were heavy without being fast. Sy and Trey would certainly be familiar with them, and since Miles used to play in NOLA with them, DJ figured it was a safe bet he was, too.
They were. Sy enthusiastically offered “Temptation’s Wings,” a great choice.
When the drums kicked in, the world around DJ swam away. It was Tal laughing out loud, shouting a joyous “Fuck!” as he beat out the rhythm.
Steve swiveled around and pointed his guitar at Tal like a machine gun. Then he and DJ nailed the harmonizing solo, moving around one another, tight spins on a ridiculously small stage.
They’d gotten spoiled, hadn’t they? Pete’s expression was blissed by the music, hips rocking as his fingers flew over the fretboard.
DJ went shoulder to shoulder with Steve, lining up their instrument necks and headbanging the rhythm together before DJ sprang back to the mic.
When they finished up the song, the crowd was screaming their appreciation.
DJ absorbed the waves of enthusiasm, a drug he’d always loved, but it was a drug meant to be shared. He’d never wanted to stand on a stage and absorb it alone.
