Weeping Angels

Part II: Practicing for nothing.

Kettu pulled his guitar off of his shoulder as his band mates chattered around him, trying to decide which songs to play for Friday’s show. To Kettu, though, the chatter was muted by his own dark, melancholy thoughts. He wasn’t even sure why he was there, perhaps to keep up the charade that he was perfectly okay, and to ensure that his musical skills would pay the rent for a crappy apartment that he had no intention of staying in for long. Or maybe he was just looking for some kind of validation, that someone gave a damn about him enough to include him in something.

“We should open up with ’Rebel Yell’ you know, to get the crowd fired up.” Jack Huston, the band’s front man and vocalist said as he plugged his microphone into a nearby speaker. Jack was a classic rock lover, with long flowing blonde hair, and an outfit that had to have come straight out of the early 90’s, torn up, dirty blue jeans and a Black Sabbath T-shirt that he wore almost constantly.

“Dude, the last time we played ’Rebel Yell’ we got complaints.” Phil piped up as he tuned his bass. Phil was more of a contemporary guy, with a plain white T-shirt, short black hair and a thin goatee.

“So what?” Jack fired back, frowning.

“So, moral of the story is that successful musicians shouldn’t play songs that they suck at!”

“Hey, man, fuck you! My vocals are spot on for that song! It’s your shitty bass playing that throws the rest of us off.” Jack snarled. He was altogether too sensitive for the kind of image he portrayed. Kettu had always wondered if he was hiding something.

“Relax, shit heads!” A familiar voice burst into the small garage. Kettu looked up. It was Benjamin Reedy. Ben was the closest thing that Kettu had to a friend, or confidant. He was the poster child of the hard rocker stereotype, the long, shaggy brown hair, unshaven face, torn blue jeans and a general disregard for personal hygiene. But underneath that exterior was a person who was always willing to listen, and give advice. “Rebel Yell sucks anyway, we’re going to be dealing with a different client base here, we’re not playing a night club or small concert venue, guys, we’re playing a lounge. So let’s consider some softer songs for the line-up.”

“He’s right.” Phil said, strumming a few chords, “We’re going to be playing for a bunch of hippie like coffee drinkers, we should probably use one of the softer Breaking Benjamin songs as an opener.”

“You guys don’t know good music when you hear it.” Jack growled, “But fine, for the clients, we’ll play some sappy hippie shit.”

“How about ’Lost in the Supermarket? That’ll get us off to a good start and open it up for something harder later.” Ben said as he sat down at his drum set.

“That works, at least it acts as a segway into something worth playing. Kettu, you know the chords for that one, right?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Kettu said quietly as he strummed a few chords. “Haven’t played it in awhile, but I‘m sure I‘ll remember.”

“Good, we don’t want you fucking up like you did on Sweet Child O’ Mine last week.”

“It’s a hard song.” Kettu shot Jack a look.

“Whatever, man, just don’t fuck up again, our reputation is on the line here.”

“Whatever.” Kettu grumbled, going back to adjusting his guitar.

“Play nice, kids.” Ben barked, “We’re supposed to be a band, not a debate team. Okay, so ‘Lost in the Supermarket’ to open, what next?”

“I’d say a couple of Breaking Benjamin’s songs,” Phil said, “Maybe ‘Diary of Jane’, and ‘Anthem of the Angels.’?”

“Those work,” Jack said, “I’d say ‘Sorrow’ By Bad Religion would fit in nicely.”

“Done,” Ben said, writing down the set list. “What else?”

“Disarm by The Smashing Pumpkins.” Kettu blurted out. It was his favourite song to play, and it fit so cleanly into the line up.

“Perfect!” Ben said, “Okay, that’s the first set taken care of. May I suggest Vermillion part 2 by Slipknot to open the second?”

“That works. God damn, man, this line up is starting to sound like a wrist cutter’s wet dream.” Jack rolled his eyes.

“It’s the kind of soft crap that all these cappuccino sipping types like to hear, aside from that indie folk music crap.” Ben shuddered in disgust, “Besides, we’re getting paid some good money for this one, so let’s not bitch and whine about it.”

“Alright, fine, but I’m still not okay with it.”

Kettu had stopped listening, strumming the chords for ’Disarm’ on his guitar, lost entirely in the moment of creating music. It was the only time that he ever felt at ease, or at peace with himself, at the very least. But nothing, not even strumming on the strings of his guitar ever made him feel remotely alive. His fingers made their way across the frets as he continued playing, his thoughts a blank.

“Hey, Space Cadet!” Ben barked, Kettu struck an off-key chord.

“What?” Kettu asked, still looking at his guitar.

“We’ve got ’Fall to Pieces’ and ’Rain’ on the second set, it’s your turn to pick a song.”

“I didn’t know we were taking turns.” Kettu set his guitar down, “How about ’The Red’?”

“Good one, Big K.” Ben said, writing the title down. Jack groaned.

“You mean the voice killer? You had to pick that one, didn’t you, Kettu?”

“I like seeing you in pain.” Kettu fired back, a smirk appearing on his face. A fake smirk, but it was all part of the image he put forward.

“You’re an asshole.” Jack sighed, “Rectifier by Ra.”

“Good pick.” Ben said, “well, that’s the second set taken care of. We just have one more, and Jack, you said you wanted to use Kettu’s closer?”

“Yeah, Big K, did you get that thing finished yet?”

“Yeah, it’s done.” Kettu said, digging out the music sheets and lyrics. A moment of panic overwhelmed him for a moment, and he could feel sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. Would they pick up on the fact that it was his most private thoughts? He shook his head, of course they wouldn’t. It was just a song to them, a collection of music pieces and lyrics, nothing more. He passed out the music sheets to the proper musicians, and the lyrics to Jack, who began to read the lyrical opus set before him.

“Whoa, dark shit, Big K.” Jack’s eyes widened a bit, “The wrist cutter’s wet dream has it’s climax, guys!”

The band laughed, all except Kettu, who looked down at his guitar. If only Jack knew how right he was.