antonthebass-blog

[antonthebass-blog]

The When: August 14, 1973 The Where: The Hollywood Sign, northwest Los Angeles The Who: @nicky-slick

The trick with Nicky was much the same as the trick to surfing - which Ant had made some forays into, of late. You had to know the waters, as it were. He’d been doing it for years before he had a handy metaphor about, since they were those boys in Bristol. Nicky had got him figured out early, but being a quick study didn’t bother Ant much. Made things simpler, didn’t it? Straightforwardness was no sin. It’d taken him longer to sort Nicky. Their worlds were so different, in so many ways. Besides, then as now, his mate over there with the smile and the hair and the tricky, tricky fingers was just so damn good at the art of misdirection. On bad days, Ant found it absolutely maddening, a show that wore his patience thin and sent him looking for a drink. Or three. On good nights, he just had to sit back and marvel at the way that silver tongue worked. Outrageous, the shit Nicky could get away with. Absolutely wild. Today, though, the tides had been calm enough. A metric shit ton of some truly spectacular weed had helped. Ant had had a few tokes himself, just enough to make this seem like a good idea. This being a hike up to the old Hollywood sign, on the cliffs. Nicky had had vastly more, so. Good? Try bloody brilliant. Easy sell. “Been ages since I’ve been up here,” Ant sighed, with a smile as sunny as the skies. “Fucking mint. Look at that.” He spun, freely, kicking up the dusty earth. Along the way, he pulled his old Fender Precision around. Oh, yeah, that’d been part of the deal. Practice. Going over the new album. Just, with better scenery. No end to his tricks, trying to keep the band on schedule. Hammering out a few notes, Ant turned to his guitarist, the breeze tousling his hair. “Alright. Where do we start, oh captain, my captain?”

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[antonthebass-blog]

The When: August 16, 1973 The Where: Daredevil’s Bar, south Los Angeles The Who: @sweetnlowellcrane​

Americans and their bars. Say what you like, but there was something... different, between murdering a pint in Bristol and downing a beer in California. Something tangible. Far be it from Ant to put a finger on what, precisely. It was just there, in the fug of cigarette smoke - they had their own brands, smelled different - and what passed for football on the telly, and the temperature of whatever came off the taps. Americans liked everything so bloody cold. It was growing on him, honestly. Made it easy to drink rather too many, rather too fast, given the roiling, sweaty-backed heat some of these summer days could turn up. At least Daredevil’s didn’t throw stagelights in on top of all that. Ant set his Guinness down on the stool rigged up by the lone microphone, the open mic. And a stack of equally open instruments, left behind by the last act. Including what looked like a Supro Airline; not his usual, but it’d do. This, altogether, wasn’t his usual. Messing about at the back of some dusty shop was rather different from taking center stage, small as said stage might be. But why the fuck not, eh? He’d had a good day, and he’d finished it drinking in a good bar. There were whispers, and a stirring in the over-warm crowd. A couple pointing fingers. The murmur turned to a shout and a surge of cheering as he undid the silk scarf he’d had knotted around his neck, exposing that tell-tale tattoo. If they didn’t know his face, they’d know that English rose. And the first few bars of Bristol’s Burning, rolling out as he checked his tuning. The radio had loved that one. Ant grinned, tweaked his E string a touch. “Happy fuckin’ Friday, ah?” There they went. Christ, a good crowd was something else. Nice to be this close to them, too. Could see the appeal of this kind of gig. “Now - I could use a hand, up here. And by a hand, I mean two, on one of these.” He nodded off towards the stack of bar guitars, an old Gibson, a weary Fender. “Who’s for it, then?”

[antonthebass-blog]

The When: August 4, 1971 The Where: Maeve’s Musical Instruments & Repairs, south Los Angeles The Who: @rosaliekang​

Funny, the things you miss when you have it all. Like his own bloody time. All Ant was asking after was a little peace and quiet - or whatever you could’ve called it, back in that flat over his parents’ shop, where the plates rattled every time the trains went by - to read a book, or put supper together, or just soak in a new record. No thumps, no groans, no crashes, no shouts. How could a house as stupidly big as the one they’d been billeted at, up on that high hill in Santa Monica, feel so damn small? Maybe it was the size of the personalities crammed into the place. Ant, in all that, just... couldn’t get much room to himself. 

Unless he left. Unless he felt like he could leave, that is; Silas was doing better, these days, and Nicky was... Nicky was Nicky, swanning about, drinking in the sun and attention. And the vodka. And so on. But the band had settled into a certain level of chaos, here in California. So far, LA had nothing on the madness they’d got into back in New York. So far. He could only hope it lasted a bit longer. Wouldn’t allow himself more optimism than that. Ant didn’t like to set himself up for disappointment.

He did like shopping around for new gear, though, now that he had money to blow. And plenty of reason to do so. Violent Vale went through guitars, and drums, and sticks, and so on at a truly obscene rate; all part of the show. Made it a little easier to excuse himself from whatever hell-raising was going on around the house and slip off to stock them up. Wanted to take his time, too, didn’t he? Couldn’t rush such things. So off he went, winding his way around the city. Liked to find the quieter spots, when he could. Like this one. Ant took a deep, grateful breath of all that rosin and leather, smiling as he touched his hat to the clerk on his way through the door. Wait - that wasn’t the record player, was it? The Stones were rasping away, but somebody, it seemed, was giving one of the keyboards a try. More than that. They were genuinely playing, and doing a damn fine job, too. Ant sidled through the stacks, listening, picking himself up a StingRay on the way. Rounding the corner, he threw that mystery pianist a grin and gave those fresh strings a pluck. Sweetest sound in the world, that was. “That’s some proper playing, there. You mind company?” He’d shuffled the strap up his shoulder, started tweaking the tuning. “No bother, if you’re not up for it. I’ll clear out. You've got first bags, and all.” Wasn’t about to intrude too far on somebody’s moment. Plenty of other shops about town, anyway.

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violentloch‌:

Silas groaned and let himself lay back down on the ledge of the pool. His guitar thumping down beside him. If he rolled over in the pool, maybe he would sink to the bottom and never come back up. At least then he wouldn’t be stuck on a sad song about an ex-girlfriend who had turned up to burn his life down again.

Ant was a right wanker. But he wasn’t wrong. The song was the kind of melancholy garbage that only Simon and Garfunkel could have gotten away with. He could spin lyrics but he couldn’t make them sound the way they were supposed to until Ant put his spin on it. Silas tossed his notebook to–actually, at–Ant like a frisbee. “It sounds… iunno, Angrier in my head.”

The sky was blue and cloudless overhead as Silas stared into it. His fingers threaded through the lukewarm pool water and a memory crept into his mind. Playfully discarded clothes making a trail from the sliding glass door all the way to the edge of the pool. A confidence in his own form, stripped bare just for her; like he was at home and not simply a visitor in his own body. Giggling and splashing that turned to gasps and shudders with his head between her bare legs that dangled off the ledge of the deep end.

Silas smiled to himself, despite the way his stomach lurched. “She was at one of our shows last week,” he said, still staring up at the sky. Still smiling, though there was no joy in his voice.

No point in whinging about how Silas could’ve been gentler with that guitar, there. Violent Vale was, well, from the name on down, not known for being an especially tender bunch. Not with their instruments, certainly. Must give Sonny angina, tallying up the cost of every drum kicked in and amp blown. But it weren’t no bother to the band. So Ant sighed, and let it be, picking absentmindedly down his strings. That notebook interrupted, thunking off his shoulder into the green, green grass. Got his lyricist all arsey, so it seemed. To be expected. He could take it, with an eye roll. Had far, far worse.  Angrier. Angrier was a good start. “Mm, well... let’s see...” He shifted his fingers around on the frets, looking for something stronger. Be lovely, helpful, healthy, even, if all Silas had left for April was anger. Perhaps Ant was just a simpler man, but. He sure as shit couldn’t think of any feeling more appropriate. And he could work with angry. Leaning back, he went reaching for that notebook, still smiling. Until he wasn’t. At one of our shows. Ant swiveled, a sharp turn out of the summery softness the afternoon had going for it. Silas had seen her after all. At that show, where he’d run into her himself, or some other, who knew. Fan-fucking-tastic. He’d felt a bit... sour, and hollow, when he’d finished up with her. Even a bar fight, as shamefaced as he might be the morning after, had a sort of satisfaction to it in the moment. None of what had passed between him and April had felt good. Not even close.  Still. Ant wasn’t at all sure he’d take it back, given the chance. Hadn’t been sweet, but spoonfuls of sugar didn’t seem to do much at all to make the proverbial medicine go down. He had tried that. Many, many times. Far as he was concerned, keeping April as far from Silas as possible was a top notch prescription. He rapped that notebook on his own knee, thinking. Then slapped it, lightly, across the top of Silas’s thigh, and gave the thing a gentle lob onto his friend’s chest. “And? What about it? Not coming down with nostalgia, are we?” Should bloody well hope not, he didn’t have to add.

[antonthebass-blog]

avrilpluie‌:

“Bet you did.” Funny, his quips still stung just as much now as they did back then. It would seem the passing of the seasons, and the separation, had done little to toughen her to the world. Not that it had been that long. But she was not a bad person. She had a good heart, a pleasant demeanor, a kind soul, so she thought. But nothing would change how he saw her now, would it? For her, as sensitive as she is, it drove her positively mad to be disliked. By anyone! Let alone her former lover’s best friend. And he didn’t even know the full truth. That she had given him the drugs that night. It had been her plug, her hand, her needle. She clearly didn’t force him to take all of it the way he did, but she had been sick with guilt for weeks following. Could he even stand to look at her if he knew? Silas, loyal as all hell, never gave up the source. Lied about it, as she recalled.  “I’m clean too, y’know.” It sounds more defensive than she intends, biting and callous, and it isn’t the full truth. So she qualifies it, “of heroin, at least.” There you go, girl. Honesty. She isn’t finished, though. The adrenaline of the show still electrifies her nerves, so she corrects that posture. She stands straight, hands tensing into small fists. She turns and defiantly cranes her neck to look at him fully.   “Look, I know you’re no fan of me. But I hate that. We all used to have fun together, and now you think I’m a monster. But I’m not. I’m really not. We both know it was Silas that introduced me to that shit. But it’s a lot easier to blame me than your buddy, isn’t it?” The venom in her tone is even shocking to her, but there was no backing down from it now.

This... girl. Putting on airs, like she was so hard done by, like he owed her some sort of understanding, or a damn ticker tape parade. Or whatever the hell she was after. Poor, poor April, the innocent bloody bystander. Wanted to rock, wanted to roll. Not that hard, though. And it’d been Silas’s fault, had it? That she’d been lying about one day, and thought, yeah, I’ll give heroin a go, shall I? Sounds like a lark? If it hadn’t been Silas, if it weren’t Violent Vale, it would’ve been Zeppelin, or the Stones, or whoever the hell she wound up tagging along after, wouldn’t it? Silas had just happened to be the first bloke with a smack habit that she ran up against. And Ant knew his frontman’s whys. Why the dope, why the rest, why the onstage rage. He knew what Silas was up to, with all this. What he was after. He knew it, and knowing made it easier to forgive him. Didn’t make it any less of a nightmare. 

Neither had April.  Ant let her stand in all that piss and vinegar, a moment. See how much she liked the smell. Then, with a long, careless exhale, blue with smoke, he nodded. Solidly. “Bloody well right, it is. You want to know why?” She was going to hear it, anyway. Ant tapped his own chest, hard. “'Cos I fucking love him.” The words were wrung out, his throat twisting shut, tight. No need to overdress the point with how much, how long, the I’d-die-for, kill-for, anything-for sort of empty shit the movies liked to reel off. Wasn’t about to cheapen it, like that. As if he had a thing to prove, to her, of all people. He swallowed, roughly, and jabbed a finger April’s way. “And you? I don’t give a single, solitary fuck about you. Or what you’re playing at, or not. Or who with. Unless it’s anyone in my band. Unless it’s Silas, most of all. Your good times, back in the day? Nearly killed him. My best friend might’ve died in my hands, because of the fun you two got into. And we both know you did fuck all to put the brakes on any of it, even when it was plain enough that that shit was doing him in.” That had fallen to Ant, like it always had. Like it always would. Be the bad guy, stop the party. Keep his mates from an early grave. “But you want to go on about blame, April? Please do. I’ll have mine, Silas has his. Helps keep him right. It’s called responsibility. And you best be standing by to take your fucking share.” 

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supernovajade‌:

“UGH.” Nova’s mouth sits agape in mock offense. “Rude!” 

All you punk boys are the same. 

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” she laughed, brushing off the comment. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Some of the similar Fusetone acts had that type of reputation. While Vital Noise’s acts were wild, and Lucky Clover’s were always on the front page of tabloids, unless you were in the big leagues and making money faster than the mint could print it, Fusetone kept you on a tight leash.  “I, know how to have a good time.”

“I’ll have you know I live right down the street.” A glittery, bubblegum pink fingernail pointed in the general direction towards her apartment, past the sketchy gas station across the street. It was the same apartment she first moved into after moving to L.A., and even though she’d made more than enough money to move to something nicer, she kinda liked being in the center of the grime. 

It wouldn’t be that big of an upgrade if she did decide to move, however, since there wasn’t much money left for rent after her shopping sprees. The newest glittery platforms, or rent money? The answer was clear.

“And where are you posted up, hot shot? Is it true Vital has you boys out near Santa Monica?” She sucked at her teeth. “Pre-tty swanky.” 

The indignation. As if she meant any of it. Ant grinned through the giggling, his eyebrows ticking up. She was sweet, wasn’t she? The kind that might just drive Paulie absolutely mad, in those close-quarters hours in the studio, or sharing a tour bus, a dressing room. Band life didn’t leave you much in the way of breathing room. A little friction was inevitable, when you pushed people so close together. Fusetone pushed hard, didn’t they? Sighing smoke, Ant glanced across at the tail end of Purgatory’s thoroughly battered patrons, stumbling over themselves on their way out. And - and Paulie, her eyes snatching his for half a moment. Long enough to see who’d caught him. She darted off, quick. Like she should. He’d see her at the car, likely. So long as she didn’t get seen here. With him. Ant looked off the other way, like he’d just been taking in the late-night sights. That grin had already spooled out, loosened up. Lucky. “Counting my stars, I am.” He followed her finger, peering through the gathering gloom and sodium-yellow streetlight glare. “Ah. In that case, apologies for the noise. On behalf of the band. And it is, yeah, true enough. Million dollar view and all.” A few million, probably. Hard to say if the real estate would go for more or less after they’d finished with it. Fame had a way of rubbing off. On the other hand, they’d wrecked the place ten times over. Twenty times. More. Who could keep count, honestly? “Pool, palm trees. Lock, stock, and barrel. Biggest bloody house I’ve ever seen.” And he ran himself ragged trying to keep the whole damn thing in anything approaching order. “Why? They didn’t give you girls a manor in the hills, or some such?” Like he didn’t know a thing. It was a blessing they’d left Paulie to her own devices, in terms of living space. Her place was a hell of a lot easier to sneak into than his was. Given his roommates.

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paulietopaz‌:

“Quite the accent you’ve got on you, Ant,” she croons as she takes another shot of tequila to her lips. Fuck, there was nothing like a good tequila. Granted, she had spent a lot of time dabbling in various alcohols in the passed to years. If a good whiskey was a leisurely cruise to the perfect buzz of oblivion, mezcal was a fucking freight train.

She’d always thought getting somewhere fast was more important than getting there in style.

The look in his eyes is one she’s gotten used to – the recognition, the penny dropping. She often hoped that if she went out in her own style of clothes and kept her face clean and hair plain would be enough to have people just look past her like she used to – but even that had become a less and less reliable tactic in the recent months. 

“Paulette,” she answered, tilting her head slightly to the side to allow the dark auburn strands to trail over her shoulder as her finger lazily traces closer to him on the bartop. She refrains from using her last name, if only to pretend he hasn’t figured it out already. There were easily a thousand girls named Paulette, but there was only one Paulette Fields.

(Whether she liked it or not.)

“Heard about the way you boys played and figured I had to see it for myself, and I was right. Jesus, this place is gonna have to fix the hole in the roof y’all tore in it.”

She eases her body off of her stool and places herself on the one that had been between them, her knee purposefully grazing his as she placed herself next to him.

“How long have you been playing together?”

The accent. They did seem to like that - came up often enough. Americans. A stranger in a strange land, he was. "Yeah, hardly fit in my bloody carry-on. Near thing." Ant matched her, shot for scorching shot. Which was an awful idea, really. So said something that fancied itself as clever, bothering about in the back of his head. Far in the back. Getting rather quiet, as the bartender did what bartenders do best and got ahead of the game, topping them up before Ant properly raised a hand to ask. He’d be getting a hell of a tip, this one.  Paulette. He nodded, comfortably sprawled, like the rock star he was supposed to be. A leg slid by his as she drew nearer, smoothly so; rested there, knee to wiry thigh, skin on thready denim. That was comfortable, too. Was he smiling too much? Maybe. But the booze was good, and the company even better. They’d put on a hell of a show, alright. Purgatory let them run more than a little wild, these days - the management around here knew every scandalized headline and crazy story just hauled in more of a crowd, next time. Worth the cost in damages. “Ah, they’re used to it. Roof, walls, bathroom stalls...” he trailed off, pointing around at the battle-scarred bar. Not that it’d all been Violent Vale’s work, but. They’d left an impression. “Oh, shit... I...” How long? Christ. Ant downed that third tequila, for the time it would give him. Had to think on that. “Since... I was seventeen, first time we played anything. Just in the garage, mind you, but. That was the start. Of the band, not us - we grew up close, right. Nicky, he and I were at the same school.” He sighed. Fondly. Mostly fondly; those had been some scarce and scrappy days, even if they’d brought him his boys, his best mates in the world. Mad as they were. “So, going on a decade.” Ant dropped a whistle, and that third shot. Ten years. How long had her bedazzled band been about? If he was right about that. Still couldn’t quite fathom it. This girl, one of those girls. Boggled the mind. Still - it was clear enough that she wasn’t out to be seen, not like that, not as that. He ruffled a hand through his hair - already a tossed-about mess from all that action up onstage. Alright, then. He’d follow her lead. As in, not leading with the whole pop royalty thing. “And, ah... how long have you been stopping by this pit, hm?” Said with love, that was. Ant took a lean on the bar, undoing a button, or two, as the heady warmth of the place and the mezcal started to sink in. A pit it was, but the energy around here, between the peeling posters and hair-trigger barfights? The punk equivalent of spiritual. “Become something of a Friday night feature, we have.” Was that an invitation, just, just maybe? Might’ve been. He wouldn’t be at all put out if this rogue Gemstone went and took him up on it. 

[antonthebass-blog]

The money feels good              And your life, you like it well        But surely your time will come As in heaven, as in hell

[antonthebass-blog]

[antonthebass-blog]

[antonthebass-blog]

rosalind-bennett‌:

Roz’s eyes flicked up and down as she surveyed the figure perched shakily in front of her. Tall, not repulsive-looking, but evidently not a teetotaler, going by the look of him. Well, well. She could be confident in finding the right house, then, that was for sure. According to the photos a few receptionists had been passing around, girlish blushes lighting up their cheeks all the while, this was probably the bassist.

“Morning.” Rosalind straightened up slightly at the sight of him, almost more out of habit than anything else. She could always make a good impression, even if the talent considered it an accomplishment to wake up before 12.

It should be noted that Roz hadn’t joined in with any blushing earlier.

“Yes, I guess so,” she said crisply. “I’m from the label, so I thought I ought to, you know …scope you all out, really.” She manages a slight smile. “Just a social call. You’re not in trouble, if that’s what you were thinking.”

Well, not yet, anyway.

“Rosalind Bennett,” she says, sticking out a manicured hand. “You’re…Doyle, yeah? Anthony Doyle?”

No. Oh, no. Already? Now? Today? This particular moment, when the rest of the band, including the one bound for rehab, was strewn about this very nice, very, very nice house, snoring through the tail end of a truly raging bender? Of course. Absolutely. It took effort, powerful, aching effort, to return the smile. But return it he did, with a tune up to his posture and a solid handshake besides. “I’m he, yeah. Yes.” London? He’d guess London, for this one. Funny. Cross a bloody ocean, and a continent, to boot. Still - London calling. 

“Ah... I’m... afraid the rest of the band, they’re tuckered right out. Jet lag. Probably won’t be joining us for some time, the afternoon, I don’t... know...” Ant hesitated, there in the door. Then clicked it shut behind him, and flourished a hand out towards the front patio, genuinely lovely little thing, clifftop on the hill there, overflowing with heady lilac bushes and a spread of lounge chairs. All in one piece. “Why don’t we take some sun, then? The view’s mint, you wouldn’t believe...” Unless, of course, she’d been here for a while, and it was entirely normal for Ms. Bennett here to be surrounded by palm trees and golden sunshine and ocean as blue as... well, blue as an ocean you’d dream up, anyway. It probably was. He’d bounded down the front steps, leading the way with genuinely earnest, ever-so-slightly desperate energy. “What I mean to say, is, we’re deeply grateful, truly, for the accommodations. It’s - I’ve never even seen a house this size, if I’m honest.” He was, too. About that much, anyway. 

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marimarxagui‌:

Her eyes skim over the sight of him in his underwear, but they certainly don’t linger. Whatever feelings she may have had back on the East Coast all but evaporated now. Only amicable feelings lingered; always friendly with past flames unless they gave reason not to be.

 It was with this happy smile she watched Anthony move around the kitchen, the smile turning into a goofy grin when he mentioned the others. Silas being Silas and the others even more so, he was by far the most grounded of the foursome. 

If there was anything she’d still not gotten over, it was his accent. That soft Bristolian just rolled off his tongue, not unlike someone whose company she’d been spending time with. It was wonderful. So different; unlike the boring Californian droning she was used to hearing all day. 

“I’ve been good,” she nodded, keeping the smile on her face. At the same time, she was sizing him up. Was he happy to see her? Was it unexpected? She took a bird-sized bite of her bagel and set it down, picking it apart. “How’ve you been?” He seemed the same as ever, but that was only the surface. For all she knew, all kinds of things were brewing in the mind of Anthony Doyle. He’d always been the cerebral sort.

“Oh—” she cut in, as if she suddenly remembered the reason she was here. “I bring important news. You might wanna pass it along to the rest of the guys…d’ya know The Stooges?” A band who, as far as the big charts were concerned, were still somewhere on the fringes. But they were very important in Mari’s mind, and the rest of the world was going to catch up any day now. “Where’s everyone, anyway? Your maid told me no one was home.”

Rifling around for a cup, Ant fished a dirty one off the sill - ugh, vile - and leaned over to the sink, scrubbing at whatever the hell that might be. She was good. Splendid. Looked it. Not that he was about to say so. Seemed like he shouldn’t? Probably? “Ah - I’m...” As for how he was, he’d been picking around an answer that didn’t say too much, or too little, before Mari’s train of thought jumped the tracks. For the best, really, if he rode along with her. Not too much, not too little... wasn’t anything at all. It was different, her asking him. Really, what Mari had been up to was Mari’s business, wasn’t it? In a way that Ant’s life had, by and large, ceased to be. Absolute strangers, in this thoroughly strange land, could pick up any old rag mag and catch up on what him and the band had been up to. Rare was the week they didn’t get splashed on some page or other. They’d usually earned it. Spectacularly.  “The Stooges?” That was a name, no mistake. Didn’t quite ring a bell. Ant shook his head, toweling his mug dry. “Not personally. They got anything on the radio?” He did enjoy opening the Barracuda up on the highway, now and then, something blazing through the speakers, California ripping by. With a bag of Yorkshire Gold in hand, he was one step closer to something like breakfast. They did need some genuine groceries, didn’t they? Badly. Still had some milk, which he pulled from the fridge, ready and waiting. Other than that, one egg, no bacon. A few potatoes. Needed some green things, proper vegetables. Revolutionary. The boys would skewer him at the thought, but. Weren’t exactly about to see to supper themselves, were they? Speaking of. “They’re...” he waved, vaguely. “Around. Sleeping.” Or something like that. “Not home sounds better than passed out, pissed faceless, should management come knocking.” Which they had done, before. Memorably. Also kept uninvited groupies out, but. Only usually. The kettle wailed. Ant swept it off the heat and made up his tea, glancing Mari’s way with a half-a-grin that was fully amused. “You ought to know better than to expect these muppets to be up and about before midday, anyhow.” He didn’t need two hands to count such rare occasions. Thankfully. Never made for an especially agreeable day, in the household. Let sleeping dogs, and punks, lie. Whenever possible. 

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violentloch‌:

Silas flipped his notebook back open. It’s so old and worn in that it’s hard to find enough space to write anymore. It lays flat on the ground and the light breeze flutters a few pages turned until it settles on exactly what he’s looking for. It’s scratched out and written in the margins and scratched out again. But somewhere towards the bottom of the page Silas managed to string the words together into something he could work with.

As much as the heat wore the energy out of him, he still loved this part. He crossed his legs and put his back to the pool, pulling his guitar into his lap. He didn’t play on stage, hadn’t actually learned to play at all until they were in the studio recording “Skin.” Where the hell was he supposed to get a guitar when he could barely afford a meal and blew all his scratch on smack and blow? But he strummed a few of the chords he’d taught himself.

“It’s called Phantom Limb.” It was rough and he wasn’t half the musician as their real guitar player. But he sang the lines he liked the most. 

“Saw me off at the knee but it’s still part of me like the ghost of a bone you still feel like home”

It was so obviously about her. But her unexpected appearance at their last show had rattled him to his core. And suddenly all Silas could think about was how easy it would be to fall carelessly and recklessly back into her.

“Yeah, yeah...” Ant brushed by the title, savoring the stolen weed. He wasn’t so far into it as some of his bandmates; could be said of any of their assorted vices, really. Somebody had to be sober enough to roll everyone over at the end of the night, pick up the broken bottles, put out a bucket. A few puffs wouldn’t hurt, though. Especially when he’d swiped the stuff off Silas. Had good taste in that sort of thing. Snuffing out the butt, Ant cocked his head and took a listen.  It wasn’t what he’d been expecting. Not a surprise, either. Unfortunately. His fingers had started to find notes, pick along. They slowed up fast. Fuck. Fuck! After all this time - all this time, and all these miles, the span of a whole damn country. She’d had to turn back up. Like a bad penny. It was April, wasn’t it? Who else would move Silas to punk poetry? The Vale had done a few songs about girls, of course. Nice eyes, great legs, all the ones that got away. That was classic, so far as inspiration went. But pining? They’d never hit pining, before, had they? 

And for bloody April. 

Before Silas even finished, Ant had reached for that G&T. Deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Meditative, like. He’d been trying that, of late. Needed all the help he could get. Ant followed up with a cold gulp of Johnnie Walker, then a sip, more restrained, as Silas’s last chord trembled away. “Well, that,” he started, stopped. Hung up on hoping it was just some stupid coincidence, that he’d overthought a few lyrics. Perhaps Silas didn’t know shit about April and where she’d got to; just suffering some acute nostalgia, for one reason or another. Perhaps April would piss off out of town without Silas catching hide nor hair. And if there was any mercy or grace or what have you out there to be had, perhaps this shit wouldn’t start all over again. Could only hope. 

Maybe this was some sort of... coping, moving on. Not that it sounded that way, from what he’d heard so far. They’d only got a few lines in, though, and music moved in mysterious ways, didn’t it? “That was bloody miserable, mate.” Ant plucked a note, then another, eyes on his hands. Dredging up a sigh, he slapped the E string and steeled himself. “Let’s hear the rest, then.” Be lovely, reassuring, really, if it turned out to be a proper break up banger. The furious get-fucked-someplace-else kind. 

[antonthebass-blog]

supernovajade‌:

This was a strange one, she thought; An odd duck with a face far too handsome for punk rock. 

“Poor fella,” she sighs, and snaps her bubblegum between her teeth. “I wonder if he’d dig the attention though.” 

Did iguanas like being pet? Somehow, thinking about the size of those things, Nova assumed they’d be kinda like dogs in their manner, but that didn’t sound quite right. The only time she’d ever seen an iguana in the flesh was on a trip to the capital’s zoo. Wild things. She dug their pointy spines, and often used their scaly flesh as inspiration for her nail polish when she could actually find the right shade.

At the mention of Fusetone, gives him a wry smile. The only sound that comes from her is the slow, rhythmic snapping of pale pink bubblegum. She wasn’t allowed to talk about it, and something about him made her think he knew that too.

“I never would’a guessed a Vale boy would recognize me,” she said slowly, changing the subject. “You don’t really strike me a fan of pop music. Then again… Stranger things have happened here.” 

“Oh, no doubt,” Ant nodded, earnestly, over the jitter of his nerves. “He’s a fool for a good scratch. Right up here,” he tapped the back of his jaw, “and under the chin. Goes absolutely boneless.” Knocking ash to the pavement, he did his best to keep a surreptitious sort of watch out. An eye, an ear. Paulie would figure it out. She’d realize, when he wasn’t where he was supposed to be, that there was something up. And this would all be fine. How fucking unlikely, though. Really. Wasn’t as if Los Angeles was a small sort of place. To run into one of her girls, out here...

Blowing smoke, Ant chuffed at the thought. A fan. Would’ve been a dealbreaker for Paulie, he’d wager. “Nah, not my kinda sound, no.” Though he did wind up at more than a few of their shows, these days. Just. You know. Behind the scenes, shall we say. “Hard to miss you lot, all the same. What with the posters. And the magazine covers. And the radio ads...” Here they are, the jewels in Fusetone’s crown - the Gemstones! Paulie practically squirmed when that shit crackled over the airwaves. Did her bandmates feel the same? He’d wondered before, but. Not his business, and not something Paulie seemed too keen to chat about. Fair enough. “And I wouldn’t figure on a Gemstone being within a bloody mile of anyplace I’d call a good time.” He’d settled into that rockstar barely-there grin, lazy, a bit cheeky. “Sure it’s not you who’s lost, hm?” Cool, collected. Fake it ‘til you make it, right? 

[antonthebass-blog]