Music for the Well-Adjusted
It was the performance to end all performances. It was open mic night, and the house was packed wall-to-wall with frat jerks, groupies, sycophants, and a few good friends. The University Concert Board still owed us money from the last gig we played; they weren't planning on paying what they owed, so we really only had one goal: TO DESTROY. We took the stage amidst applause, anxiety, and cold sweat. These were the good old days, right before the balls fell off Rock N' Roll, and a few years before the major labels met their timely demise. I slowly walked on stage, following the lead of my band mates. I strapped on my guitar, as the large crowd blurred together as one. "This f***ing song," I said, pausing to angrily scan the room, "Goes out to my friend Chuck. This one's for you, buddy." Chuck was an LXA and hated my guts. He glared at me, as the crowed cheered, eager to hear the performance. "Also to that girl over there, that's wearing way too much eyeliner," I continued, "I'm taking you to lunch this week." We ripped into song - thrashing into our passionate 4-minute Rock Opus. Eli and the drummer smacked their respective instruments as if exacting revenge on an awful ex-girlfriend. I met their energy with a ferocity of my own, barking out lyrics behind a voice that sounded somewhere between Scott Weiland and Chester Bennington. As the last discernible chord of the night was played, I ended the opus with a guttural scream that shook the room, as feedback shot out of my Fender Amp like a lit firecracker. Then, we proceeded to f***ing trash the place. I threw my guitar to the floor, dragging it by it's plug as Hendrix-like sounds exploded from the amps. Eli and I exchanged looks, taking a slight pause before simultaneously knocking our amps face-down against the stage. The audience went nuts, jeering us to continue our destruction - we were happy to oblige. The drummer was next. Eli and I threw each piece of his intricate kit to the floor, as symbols crashed and shards of drum sticks flew into the crowd. I fell off the stage, knocking over a table onto a few patrons, and falling ass-first onto the hard concrete below. Just then, two rival fraternities started to beat the living dog shit out of each other; it was the juice bar equivalent of a bar room brawl. I smiled ear-to-ear, as I saw Chuck take a right cross to the face from a kid twice his size. Tables and chairs flew, as everybody cleared the room. At the end of the scuffle, the only ones left in the venue were bruised frat-jerks, the band, and a few kids on the concert committee. The room lay in shards; it was going to cost the university a lot of money. "That'll teach those bastards to rip us off," I thought.