The Screaming Eagles European Tour.
Author: emocezi
Title: The Screaming Eagles European Tour.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1103
Disclaimer: I do not own Band of Brothers nor do I make any profit from this work of fiction.
A/N: I really have no idea what happened here. I was working on stuff then I checked my LJ and found THIS drawn by the lovely and talented skew_whiff and my brain essentially exploded.
I know it seems like Webster has an epic mancrush on Spiers, but that's because I recently finished his biography and it seemed like a rather large diary entry about how much he hated war and officers and wanted more ice cream socials and pillow fights and Oh Em Gee Captain Speirs is so cool and awesome and I really hopes he looks over here again so I can pretend I'm not even looking back at him and memorizing the smoothness of his profile.
Long Authors Note is long. Enjoy the fic.
THE SCREAMING EAGLES EUROPEAN TOUR.
By David K. Webster.
June 6. 1974
The crowds have mostly left by the time I arrived. A few stragglers hung around by the stage, hoping to get an autograph or have a drink with Nix. His drinking is legendary, even in the town of Eindhoven, a regular stop for many of the big bands of today.
I flash my press pass to the guard stationed by the door. He looks like he could wrestle a horse if he put his mind to it. A giggling groupie latches onto my arm, attempting to use me as leverage to get backstage. Her cleavage is wet where it presses against my bicep and I'm not sure if it's sweat or beer. I'd rather not think about it.
I'm surprised that the guard lets us both through. He winks at me, apparently he thinks I'm going to take advantage of this girl. Her pupils are huge and it's obvious she's strung out on something. I'll try to get her some coffee, maybe convince her to head home. She looks about sixteen, even with the pound of eye makeup she has on.
I was flown from the United States to inbed with The Screaming Eagles for the rest of their European tour. To call it an honour would be something of an understatement, as Rolling Stone already has a reporter stationed here, but Robert Sink, head of the editorial staff has decided I could use the experience. And besides, they haven't heard from Norman Dike in three months.
The woman I talked to at my hotel apparently knows him. In fact he seems to be of local interest. He's been known to pop acid, or drink a cup of mushroom tea and wander into the forest to commune with the trees for hours on end. He seems like an interesting individual and I hope I'm able to talk to him before I leave here.
Finally, after dropping off my groupie with a member of the road crew who promised me he would get her something to sober her up, I find my way to the lounge area. There's a large sectional couch and a few bean bag chairs. Lewis 'Nix' Nixon is sitting on one of the beanbag chairs, watching Dick 'Frosty' Winters tune his guitar with something akin to reverence.
Carwood 'Lip' Lipton is sitting on the couch, looking almost prim with his hands folded together on his lap. But the effect is ruined from the way he's laughing at some sort of dirty joke Harry Welsh is telling. I've come in during the middle of the joke, and when the punch line is told 'And then she had sex with the pig' I don't quite get it.
Ron 'Sparky' Spiers is mixing a drink, the black war marks on his cheeks smudged from the heat of the stage. He flips his hair out of his eyes, and looks at me. I can't help but think I've been judged and found wanting. For some reason this bothers me, I feel like engaging in some sort of drinking game to earn his respect.
Lip pats the cushion beside him and I follow the hint and sit, getting out my pad of paper and pencil. The legal pad is fresh and crisp under my fingers and the pencil is sharp. I glance down to the first question and clear my throat, ready to start this interview. No one has taken the hint, all still trying to talk over each other. Harry is starting another joke, and I find myself cringing from the vulgarity of it all.
I clear my throat again, not sure if I want to draw attention to myself. Lip saves me from embarrassing myself further and claps his hands together, like a school teacher settling her class. Everyone quiets and looks up at him. They respect him. I've heard of band mothers, usually an outside force that takes care of everyone while on tour, but I never expected one to be part of the band.
“Reporter has to interview us.” He states, his voice quiet, though it somehow seems to echo around the room.
“Thank you.” I say. I can feel Sparky's eyes on me again and I feel nervous. What if I say the wrong thing. He'll hate me. “How long have you been on tour already?”
“I forget. Let me ask someone.” Nix's voice is gravelly with a lack of sleep and an overabundance of alcohol and song. “Yo Joe. How long we been on tour?” There's a man at the back of the room, I almost didn't notice him, but now I can't seem to take my eyes off of him. He's shorter then me, his face sharp and pronounced in the way Jewish faces normally are.
“Three weeks. Who the hell took my pomade? Welsh, I keep tellin' ya that shits not for jerkin' off with. Ya hear.” His voice is melodious in it's irateness and I fumble with my pencil, trying to write down his answer.
“Thank you, um, Joe.” He glances towards me, eyes sharp and quick as a bird of prey. I get a quick nod and he turns, back to whatever he's been doing. “Where do you get the inspiration for you music?” They've probably been asked this ten thousand times, and I feel stupid for repeating it. They bear with me in good humor, each mumbling something.
“Ahh y'know...Easterm mysticism, the romantic poets.” Nix mumbles.
“Universal themes of love and loss.” Frosty adds his two cents.
“Tits and beer.” Harry Welsh is loud and adamant in his beliefs. Sparky has come over from mixing his drink and is now braiding Lip's hair, a smouldering cigarette stuck between his lips. He shrugs, deciding to keep his opinions to himself. Lip accepts the new hairstyle with good humor, handing Sparky rubber bands when he's done and occasionally stealing his cigarette to take puffs off of.
These boys seem like an interesting bunch. I'll be talking to the road crew tomorrow (Ralph Spina and Edward “Babe” Heffron. I've been informed that only the nuns call him Edward) and the sound tech's (Frank Perconte and George Luz) after that. I feel warm when I think about talking to Joe, and wonder when I've turned into a twelve year old girl. He does something with a blow dryer that makes his biceps bunch, his shoulder blades curling under his thin shirt.
I'll save Joe for last. Everyone talks to their hair dresser, and I have a feeling these boys aren't any different. They just have better stories to tell.
Title: The Screaming Eagles European Tour.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1103
Disclaimer: I do not own Band of Brothers nor do I make any profit from this work of fiction.
A/N: I really have no idea what happened here. I was working on stuff then I checked my LJ and found THIS drawn by the lovely and talented skew_whiff and my brain essentially exploded.
I know it seems like Webster has an epic mancrush on Spiers, but that's because I recently finished his biography and it seemed like a rather large diary entry about how much he hated war and officers and wanted more ice cream socials and pillow fights and Oh Em Gee Captain Speirs is so cool and awesome and I really hopes he looks over here again so I can pretend I'm not even looking back at him and memorizing the smoothness of his profile.
Long Authors Note is long. Enjoy the fic.
THE SCREAMING EAGLES EUROPEAN TOUR.
By David K. Webster.
June 6. 1974
The crowds have mostly left by the time I arrived. A few stragglers hung around by the stage, hoping to get an autograph or have a drink with Nix. His drinking is legendary, even in the town of Eindhoven, a regular stop for many of the big bands of today.
I flash my press pass to the guard stationed by the door. He looks like he could wrestle a horse if he put his mind to it. A giggling groupie latches onto my arm, attempting to use me as leverage to get backstage. Her cleavage is wet where it presses against my bicep and I'm not sure if it's sweat or beer. I'd rather not think about it.
I'm surprised that the guard lets us both through. He winks at me, apparently he thinks I'm going to take advantage of this girl. Her pupils are huge and it's obvious she's strung out on something. I'll try to get her some coffee, maybe convince her to head home. She looks about sixteen, even with the pound of eye makeup she has on.
I was flown from the United States to inbed with The Screaming Eagles for the rest of their European tour. To call it an honour would be something of an understatement, as Rolling Stone already has a reporter stationed here, but Robert Sink, head of the editorial staff has decided I could use the experience. And besides, they haven't heard from Norman Dike in three months.
The woman I talked to at my hotel apparently knows him. In fact he seems to be of local interest. He's been known to pop acid, or drink a cup of mushroom tea and wander into the forest to commune with the trees for hours on end. He seems like an interesting individual and I hope I'm able to talk to him before I leave here.
Finally, after dropping off my groupie with a member of the road crew who promised me he would get her something to sober her up, I find my way to the lounge area. There's a large sectional couch and a few bean bag chairs. Lewis 'Nix' Nixon is sitting on one of the beanbag chairs, watching Dick 'Frosty' Winters tune his guitar with something akin to reverence.
Carwood 'Lip' Lipton is sitting on the couch, looking almost prim with his hands folded together on his lap. But the effect is ruined from the way he's laughing at some sort of dirty joke Harry Welsh is telling. I've come in during the middle of the joke, and when the punch line is told 'And then she had sex with the pig' I don't quite get it.
Ron 'Sparky' Spiers is mixing a drink, the black war marks on his cheeks smudged from the heat of the stage. He flips his hair out of his eyes, and looks at me. I can't help but think I've been judged and found wanting. For some reason this bothers me, I feel like engaging in some sort of drinking game to earn his respect.
Lip pats the cushion beside him and I follow the hint and sit, getting out my pad of paper and pencil. The legal pad is fresh and crisp under my fingers and the pencil is sharp. I glance down to the first question and clear my throat, ready to start this interview. No one has taken the hint, all still trying to talk over each other. Harry is starting another joke, and I find myself cringing from the vulgarity of it all.
I clear my throat again, not sure if I want to draw attention to myself. Lip saves me from embarrassing myself further and claps his hands together, like a school teacher settling her class. Everyone quiets and looks up at him. They respect him. I've heard of band mothers, usually an outside force that takes care of everyone while on tour, but I never expected one to be part of the band.
“Reporter has to interview us.” He states, his voice quiet, though it somehow seems to echo around the room.
“Thank you.” I say. I can feel Sparky's eyes on me again and I feel nervous. What if I say the wrong thing. He'll hate me. “How long have you been on tour already?”
“I forget. Let me ask someone.” Nix's voice is gravelly with a lack of sleep and an overabundance of alcohol and song. “Yo Joe. How long we been on tour?” There's a man at the back of the room, I almost didn't notice him, but now I can't seem to take my eyes off of him. He's shorter then me, his face sharp and pronounced in the way Jewish faces normally are.
“Three weeks. Who the hell took my pomade? Welsh, I keep tellin' ya that shits not for jerkin' off with. Ya hear.” His voice is melodious in it's irateness and I fumble with my pencil, trying to write down his answer.
“Thank you, um, Joe.” He glances towards me, eyes sharp and quick as a bird of prey. I get a quick nod and he turns, back to whatever he's been doing. “Where do you get the inspiration for you music?” They've probably been asked this ten thousand times, and I feel stupid for repeating it. They bear with me in good humor, each mumbling something.
“Ahh y'know...Easterm mysticism, the romantic poets.” Nix mumbles.
“Universal themes of love and loss.” Frosty adds his two cents.
“Tits and beer.” Harry Welsh is loud and adamant in his beliefs. Sparky has come over from mixing his drink and is now braiding Lip's hair, a smouldering cigarette stuck between his lips. He shrugs, deciding to keep his opinions to himself. Lip accepts the new hairstyle with good humor, handing Sparky rubber bands when he's done and occasionally stealing his cigarette to take puffs off of.
These boys seem like an interesting bunch. I'll be talking to the road crew tomorrow (Ralph Spina and Edward “Babe” Heffron. I've been informed that only the nuns call him Edward) and the sound tech's (Frank Perconte and George Luz) after that. I feel warm when I think about talking to Joe, and wonder when I've turned into a twelve year old girl. He does something with a blow dryer that makes his biceps bunch, his shoulder blades curling under his thin shirt.
I'll save Joe for last. Everyone talks to their hair dresser, and I have a feeling these boys aren't any different. They just have better stories to tell.