056 | March 23, 2019, 7:03 PM | Greek Theater Backstage
The venue was not yet open -- it wouldn't be for another half hour, but Klavier could already see reporters and fans crowded outside the doors. He didn't deny his excitement. They would be performing various covers, but the finale would be their own song, "13 Years Hard Time for Love." The stage was set up, the sound check was finished, and all that was left was to wait for the crowds to come. Some reporters had already found their way in. For the most part, the band was playing along when they felt like it and ignoring them otherwise. It was all part of the show that the Gavinners were giving.
"Hey, I'll be back soon," Klavier called out. Jules, their drummer, looked up and nodded, without taking a break from his impromptu jam session with Daryan.
As he walked out of the concert hall, he tugged at the strap that held the microphone battery pack in place, but it still managed to gather awkwardly around his sides. No matter how many times he used the mics, he would never get used to them. The little mic itself was curled behind his ear (and taped to his skin), but he could live with that. He would forget about the wires and the straps once he was actually on the stage, when all that mattered was the performance.
Since he couldn't see that well in the dim light of the corridors, he took off his shades and slipped them into his pocket. He rubbed an eye, and belatedly remembered the fact that his stage makeup would smear. Ah, it would just be a little bit of eyeliner, right? He could fix that himself. He had the eyeliner pencil in his pocket in cases of emergencies, and even though this did not quite count as an emergency, he would need it. The bathroom was closer than the dressing rooms. He turned a corner and shoved the door open with his shoulder.
He blinked at his reflection. The smear was not as bad as he had thought, at least.
Spark hadn't made a living by standing in the press of the crowd, letting others steal his scoop by virtue of longer arms or broader shoulders. No, this was an assignment that called for stealth. A handful of polite inquiries were aided his natural tendency to fidget, which was often mistaken for a need for these very facilities.
He paced outside the bathrooms, ducking into the shadows whenever he thought security might be looking down the hall.
Someone from the staff side had just stepped into the men's room. Reporter Who Hesitates Is Scooped, end quote. Spark took a deep breath and shoved the door open with both hands.
"Ahem," he began, with a noise that sounded more like someone was actually pronouncing the letters than clearing their throat. Based on the clothes, this was no stagehand or security guard. Bingo. "Before this momentous occasion, do you have any, er, special words? For your adoring public, obviously." He pulled out a small notepad and riffled through to an empty page.
"Oh, Oh! I almost forgot!" he said, snagging the lanyard on his press pass so it whipped forwards. "Spark Brushel. Here on special assignment from Rolling Stone." By which he meant that RS took the occasional freelance pitch. And if they turned him down again, the L.A. Times was usually willing to add a little local color to the Arts & Culture section. But he had to stay positive -- Strike While The Irony Is Hot, end quote.
Klavier looked up to smell the overpowering cloy of mint -- and see the press pass in front of him. A half-grin forming on his face, he stuck the pencil back into his pocket. Although this was not the stage, he was performing here, too, and he knew he was good at it. The press had never been interested in him for his prosecuting, but, here, they adored him.
He had no problem with that.
"Ah, Herr Reporter," he said, deliberately making his German accent thicker. "You will have to find out when they do. After all, I am not sure how you sneaked in." The corners of his mouth quirked higher. "That is only fair, ja?"
At the words "sneaked in", Spark's eyes went wide, and he started stammering.
"What!? Me, do a thing like that?" Was he laying it on too thick? Could a chef add too much butter to the perfect sirloin? Of course not. "I was just," his eyes darted to the stall doors, "er, just passing through." He didn't budge from his spot between Klavier and the door while he let that sink in.
"Now, this must be -- oh, what's the word I want -- serenity, no, serendipity! Right, this is a serendipitous occasion. Dumb luck!" He paused, chewing over his next words, as well as his pencil.
"No, no, dumb is all wrong." He grinned, showing teeth as white as after-dinner mints. "Chance Meeting Catapults Local Rocker to Celestial Heights, end quote. That is, of course, if I get to press before the rabble out there."
Klavier's own grin showed white teeth, too. He raised an eyebrow, fully amused by the other man, and stuck his hands into his back pockets. "Chance meeting also catapults local reporter to celestial heights," he said, not waiting for the reporter to confirm or deny it. But for now, he would play the rising rock star, certain of his stardom. His smile shifted into something more genuine, as he leaned forward.
"All right. Let's get the beat going," he said.
Spark's ear-to-ear grin was ample confirmation that Klavier's guess was right on the money. And that he knew now he'd pinned his aspirations to the right set of silk lapels.
"Of course!" He flipped to his list of questions, and checked the postcard paper-clipped to the top of the page. Yes, this was Klavier Gavin, of the so-called Gavinners, all right. "Let's start from the beginning. Take It From The Top, as it were. Tell me, where did this eponymous band start? Is it the culmination of a lifelong dream, or..."
He let the sentence trail off with all the delicacy of a duck, bobbing his head and begging passing children for more popcorn in the local park.
Klavier's answer was prompt. "All of us love the law and the music," he said, with an effortless shrug. "That is why we are all in law enforcement. I have grown up with music. It is only natural to embrace the familiar, ja?" His voice dropped lower, and his gaze beckoned the reporter in. "Think Woodstock -- that is my vision."
He straightened up. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Plus, we sound good. You will see that part for yourself."
As Klavier leaned in, ever so slightly, so did Spark. He scribbled furiously. "Woodstock...I think I have it. Nothing Says Rock And Roll Like A Police Badge, end quote. Wait, nonono. That's Police Record. Ah ha ha. Get it? Record?"
His brows furrowed as he tried to translate the joke to his notes without it breaking. Records Easily Broken, Turn Tables On Noteless Reporter, end quote.
"So, let me get this straight. You're saying the whole band leads a dual life? Lawmakers By Day, Law Breakers By Night, end quote?"
Klavier laughed when the Herr Reporter did, though there was no humor evident in his tone. He laughed again at the reporter's last sentence.
"'Law Breakers'? Nein. We uphold the law in both our lives." This, he spoke with conviction, though his smile never wavered. "I am a prosecutor. The others are police, detectives, bailiffs. Music is our life." His smile turned wry. "So is law."
He gave a shrug as he stepped past the reporter, taking advantage of the time the other needed to write his notes. "But that is enough questions from you, Herr Reporter. I shall see you at the concert, ja?" Without waiting for a response, he turned out the door.
"Hey, I'll be back soon," Klavier called out. Jules, their drummer, looked up and nodded, without taking a break from his impromptu jam session with Daryan.
As he walked out of the concert hall, he tugged at the strap that held the microphone battery pack in place, but it still managed to gather awkwardly around his sides. No matter how many times he used the mics, he would never get used to them. The little mic itself was curled behind his ear (and taped to his skin), but he could live with that. He would forget about the wires and the straps once he was actually on the stage, when all that mattered was the performance.
Since he couldn't see that well in the dim light of the corridors, he took off his shades and slipped them into his pocket. He rubbed an eye, and belatedly remembered the fact that his stage makeup would smear. Ah, it would just be a little bit of eyeliner, right? He could fix that himself. He had the eyeliner pencil in his pocket in cases of emergencies, and even though this did not quite count as an emergency, he would need it. The bathroom was closer than the dressing rooms. He turned a corner and shoved the door open with his shoulder.
He blinked at his reflection. The smear was not as bad as he had thought, at least.
Spark hadn't made a living by standing in the press of the crowd, letting others steal his scoop by virtue of longer arms or broader shoulders. No, this was an assignment that called for stealth. A handful of polite inquiries were aided his natural tendency to fidget, which was often mistaken for a need for these very facilities.
He paced outside the bathrooms, ducking into the shadows whenever he thought security might be looking down the hall.
Someone from the staff side had just stepped into the men's room. Reporter Who Hesitates Is Scooped, end quote. Spark took a deep breath and shoved the door open with both hands.
"Ahem," he began, with a noise that sounded more like someone was actually pronouncing the letters than clearing their throat. Based on the clothes, this was no stagehand or security guard. Bingo. "Before this momentous occasion, do you have any, er, special words? For your adoring public, obviously." He pulled out a small notepad and riffled through to an empty page.
"Oh, Oh! I almost forgot!" he said, snagging the lanyard on his press pass so it whipped forwards. "Spark Brushel. Here on special assignment from Rolling Stone." By which he meant that RS took the occasional freelance pitch. And if they turned him down again, the L.A. Times was usually willing to add a little local color to the Arts & Culture section. But he had to stay positive -- Strike While The Irony Is Hot, end quote.
Klavier looked up to smell the overpowering cloy of mint -- and see the press pass in front of him. A half-grin forming on his face, he stuck the pencil back into his pocket. Although this was not the stage, he was performing here, too, and he knew he was good at it. The press had never been interested in him for his prosecuting, but, here, they adored him.
He had no problem with that.
"Ah, Herr Reporter," he said, deliberately making his German accent thicker. "You will have to find out when they do. After all, I am not sure how you sneaked in." The corners of his mouth quirked higher. "That is only fair, ja?"
At the words "sneaked in", Spark's eyes went wide, and he started stammering.
"What!? Me, do a thing like that?" Was he laying it on too thick? Could a chef add too much butter to the perfect sirloin? Of course not. "I was just," his eyes darted to the stall doors, "er, just passing through." He didn't budge from his spot between Klavier and the door while he let that sink in.
"Now, this must be -- oh, what's the word I want -- serenity, no, serendipity! Right, this is a serendipitous occasion. Dumb luck!" He paused, chewing over his next words, as well as his pencil.
"No, no, dumb is all wrong." He grinned, showing teeth as white as after-dinner mints. "Chance Meeting Catapults Local Rocker to Celestial Heights, end quote. That is, of course, if I get to press before the rabble out there."
Klavier's own grin showed white teeth, too. He raised an eyebrow, fully amused by the other man, and stuck his hands into his back pockets. "Chance meeting also catapults local reporter to celestial heights," he said, not waiting for the reporter to confirm or deny it. But for now, he would play the rising rock star, certain of his stardom. His smile shifted into something more genuine, as he leaned forward.
"All right. Let's get the beat going," he said.
Spark's ear-to-ear grin was ample confirmation that Klavier's guess was right on the money. And that he knew now he'd pinned his aspirations to the right set of silk lapels.
"Of course!" He flipped to his list of questions, and checked the postcard paper-clipped to the top of the page. Yes, this was Klavier Gavin, of the so-called Gavinners, all right. "Let's start from the beginning. Take It From The Top, as it were. Tell me, where did this eponymous band start? Is it the culmination of a lifelong dream, or..."
He let the sentence trail off with all the delicacy of a duck, bobbing his head and begging passing children for more popcorn in the local park.
Klavier's answer was prompt. "All of us love the law and the music," he said, with an effortless shrug. "That is why we are all in law enforcement. I have grown up with music. It is only natural to embrace the familiar, ja?" His voice dropped lower, and his gaze beckoned the reporter in. "Think Woodstock -- that is my vision."
He straightened up. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Plus, we sound good. You will see that part for yourself."
As Klavier leaned in, ever so slightly, so did Spark. He scribbled furiously. "Woodstock...I think I have it. Nothing Says Rock And Roll Like A Police Badge, end quote. Wait, nonono. That's Police Record. Ah ha ha. Get it? Record?"
His brows furrowed as he tried to translate the joke to his notes without it breaking. Records Easily Broken, Turn Tables On Noteless Reporter, end quote.
"So, let me get this straight. You're saying the whole band leads a dual life? Lawmakers By Day, Law Breakers By Night, end quote?"
Klavier laughed when the Herr Reporter did, though there was no humor evident in his tone. He laughed again at the reporter's last sentence.
"'Law Breakers'? Nein. We uphold the law in both our lives." This, he spoke with conviction, though his smile never wavered. "I am a prosecutor. The others are police, detectives, bailiffs. Music is our life." His smile turned wry. "So is law."
He gave a shrug as he stepped past the reporter, taking advantage of the time the other needed to write his notes. "But that is enough questions from you, Herr Reporter. I shall see you at the concert, ja?" Without waiting for a response, he turned out the door.