Copyright © 2015 Alby Stone
The venue was so hot. Bright light shone on angry or blank faces, on guitars and drums and boards, on limbs moving jerkily or not moving at all. The audience danced frenziedly, flailing limbs and spilling drinkes; or stood as far apart from the mass as space would allow, in small, seemingly bored groups. Underfoot, the floor was sticky with beer and saliva. He looked at her in wonder, grinning at the contradictions. Do we dance or do we stand still?
I don’t know. She made a face, wiped stray beer from her cheek, looked startled when a body slammed into her, shunting her a couple of feet to her left. She glared at the culprit and showed him a middle finger, but the boy was oblivious, his gaze fixed on the performance. I’m getting fed up with this. Let’s move to the back before one of us gets hurt.
They forced their way through the leaping, staggering, soundless crowd until they were at the back of the hall. It was darker there, more difficult to talk but easier to breathe and with less danger of being knocked off their feet by careless, exuberant dancers.
Everything they saw seemed to be shaking. She grinned and ran a hand through her hair, cut short and gelled into untidy spikes for the occasion. His hair was slightly longer than hers but just as artfully disarrayed. They were dressed almost identically. He thought she looked pretty good in the red drape jacket and ripped, dyed-black jeans, pretty yet sufficiently boyish to pass for his younger brother, tall enough to get away with being so skinny. But they were only seventeen. In time they would both fill out. They would grow up. This was fun time, and it was about time.
He offered her a cigarette. They lit up. It’s exciting.
Yes, she replied. Pity about all those idiots throwing themselves around like that, though. I must have been accidentally kicked and slapped a dozen times. Well, I think it was accidental. Some of them are just looking for a fight.
Yes, he agreed. I read about the violence but thought it was just the journos exaggerating. Must be drugs. I saw a couple of guys snorting speed in the bog. But the bands look great.
So do most of the audience, she laughed. We didn’t look like this until yesterday. I feel such a fraud.
Don’t. You look perfect.
Thanks.
Around them the crowd jumped silently up and down, sweating, spilling beer, occasionally brawling, constantly spitting toward the stage in impressively high arcs. They felt the euphoria, the rhythmic waves of pressure, a pounding amphetamine heartbeat that seemed to pump their blood just a little faster than usual. It was like being squeezed from the inside by the fluttering fingers of a giant hand. On the stage, the performance was disintegrating, the mime drawing to a close.
Come on, let’s go now – we can beat the crowds onto the last tube.
She nodded. Maybe the chippie will still be open when we get back. I’m starving.
No, it’ll be shut by now. My folks will be in bed. I’ll make us some toast then walk you home.
They ran down the stairs, out onto a silent Oxford Street. Outside, it was cooler but still warm despite the late hour and the empty promise of September rain. The long hot summer was over but it didn’t yet feel like early autumn. A couple of taxis glided noiselessly westward, taking people to their homes or hotels. On the other side of the road a boy was being liquidly sick in the gutter. Too much cheap, overpriced beer. It took away the bitter taste but didn’t go well with sulphate.
He shrugged, glanced at the poster on the board by the door. The Pistols were great. The Clash were OK too, but the other bands weren’t so good. Johnny looked really crazy. Brilliant clothes.
At the entrance to Tottenham Court Road station, she stopped dead and tugged at his jacket, pulling him round to face her. You know, I wish I could – she hesitated – just once.
Just once what?
Be like everyone else, I suppose.
His face fell. But that wasn’t the point of tonight, was it? That was all about not being like everyone else. It was about being yourself. About not caring what other people think of you.
She smiled. You mean fitting in by not fitting in?
I suppose so. His frown vanished as if it had never been. Back to his normal, optimistic self.
She put her arms round him, kissed him and stepped back. I just wish I could hear it like they do, that’s all. Just once.
It doesn’t matter if we can’t. What matters is that it’s there, that’s all. It won’t last long. None of these things ever do. Next year it’ll probably be something else, something boring. At least we can feel it. Let’s enjoy it while we can.
He took her hand as they descended the station steps. A few other youngsters ran past them, a blur of black and white shapes with the odd splash of colour – bondage trousers bought from McClaren and Westwood, leather and PVC, eyeliner and safety-pin jewellery. One of the girls turned at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at the couple, gave them a smile and a wave, the gestures of solidarity in difference. They waved back. The girl’s lips moved but they couldn’t understand what she was saying. Then she ran after her friends.
I hope it’s as good tomorrow night.
Yes, she nodded. Now watch where you’re going. You know we shouldn’t talk while we’re going downstairs.
Right, he signed. Beans or egg with yours?