Work Text:
London, September 1977.
With the abandonment of repression comes a certain sensation: a fluttering of muscles, a thrumming in one's eardrums that anticipates better times. This short feeling of newly-found freedom, like any other drug, has different effects on people.
Some go mad, inebriated by the power granted to them. They burn fast, like a firecracker fuse, and when one blinks they are no longer there: they became a different person, perhaps scared, perhaps dangerous. Maybe both, like a confused animal.
Some others see freedom as their new oppressor. They fear the possibilities, fear themselves and are terrified of not knowing what to do, how to handle their life. They grew accustomed to having a leash around their necks, and they keep the scar fresh by pulling the rope themselves.
Some, and this is the case of a certain Azariah Fell, navigate this freedom in a calculated motion. Freedom, in their hands, is a vial of nitroglycerin. It's volatile, dangerous, but capable of wonderful, bigger-than-life things. An unruly winning horse that needs its reins to be gripped from time to time, but that can be left alone to run wild, happy, the most beautiful creature in the world.
And London, to Azariah, was both the racecourse and the grassy meadows.
Although right now, and against his better judgement, he was playing it too safe. He had told Muriel he would go.
“It'll do you good,” they had promised, “Ana will show you around, introduce you to some people.” It was Muriel's smile what pushed him through the anxiety of the meeting. Everyone in the streets was better dressed, happier, braver. More confident.
Azariah felt out of place, beige and blue colors in a sea of saturation. Fortunately, before his anxieties took hold of him, he saw Anathema waving, illuminated by the neon sign of The Apple. He quickened his step and greeted her, and she pushed him towards the noisy club. If he had felt out of place in the streets, then the inside of The Apple was an alien planet. Everyone was dressed extravagantly, Ziggy Stardust wannabes in every corner, sequins and satin; and ripped black denim wherever the eyes stopped. Christ, even Anathema’s hair and eyelids glittered under the multicolored lights of the club.
Anathema sensed his discomfort, and pressed a hand to his back while moving him towards the bar.
“You look great, Azi!,” she said. Azariah forced a smile. Thank God for Anathema. When they arrived at the bar, the gentle-and-eccentric-looking bartender seemed to brighten up at the mere sight of his companion.
“Ana! My love! How good to see you, it's been a while, eh?,” she greeted. She then looked at Azariah and smiled just as charmingly. “And who would you be?”
“He works at the bookshop with us. Azariah, this is Tracy. Tracy, Azariah.”
“Very nice to meet you, Azariah! Now, what can I get you? Ana, same as usual I assume, right?,” Anathema nodded, and turned to look at the stage, one eyebrow raised.
“A sherry for me, please,” Azi said. Tracy winked.
“You know when The Nuns are playing, Tracy?”
“Right after these punks, dear,” as if prompted, the band started playing a dubious rendition of God Save The Queen. “I reckon they have two songs or so left.”
The band, which Aziriah learned were the Dukes, were dressed in black leather and denim, trying to imitate the Pistols, clearly, but lacking the charisma that they had. Not the chaotic attitude, though: the performance felt like watching four Sid Vicious onstage and the same time. Slightly more knowledgeable about music, though.
“I bet Crowley is annoyed that they perform right after them,” Anathema commented. Tracy shrugged.
“A raffle's a raffle. I'm more worried about what can happen when the Dukes leave and The Nuns come on stage…”
Anathema snickered as the last notes of the current song ended, and then a blond bloke , who Azi guessed was the leader of the band, coughed into the mic. He got everyone's attention. Ana and Tracy shared a worried look.
“Hello, you fuckers! Are you enjoying the night?,” he shouted. Some members of the audience cheered excitedly, some others laughed. There were a few raised eyebrows and twisted grins. “Well, enjoy while you can! We’re at the end of our set and we want to dedicate our last song to our beloved Nuns. I fear you won’t like their performance as much as you’ve liked ours, but please be kind to them,” There were people who booed at that, as well as some whispers. “And now, for our beloved, dearest Crowley and performed for the first time in The Apple… No Compassion by Talking Heads!”
As the song began, Azariah asked, “Can someone fill me in?”
“Well, you see, dear… there’s people here with all sorts of, uh…”
“Tastes?,” offered Anathema.
“Well, yes, tastes! There you go! We have punks, and mods, and uh… glam fans? I guess? Glammers?,” Anathema shrugged at that, so Tracy continued. “People with different tendencies,” she winked. “Anyway, Crowley is the frontman of The Nuns, but he was of the Dukes back then. They got kind of… divorced, one could say. Recently. Personal differences and all that.”
“He still likes punk, of course, just got bored of the Dukes’ attitude. He’s more into glam now anyway. But anything goes with Crowley, doesn’t it? Like the disco incident,” both of them giggled. “But well, yeah, now they hate each other. Swear they already did before the whole thing, anyway. Without Crowley, though… the Dukes are a ghost of what they were. Hastur would murder someone to have the charisma that Crowley has.”
The song continued:
“What, are you in love with your problems? I think you take it a little too far.”
Well, Azariah didn’t know this Crowley lad, but he could very well relate to that.
The Dukes kept playing, Azariah asked for another sherry, and suddenly the song was over and people were applauding. Azi felt a chill of anticipation as Ana and Tracy screamed excitedly.
“You’ll see! You’re gonna love them!”
Azariah hadn’t told Anathema that he didn’t like rock as much as Muriel and her believed he did. He had listened to some Bowie, Queen and Elton John, of course. It was almost queer protocol. But he had never gotten the hang of it, really. He wished he was as bold as the people in the club tonight, but not in a hundred years would he be able to dress like that, behave with such unapologetic… freedom as they did. Nevertheless, he was happy. He had come to terms with himself, accepted himself. He was living in London now, working in a job that he liked. He had all of his life ahead of him, a healthy amount of hope, so it was fine. Really, really fine.
And then. Then it was when it happened. When he happened. A red platform boot on the stage and the whole club started yelling. Like their lives depended on it. As soon as Crowley (he supposed) stepped from behind the curtain, Azariah understood what Ana and Tracy had said about charisma. And about him… well, to say he was starstruck would be an understatement. Crowley… God in Heaven. He was a tall, thin figure, that without the boots would still tower graciously over most people; he had the last remnants of black dye over ginger hair, falling in beautiful waves. Yellow sunglasses on an elegant nose. He was dressed as a nun, yes, but the black robe was decorated with a red lace corset, the skirt was roughly chopped at around mid-thigh on the front and long and red on the back. And of course, fishnets and tall, red platform boots.
“That’s Crowley, as you might have guessed,” Anathema pulled him out of his trance. “And the girls are Nina on the guitar and Maggie on the drums.”
Azariah realized, slightly embarrassed, that there were indeed two women that entered the stage alongside Crowley. They wore toned-down versions of Crowley’s robe, with matching colors between them.
“They’ve been Crowley’s friends since forever, so they formed the band as soon as he left the Dukes. They’re mind-boggling, you’ll see.”
Azariah watched intently as Crowley approached the mic.
“Before addressing any accusations,” he began. People shouted encouragements. “I want to comment on something that happened last week. I reckon most of you know, and to those who don’t, sorry for the news, that last week, on Friday, our beloved Marc Bolan left our world. For this reason, our gig tonight will be an homage to him and the joy he has brought us. Let’s give it up for our T-Rex!” The audience cheered, and The Nuns applauded. After an educated moment, Crowley continued. “Now then, sisters. I did not know, I swear, that Sid Vicious’… feces, mind, could speak! Did you?,” Anathema barked a laugh, and so did the audience. Some people booed, Azi guessed that the Dukes were amongst them, but the sound was drowned quickly. “The stage is full of acidic shit-spit, so let’s clear it up with,” he pointed at his mouth,“our Holy Water, yes? One, two, three!”
He played the first few notes of 20th Century Boy, and everyone roared. Then, Azariah felt a hand grabbing his forearm. He looked at Anathema.
“Let’s go, Azi! Let’s move near the stage!,” she laughed, and downed her glass. Azariah did the same, waved at Tracy, who flashed a smile, and followed Ana towards the stage. She gracefully avoided the people, which Azi definitely did not, and they finally reached the platform.
Anathema waved, and Crowley looked down and smiled cheerfully. Azi realized that they knew each other and, during a short guitar solo, Crowley bent his body, “No Muriel tonight?”
“Had to do some accounting!”
“Stuck up bitch, that Michael!,” and went back to singing, but not before giving Azi a quick glance.
Azariah was mesmerized, even more up close like this. Crowley owned the stage, he was synced up perfectly with Maggie and Nina. They danced and jumped, their fun contagious. He felt his body beg to dance, and so he held a hand out for Ana. She looked up at him surprised, threw her head back with a laugh, and accepted the offer. As they were dancing, twisting, enjoying the night, Azariah looked towards the stage.
As Crowley sang one of the last “I wanna be your toy,” their eyes met. He winked at Azi with a cheeky smile. Azariah missed a step and Anathema laughed.
The song ended, and they started playing a new one. Then another one, some more, and then some Bowie and some Queen. Azi and Ana were laughing and panting by the time they finished playing. Azariah could have sworn that Crowley had looked at him more than once, but it could be the exhaustion and heat playing games with his mind.
“Well, sisters!,” Crowley said then, “Think we’ve exorcised this stage alright, yes?,” everyone laughed, answered with applauses and cheers. “Amen, sisters! We now have to get going, they’re waiting for us back at the coven- convent!,” he laughed at his own joke, hands together in a fake prayer. Azi felt his heart flutter. “Remember to pray for your souls, and for the Dukes’ as well, God bless them!”
The three of them bowed, and left the stage promptly, Crowley jumping on the girl’s shoulders, all of them laughing.
Anathema, then, looked at Azariah, eyes sparkling.
“Wanna come meet them?,” she said.
Azariah was nodding before he could realize.