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I had been forcefully dragged here by my so-called “best friend.” He had brought the tickets as soon as they came out, before him and his girlfriend had broken up, about a month and a half ago now. I only went with him to cheer him up, ever since the breakup, he had been inconsolable, wallowing in his own self-pity. I figured dressing up and going with him would cheer him up (I am also getting to go to a concert for free and have free drinks all night. My friends rich. Who cares if I grab a couple free drinks? Sharing the wealth between everyone you know?). As soon as we got to the concert, he had gone straight to the bar, and had met a girl, abandoning me amid the growing crowd. I felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb, everyone here looked like they were about to ask me to name three songs from the band that were about to play, surrounded by pretentious, middle aged white men in awful, unrecognisable costumes, with neck beards and reeking of body odour.
Whilst waiting for the concert to start, someone pushed past me, jolting my drink out of my hand, spilling it down my shirt and over the floor. The stoic faced man pushing past me had his smiling girlfriend in tow, her dressed as a black cat, and him not even dressed up, sticking to the typical battle jacket, black t-shirt, black jeans, black combat boots regalia. His girlfriend apologised profusely for the drink spillage, and even offered to pay for a new one. I would be angry, but it was an overpriced drink that I did not pay for, going over a Halloween costume that also did not pay for. After waiting unenthusiastically for the complete set of the opening act, in uncomfortable Halloween costume, the lights finally dimmed, smoke filled the stage, and the band walked out. They played their most famous song first, and although I enjoyed metal music, I had never been too invested in it, only enjoying some of the Metallica and Black Sabbath albums. However, this band were tragic. With a capital T. I could not even remember the name of the band.
Tommy Kingston, better known to the media as “Konig” - the German word for king – was still convinced he was twenty, I am sure of it. The band had been famous during the late 80’s and early 90’s, and were now touring again, even though they could not keep up the same rockstar lifestyle they used to lead. Especially Tommy. Instead of walking across the stage whilst playing his bass, he stumbled, obviously drunk, tripping over wires and bashing into his other band mates, who, to be fair, were not too bad of people.
Tommy though. He still thought he was in his prime, he was in his 50’s now, easily, and had reaped the effects of 30 years of the rock’n’roll lifestyle. His body, instead of the Greek adonis he thought he was, he suffered the physical effects of heavy drinking, and any cocktail of intravenous drugs he could get his hands on, somehow surviving multiple overdoses. He interrupted on vocals, going up to the lead singer's mic, trying, and failing miserably, to harmonize on the chorus to the song they were playing. However, he was just screeching into the microphone, causing an awful feedback noise to run through the speakers of the entire venue. The hall filled with the reverberating sound, causing everyone in the hall to cringe, skin crawling with the offensive sound.
The camera crew at the pit of the stage, in front of the barrier, panned to the crowd, showing off the Halloween costumes that people had worn to the concert. It was mostly people dressed up in minimal effort costumes, scattered with the odd costume that was well done, and some with incredible accuracy to the characters were attempting to portray. Costumes like these did not belong at heavy metal gigs, among the sweat, tears, and commonly blood in the pit, in case of destruction, looking like they were meant to be at costume conventions instead. Finally, the camera turned to someone at the far left of the crowd. The two screens at each side of the stage, and the one behind the crowd for the band to how they are performing, projected the image to both the audience, and the band itself. Suddenly, a hyper realistic version of Pennywise – the clown from IT – appeared on screen, the wide, dishonest smile and thousand-yard stare into the camera. If he were on a tv show, he would be breaking the fourth wall right now.
The screen stayed on him, fixed on his unsettlingly accurate costume, and even more unsettling features. This image projected onto the screen that the band could see, and Tommy froze when he caught sight of it. His face paled to an alabaster white, stopping in his tracks at the sight of the clown. He'd stopped playing his instrument, frozen to the spot in shock. Honestly, it made the song sound better, the absence of a sloppily played bassline gracing the ears of the crowd. His bandmates had begun to look over to him in concern, but his eyes were transfixed on the man in the crowd, making eye contact with him. His jaw trembled in fear, his knees buckling beneath him, causing him to stumble backwards, fumbling over multiple cables taped to the floor. Balancing was no longer an option for Tommy, as he stumbled backwards over the wires that had been taped to the floor, losing his footing. He continued stumbling until he fell back into the drumkit, whilst the drummer was still playing. Cymbals crashed, and his weight as he fell crushed the toms and the kick drum, creating a cacophony of pandemonium. Tommy struggled to get himself back up, as the crowd roared with laughter, he fumbled around, bringing himself back to his feet. His face burned a crimson red, his mouth pulled down into a frown, embarrassment painted across his visage.
At this point, the rest of the band had paused playing their instruments, expecting the worst to happen. Tears welled in his eyes, and he tore the strap of his bass from around his shoulders, taking it off his body. Clutching the instrument around the neck, he raised it high in the air, above his head, before bringing it back down to the floor. He'd been caught in a blind rage, repeating his actions. Soon, the body of the bass had been torn from the neck, attached pathetically by the four strings. He screamed down the nearest mic he could find, and his sobs as he stormed off stage were faint, yet still audible. The lead singer of the band quickly apologised, cancelling the rest of the show, and took his guitar off, him and the other two band members following in Tommy's wake.
The lights of the venue came back on not a minute later, and people began to file out of the building, disappointed chatter on everyone's lips. I had been one of the first people out, pushing and shoving through the crowd to get out of there as quick as possible. Walking through the city to get a taxi home, posters flashed across billboards advertising a plethora of media. New skincare, gaming consoles, TV shows, you name it – it is there. One that caught my eye, however, was the poster for a new movie “Party Time,” with a huge clown suit hanging on a rack plastered over the screen. I laughed to myself before my face dropped again. Realisation swept over me. The band didn't even play the one good song they had!