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Summary
“You know what all of these bands up here have?” Thanos looked to the others, seeing them glance at each other as if to search for the answer from shared gazes. Semi looked to Thanos with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows.
“Original music?”
“No… Well, yes. But, no,” Thanos sighed, letting his hand drag down from the poster, “It’s like… this consistent thing in every single band. Kinda in the background, but still extremely noticeable if it’s not there.”
He was met with more silence, and Thanos could swear he could hear metaphorical crickets in the room. He pursed his lips, a deadpanned look overtaking his expression before he threw his head back with a groan. He muttered something incoherent in English, obviously a complaint of some sort–anyone could tell–and put his hands to his hips as he decided to help his bandmates out and fill in the blanks.
“We need a drummer.”