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If you were to ask Rockstar Cookie what his favorite sound was, he'd reply quickly: the sound of being onstage during a concert.
He loved the sound of the drums thundering along to his heartbeat. He loved the feeling of his fingers plucking and pressing into the strings of his electric guitar, the sound so loud he could feel the vibrations through his very core. The bass, low and steady, bringing everything together. Nothing quite beat the intertwined sound of three instruments in perfect sync, the brass of his own vocals like a cherry on top.
But there were other sounds Rockstar liked, too. Sounds that didn't make for good press coverage, yet sat equally close to his heart.
One of such sounds was none other than the clank of his boots against the rickety metal staircase that lead into the Underground.
"Barely any room to doodle on here anymore, huh?" he asks, tracing his finger along the indents in the wall as he makes his way down the last few steps.
"I know, right?" Fig Jam Cookie, guitarist and vocalist for tonight's show, Skull Jam, replies from behind. "I remember when this place was like, empty. It's really come a long way."
Rockstar finds himself stopping at a drawing near the bottom, done in permanent marker instead of spray paint. It's of him and Fig Jam, with Fig Jam on the left, and him on the right. He'd drawn himself there as something of a joke, only to find Fig Jam's head next to his the next time he'd made his way down.
He never asked when exactly Fig Jam had, presumably, added themselves next to him. Nor did he ask why they had bothered to put their heads so close, when there was more than enough room on both the wall and the brick to separate them.
It was just one of those things that was better unacknowledged, probably.
"You starting to feel out of place here?" Fig Jam asks.
"Whatcha mean?"
"Well, the venues the Rockstar Cookie headlines for are way better than this, right? Way less dingy."
They were right. Ever since being scouted by the big leagues, Rockstar's found himself in stages that seemed to grow bigger and grander with each performance.
"The dinginess is part of the charm," Rockstar answers, stretching his hands above his head. "S'like coming home after a long vacation, y'know?"
"You know I don't really travel, man."
Rockstar huffs in annoyance. "Still. You catch my vibe?"
"I catch your vibe, I catch your vibe," Fig Jam insists, "I'm just messin' with ya. Come on, let's hit the green."
The green room. Rockstar had grown used to green rooms with ornate furniture, high ceilings, and warm mood lighting.
The green room of the Underground, by comparison, was like an unfinished basement littered with lawn chairs and plastic party tables. It lacked any sort of cohesion among the aesthetics of its furniture, but perhaps it was the lack of cohesion that brought it all together.
As Rockstar opens the door, he's greeted by Guava Jam and Berry Jam—Fig Jam's bandmates. Rockstar sinks into the rocking chair he brought from his childhood bedroom as he gives them a shout of acknowledgement.
He had intended to throw the damn rocking chair out, but decided against doing so when Fig Jam mentioned the space needing something a little more comfortable to sit on.
That was before the arrival of the couch, of course. Fig Jam always got a kick out of laying on it with his shoes on, which he just so happened to be doing at this very moment.
"You two took your sweet time getting here," Guava Jam comments, crossing his legs.
"Busy day at Lovers Lane?" Berry Jam snickers.
"Dude!" Guava Jam hisses in return, only to Berry Jam's delight.
"Nah," Rockstar answers, (mostly) unperturbed by the comment. "Just reminiscing on the way in. Haven't been back to the Underground in a while, y'know?"
They wouldn't know, Rockstar thinks, but the moment is gone, and he's already said it. Shit.
"You really owe us some more touring stories," Guava Jam says.
"Seriously," Berry Jam agrees.
"Third-ed," Fig Jam says with a nod.
"Not even you get ‘em?" Berry Jam asks, a brow quirked.
"C'mon guys," Rockstar pleads, trying to diffuse his growing sense of embarrassment. "You know how busy I am nowadays. Plus—this is your concert today! We oughta talk about Skull Jam!"
"Well," Fig Jam announces, looking at the watch he'd bought on the last band thrifting trip, "Skull Jam is going live in 40 minutes."
"Shiiiiit. We still have to do our makeup. C'mon, Guavy," Berry Jam mutters.
"Guavy? Seriously?" Guava Jam groans in protest.
"You got anything better?" Berry Jam asks, their hand on the doorknob.
"…No. Damnit."
With a giggle, Berry Jam skips out the door, Guava Jam tailing close behind.
"You ain't going with?" Rockstar asks.
"Nah," Fig Jam answers. "You know how small the dressing rooms here are."
"I mean, yeah, but the three of you can fit."
"I know. But when's the next time I'm gonna have a quiet moment with you all to myself?"
Rockstar glances at Fig Jam for a moment, only to find himself unable to keep his gaze. He looks to a poster of the three of them plastered to the wall. The text is shoddy, and the corners are ripped, but like all things Skull Jam, you can feel the passion behind it.
"…I dunno," Rockstar replies, transfixed.
Rockstar doesn't quite remember what happened next.
He knew Guava Jam and Berry Jam came back, and the band was going backstage for final preparations, but he almost feels as though he were watching it happen from behind a screen, his body on autopilot.
When he "comes to," he's among bodies. A sea of a crowd surrounds him, chatter indistinct.
The chatter fades as the performers take their places, replaced with clapping and a few hoots.
"How are we feelin' tonight?!" Fig Jam asks, taking the mic into his hand, letting it rest mere inches away from his lips.
The crowd erupts into cheer.
"Not exactly a verbal answer, but I'll take it! With Berry Jam Cookie on drums, Guava Jam Cookie on bass, and yours truly on guitar and vocals… We. Are. SKULL JAM!"
Rockstar feels like he could squeeze the excitement out of the audience the way you'd juice an orange. After the set ends, he could probably say the same of Berry Jam's sweat, though the mental image of such a thing grosses him out.
With no seats in the Underground to speak of, there's a sort of ebb and flow to the crowd. Some audience members shift on their feet as their legs grow tired. Some switch to standing on one foot for a few seconds at a time. Some nuzzle their heads into the shoulders of their companions from behind.
Rockstar finds himself zoning out again until Fig Jam tells the crowd what they intend to open with tonight. "We Will Not Be Silenced"—one of the band's first ever tracks, and one that Rockstar found quite personally sentimental. Another wave of excitement passes through the crowd. And like a wave, the volume trickles out as Fig Jam cues his bandmates in.
"And a one, and a two, and a one-two-three-four!"
The song begins with a punchy drumline, quick to be accentuated by bass. As opposed to providing the rhythm, the drums act like a vocalist in the intro, with the guitar not kicking in until the vocals begin. Fig Jam taps their foot along to the beat provided by the bassline.
And as soon as they open their mouth, Rockstar finds himself enraptured.
It wasn't that Berry Jam and Guava Jam were bad performers. Far from it, in fact. It was just that there was something about Fig Jam that just stuck with him. He never knew what exactly it was—was it that brassy voice that could switch into something sensual and husky at a moment's notice? Was it the way the stage lights, always so bright, made the sweat on his brow glisten? Was it the passion behind every word? Was it the way his fingers glided along the strings of his guitar as if engaged in dance? Maybe it was the crop of black hair. Maybe it was the way he was able to make any outfit, regardless of how mismatched its components, appear cohesive, as if it was tailored for him.
…Maybe it was a multitude of things.
Whatever it was, Rockstar kept his eyes trained on them as they took the stage as their own. As the set continues, he sings along quietly to the verses, shouting in tandem with the crowd for each and every chorus, not caring that he's running his vocal chords raw. It wasn't often he he got to be on this side of the stage, after all. He might as well show Fig Jam the enthusiasm they deserved.
The songs blend into one another as the set continues, the melody much like Fig Jam themselves—discordant, yet cohesive. From the screams, to the occasional low call-and-response provided by the audience and their costars, to the instruments in perfect sync, Rockstar relishes it all.
"Alright, alright, how we holdin' up out there?" Fig Jam asks, tipping the mic stand out into the audience. It does little, if anything at all, with how far away it is, but it doesn't break the crowd's immersion in the slightest.
"This next one is a new one of ours. It's called 'Thank You, 942'! We hope you all'll like it!"
Rockstar, was of course, already familiar with the song. He'd even pitched a few of the lyrics. He'd listened to the demo, but had yet to listen to the final, which, as far as he knew, was still being produced. He was antsy to hear if there were any changes he could pick up in today's rendition.
The song starts with a low, thrumming bass, just as he remembers. After a few more seconds, the drums arrive, steady and rhythmic. And then, finally, that electrifying main guitar pounces into the melody, backseating as the vocals start.
The audience quickly takes to the song, clapping in rhythm. Rockstar finds his hips swaying (although only slightly, as to not hit anyone surrounding him) as the song progresses.
The solo Fig Jam and his guitar get as the bridge ends is somehow even better in person.
Right when Rockstar thinks the song is about to end, the backbeat doesn't fade out. Instead, it continues—quiet, yet present. In a move Rockstar doesn't anticipate, Fig Jam slides out of his guitar strap, setting the instrument on the ground as he waves his hands to summon the crowd around him.
And then he leans forward.
Oh, Rockstar thinks. A crowdsurfing segment.
He'd done it a few times before himself, though he found himself mostly indifferent to it all. Some crowds were more polite with his body than others. Nowadays, he was to afraid to try it.
But the crowd at the Underground is the best part. They gather around Fig Jam, make sure the weight is evenly distributed, and there are no rogues trying to get under his shirt. It's a clamoring of community. It's the embodiment of punk—uplifting one another (literally, in this case), when the higher ups get you down.
When Fig Jam makes their way to Rockstar, they shoot him a wink. Their smirk is sexy and flirtatious in a way Rockstar is too afraid to think about, let alone speak on.
Rockstar turns his head as Fig Jam's boots pass behind him. They can't stop giggling, their off-white teeth shining bright as they reach the end of the crowd and get set back down on their feet.
They skitter back onto the stage, quick to take the mic as they thank their bandmates and the audience.
As they do, Rockstar thinks a thought he'll end up sitting on until he's well into his thirties:
"I oughta tell them I'm in love."