London Harmony: Water Gypsy Read Online Free Page B
Author: Erik Schubach
tonight, you need your energy if you are going on stage woman.” I opened my mouth but snapped it shut when she added, “Be a good girl and just say 'yes Paya.'”
I chuckled and bumped our shoulders again. “Yes Paya.”
She looked far too pleased with herself after that. We picked up some burgers and drinks on the way to Bromley. Is it wrong that I found them sinfully delicious?
The temps had dropped to zero again and the roads were icing up but Harry's truck had no problems. We parked a couple blocks from the Kent. You never park at an illegal rave or all the vehicles can pull unwanted attention.
As we walked, I could feel the bass whumping up through the ground and up into me before we could actually hear it. By the time we reached the Kent, Paya and I were almost dancing to the back alley door as we picked out the music.
My bestie loved music almost as much as I did. Harry was trying to be all cool, but I caught him bobbing slightly as he walked. I laughed and playfully shoulder slammed him closer to Paya, who almost danced around him. He finally broke out in a smile and rolled his eyes at us.
We go to the door and Harry pounded on it with a fist. Someone pounded back. Harry bent and shoved the playbill invitation under the door and it opened. Skeeze was there. He was a slim punk rocker with at least thirty facial piercings who manned the door at every Ronnie Marx gathering.
I gave him a little wave and the geeky guy waved back. Harry did one of those greetings guys do, with grasping shakes where the guys pull together and slap each other's backs. “Skeeze.” “Harry.” Then skeeze bowed slightly to us. “Ladies.” Then he added, “Hey Tabs, I hear you're on tonight. Grats lady.”
I just grinned and shrugged, doing a terrible job of hiding my excitement. Paya grabbed Harry and my hands and dragged us down the hall to the huge room where the almost deafening music was coming from. As we emerged into the main area, I grinned as we bobbed and swayed to the beat. As usual Ronnie had the place packed!
Harry yelled, “I'll get us some drinks!” Paya and I just started dancing and head banging to the animalistic metal number blasting over the PA system at the empty stage. We downed the beers Harry returned with and then thrashed with the next number by the same band.
The music stopped near the end of the song, leaving a deafening silence, like the whole world suddenly came crashing down on us and snapped into clear focus. A tall, handsome bloke hopped onto the stage, he had bad boy looks, and the dark scruffy whiskers of a man who hadn't shaved for a couple days added to his rakish appearance.
Ronnie Marx spoke into the headset mic over his left ear. “Hey, hey my fellow Londoners!” Everyone cheered, hooted and hollered. He strutted the makeshift stage. “I've arranged for some mad beats here tonight!” More cheers followed. Paya was comically rolling a fist in the air barking like a big dog. It was shameless really... oh, would you look at that, I was doing the same. I chuckled at my inner thoughts and antics.
Then he said, “But first...” Another bloke hopped up on stage. I couldn't really make him out, he was in a baggy black hoodie, with the hood pulled down over his eyes. Ronnie's voice rose, “...we have in the house tonight, straight from New York. The legendary Scratch!”
The crowd went insane, I brought my fingers to my lips and whistled shrilly. Bloody hell! I thought Scratch was just an urban legend! This was the DJ who put so many performers in the underground music scene in New York on the map. Having him put your music in one of his mixes was the equivalent of getting a bloody J-Card here in London. But if he is real, did that mean J-Cards were too?
The past few months, everywhere I went to sing or listen to music, the performers were always searching through their things after they sang. When I inquired, they'd always say they were looking to see if someone had slipped a J-Card
I chuckled and bumped our shoulders again. “Yes Paya.”
She looked far too pleased with herself after that. We picked up some burgers and drinks on the way to Bromley. Is it wrong that I found them sinfully delicious?
The temps had dropped to zero again and the roads were icing up but Harry's truck had no problems. We parked a couple blocks from the Kent. You never park at an illegal rave or all the vehicles can pull unwanted attention.
As we walked, I could feel the bass whumping up through the ground and up into me before we could actually hear it. By the time we reached the Kent, Paya and I were almost dancing to the back alley door as we picked out the music.
My bestie loved music almost as much as I did. Harry was trying to be all cool, but I caught him bobbing slightly as he walked. I laughed and playfully shoulder slammed him closer to Paya, who almost danced around him. He finally broke out in a smile and rolled his eyes at us.
We go to the door and Harry pounded on it with a fist. Someone pounded back. Harry bent and shoved the playbill invitation under the door and it opened. Skeeze was there. He was a slim punk rocker with at least thirty facial piercings who manned the door at every Ronnie Marx gathering.
I gave him a little wave and the geeky guy waved back. Harry did one of those greetings guys do, with grasping shakes where the guys pull together and slap each other's backs. “Skeeze.” “Harry.” Then skeeze bowed slightly to us. “Ladies.” Then he added, “Hey Tabs, I hear you're on tonight. Grats lady.”
I just grinned and shrugged, doing a terrible job of hiding my excitement. Paya grabbed Harry and my hands and dragged us down the hall to the huge room where the almost deafening music was coming from. As we emerged into the main area, I grinned as we bobbed and swayed to the beat. As usual Ronnie had the place packed!
Harry yelled, “I'll get us some drinks!” Paya and I just started dancing and head banging to the animalistic metal number blasting over the PA system at the empty stage. We downed the beers Harry returned with and then thrashed with the next number by the same band.
The music stopped near the end of the song, leaving a deafening silence, like the whole world suddenly came crashing down on us and snapped into clear focus. A tall, handsome bloke hopped onto the stage, he had bad boy looks, and the dark scruffy whiskers of a man who hadn't shaved for a couple days added to his rakish appearance.
Ronnie Marx spoke into the headset mic over his left ear. “Hey, hey my fellow Londoners!” Everyone cheered, hooted and hollered. He strutted the makeshift stage. “I've arranged for some mad beats here tonight!” More cheers followed. Paya was comically rolling a fist in the air barking like a big dog. It was shameless really... oh, would you look at that, I was doing the same. I chuckled at my inner thoughts and antics.
Then he said, “But first...” Another bloke hopped up on stage. I couldn't really make him out, he was in a baggy black hoodie, with the hood pulled down over his eyes. Ronnie's voice rose, “...we have in the house tonight, straight from New York. The legendary Scratch!”
The crowd went insane, I brought my fingers to my lips and whistled shrilly. Bloody hell! I thought Scratch was just an urban legend! This was the DJ who put so many performers in the underground music scene in New York on the map. Having him put your music in one of his mixes was the equivalent of getting a bloody J-Card here in London. But if he is real, did that mean J-Cards were too?
The past few months, everywhere I went to sing or listen to music, the performers were always searching through their things after they sang. When I inquired, they'd always say they were looking to see if someone had slipped a J-Card