"And now an exclusive interview with Arachnophobia - the infamous prog rock band is back with a new killer album, and I can't wait to hear what they have to say ..."
Justin wipes sweat from his brow and looks over to the fitness room's TV screen. He doesn't usually bother with MTV's shitty band interviews, but it's been a while since anyone has heard from Arachnophobia, and even if their music isn't his style Justin has to concede the new line-up sounds promising. The singer is still the same, of course (Arachne won't ever let the band escape her claws); but they got a new guitarist, a weirdo whose name has been on quite a few lips in the indie scene, and the drummer is admittedly really decent. He's been on the news on his own, too - apparently the guy has quite a temper, and got into enough drunken brawls to pique the tabloid's interest.
Justin leans back in the seat of the rower and grabs his water bottle while the young interviewer excitedly babbles on the screen. The band members, lounged on a big couch, appear much more put together. Arachne displays a soft, condescending smile as she waits for her turn to talk - Justin guesses she has already been doing this whole self-promotion ordeal before the interviewer was out of his diapers. She still wears the same kind of revealing goth dresses as back in the first days of Arachnophobia, but with her regal attitude it doesn't look cheap on her - she has aged well, Justin thinks. Same thing can't be said of Mosquito, the contrabass player, who has shrunk and shriveled like an old prune. And what's with the mustache?
Justin watches, amused, as the interviewer tries to coax answers out of the guitarist, Asura. The guy, his upper body wrapped in thick scarves like this is Alaska and not L.A., only nods or shakes his head in answer, rarely bothering with monosyllables. In the scene he has a rep of being an absolutely insane musician, with a thing for shrill, nervous riffs - Justin has heard special footage through an acquaintance once and Asura does live up to the legend, even if the dissonant melodies sent shivers of displeasure up Justin's spine.
Arachne repeatedly takes back the reigns of the conversation, with smooth, PR-proof talk about the band's unique trajectory and the quality and daring of the new album. As if - the title, Madness strikes back, sounds like an Alice in Wonderland rip-off, and Justin doubts the rest of the album proves much more original. But then he's been biased against Arachne's sultry voice from the start. He'll still listen in when the CD arrives in their mailbox - one benefit of being lead singer of America's most popular band is the ton of free merchandise every label sends to them on a regular basis. They have one room in the basement of the band house that is solely dedicated to stashing the never ceasing flow of CDs, t-shirts and other goodies.
He's about to start rowing again when the interviewer asks if Arachnophobia intends to join the annual Greatest Rock Band contest.
"We already know the competition will be particularly intense this year, with astonishing bands like Death Scythe on board!" the interviewer adds, and Justin perks up at the mention of his band.
The drummer, who had been beating a haphazard rhythm on his thigh with a bored expression, loudly snorts. The interviewer latches on it:
"Giriko, do you think Arachnophobia would have a chance against Death Scythe and their dedicated fan base?"
Giriko shoots a cautious look at Arachne, as if he's asking for her permission to speak, but her expression stays one of blank, polite interest. The drummer seems to take this as his clue to go, because he props his boots up on the table and leans back in the couch, a smirk on his face.
"Death Scythe ain't worth jackshit," he states. Justin doesn't think he's ever heard the man talk before - he has a rough, hoarse voice, with only a hint of foreign accent. Czech, if Justin's memory is correct.
"Their music is fucking boring, they sound like they're puking out a mix of every mainstream shit that's ever been aired," Giriko continues. "Only reason they're famous is teenage girls wetting themselves over their baby-faced singer. We'd destroy them." He folds his muscular arms behind his neck, seemingly satisfied with his rant.
"But they have earned the "Album of the Year" title three years in a row," the interviewer argues.
"Only proves the public has shitty taste," Giriko retorts. "Just 'cause every sheep on this planet listens to the same crap, doesn't mean Death Scythe ain't lame and Justin Law ain't an overrated pansy."
"Giriko," Arachne says, a slight note of warning in her smooth voice.
"What? Just sayin'," the drummer mutters, but his confident smirk falters and he falls silent for the rest of the interview. Justin has to smile at the stubborn line in Giriko's shoulders while Arachne explains that no, a participation in the contest isn't on the band's agenda. He doesn't feel offended by the insults in the slightest - he's heard them all before, and the grumpy delivery is somewhat endearing. Still, there's something about Giriko's disdain that rears something in Justin, a familiar urge to tease, annoy, provoke, so after he's done with his rowing session, Justin retrieves his phone and opens Twitter:
hey arachnophobia-official ! baby face here says no way in hell you could beat us at GRB-contest . Come and participate - no rule against sad has-beens yet! XOXO, the overrated pansy
- Justin Law ( justin_law )
The band is having their break, which means Arachne and Mosquito are reviewing videos of the practice session, Asura is strumming on his unplugged guitar in a corner, and Giriko is bored out of his mind.
He thinks about going for a walk, but there are no sidewalks in this shitty hell-hole of a city, and at least the studio is climatized. They've still got two hours of practice to go, so he can't even pop open a cold one without Arachne frowning at him, and after everything she's done for him he kind of owes her to be sober a few hours a day. So, it sucks.
When he joined the band he didn't think they'd spend so much time in quiet sondproof rooms recording music. He's in for the gigs, always has been, and his youth in the garage punk scene has skewed his perception of how album studios are recorded. He recalls it to be a fun, short process, with lots of cheap liquor and makeshift electronics involved. But of course, his current band's music is on an entire different level of production quality, and perfectionist extraordinaire Arachne is never pleased until the songs are flawless. Which mean they have to play them over and over and over again.
But Mosquito doesn't complain, Asura doesn't complain, so Giriko shuts up and does what he's told, and impatiently awaits their next tour when he can finally be back on stage.
He's drumming on his knee, daydreaming about roaring crowds and the ecstatic thrill of a good performance, better than any fuck, when Arachne softly beckons him over. She has her phone in hand.
"Giriko, remember when I told you to keep your temper in check during interviews?" she says, and the drummer slightly ducks his head at the reprimand in her voice. "This is why."
She holds up her phone for him to see - it's the band's twitter. There usually isn't much activity on their social media, despite the launch of their latest album; but now it is flooded, messages from fans cheering them on for the Greatest Rock Band contest, but mostly from other users insulting them, and Giriko in particular. He looks up questioningly.
"The interview with MTV yesterday," Arachne coolly explains. "Death Scythe's singer responded to your insult on twitter and openly challenged us. Their fan base is giving us hell for it, and our fan base is now convinced we'll participate in the rock contest, a misconception I've yet to dispel."
"You rascal couldn't hold your tongue, could you?" Mosquito sneers, mustache quivering in anger.
"Shut up, gramps," Giriko retorts automatically. He scrolls up to read the tweet that started it all, and frowns, irritated. Has-beens? The little icon of Justin Law seems to smile at him, sardonic.
"What a petty bastard," he mutters. He starts to type a response, but Arachne snatches the phone away before he can hit "tweet".
"No," she scolds. "If you want to ridicule yourself online, then please use an own account. And use your own damn phone."
Giriko grimaces, and she gives him a warning glance. "Don't tell me you wrecked it again."
"Dunno. I lost it, I guess," he shrugs, defensive. "So what, 'ts not like I need it."
She shakes her head. "You're a desperate case," she sighs, and lowers her voice, muttering to herself. "Now how do we get this right again? I don't want to make it sound like we're scared to take part in the contest ..."
Giriko frowns. For some reason, Justin Law's taunt bugs him, more than it should, and he find himself saying, "You know, sis, we could participate."
They'd slay, too. Death Scythe would never see it coming.
"But we won't, " she answers, tone sharp. "The tour is all planned out, we are not going to enter a pseudo reality-TV contest just to prove a point."
"It's just three days to make place for," the drummer protests. "Three gigs! On the west coast, even!"
"No, Giriko. Don't make me repeat myself."
"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, and refrains the urge to pout, mood souring. Sure, it's not that big of a deal, but ... it's not that often he has the opportunity to rock a big stage on live TV, and wiping the floor with a mainstream band he despises would be a great bonus. He briefly wonders what face Death Scythe's singer would pull at Arachnophobia's triumph. His teenage fan base would probably weep monstrous tears.
He indulges in the fantasy for a minute, and decides to get himself a new phone.