Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. The fictional band Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, the songs "Strange Quark," "Keystone," "End State," "Beardface," and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).
Author's Note: Possibly no new chapter next Tuesday and/or next Friday. Not sure what my internet situation will be.
CHAPTER 39
BEARDFACE
March 1, 1995
Los Angeles, California
Shrine Auditorium
…
Crimson and gold walls surrounded Hyde on all sides. In the Shrine Auditorium, Degenerate Matter and its crew took up two rows of seats. They were sitting center-front, though Hyde had lobbied for a spot closer to his dad and sister: right-front. His first choice was the balcony. Cameras would have a harder time staying on him and Ro in the nosebleeds. But the band was up for six GRAMMYs, and being near the stage was a necessary evil.
"Place is still filling up, love," Ro said. She'd stood and was surveying the auditorium, but her hand landed on his knee as she sat back down. Some lens would've captured that moment if the show had already started. "Red carpet's tangled everyone like an octopus."
Lee was seated on Ro's other side, and he said, "Where do you think the carpet got its color from? Sucking the blood out of assholes like us."
Like them but not them. Luckily for the band, its manager was as much of a hardass as Lee. His sister, Dawn, had struck a deal with CBS. If the network wanted Degenerate Matter to play the GRAMMYs, it would keep the band away from the media.
A tap on Hyde's shoulder made him glance back. Donna was in the row behind him, holding her journalist notebook and a pen. "How're you feeling?" she said.
"On the record? Cool."
"Off the record."
"I should've shaved off my hair and grown back my beard." He rubbed his chin. Stubble wasn't growing in yet. "Could've gone all Grizzly Adams, let it get mountainous—"
"And, off the record," Ro said, "I would've dumped your ass had you done that."
Donna's pen didn't move. She was respecting his and Ro's privacy, as she promised to do. In return, she'd get to follow the band during its Australian and New Zealand tour.
"Hey, look!" Sherry reached over Lee and nudged Ro's arm. "MC Morowa!"
Before Ro could react, MC Morowa and her entourage was in Degenerate Matter's space. They'd coordinated their outfits. Their brown skin was clothed in colorful tuxedo dresses and tuxedos. But some wore shades, including MC Morowa, and their hair was variously braided, in locks, or left natural like Sherry's. The band stood up, including Hyde, but Sherry and Nate took the lead in the confab.
"We should jam sometime," MC Morowa said to them. "Dig that drum n' bass groove you got going on your last record. Especially on—what was that one? You know, the one that goes, 'I'm the Eightfold Way,' over and over?"
"'Strange Quark,'" Sherry said.
"Right!" MC Morowa clapped her hands to the beat as she imitated it with her voice. "Boom, ba-da-ba. Boom, ba-da-ba, pow-pow. That bounce is sick!"
Nate patted Sherry's back. "That was all her. Queen of the heavy yet intricate bassline."
The discussion lasted a few sentences longer, and at the end Nate received a few hits to his shoulders from Sherry. "MC freaking Morowa invited us to jam!" she said. "Man, I've been listening to her since high school. She's up for Best Rap Solo Performance, finally getting her due."
"Careful." Nate rubbed his shoulders. "I need these babies at their best tonight."
Nate's wife, Chelsea, soothed his aches with a few kisses, but Hyde braced himself for a pain that wouldn't be so easily relieved. MC Morowa's stopover had alerted others to his presence. A band called the Oxygen Bags was striding toward him. It had been nominated for Best New Artist on the power of a one-hit wonder.
The lead singer, pasty-faced Charleston Hiver, had the swagger of a long-time drunk. He was pointing at Degenerate Matter, and he cast his own band a smug look. "There they are, boys. The Degenerates!"
Hyde went into security-guard mode. He stood in front of Ro, who remained seated. "Hiver," he said.
Hiver showed no sense of personal space. He stepped up to Hyde, and his boozy breath stung Hyde's nostrils. "I get it now," Hiver slurred. "You've been bangin' the band."
Members of the Oxygen Bags nodded with the same smugness as their leader, and Hyde's biceps twitched. His desire to brawl with Hiver and the rest of the Oxygen Bags was strong. But the tabloids were salivating for that kind of story: Steven Hyde Loses Mind at the GRAMMYs.
"Hyde, you need help, man?" Scotty said from the row behind him.
"Nope. Hiver's just cranky I didn't sign the Douche Bags to Burnout."
Hiver jabbed Hyde in the chest. "Didn't need fuckin' Burnout! We're here, the same damn place as you."
"Not even close." Hyde clenched his fists but made no moves. Hiver had shoved a demo at him several years ago during a Grooves event. Hiver's dad was a well-known business tycoon, which made Hiver too much of an insider to be an outsider. He'd hoped Burnout Records could give his band underground legitimacy.
"Your album's got one track that ain't full of '80s hair-band misogyny," Hyde said. "Whatever happens tonight, no one's gonna give two shits about you once your video's off MTV's rotation."
Hiver's lips puckered, as if Hyde had forced a lit cigarette down his throat. "I'm a star, motherfucker! Girls—girls flash their tits at me in concert and blow me afterward. Bring me blow, and what—what do you have?"
Hyde spotted the sweat along Hiver's hairline, the dilation of his pupils. He was on a substance stronger than just booze. Lee, Nate, Scotty, and the rest of Degenerate Matter's crew were on their feet now. Their solidarity—especially Lee's—was appreciated, but Hyde said, "What do I have? An usher."
He gestured to a man decked out in black and gold, and the man rushed over. "These guys can't find their seats," Hyde told him. "Band's called the Oxygen Bags—"
The usher pulled a list from his pocket. It had the names of the GRAMMY nominees and where they belonged. "You're in orchestra left," a whole section away from Hyde and Degenerate Matter. "This way..."
Resentment distorted Hiver's face, but he allowed the Oxygen Bags to be led off. Hyde, Lee, and Nate waved a sarcastic goodbye at them before sitting back down.
"Tell me you wanted to knock his teeth in," Ro whispered to Hyde.
"More than wanted. Almost did it."
"I would've liked to see that."
"If he'd tried anything with you, I would have."
She squeezed his knee. "Happy to hear it."
The auditorium's lights flashed, signaling the GRAMMYs would start in a few minutes. Hyde entwined his and Ro's fingers together on his thigh. They wouldn't get the chance once the camera's were rolling. They'd agreed not to show physical affection to each other during the show.
"He's a 'star,'" Ro said, clearly talking about Hiver. "A ball of gas." Hyde chuckled, but she wasn't done. "He should listen to my da. He'll deromanticize the universe for him in a heartbeat. It's all a bunch of numbers to him. No poetry."
Hyde gave no outer reaction, but his guts were jangling. She rarely spoke about what created her emotional DNA. It was like coming upon a tiger in the wild, a breath-stealing experience. One wrong step, and the tiger would kill him.
"Music brought the poetry back for me." She cupped his cheeks and drew him in for a kiss. "You brought it back, too. Your light."
The auditorium went dark at her words, and the GRAMMY announcer's voice boomed through the Shrine's sound system: "Welcome to the Thirty-Seventh Annual GRAMMY Awards! Please put your hands together for Bruce Springsteen!"
Bone-vibrating applause and deep-toned shouts of, "Bruce!" answered as the stage curtains rose. Blue lights and smoke obscured the E-Street Band, but Springsteen himself stood front and center. The audience quieted down at the first notes of "Streets of Philadelphia," and Hyde momentarily forgot he was at the GRAMMYs. For three minutes he was just a guy who enjoyed good music, not someone whose life might change irrevocably.
Jackie, Betsy, and Brooke were gathered on Brooke's sofa, watching the GRAMMYs on TV. Degenerate Matter's first category had yet to be announced, and a half-eaten, sugarless birthday dessert sat on the coffee table. Jackie always celebrated her birthday in Chicago with Betsy and Brooke, but this year it fell on a Friday. With Michael spending the weekends here, Jackie had to pick a different date.
The change fit into her plans, though. The Big Blonde Burn, as she'd come to call it, would happen on Friday night. Two days from now.
She'd kept a relatively low profile in February, refusing Brie's offer to style a photo shoot for Cosette. Accepting wouldn't have led to a full-time position. Or opened the doors of the fashion world to her. She didn't need another taste of what she could have been. The bitter flavor was permanently stamped on her tongue.
"Oh, my God—here we go!" Betsy slapped the sofa cushion a few times then grasped both Jackie and Brooke's hands. The contact buzzed through Jackie's skin but didn't repel her. She held on tightly as the nominees for Best Hard Rock Performance were announced.
Degenerate Matter was competing against Pearl Jam, Green Day, Alice In Chains, and the Beastie Boys. The camera cut to Degenerate Matter for a brief moment, but Steven had twisted backward in his chair. He was speaking to someone in the row behind the band. Jackie recognized Steven by his hair and body. Even clothed in a suit, he was unmistakable. At least to her.
"Pearl Jam's gonna win it," Betsy said. "I just kno—" Her voice shattered into a scream as Degenerate Matter's name was read from the winner's envelope.
"Betsy, we've got neighbors," Brooke said. "Keep it to a quiet roar."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Betsy covered her mouth as Degenerate Matter came onstage. Steven didn't join the band, but Jackie hadn't expected him, too. Not yet.
Ro Skirving was handed a GRAMMY, and she passed it off to Lee Turnbull before speaking into the microphone. "Awards like these pit musicians against each other," she said. "Nowhere near as bloody as the ancient Roman gladiatorial games, but it's still bread and circuses."
She paused for a moment, and someone in the audience whistled. Another person shouted, "I love you, Ro!"
"Love ... the world could use more of it," Ro said. "Anyway, we do appreciate that people in our industry enjoy our music enough to give us one of these. So thank you for voting. Doesn't mean 'Cranial Deformity' is a better song than Pearl Jam's 'Go' or 'I Stay Away' by Alice In Chains. Musical taste is subjective."
The audience applauded loudly at her last statement, but Jackie found herself covering her mouth like Betsy. Hearing Ro speak this way, she understood why Steven had fallen in love with her. They were kindred spirits.
"I was never like that," Jackie whispered into her palm.
"What?" Betsy said.
"Ro," Jackie said. "She's wearing a shredded T-shirt beneath her blazer."
Betsy glanced at Brooke as Degenerate Matter walked off stage. "Mom, can I—"
Brooke's eyes filled with the kind of loving exasperation only mothers seemed capable of. "You're not wearing a shredded T-shirt to Nanna's dinner party."
Betsy blew out a breath, reminiscent of Steven. "Fine."
Jackie crossed her arms over her chest. A corkscrew of emotion was drilling into her stomach, the leavings coated in self-reproach. She'd never be onstage, especially not in front of an adoring audience. She didn't deserve to be, but her desire for celebrity had been murdered over a decade ago by Dale Fischer.
What she craved for now was to finish breaking down and, finally, reconstitute into a higher state.
Into someone like a non-violent version of Ro Skirving.
Hyde clapped when Ro won for Best Female Rock Vocal Performance. Regardless of their shared beliefs about awards, she'd earned the win as far as he was concerned. The depth of her voice on "End State" couldn't be matched. She hadn't resorted to melodrama to get a point across. Her emotions came through organically, exposed by lyrics he'd written.
She didn't acknowledge him before going onstage, but the camera surely caught his grin. His pride in her was too strong to flatten out. The rest of the band climbed onstage, too, and stepped back. Technically, this was Ro's award, not Degenerate Matter's, but she'd grabbed Lee and Sherry's sleeves and dragged them forward. Had gestured for Nate to follow.
"My voice wouldn't exist without these scunners," she said into the mic. "Or that one." She nodded at Hyde, who hid his face by talking to Donna and Scotty in the row behind him. The camera would get a shot only of his back.
"Guess what's coming up next?" Scotty said.
Hyde clutched the back of his chair. "My freakin' suicide if I win."
Donna patted his white-knuckled hand. "Hyde, you'll get to live. Trust me, the Boss has it in the bag. First of all, it's Springsteen. Second, he's nominated for a hit song from a hit movie. Third, the song is about the AIDS epidemic. GRAMMY voters love to highlight causes—and if there's any cause that needs to be highlighted right now, AIDS is among the top."
He indicated her notepad. "Put this on the record: I didn't deserve to be nominated. I've got no clue why I was, and if I win, then the GRAMMYs should pack it in 'cause it's a broken system."
"Save it for your acceptance speech," Lee said. He was back in his seat and poked Hyde's shoulder. "Time to face forward like a good boy and take your medicine."
"Fuck off," Hyde said but sat properly.
When Ro returned herself from backstage, she took his hand as the GRAMMYs' host, Paul Reiser, made a few jokes. Her physical show of support was unexpected. She could've let him squirm through this crap alone, but their fight at the Formans' had gotten through to her. She was growing, changing for him.
Too soon, the list of nominees for Best Male Rock Vocal Performance was being read. Hyde's brain fractured each name into syllables then the syllables into morphemes. This breakdown sped up his thoughts. Theories zapped from neuron-to-neuron, but one prevailed: O. MacNeil had been nominated to thrust his idenitity from the shadows.
It was a paranoid and self-aggrandizing idea. The GRAMMY review committee simply liked his performance, but he couldn't win this award. Headlines would crown him and Ro the King and Queen of the GRAMMYs, devaluing Ro's gift. His voice was decent, but his true talents lay elsewhere.
June 23, 1991
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
Hellhound Recording Studio
…
Hyde slapped his face less than gently. He had to get the adrenaline flowing, his thoughts to bleed. The recording studio's sofas were too comfortable. They threatened to lull him to sleep in the lounge. His notebook had adequate verses scribbled on the page, but the chorus was still lacking.
He flicked his Zippo lighter to ensure it still had juice. A flame appeared, and he shut the metal lid. Degenerate Matter was taking a lunch break. Recording on empty stomachs made the band's playing less precise. He'd devoured a roast beef sandwich with some water, but food did nothing for his creativity. He needed a smoke to refresh his mind.
His involvement with the band had become much more personal the last six months. He and Ro were screwing on a regular basis, though their relationship wasn't exclusive. At her insistence, he sat in on the band's recording sessions and worked on lyrics. He'd balked at first, along with Lee, but her claims of writer's block won out.
She also claimed, in private, that Hyde's soul was deeper than hers. That his words pushed her to more honest places, vocally and lyrically. Maybe she believed all that, but she'd also witnessed the power writing had on him. It was clearing out his debris, an explicit goal of hers.
He read over the lyrics he had for the band's current song, sat up straighter on the sofa, and his pack of cigarettes crinkled in his jeans pocket. The smoke would have to wait. This song needed a chorus by the time the band's lunch break ended.
"Can you sing?"
His hand jumped from the notebook, causing the pen to draw a jagged line on the page. Ro was back already.
"No," he said.
She approached him on the sofa. Her white T-shirt was cut at the shoulder and held together by safety pins. It showed just enough skin, and her hand glided up his thigh, high enough to send his blood south.
"You're full of crap," she said..
"And you're gonna get half a song if I don't get some space."
Her scent undermined his boundaries, distracting him with low-level desire. She smelled clean, like soap and shampoo, not tobacco. But that wasn't unexpected. She went on a smoking hiatus whenever Degenerate Matter was in the studio.
"Nothin' personal," he said. "Just need space."
A predatory smile answered him. Apparently, she gave no fucks about what he needed.
"Ro—"
"Sing."
"You that insecure? Using my shitty voice for reassurance?"
Her hand moved from his thigh to his stomach. "Just want you to assuage my curiosity."
"Sorry." He pulled her hand off him. "You'll have to get used to being curious."
She got off the sofa, and her fingers split into a V and pointed to her eyes. "Look here if you have any doubts: I won't sing again until you do."
"Hell." He grabbed his notebook and stood up. "For a chick with that much gold in her eyes, you shouldn't have to blackmail me."
"Sweet talk, Hyde. Don't think I don't know what it means."
He cleared his throat. Making a fool of himself was the lesser of two evils. She was close to unfolding a layer of his vulnerability. Wouldn't be her first time, but he shut her up by singing lyrics from his notebook.
"I left my home with the doors unlocked..." His voice was so damn thin. Blood rushed to his neck, and he hid his face behind the notebook. "You sneaked inside and vandalized the place, splintered the furniture, smeared shit on the walls..." He lowered the notebook. "What'd I freakin' tell ya?"
"The notes are right," she said, "but the place you're singing from is wrong."
He shrugged, not understanding.
"You're singing from your throat. You have to sing from this—" she pushed her hand against his stomach, just under his ribs—"your gut. Same place you write from. Now try it."
"What?"
"Sing again."
"Yeah, no."
She pushed harder on his stomach. "Come on."
He inhaled through his nose as a quiet protest, but the pressure on his diaphragm felt strange. His own curiosity had been pricked awake. He sang the next line in his notebook, "I burned your house down in retaliation," and his voice sounded different, stronger. "Wood turned to smoke, and I choked on it. Suffocated on my own vengeance."
Ro removed her hand from his stomach. "See? You can sing."
"Guess so."
"You don't get any joy from that?"
"In bein' able to carry a tune? Sure. I'm going to Disneyland "
Her arms slid around his waist. "In resisting your resistance, love, you've discovered one less limitation."
She gripped his hair and kissed him, going as deeply into his mouth as their jaws allowed. He could've fucked her in the lounge. He was primed for a screw, but being caught by anyone but the band would've brought hell. So he broke contact.
"I know what you want," she said, breathing heavily.
"To finish this song."
"For us to be exclusive."
"Never said that."
"You have." She combed fingers through her short, coal-black hair, but it didn't need the grooming. Her hair always had style, no matter how messy. "You don't listen carefully enough to yourself." Her palms slid over the sides of his face, and she held his gaze. "If you'll stay, I'll stay."
He blanked out his mind, an attempt to shield his feelings from her, but she pounded on chest like he was having a heart attack. "Can I get you to stay, gorm-shùil?"
She was fighting for him, had been since the band's show at the Riverside Theater last year. He laid her hand flat on his chest. "No one else has a better shot at it."
"It's over," Ro said. "You lost."
Hyde came back to himself, back to the Shrine Auditorium. Springsteen was onstage, accepting the award for Best Male Rock Vocal Performance.
"Sometimes losing is winning," Hyde said and relaxed into his chair, but he and Ro weren't safe yet. They wouldn't be until long after this night.
A few commercial breaks later, he and Donna were backstage with Degenerate Matter and its crew. They had four minutes to set the band up on its wagons, movable platforms that could be attached and detached from the stage like puzzle pieces. A cursory soundcheck ensured cables hadn't been disconnected and amps hadn't blown out.
The curtains rose. The audience burst into applause and screams, and the band eased into "End State". Lee played the opening riff alone. Then Sherry's heartbeat bassline sparked to life, and Ro sang, "We stay apart, thanks to the repulsive force between our electrons..."
The band's choice of this song didn't stem from its nomination. It was to mess with the media. Break-up rumors would abound after tonight, despite that the band was about to go on tour. Money would be made on those rumors, stuffed into the pockets of predators. Pennies might spill out and be left behind, only to be swallowed by scavengers.
But their feeding frenzy was temporary. Hyde and Ro would starve them by feeding the public their own way. Their relationship could be digested without turning into shit.
Producers of the awards show bustled behind Hyde and Donna backstage, but he caught a quick exchange between two of them: "Holy shit, did she just jump on that guy's back?"
"Be glad she's not climbing the lighting truss. Get moving!"
Ro had leapt onto Lee's back during the chorus, but he kept playing his guitar. She kept singing, and the GRAMMY crowd shouted its approval.
"Did you hear that?" Donna whispered to Hyde. "I'm so putting it in the article."
She was taking notes on Degenerate Matter's performance. She'd volunteered to be Hyde's escape tunnel from Tabloid Tartarus, and his gratitude was immeasurable. Not just to her but to Jackie for proposing the idea.
"So this is where it ends, Beardface," Ro sang on Brooke's TV, and Betsy smacked Jackie's leg. "Beardface, Beardface, you can confide," Ro went on. "Shave that thing off and show your hide."
"She's tagging 'Beardface'!" Betsy said, and Brooke grabbed both her hands. "What?"
"You hit Jackie," Brooke said.
"I did?"
"Yes."
"It's okay," Jackie said, but she put a sofa pillow between herself and Betsy. "I understand the excitement." More than understood. The living room ceiling seemed to drop as she processed Ro's lyrics. "'Shave that thing off,'" she quoted aloud, "'and show you're Hyde.' As in, 'You are Hyde.'"
"Double meaning!" Betsy slapped the pillow between them. "Aunt Jackie, you're a genius!" Her breathing had been dicey all evening, but she edged dangerously close to hyperventilating. "Oh, my God—"
Brooke rubbed her back. "Betsy, honey … it's just a song."
"No way! It's more than that," Betsy said. "The truth was in front of our faces the whole time! I mean, in our ears." She tugged on her ears and grunted. "I should've gotten it before!"
Brooke cast Jackie an apologetic look, but it wasn't necessary. Betsy was voicing Jackie's own feelings.
Degenerate Matter left the stage to a level of applause that vibrated the TV speaker. Afterward, Paul Reiser warned the band not to go too far, "unless you lose this next one. But, hey, then you can write a song called, 'Standing for Two Unnecessary Minutes'."
"Lame!" Betsy said.
"It really was," Brooke said. "I hope his stand-up act's better than that."
Up next was the award for Best Rock Performance by a Duo or a Group with Vocal. Brooke's ceiling descended upon Jackie further as the nominees were announced, and when "Singularity" was declared the winner, she clamped her mouth shut. She couldn't risk blurting that "Singularity" was her song, the one that introduced her to Degenerate Matter. The one Steven had written about her.
The band returned to the stage. Ro held onto the GRAMMY at the microphone, but she peered sidestage while speaking. "Yeah, this one … music and lyrics were written by the band's not-seen-but-very-much-heard fifth member. You might know him as O. MacNeil."
Screams and shouts from the audience caused her to stop talking. Brooke lowered the TV volume with the remote, but Betsy snatched the remote and raised the volume to its previous level.
The ceiling, meanwhile, was pressing on top of Jackie. She breathed in through her nose for a count of four, held that breath for a count of four, and exhaled through her mouth at a count of eight. Her therapist had taught her the technique. It often lowered her anxiety and curbed obsessive thoughts, and she repeated the breathing exercise several times.
"We know him as Steven Hyde," Ro said once the audience quieted down enough. She lifted the GRAMMY trophy higher than the mic. "This is his, so maybe he should get his ass out here."
Steven stepped from the darkness of sidestage into a universe of flashbulbs. The press was snapping as many pictures as it could, but a pair of sunglasses covered his eyes. Jackie hadn't seen him wear any since they were teenagers.
Ro passed him the GRAMMY once he was close enough. His fingers wrapped around the black base, and he said into the microphone, "How ya doin'?"
The audience screamed back a response. Brooke tried to lower the TV volume again, but Betsy wouldn't let her.
"Gonna have to get a saw," Steven said and tilted his chin at the GRAMMY trophy, "and cut this thing into pieces. Song wouldn't exist without the band … or the inspiration behind it. Thanks isn't the right word, but my part of the award belongs to Beulah."
Degenerate Matter didn't seem to get the reference. Nate Stack mouthed, "'Beulah'?" at Sherry Chambers, who shrugged.
"Who's Beulah?" Brooke said.
"No idea," Betsy said, but the ceiling had flattened Jackie's skull and slammed into her diaphragm. She couldn't speak, could barely think. Steven had acknowledged her during the biggest night of his life. She was significant to him beyond their private moments, orbited his solar system closer than she'd believed was possible.
Betsy tapped Jackie's shoulder. "Are you okay?"
"Huh?" She'd withdrawn into her own mind and sunk into the sofa, but she pushed herself up. "Just thinking about this Beulah mystery, like everyone else," she said, but her lips twitched, a stillborn grin.