Maternal instinct- mothers in general, are something I'll NEVER understand. Ever. Mine especially, being the queen of paranoia, was overly neurotic. The only explanation had to be a built-in sensor for trouble afoot.
The moment I got in the car after returning from the show, without missing a beat, without even looking at me, she said, "You smell like cigarettes and pot. Start talking."
And it was all downhill from there. I was grounded before I even set foot in the house, due to a lack of a respectable explanation. I went straight to my room.
However, for now, that was perfectly fine with me. It gave me plenty of time to reflect on Roger's show.
Honestly, I hadn't known what to expect. As mentioned, The Well Hungarians were a punk band, entailing furious chords changes, searing bridges, and catchy hooks that were gone before the song had sunken in completely. It made for an ineffable experience, and I wished I were more extroverted, or at least had other friends here so I could leap about in the surging moshpit. I hadn't established any fan credibility to even tap my foot to the beat just yet. So I sat in the back and watched in amazement and grinned like an idiot and filmed every second of it.
As much as the Hungarians captivated me with their angsty punk fury (I admit I'd undoubtedly deleveloped a taste for the genre within minutes) it was the few ballads that held tighter.
As it turned out, Roger was their lead singer and well as the lead guitarist, and he sang more fervently, and with more raw passion than any mainstream artist in comparison.
Indeed, he had reason to…
The second he stepped on the stage, his persona clarified that in front of that microphone was were he belonged. He released every last inner demon onto the screaming crowd, whirling about and chugging away at his guitar.
The other people in the band looked like interesting characters. Joe-, whom I'd been introduced, stood solidly and showen no visible signs of enjoyment whatsoever. He strapped the bass tightly around him and played rigidly in all seriousness.
The drummer- as is stereotypical of drummers- was wild. His hair, which was pink, flew every which way. I imagined he'd taken ecstasy or something like it before the show, and I spent the moments staring at him on pins and needles, expecting him to keel over of hyperventilation or cardiac arrest. He never got that lucky.
The other guitarist was there for the iconography. He resembled Roger in appearance, but in no way housed much mystery. He was probably just some kid they picked up from the neighborhood that knew how to play second guitar and had heard of the Ramones or some shit like that. He was a "poser" to my knowledge, and the only reason he was probably in this band was because they needed him. Still, he had the unwritten consent to NOT contain his joy, unlike me.
The lyrics of the songs weren't cheesy- nowhere near it, actually. They were almost tear jerking. But the song titles on the other hand were a tad embarrassing: "Sell Your Soul", and "Twilight Suicide", for example. I imagined Roger wrote the songs and the drummer named them. If that was the case, I wondered why Roger allowed it. Maybe he didn't want to be the boss over everything in the band.
The crowd worshipped them. You could pick the hardcore fans from the outsiders, and people like me. Many sang along, uninhibited, and several wore homemade band shirts. These people stood closer to the edge of the stage, but no one seemed to mind. I hypothesized that the level of band knowledge tapered off as one moved further away from the stage. If this was true, well, I was alone in back.
Several concertgoers caught onto this, and in between sets bounded over to me to shake my hand or clamp me on the shoulder reassuringly.
Many of them were stoned, and the verbal exchanges consisted of, "Hey man! Who're you? You know Roger? Awesome. That is so awesome. This band is so awesome! Awesome. Well, see you around man!"
I did a lot of smiling and nodding in agreement throughout the course of the night.
When there were about four songs left in the second set, a girl walked over to me.
I froze up a bit.
I hated talking to girls. I liked girls.
A lot.
But…my only interactions with the female species were basically with my mother, my sister, the gossipy old Orthodox Jewish ladies at temple, and all the naked women. In my head.
…When masturbating.
I wanted to disappear. That…wasn't happening.
"Hi." She said, blushing.
She was blushing? Amazing. Maybe she thought I was cute.
The concept made me blush in return.
"Hi." I replied.
"I've never seen you around before…" She remarked.
"Yeah, no… I uh, just recently met Roger-" I pointed. "He asked me to come."
"Oh! Cool. So…how do you- how do you like it so far?"
"Oh man! It AMAZING!" I gushed. My voice cracked and was louder than I planned it to be. I blushed even redder. "I mean- I really like it."
She giggled, but not rudely. "Hi. I'm Jenny." She did an awkward little wave/courtesy, and sat down in the empty chair next to me.
"Mark." I said. "I'm…Mark."
"Oh. Nice to meet you Mark."
"Yeah! Nice to meet you too Jenny." Boy, did I suck at talking to girls.
A few grueling moments of silence passed, then she said, "I saw you filming before."
"Oh? Oh! Yeah, yeah, I uh, I'm into filmmaking."
"Really? Oh, that is so cool!"
We fell silent again. She tugged at the hem of her miniskirt and I twiddled my thumbs and stared into my lap. This was really terrible.
I got pissed. I wanted her to go away now. I had nothing more to say to her, and I didn't want to sit here anymore feeling like I had to make polite conversation, when I could be enjoying the last two songs.
I sighed.
"Uh- is there a bathroom?"
"Oh yeah, um, upstairs, to the…left. It's like, a blue door."
"Okay. Thanks."
I waved goodbye, symbolizing that I planned to pee for a purposefully long time, and that she shouldn't expect me back before the night was over. She didn't look very disappointed, and I thanked my incredible lack of charisma for that.
I found the bathroom and peed for a whopping three seconds. For no apparent reason, maybe to kill time, I filmed the bathroom. Then I filmed the neighbor's yard. There was a bulldog on a leash tethered to a grill.
I sat on the toilet, listening to the bass drum's vibrations through the floor, and Roger's raspy vocals drifting through the AC vent.
Soon came the traditional "thank you and goodnight", the screaming crowd, and eventually the sounds of people leaving.
I washed my hands, and made my way back down to the basement. A few stragglers spoke with the band members. I spotted Roger packing up his electric guitar into a case.
"Roger…that was AMAZING! Really, I can't even begin to describe how much I loved that."
He shifted his shoulders boastfully. "Hate to say I told you so."
We left soon after that. I waved energetically at Joe on the way out, and clapped furiously. He flashed me a grateful thumbs-up.
To both our dismay, the preshow events came rushing back to Roger the minute we stepped outside.
He did not say this out loud, but it immediately showed on his face and in his mannerisms. He grew tense, and his temper flared up.
He kept his jaw set and said nothing all the way home.
Before I got out of the car, I turned, and looking him in the eyes, said, "Look, if there's anything I can do-"
"There's not."
"No, really-"
"Please Mark. I am so fucking sick of, 'Oh Roger, Oh God, Oh no. What can I do!' Don't be a saint. You aren't Jesus Christ, okay? Oh that's right. Jesus doesn't exist for you. Well then, great. That makes two of us."
It felt like something stabbed me in the heart. I took a deep breath, and tried not to sound like that last comment really worried me.
"Uh, hey… I got your entire show on film- silent of course, sorry- but if you'd like to come over and watch it sometime…"
He smiled weakly. "Really? Cause that'd be fuckin' awesome."