"What audition?" Astaroth repeated. When he gets upset, his voice turns annoyingly shrill, like an hysterical old lady's.
"Are you a member of the rock club?" the girl asked haughtily, scanning our group with a condescending look.
"We had an agreement with Yevgeny!" our frontman stubbornly stuck to his story.
"I have no record of your conversation," the girl shook her tangled mane. "Only rock club members get into the concert lineup without an audition."
"But no one told me about it!" Astaroth's face looked wounded, and his lips started trembling.
"Then you're not performing this time," the girl shrugged imperiously. "You can attend as spectators. Go to the main entrance and buy tickets at the box office. They're still available."
"But we had an agreement…" Astaroth repeated. His neck and cheeks were now covered in red blotches. Looks like our hellish superstar is having a tough time; I should try to salvage the situation.
I grabbed the almost-crying Astaroth by the sleeve and pulled him back into the corridor. From somewhere deep within the cultural center, the unmelodious sounds of instruments being tuned echoed. Voices—lots of voices. Laughter, shouts, and chants. It seemed like everyone here was already drunk.
"Astaroth, keep it together," I said, watching his nervously twitching face. "Need a slap to snap out of it?"
"But we had an agreement!" he screeched. "We hung out at 'Korzhy' together, and he said our band absolutely had to perform at Rock Province. Fresh blood… Freedom…" He started to sob distinctly.
I delivered a sharp slap across his face without much of a wind-up. His head jerked to the side, and he stared at me with wide, round eyes, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.
"Cut the drama," I said. "I'll try to sort this out, okay? Just stand here and don't let anyone else in, got it?"
"You hit me!" Astaroth protested.
I grabbed him by the collar, pulled him closer, and whispered in his ear.
"Otherwise, you would've started bawling like a bitch."
Astaroth swallowed, straightened up, and glanced at the silent Kirill, Belphegor, and Behemoth.
"Alright, wait here," I said, opening the door. "And don't let anyone in."
The girl was still at her post. The almighty notebook lay before her, and she was staring at her flat face in a tiny round mirror. I watched her for a couple of seconds as she wet her finger and smoothed out her eyebrows before I cleared my throat.
"Got a minute?" I asked, putting on a friendly smile.
"What do you want?" she grumbled and hastily shoved the mirror into her pocket.
"Amen, sister," I said meaningfully. How do these metalheads even talk? I sat down in the chair opposite her and leaned forward conspiratorially, palms open. It's actually good that one of my hands is bandaged—it adds a sympathetic touch. "It's been one hell of a day, hasn't it? I can only imagine how worn out you are…"
"Yeah…" she shrugged and looked at me with suspicion.
"I worked at the 'Rock Generator' in Ust-Ilimsk last year, so I totally get what you're going through," I said, moving my hand just enough to brush against her fingers. She flinched but didn't pull her hand away—a good sign.
"Never heard of it," she drawled. The hints of gatekeeper authority still lingered in her voice, along with some wariness.
"It's tiny, just a dozen bands from Transbaikal," I chuckled. No wonder she hadn't heard of it—I'd just made it up. I've never even been to Ust-Ilimsk; I only knew it's somewhere in the Irkutsk region.
"It was a total circus," I laughed. "We were about to start the concert, the audience was already there, and our lead singer from 'Thursday Creepers' was drunk and puking in a corner. Couldn't sing a note. We had to redo the whole setlist on the fly. And in the middle of everything, the equipment crapped out. I was running around like crazy trying to fix it all."
"You get it!" A smile finally spread across her plain, unattractive face. "I've lost ten kilos in the last week—I had to punch a new hole in my belt."
"Amen, sister!" I repeated. "After 'Rock Generator,' I made it a rule to always check in with the admin and offer moral support. If I had the cash, I'd even bring a little gift. It's so unfair—those guys on stage clown around and get all the applause, but real heroes like us stay in the shadows."
"That's so true…" she sighed. "I'll sit here for five more minutes to calm down, then I have to go deal with it. 'Jan and the Zeppelins' are drunk but still somewhat functional. And Goose passed out in the bathroom. I talked to his 'Bride-less' bandmates—they said they'll try to sober him up, but they're barely coherent themselves. Punk rockers, jeez. And 'Pinochet' is in the same boat. I'll be lucky if they even make it on stage…"
I listened, nodded in sympathy, and kept holding her hand.
"Maybe I can help out, fill in for someone, so you don't have to rewrite the schedule?" I asked sympathetically. "My guys are responsible—haven't touched a drop before the show."
"Oh…" she sighed. "Let me check. Okay, yeah… We've got newbies in the second set. There was supposed to be this band 'Kryzhopolis,' but they bailed. And Arthur from 'Promiscuity' got his face smashed in. Can you wait backstage and stay out of sight?"
"No problem," I nodded.
"Then here…" She opened the desk drawer, rummaged around, and pulled out a cardboard card with the number "12" scribbled on it with a marker. What it signified, who knows—I didn't ask, and she didn't explain. "Take your guys and head to the dressing room. When the second set starts, I'll call you, okay?"
"Amen, sister!" I repeated for the third time, squeezing her fingers in gratitude and adding a look of admiration. Judging by the blush on her cheeks, it worked. "I'm Vova, by the way. For friends and those in the know—Belial."
"Svetlana," she introduced herself. "But people usually call me Claire."
"Alright, I'll stop distracting you," I said, standing up and shaking her hand again. "Good luck, hang in there. If you need anything, just signal—I'll be around to help, but I won't be performing because of my arm."
"Oh…" She looked at me with the eyes of a tired kitten. Even her not-so-pretty face looked rather cute in this moment. The stressed-out gatekeeper had transformed into an adorable little bun.
I stepped outside, carefully closing the door behind me, and waved the cardboard with the number twelve in front of my goth friends.
"But how did you…" Astaroth gaped.
"Trade secret," I cut him off. "Let's go find the dressing room. We're up in the second act."
Of course, Svetlana-Claire didn't promise anything for sure. We're just on standby, and there's a chance she won't even let us on stage. Not that I'm some kind of expert in all this stage stuff, but I have a hunch the place is pure chaos. If we play our cards right, my "Angels of Satan" might actually make it to the stage. If there's any delay, meltdown, or someone drinks too much—or worse—we could step in. The atmosphere here is exactly what you'd expect. The main thing now is to keep my guys from getting hammered. But honestly, I wouldn't mind letting them take a shot for courage… They're all looking like schoolkids who just heard the word "colloquium" for the first time—completely lost and already scared.
"Why are you just standing there? Take your number," I nudged Astaroth in the side and handed him the cardboard.
"You're acting kind of… different," Astaroth muttered, giving me a slightly fearful look.
"If I can't play, I might as well be useful!" I laughed, waving my bandaged hand at everyone.
"Yeah, come on, guys, let's go!" Belphegor perked up, grabbed Astaroth by the sleeve, and dragged him deeper into the venue. "I know where the dressing room is—my mom used to bring me here for dance classes when I was a kid."
You could only feel sorry for the director of this community center. Rockers of varying levels of intoxication were wandering the hallways. The place reeked of smoke, and it wasn't just tobacco. The staff, if any were left, had hidden away in some secret corners and were nowhere to be seen.
People took us as one of their own. Drunk girls clung to us for hugs, and long-haired guys waved and yelled something friendly. At one point, a group of mohawked dudes with black stars painted on their cheeks raced by, shouting "Yippee!" and "There's no one better in this world than Augusto Pinochet!" Yeah, even without badges, it was obvious who they were. They still looked lively, but they were enthusiastically passing around a bottle of some rotgut, so whether they'd make it to the stage or not depended on how much booze they had left.
My guys started to perk up, eyes shining in anticipation—especially "good boy" Kirill, who looked downright delighted. He was like the embodiment of "the pure excitement of a newbie discovering the backstage world of provincial rock." As far as I know, we didn't have any booze with us—just our instruments. Alcohol requires money, and they'd all spent theirs yesterday. So, it seemed we were the soberest people in this mess.
As we approached the dressing room, a disheveled guy in his thirties stumbled out. His blond hair stuck out in all directions, and under his open leather jacket was a torn t-shirt. He held a bottle of vodka in his hand.
"Guys!" he beamed and spread his arms wide. "I know who's gonna drink with me right now!"
Something about him seemed really familiar. Like I'd seen him somewhere before. And not that long ago, either.
Except… wasn't he… older?
Meanwhile, Astaroth was already hugging the friendly rocker. They seemed to know each other.
"Got anything to chase it with?" Astaroth asked.
"Just sniff my hair—I haven't washed it in two weeks!" the guy laughed.
Astaroth sighed, took a sip, grimaced, and handed the bottle to Behemoth, who also drank. I kept staring at the guy, trying to figure out where I'd seen him.
"You get it!" the guy shouted, slapping Astaroth on the shoulder. Behemoth coughed and passed the bottle to Belphegor, who looked at me nervously. I shook my head, silently telling him not to drink—they still had to perform.
"Come on, brother, take a swig!" The guy in the leather jacket leaned forward and draped himself over Astaroth's shoulder. "You're a rocker, aren't you?"
And then it hit me. The realization rang in my head. He didn't look so bloated now, and there wasn't a gut hanging over his belt. But it was definitely him—the same guy who tossed that grenade back in '23. The one who was shouting something about young punks, complaining about vegan punks, and loudly demanding vodka.
And now he was shaking Belphegor's shoulder, insisting he drink. My redheaded friend awkwardly turned away but eventually gave in and pretended to take a sip. But it was clear he just faked it. He didn't even bother "chasing it" with the rocker's hair, instead burying his nose in his sleeve.
"What's with you standing there like you're lost?" the rocker's bleary eyes landed on me. "Teetotaler?"
"Yeah, I'm an ulcer patient!" I laughed and reached for the bottle. More than anything, I wanted to smash it over this "kind soul's" head. But instead, I patted him on the shoulder and shoved the half-empty bottle into the pocket of his jacket. Then I put my arm around his shoulders. "Peace, brother! Make love, not war!"
"Oh, you get it!" The long-haired guy hugged me back. I turned to Astaroth.
"Get moving to the dressing room!"
"Hey, I didn't drink!" Behemoth whined. He was standing in the perfect spot for me to jab him in the gut with my free elbow. He grunted, but seemed to get the hint.
"As Don Juan said, what's the point of knowing things that are useless to us? Right, brother?" I pulled the long-haired guy toward the wall to clear the path. Astaroth and the others slipped into the dressing room. Not that it was much of a refuge—probably filled with the same kind of punks as this guy. But it's still better than getting drunk in the hallway with him...
"But you get it…" The long-haired guy's tongue tangled as he spoke. "We need to drink to that right now!"
I sighed and scanned the hallway, looking for someone to pass this treasure off to. Meanwhile, he'd already pulled the bottle out of his pocket again and took a big swig, the liquid gurgling happily.
"Yo, brother!" I flashed a grin and grabbed the sleeve of a guy in a leather jacket covered head to toe in small metal trinkets. "We need a third! The prophecy says that the truth will be revealed only to those whose brains are split into three!"
'What nonsense am I spouting?' I mentally chuckled. But the nonsense seemed to suit my new companions just fine. The "metalhead" eagerly joined our little circle, and the long-haired guy got distracted by his new victim. This gave me the chance to slip out of his grasp and disappear into the dressing room.
Calling it a dressing room is a stretch. There were no mirrors framed with lightbulbs or any of that stylish noir stuff. Just a fairly large, oddly-shaped room, with one wall completely lined with hooks for clothes—all of them occupied. In the corner were some bundles of who-knows-what, with a bearded guy lounging on them, accompanied by two girls in short skirts hiked up nearly to their waists, fishnet stockings, tangled hair, and faces caked with heavy makeup, radiating bliss. At the only mirror, a group in greasy denim were doing something crucial—trying to tease their hair into mohawks with their fingers.
On the windowsill sat an old man with a long, surprisingly well-combed mane. He was delivering a sermon-like speech, gesturing dramatically to himself.
"…for true rock is a divine revelation! And for God, there is neither Greek nor Jew, for we are all people! Humans! And rock 'n' roll awakens this unity within us, making us reach out to one another…"
I exhaled. It seemed relatively calm in the dressing room. I spotted a couple of bottles of Moldovan port wine among the crowd, but overall, the atmosphere was pretty functional. The rowdiest drunks had wandered off into the venue, since their free spirits craved the open air… Damn it. Even that windbag on the windowsill managed to infect me with his poetic speech.
"Hey, Belial, let's talk," Astaroth pulled me aside.
"Well?" I gave him a questioning look.
"Why are you acting like the boss around here?" our frontman bristled. "Are you our mom or something?"
"I thought you wanted to perform," I shrugged. "If the goal was to get wasted and pass out in a puddle of vomit, just say the word..."
"What are you…?" Astaroth started getting riled up again. I grabbed his shoulder and looked him in the eyes.
"Cool it," I said quietly. "You're acting like a drama queen. We've got forty minutes until the show, you still need to do your makeup and get ready. But instead, you're wasting time on nonsense."
"I know what I'm doing!" he snapped, trying to pull away. "Maybe we'd be better off without you!"
"Sasha, why are you starting this?" I chuckled. "I'm just trying to help since I can't play."
I waved my bandaged hand in front of his face.
"So get it together!" I put my arm around his shoulders. "Take a breath, get a drink of water or something. We need to light it up today so hard that even Hell will applaud us, right?"
"I'm not…" Astaroth tried to pull away again, but I didn't let go of his shoulder. He pouted, then looked at me from under his brows. "You're acting weird today."
"It's just the way I am!" I laughed. "The whole world's weird—what are you so surprised about? Let's not fight. Today's a big concert, and you're the superstar. So go on and get ready—Satan's watching you!"
I nudged our frontman toward Belphegor, who had already secured a relatively free corner with a small table and laid out a box of makeup on it for the "Angels of Satan."
I leaned back against the wall and exhaled.
Yep, that's the world of rock 'n' roll for you. I've got to say, the smoking ban indoors was a brilliant idea. Here, everyone was smoking, and it seemed like it was happening everywhere. I could already feel how badly my clothes would reek once this festival was over and I finally headed home. Where exactly home was, I still had no clue, but that was a minor detail. I'd figure it out as I went.
The dressing room door creaked open, and Svetlana-Claire's disheveled head peeked in. Her wild eyes scanned the room before locking onto me.
"Vova! You're here! Thank goodness!" she said excitedly. "I've got an emergency, can you help me out?"