Part 42
The Following Night, at the Start of the Concert
I linger in the darkened door of the chapel, nothing left living inside. I don’t see Nepotism, I don’t see Mephis Tyr, and most importantly, I don’t see Armitage. David Meyer mounts a larger drumset on the main stage, and the guitarists have taken their places. Solomon stands at the center mic, waiting.
True shock comes from the audience. Without counting ticket stubs and flyers, I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve seen Sado-Massochrist. The audience was always young punks and metal-heads wearing leather armor to protect from whatever Solomon launched at them. I haven’t seen him since he went Prog Rock and dated my ex-girlfriend, but back in the day you were sure to get bloody at a Sado-Mass show. Only question was whose blood?
The people in this audience are the tuxedo-and-evening-gown-clad partygoers from upstairs. There is probably more money in the wallets of the audience than I’ve seen in my life. What’s most bizarre is how excited they seem for the performance.
Before prison, Solomon’s shows were violent and unpredictable. He played increasingly shorter sets at increasingly smaller venues, opening for increasingly smaller bands. His music was genuine and catchy, and Solomon kept his die-hard fans no matter how many times he punched them in the face or pelted them with his own feces. Band members were frequent targets of his aggression as well, thus the turnover. Aiden Quartermass remained Solomon’s musical partner through roughly 70% of his career.
I immediately recognize the first song as the closest thing Sado ever had to a radio hit. “Abrahadabra,” was the only song with so little swearing the offending verse could be clipped from the end. The whole crowd is going fucking nuts, jumping and jabbering madmen. I can’t help but tap my foot and slap my thigh to the beat as well. I’ve never seen Sado play to anyone but an audience of filthy punks.
“Choose ye an island!” Solomon sings from somewhere in the atmosphere, his voice as cold and soothing as a doctor’s waiting room. “Fortify it! Dung it about with enginery of waaaaar! Iiiii will give you, will-give-you, a war-engine.”
“With it ye shall smite the pee-ples! None shall stand, none shall stand before you. Lurk! Withdraw! Lurk! Withdraw upon themmmm! Raise the spell of Ra-Hoor-Kuit! Raise the spell of Ra-Hoor-Kuit! This is the Law of the Battle of Conquest. Thus shall my worship be about my secret houuuuuuse. Raise the spell of Ra-Hoor-Kuit! Raise the spell of Ra-Hoor-Kuit! ”
I’m transfixed by the oily, serpentine dance. The words of the song are the honey on his dewy lips. “Spelling is defunct, all is not aught! Beware! Hold! Raise the spell of Ra-Hoor-Kuit! Raise the spell of Ra-Hoor-Kuit! Raise the spell of Ra-Hoor-Kuit! Raise the motherfucking spell of Ra-Hoor-Kuit! Kuiiiiiiiiit!”
Solomon stops. Bent over and seemingly exhausted. He fans himself and gets back to a standing position. He looks back and forth to the other band members. They give vague, non-committal shrugs. “I don’t think I’ve played a show this intimate since I was seventeen.” Solomon laughs, but no one else really seems to appreciate the humor. “I’d like to thank you all for a wonderful evening, I am in your debt, all of you. There would be no SpectraCom Holdings Incorporated if it wasn’t for you. Can I get a ‘hell yeah!’”
“HELL YEAH!” answers the audience.
Why is he calling these people employees? “There’s been some tension in the past,” Solomon says, serious voice. “Not everyone has agreed I should be standing here right now. These words come from men who believe in symbols, not action. These men cling to outdated ideas and strategies, and ignore earned merit. You want a sword, Joshua Solomon will give you a sword. First, I’ll give you something better. Stockholders of SpectraCom Holdings Incorporated, I am here tonight to prove my rights as your Chief Executive.”
Wild cheering.
The members of Sado Massochrist are still playing. Solomon’s shows were unscripted. At any point he could bash himself unconscious with a bowling ball, or try and eat a mouthful of broken glass. He would be rushed to the hospital, and none of the band would get paid or be given free beer. They met him later at the bus depot to creep out of town. Solomon got newspaper headlines, and the band got the bills.
Solomon punches himself in the groin with the microphone and doubles over. “This song is called the Empress and the Heirophant!” The music starts and Solomon bellows, “Here me, ye people of sighing! The sorrows of pain and regret are left to the dead and dying!” He smashes himself in the forehead with the steel-meshed microphone. “The Folk that not know me as yet!” No injury ever prevented Solomon’s assault, even when he knocked himself down. “Is a god to live a dog? No! But the Highest are of us!” He’s leaning into the crowd,“Our chosen shall rejoice, with sorrow are not of us. Hear me, ye people of sighing!”
The crowd cheered, “Woah hoa!”
Solomon sang, “The sorrows of pain and regret are left to the dead and dying!” If he noticed before, I did not see until now his eyes were on me at the back of the audience.
The crowd cheered, “Woah hoah!”
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