Part 72: The Following Evening.
The din of voices has returned to the party, covering our conversation again. A few have started to chuckle ominously about how pathetic the little adventure really was. Some are even suggesting that SpectraCom set the whole event to rattle them.
Like a coming storm, the air rushes to silence as Joshua Solomon blows onto the patio. He’s shaved his head once more, now that he’s done with an Off-Broadway of Jekyll & Hyde. Tonight he’s wearing a red and black tartan suit that look like pajamas.
Back in the day, he called himself “Public Enema Number 1.” Stage shows included cutting himself, bashing himself, and throwing himself from heights while singing songs about society’s downfall. He performed nude and ate laxatives before shows for diarrhea that he sprayed at the audience. He fought members of the crowd, and shows usually ended when the police arrived. After Solomon got out of prison, Sado Mass went Prog Rock and I stopped paying attention.
His eyes are on me. “Dr. Filth!” Solomon calls across the crowd, waving his arm. Guests part before him as he passes, shaking hands and congratulating, but Solomon doesn’t care. He wants to talk to me.
I’ve been a long-time fan. Not in the boy band days, that was stupid. When Solomon broke with his label, he put out the sickest, most offensive collection of ten tracks to ever hit the Internet. He called it “Sado-Massochrist,” and out-sold his first album before the end of the week. His third album debuted a month later, and he sold less than 100 copies.
“I didn’t see your name on the guest list,” says the sickest rocker to grace the planet. Most importantly, he knows my name. This is a guy who once plunged a microphone so far up his ass it needed to be removed with surgery, and he is aware of my position as persona-non-grata. That’s fucking cool!
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, extending my hand to shake his. Think about the interview. I came here to do a job. “I’ve been a really big fan for years.” Should I admit I sent him several emails thanking him for all his great music?
The first Sado-Mass album was shit, the music was written in an afternoon. Solomon never intended for the songs to be enjoyed. Sado-Mass was a clean break with any fan that remembered him for his more-than-glamorous beginnings. The second album has gems, but is mostly still songs about farting and getting wasted. He wrote all his own music after that, and made his mission to be the most offensive performer to ever hit the stage. If he wasn’t wearing pants he’d try and spray his audience with shit. He broke bottles and cut himself, and once knocked himself out with a bowling ball. Before another show, he shot so much heroin, he was pushed on stage as no more than a lump. Fans spent 20 minutes smashing bottles on him before getting bored and wandering off. He consumed any drug he was handed, and most shows ended in a frenzy of violence. Still, when Solomon put his mind to it, he could write a hell of a song.
He looks confused. Nepotism and Mephis could be helping, but they are not. “I swear we’ve met.” His iron talon grips my hand and as he shakes. I’m positive I feel actual claws digging in my skin. “You were always around the shows in Metro City, right? Anyway, I’ve been watching Unnatural non-stop. Your show is crazy shit!” He releases my grip and looks at my companions. “Who’d you come with?”
