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actually
because she wasn’t fond of men. Marilyn Manson was one of the rare
exceptions able to amuse her, but she didn’t say so either.
    “What’s your favorite band of the moment?” He
asked.
    With her left thumb pointed back to the stage
she answered:
    “They’re here tonight.”
    “And your favorite band of all times?”
    She thought hard, having decided to humour
him (shit, too good for my own good):
    “Patti Smith Group.” Her favorite lullaby
when she was 18 and the fairground would blast her ears out late
into the night. Patti had always been there for her, helping her to
forget the noisy world.
    The slightly speech-impedimented 37-year-old
struck with his best ace:
    “You’ve got the hots for the singer! You gave
her a bottle of whisky!”
    She corrected out of habit: “It was not
whisky, it was mescal.” And laughed, suddenly aware that after all
these years of rumours, legends and gossips, she was relaxed about
the assumption. Or was it the drugs? Back in the nineties she had
been credited with having the hots for Joan Armatrading. During her
too long stay in stinky Paris she had been suspected of fancying
her music partner (a very short musical association). And every now
and then, she had been told she was crazy for quite a few of her
favorite friends and acquaintances, mostly performers, for their
gorgeous looks or their tattoos or their piercings or their shaved
heads. When she had mentioned the name of the Bristol-based Rita
Lynch, she had heard the comments behind her back. But today, her
paranoia held at bay, she was beyond caring, and maybe beyond
reach. So, why not adding Terri from Second Look to the fancy “hot
list”. They would never figure her out. They would never understand
that Sid, or whatever her name was, was obsessed with music,
possessed with music and belonged to music. Her heart was probably
somewhere else, she probably didn’t know where herself.
     
    * * * * * * *
     
    Meanwhile, Alexi, Lita and Jenny, were
sipping their schnapps, contemplating an old Second Look sticker on
one of the big speakers in front of the stage: the fuzzy profile of
a smiling skull.
    “Cool!” exclaimed Alexi. “It would make a
cool tattoo!”
    The tapestry against the back wall of the
stage mesmerized Jenny. It reminded her of a childhood TV favorite.
This mighty rider only needed a Z meaning Zorro across,
instead of the name of the band.
    And then at last, Second Look were on stage,
Dawn wearing a silver, shiny top, one of many stashed in her
wardrobe, and Terri a sober, black T-shirt affiliating her with
every possible bad girl in the world. One could expect her to live
up to the label. She started haranguing the audience, counting the
“virgins” sandwiched between the screaming groupies. Ah, the night
was about to be great. After a few words of appreciation about the
banners at their Mardi Gras gig the previous Saturday, Terri
launched her voice into their first gripping number. One of the
many variations on the will you be the one theme.
    A heavily pierced and tattooed woman got up
and took the empty space between stage and tables, a look of
beatification all over her face. Green Mohican joined in, rhythm
had taken her body over. Sid’s second rule: never go on an empty
dance floor, too easy, second is best. Alexi decided to wait. Lita
and Jenny preferred a bit of a crowd.
    For the second song, the audience watched Sid
dancing all over the floor, on her own, but proud and comfortable.
Wild, free. Her eyes darting left and right. Crossing swords with
the punters. Their eyes unknowingly transferring energy to her
manic feet, her supple joints and her moving limbs. The more they
looked, the harder she danced.
    By the time Terri started to go on about wearing the star of the sheriff , she had had a few shots of
tequila and the crowd had warmed hot to her voice, to Dawn’s music,
to the point of breaking their restraining chains and taking over
the dance floor. Lita was pogoing just in