"Martin, Michael A - AtTheCavern" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin Michael A)

"skiffle" band (guitar, bass, and tea chest) as we made our way to a
conveniently vacant table near the front. To get a table so near the stage in
this crowd, my counterpart must have had some pull with somebody. The band, a
scruffy, antisocial-looking lot, was swiftly replaced by another just as we took
our rickety/wooden seats.

All five of the musicians in the new band were clad in black leather pants and
western shirts with string ties. The drummer was a brooding James Dean type, his
hair thrown up into a huge pompadour, his expression a narcissistic, brooding
pout. Agawky, incredibly young guitar player stood to the right side of him.
Beside him stood a slight, intense young man in shades, a bass guitar nearly as
massive as himself slung across his slight shoulders. At the opposite side of
the stage stood a young man with a backward-strung guitar, an Elvis haircut, and
the big puppy eyes of a Japanese cartoon character. And center stage, right
before the stage's single microphone stood the man whose life I was here to
guide, the man whose career and eventual literary output I was here to
safeguard.

My Subject, a man I'd only seen in holos and book-jacket photographs, stood
staring down the crowd, arrogantly myopic. I knew he couldn't see anything
without his glasses. I also knew that he was renowned for hating crowds. Maybe
not being able to see them made them easier to face. My Subject lifted a black
and white Rickenbacker guitar and slung it onto his body, holding it low,
looking dangerous.

He counted fast to four and the band began a loud, discordant rendition of an
old rhythm-and-blues composition I vaguely remembered from somewhere (remember,
I never followed such stuff, at least not on my timeline). He sang or screamed
rather, about twisting and shouting and shaking it on out, to an ebullient
chorus of du-wops from the too-young guitarist and the big-eyed kid. The
audience drank and stomped and danced and hooted and fought. They repeated this
response even more vehemently during the second number, whose lyrics consisted
largely of a greed-soaked litany of "Money, that's what I want."

I was confused. Sure, my Subject had dabbled in this stuff, this "rock 'n'
roll", nonsense, during his art school period, but not for very long. This
certainly wasn't what history would one day immortalize him for. Rock 'n' roll
would be a mere footnote in his career, really. A curiosity. At least that's the
way it would play on my timeline.

I had to find out more. I noticed that my counterpart had lost himself in the
deep basso pounding and the shrill screaming from the little Fender amplifiers,
but there were questions I needed answered. I grabbed him by the arm and put my
face next to his ear.

"I can't hear myself think m here!"

I dragged him through to the door, weaving like a bee dancing the location of a
cache of pollen, and maneuvered us through the spastic crowds. In the street,
and around the corner, I spun my counterpart about to face me.