Who: Indie, appearances by Blues [Narrative, Open to Blues]
What: When the soul of indie rock dies, it takes an new love and a lot of battling to resurrect it.
When: Monday night.
Where: Indie's apartment, SoHo
Warning: Epic melodrama, very minor mentions of drug use and suicide.
Curled on the end of the couch, she watched him - his body hunched over the new guitar, slightly out of tune, fingers brutalizing the neck with one hand and plucking mercilessly at the strings. The look of stern concentration on his face was occasionally broken up by grimace or a slight smirk that tugged up the corner of his lips when a note hit just right and reverberated through his fingertips. Now and then his eyes would close and he would just play, like the guitar in his arms was some beautiful woman splayed across his lap and he was simply feeling out the ways to make her sing for him. She never thought she could feel envy for an instrument before.
She wondered if he knew how closely she was watching him, how her gaze was locked on the sometimes manic movement of his fingers except for when it flashed up for just a moment to stare at the expression on his face. She didn't know which one was more fascinating to her, the way he played or how expressive he was when he did it. She didn't know where to focus herself; it was all of him that she wanted to fix herself on.
At some point, as she was lost in some thought, his hands stopped and he set the guitar back in its case, closing the lid and latching it all up. The sound of metal clicking was what brought her attention back around and she was staring at his hands again, the way dark hair fell in front of his face as he leaned over to tuck everything away. He was finished, for a time, and even though she never wanted him to be finished, she didn't say anything as he rose from the chair, leaned the guitar case against a table, and passed by her towards the bedroom, his hand grazing her bare arm as he moved; a silent invitation, perhaps, to follow him. After all this time of living together, they still kept separate rooms - all part of the vast network of denial that was keeping her feeling at least somewhat like she wasn't completely losing her mind. Otherwise, she wasn't sure if she could handle this at all.
Letting her legs slide from the couch, she thought for a moment that she might get up and answer his invitation, but her gaze fell on the guitar case before she managed to motivate herself to her feet. It made her a bit heartsick to look at it - even though she had picked it out and bought it for him. He played and she watched, only watched, while she longed to share this with him and have him smile at her the way he smiled at that guitar in his lap. She wanted for attention constantly, did increasingly more outlandish things to get it as well; but mostly, now, she wanted attention from him.
Was that why she was going through all this trouble, seeking advice from the older members of her family, forcing herself through one means or another to take that advice, to just stop thinking about all the reasons why she shouldn't - shouldn't play again, shouldn't tell him how she really felt about him - and just do it. For his attention. Because she wanted to make him smile. The only thing that kept her from completely collapsing in on herself at the mere thought was just how utterly selfish it all was. And that was an easier pill to swallow than the idea that she might be doing any of this selflessly. And maybe that's just the thing she'd been searching for: inspiration, something to ignite the flame of passion in her again and remind her why she loved the music - and not just her own.
*
The intervention was not exactly what one would call a resounding success. After spending a full hour swearing at them and trying to throw punches at his brother - who just stood there as stoic and unamused as ever - Evan finally resigned himself to going to the clinic. They were all sure, even Ian, that he wouldn't last two weeks in there, much less actually clean up the junk that was threatening to end his career and destroy the very foundation on which he stood. Ian had gone through his own withdrawal from drugs and had been sober for going on seven years at this time and he could feel his brother's pain. He'd been forcibly made clean, he didn't have a choice in the matter, it was all the direction the scene took, tugging on his puppet-strings. Evan's introduction to sobriety was given to him by those closest to him, those who cared.
Ian had spent the last two years trying to pick up the pieces that his brother left behind, cleaning up messes and acting as parent, babysitter and sometimes his only friend just to be there for him when he inevitably shut everyone else out. They had businesses to run, bands to keep running... Though since the widely-publicized brawl that led to the end of Ian's own musical endeavors, he simply hadn't had the energy to concentrate on trying to pick up his own broken career. Everything in his life was focused on his brother - that was how it had been in the beginning, it was how it would probably be for ever.
Back in London, before the tides of music shifted and brought them to the States, it had been Ian who was riding high on success and the constant buzz of power. His brother had been little more than a newly-formed thing with budding prospects and keen ability for striking at just the right moment. He had talent that made his twin endlessly proud, if only he'd work a little harder at applying it. It was then that this all started, he supposed, this codependency between them. Having been one body, one mind, for so long, it was hardly a surprise that now they were apart they craved that closeness still. Ian did everything he could to support his brother. Now, in America, he felt much the same way again - the only difference was that it was that Evan was the one with the success and the power-high and Ian was merely floating along on what he'd established years ago.
He felt a lot of regrets these days about what the scene had become. He felt powerless over it all and utterly out of control of his own life. Drugs had consumed him while they consumed the scene and when that was no longer in style, they were ripped out of him. The shifting politics made it impossible for him to avoid the advocacy thrust upon him and the changing influences. He could resist, but it would be a futile effort. Not even the music was constant. Every day independent labels, feeling the slow economic decline, signed their reputations away to major labels. What was once a underground badge of honor was now a mainstream niche, a mere sound. The soul of indie rock was dead. And Ian felt it through to his bones. But they changed, he told himself. None of them were meant to remain static. They were all constructed to change as the music changed.
Maybe that's why he chose to forget himself and become little more than a caretaker to his brother. It helped, feeling useful, since every other time he turned around he felt more and more like he was simply fading away. As long as his brother was here, he could rest knowing that he wouldn't disappear completely. And that's what his life had become.
This intervention was nothing more than Ian's selfish attempt to make sure his brother stayed here for as long as possible and stopped trying to find new and innovative ways to slowly kill himself. He understood that it was the force of Evan's followers that drove him to such things, but that didn't mean he had to keep doing it. Fame - both as a genre as a mortal performer - had taken a very heavy toll on him. He was too young when it all happened, he was too inexperienced to handle it all, and while Ian was off in the desert trying to play muse to a few musicians desperately clinging to the idea that totally independent was still a possibility, his brother was falling further and further to every temptation put in front of him. It was because Ian had looked away, had left him to his own devices. It was his fault and now he had to fix it.
In the three months Evan was out in the desert himself, getting clean, `Ian moved them to yet another new home in New York and contemplated taking his guitar out of the case numerous times. But each time he looked at it, the only thing he could think of was how incredibly selfish he was being by continuing to chase after something he may never have again while his brother needed him more. Family was more important than the scene. The scene could take care of itself; Evan couldn't. Inevitably, it was shoved into a closet, buried beneath all the other instruments and left to be forgotten - though really it was like a Tell-Tale Heart, taunting from behind a locked door.
When Evan came back, it was easier to forget, easier to shove it aside in favor of making sure that nothing slipped out of place again. It was more important that he patch up things first - his family, his scene. Work kept him busy constantly, one endeavor after another in attempt after attempt to fill what was becoming a growing void. It was all meaningless, but denial was easy to cling to for someone who spent every day with hypocrites and frauds.
*
She couldn't say how long she'd been sitting there, staring at the same door where, three years ago, she'd packed away the Song and resolved to take care of business before pleasure or passion was a priority. That door hadn't been unlocked since her brother moved out, months ago, there was no reason to take that key from its hiding place and retrieve what was inside. But there was nothing left to tend to now and complacency had her by the hand. She wanted to do this - for her, for him. It was easy, she tried to convince herself. All she had to do was do it.
With a sigh, she forced herself to stand and, on shaky legs, made her way over to the baby grand piano nestled in the corner of the front room. Gently, she slid the cover up and brushed her fingers slowly over the keys - from white to black, white, white, black - coming to rest at the panel of wood at the end that easily slid out of place to reveal the little hiding spot within. The key was there, as it had ever been. Her nails slid between metal and wood and she felt the key cold against her fingers, the chill almost taunting her, daring her to set it back in there and forget this whole stupid idea. She turned it over a couple of times before letting it fall against her palm and glancing over her shoulder at the closet door. It was a looming thing, frequently ignored and untouched, like a tomb for what her music used to be. With a resolute sigh, her hand closed around the key and she made her way to the closet door, feeling as though she were fighting a losing battle of melodrama with herself.
They key slid right into the lock, clicked when she turned it and the door swung right open as she pulled her hand away. It was just a small closet, empty but for a pair of guitar cases inside. It wasn't nearly as foreboding as she'd thought it would be. Just think about what you love, she told herself, and let it flow. That was the advice she had been given and it was the advice she intended to take. If she could just make herself reach out...
It should not be this hard to just reach out and grab the damn thing, she thought as she closed her eyes and grabbed one of the cases by the handle, yanking it out and slamming the closet door before she got the chance to rethink it. A moment later she was sitting cross-legged on the floor and hand her old acoustic cradled in her lap, hands finding their place along the neck and body of the instrument, caressing the strings, the calluses on her fingertips seeming to remember exactly where her hands belonged. The first notes were scratchy, accidental tones that were the result of nothing more than reminding herself how the cords felt, but after a moment they started to come together and make a tune; the first thing that came to her mind. And she sang.
Elevator straight into my skull, the escalator rises as it falls. I swear our jet is crashin' in my mind. You can hold on but I wouldn't waste your time.
Farewell my black balloon...
The door just to her side clicked open and she could feel him standing there as she closed her eyes and just let it flow.