"ZLITZ FUCKIN' RULE! ZLITZ FUCKIN' RULE!" Ian shouted and stomped along with the crowd demanding an encore. High on concert energy, his pre-show joint mostly just a memory, he was right against the stage, practically vibrating at having been so close to his favorite metal band at his favorite venue. Favorite, only for being local; San Garibaldi was half a shithole, but it was growing on Ian since he'd moved here for SGSC.
School wasn't on Ian's mind a bit, though, as Fina, Mina, Tina and Dina emerged to retake the stage as the crowd whooped and cheered. "Shut up," Fina yelled into her mic; the crowd didn't oblige, until Dina stepped to her mic and cleared her throat.
Her brown skin glistening, Dina didn't have the snarl Fina usually wore, instead flashing a sly grin as Tina started picking out notes on her bright yellow Strat. Fina soon matched the sound on her own flying V, stepping back toward Mina's drumkit to give Dina the stage.
Having seen the Zlitz five times - six, now - Ian knew (and adored) that they liked to break out odd covers for encores, and sometimes Dina sang instead of the ferocious Fina. As the heavyset bassist began to sing, Ian recognized it as an old Squirrel Nut Zippers tune, "Low-Down Man," a great match for Dina's sultry lilt. Where the Zippers had been soft, though, the Zlitz were raucous; her voice was sweet, but the rest of the band rocked chords that soared in a howl of pain. Her pink highlighted afro twitching, Dina half-moaned half-sang as she plucked her bass. Tina's guitar solo was expressive but mean, drawing the crowd into the same anger at the wayward lover described by the lyrics.
As the song wound down Ian resolved to put a thank you post to whoever'd suggested it on Zlutz Central, the Zlitz' fan forum. He still had hopes for his own suggestion. Dina gave a little bow as the crowd cheered and clapped.
Then Mina, small behind her drum set but making a huge noise, held her hands in the air as her foot slammed an insistent thump, thump, thump, thump into the kickdrum. "Okay fuckers," Fina yelled into her mic, taking control again. "You guys done yet?" Ian yelled
NOOOO
along with everyone else, but Fina just grimaced again. "I don't give a fuck," she retorted. "We got two more. This one's for the New Times" -- she pumped her fist in the air in time with Mina slamming her floor tom - "FUCK YOU!" As she ripped into her guitar, Ian instantly recognized the Donnas' "Take It Off," and grinned.
Yesterday's article on the band in the local alt-weekly accused the Zlitz of ripping off the earlier femme rockers. The writer wasn't impressed by Tina's answer that they loved the Donnas, but the Zlitz were here and the Donnas sadly weren't. To Ian's mind the Zlitz were as good or better than their predecessors, but even more willing to be viewed as sexy; the sisters Fina and Tina were especially prone to wearing leather and lingerie that drew attention. The article also saw the band complaining about the lack of male groupies, exhorting any interested parties to "bring us hot food, no junk." Ian was sure they'd stolen that particular idea from the liner notes of Ween's Pure Grava album.
Tina's ample chest always seemed just about to fall out of her halter as she attacked her instrument; Fina's voice was a razor through the scruff of noise the band wailed, demanding a guy just get naked already. Ian was close enough to reach out and touch Fina if he wanted, but knew he'd probably get a pointed boot to the face for his trouble. But he kept thinking Fina was glancing down at him, demanding he stop staring at her D-cups and just give it up.
Little Mina was attacking her drums with joyful rage as Tina and Dina focused on playing, but Fina was rock star posing and strutting as she flung her instrument around. Again Ian was amazed they weren't signed to a major label, but then the Zlitz were everything that modern radio wasn't. Still he doubted he'd be able to get this close, if they were as popular as they deserved.
"Take it off baby for me," Fina oozed one last time as the song's final notes rang out, the crowd wild in Ian's ears along with his own screams of satisfaction. "Okay okay, shut up, idiots," Fina muttered. Ian grinned; like the other Zlitz devotees he was learning to like the magenta-haired siren's abuse.
"This last one's another request, and I gotta get a little looser," she grinned evilly to hoots of approval. Sticking her guitar on its stand, she shed her leather vest, her neon pink hotpants glowing in the lights, lace bra almost-but-not-quite translucent as she took a deep preparatory breath. "Okay sis... Let's go."
Tina shook her short rainbow-tinged spiky hair and waggled a little stiffness out of her hands. Then nodding in time at Mina she dove into the opening riff of the Cult's "Memphis Hip Shake."
Holy shit, they're playing it,
Ian's mind screamed on repeat for a few seconds as the band leaped into the tune. It was an eighties slow-burn banger, riffs sounding closer to the early seventies, with a stutter-blast of drums over a steady kick.
As the opening bars stopped, Fina looked hungrily out at the crowd as the music paused, before grinning over at her sister for a few long moments and slowly raising her mic to give a great Ian Astbury impression, crooning about a perfect way with the things that you play. Ian's heart soared at Mina's perfect drumming, a stop-start beat he considered crucial to the song, as Dina rolled her head in slow circles with the groove, her fingers dancing on the thick strings. Tina was concentrating on her playing while Fina pranced the stage, alternately growling and crying into her mic, informing the crowd they'd never get back home. As Tina's solo cut through the air, Fina turned and pushed her ass at the crowd, twisting and twerking a little.
After repeating the first verse again, the band jumped into a faster steady rhythm, working it a little speedier than the original. Fina was inches away from Ian once more, bits of sweat from her gyrating body hitting his face like rain. "Shake, shake, shake, shake," she groaned, then her hands were on Ian's head, pulling him into her crotch. She held him hard against the tiny tight shorts she rolled her hips in tight circles, glaring and repeating the word at the rest of the club.
For a half-second Ian considered biting at the polyester; before he could decide she shouted "SHAKE!" one last time, shoving him back against the rest of the screaming fans. Then she blew a kiss to the crowd before flipping the bird and stalking off the stage. Her bandmates waved to the applauding audience as they followed the metal chanteuse.
Then Ian was being clapped on the back and cheered by those he'd been shoved into. "Wow, man," a scruffy punk beside him gaped. "Did it smell like heaven?"
"Or hell?" A gothy blonde giggled. Ian was too stunned to do much more than nod at either of them, smiling feebly. "You'll be lucky if your nose doesn't fall off."
"Lucky," Ian repeated. Something about the word reminded him of the mission; he'd need a bit of luck now, not to mention some courage.
Twenty minutes later Ian's right hand was sweaty on the handle of his rolling soft-side, his left raised to knock on the green room door. Inside he heard women's voices and laughter.
This, this is insanity,
his brain was shrieking.
I can turn around and go home now, no one will ever know.
Still Ian hesitated, until:
But I'll know.
He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and heard his hand rap on the door.
Behind it the laughter ceased, and Ian jerked his eyes open two seconds later as the door opened several inches. There stood Fina, beer in one hand, cigarette in the other. She stared at him for several long moments, before throwing her head back in laughter.
"I fuckin' knew it!" she shouted, turning to address the room. "Pay up, bitches!"
Ian stared in confusion. "No way," a voice protested from behind the door. Fina pulled it open further, revealing the rest of the band staring at him.
"I knew he'd show," Fina shouted in triumph. "Twenty bucks each, motherfuckers!" Then she turned back to Ian with a sneer. "Yeah? The fuck you want?"
Ian's eyes jerked from the band to its singer. "I... I brought food," he croaked. His voice sounded a lot weaker than he intended, and he cleared his throat. "It's hot," he added.
"Fuck," Tina laughed, "I never thought that shit would work."
"Yeah," added Dina, "We should have bitched about no groupies a while ago."
"Maybe so," said Fina, looking Ian up and down as if deciding what pieces of him she could cut off to roast. "My idea to mention the hot food, though." She kicked gently at the suitcase. "What is it?"
"It's chicken. Uh, coq au vin." Fina continued to stare inscrutably. "Carrots, mushrooms, shallots, potatoes..."
"Ooooh!" Mina leaped up from her sprawl on the dingy couch toward the door. "I
