The decor of the renovated Underground is reminiscent of New York subways. Drab concrete flooring sits under walls covered with artful stylized graffiti backgrounded by deep red. The graffiti itself is musically inspired; geometric shapes mix with various instruments and musical notes, one wall which to the observant displays 'Stairway to Heaven' in its revealing design. The back wall behind the stage is an homage to The Beatles' Abbey Road album cover also with a secret message for the specially perceptive. As skilled as the work is on the graffiti, age shows in the worn patches, the faded paint and the wall underneath peeking out here and there.
The checkout counter near the door has a top made of thick glass dyed to look smoky and dirty with age. On the left wall, three booths sit: two are for listening to available record selections and the farthest, largest booth is a recording booth. Take-home karaoke and bands willing to squeeze in to cut albums are amongst the various uses of the last booth. A raised dais fitted against the back wall serves as a stage and display area for instruments for sale. A large floor-to-ceiling glass display case through which the Beatles mural can be seen through smoky glass displays a collection of rare and mint condition LPs, all Beatles at outrageous prices. Another glass case standing about 3 feet tall lines the right and most of the front wall. The low case holds other rare records of non-Beatles bands. On the open floor, six racks hold more easily found and used records ranging from Benny Goodman to Janis Joplin and any number of artists in between.
At the back hall to the right of the stage, there is a closed door marked 'For Employees Only'.
Compact is the word for him: wiry, maybe 5'6" in his beat-up black combat boots, with a sense of compressed energy and imminence like a coiled spring -- or a cocked gun. Never quite still for long, balance flowing through the balls of his feet. There's a striking intensity to his narrow blue-green eyes, the colour contrasting with his fair skin and spiky copper hair; just below the left is what at first appears to be a faint mole, but closer inspection reveals as a small, long-healed scar. His features are appealing, with high cheekbones and a good jawline, but it's the confident mien and roguish smile that most often seem to draw people in.
He's in a well-worn biker jacket of the traditional sort, all fairly closely fit black leather and silvery zippers and snaps. Beneath it, he's got nicely-fitting dark indigo jeans with a plain white tank, its ribbed cotton skimming close enough to hint at the musculature beneath. Over that, he's wearing a long-sleeved, navy blue shirt, unbuttoned; judging by the white-on-red number patches on the left arm, the flag patch on the right shoulder, and the round fleur-de-lis patch to the left of the collar, it was once part of someone's Scout uniform... probably not his. Okay, the 'Boy Scouts of the USA' patch over the right pocket's a hint, too. There's a couple leather-and-bead bracelets on one wrist and a length of ball-chain disappearing beneath his collar; his nails were apparently painted black some time ago, since they're starting to show chips. Late teens, most likely, and when he speaks it's in a mellifluous, southern-accented baritone voice.
This thin, wiry, short (5'6"), and moderately attractive man could be just on either side of 40 years of age. His medium-length, minimally styled hair is dark brown with the occassional strand of intermingled pure white. His attire, appearance, and mannerisms communicate that he's well-off, but certainly not wealthy.
Nicodemus is currently wearing loose-fitting blue jeans and a grey long-sleeved shirt. The exceptionally perceptive might notice his pants do not quite hang naturally over his right ankle. A cloak-like, charcoal gray longcoat envelopes his form, shields him from the weather, and masks much of his body language and movements. Still, when he moves, there's a sense of subtle, cat-like grace that comes from someone who's very familiar with how their body moves and what it's capable of. Brown leather gloves protect his hands, and a sensible pair of brown hiking boots protect his feet.
There's a noticeable scent of wood-smoke and ozone lingering in the air about him, possibly from an expensive cologne applied just a bit too heavily.
Friday, but before school and businesses let out, so the Underground isn't busy at the moment. Nick is at the counter haggling with the owner of the store over the trade-in store credit value of used bass guitar currently residing on the counter. It's got some The Cure and Smashing Pumpkins and The Cult stickers from the 90s on it--along with franticly ransom-noted-together cutouts from various magazines that surround the words "tH3 CenTAr caNN0t h0Ld"--and someone seems to have sealed them on permanently with a clear coat of polyurethane that has since become somewhat faded from age.
Felix would really appreciate having started looking theoretically old enough not to be in school much more if he really noticed how much less often he gets hassled about it. On the other hand, given the Rage, he probably gets hassled about many things less often than he once did. Two kids who probably SHOULD be in school glance at him from where they're poking through some used CDs, and shy just a little further aside to be definitely out of the way. He does look a bit irritated, although not so much that the movement of the less subtle of the kids doesn't elicit a smirk and a small shake of the head. The Galliard heads in the general direction of the counter, apparently knowing what he's looking for, but the bass on the counter snags his attention, and from it: Nick! He blinks, and flashes the kin a grin. "Hey! 'sup?" It appears to be a greeting as much to the owner as to him, but there's another glance to the bass, and the next part is only to the mage, "...you play?"
"Fine," the owner says to Nick. "Two-twenty-five in in-store credit, but not a cent more." The man pulls the old guitar across the counter, giving Felix a nod of recognition. Nick looks to the teen and says, "Trading in my old bass guitar. I had this sudden urge to start play again after I heard the Silversun Pickups 'Nightlight' song, but I wanted something new. Sturdier." The five foot six, slender-framed, middle-aged guy hardly looks like the kind of person who needs a 'sturdy' bass. But to each their own. "What's up with you?" he asks as his gaze sweeps over to the guitars for sale.
Somehow, the even shorter Garou doesn't look as though Nicodemus needing -- or at least wanting -- a sturdy instrument strikes him as odd at all. He DOES look rather like he just opened a Kinder Egg and found an actual diamond inside, or at least the key to an extremely stubbornly locked door. "Holy fuck, you play bass," Felix says, staring at him, "...you play bass and want to start playing again and like bands that don't suck. Do you have any idea how much trouble I been havin' findin' anyone around here who's a musician an' =ain't= strictly singer, lead guitar, or both? Shit, if you were a chick I might kiss you." A pause. "Unless you ain't willin' to play with me, in which case I might hafta burst into tears, an' I ain't done THAT since I was three."
Nicodemus looks sidelong at Felix, slightly amused, as he heads over to the guitars and picks one of them up. It's simple, uncomplicated, and solid, glossy black. He puts the strap on and holds it, gauging it's feel. "You have a band?" he inquires, apparently unaware of that little tidbit. "I haven't played in over a decade. And not publicly in almost two."
Felix follows, abandoning -- or at least putting off -- whatever brought him to the store in the first place. He gives a slightly frustrated puff of an exhalation at the question. "Not exactly, not since I left Memphis. Been =tryin'=, though. Took a while to get hold of a guitar an' an amp again, but mostly it's just... people. If I'da known it'd be this hard findin' folks, I woulda taken up drums instead." Probably not actually true. "So I ain't inclined to worry about you bein' outta practice all that much. It's prolly like ridin' a bike, anyhow." He glances over the other instruments currenly available, getting drawn a few steps over to check one of them out more closely -- deep green, and left-handed.
Nicodemus peels one glove off, then the other, revealing the bare skin beneath that rarely see the light of day in public. Both hands look perfectly normal. The brown leather gloves are placed to one side and fleshy fingertips touch metal strings. It's an intentional, reverant action. An introduction. No strumming at all. Just feeling. Eyes closed as he speaks, perhaps trying to recollect what to do beyond this point. "This has always been kind of a rough place for putting bands together. Those that do come together often quickly unravel. I used to be one of the people who'd get called in in emergencies when the bass player couldn't show up or had quit," he divulges. "I'm pretty quick on the uptake when picking up new songs," he explains. "And bass guitar is usually an accent rather than a lead or pivotal instruments, so.... It lends itself to musician substitutions being made."
Felix brushes his fingertips lightly across the instrument he's eyeing, but then leaves it be for the moment, turning his attention to watch Nicodemus instead. "How come they come apart so quick?" he asks, "I mean, hard findin' folks, that I get. Obviously. Is it just they end up havin' to go with folks who ain't real into it just 'cause there ain't a lot of other options? Or somethin' else?" He watches the communing-with-the-bass for a moment more before asking, "How come you quit doin' it?"
"I don't know," Nick says, perhaps not knowing--or remembering--why he gave it up. "Probably got bored. Time restrictions. College. And then a job," he offers as possibilities. "And then I just moved on, the bass merely another forgotten object buried in the back of the closet." His eyes open as he looks to his fingers and draws them along the strings, as if reacquainting himself with the touch and feel. "Give it a try?" he calls over to the owner, gesturing at the bass he's holding. The owner gives a nod towards the amp. "I'm not sure why local bands seem to bubble up and then expire around here. I suppose it's part of the natural life cycle of such things, given time and perspective. That or the lure of Seattle being so close that those who think they can make it pack up and leave eventually."
The Galliard considers this, still watching the introduction in progress. "Can't imagine just kinda... forgettin' about it," he says, "Or gettin' bored of music. Or performin'." A crooked half-smile, "'course, I can't imagine decidin' to be a cop, neither." He glances at the green guitar again, then back to Nick. "What'd you like playin', mostly?"
Nicodemus adjusts the amp down instead of the more traditional up, and then he plugs in. "Maybe less 'bored' and more 'interested in other things' then?" It almost seems like a suggestion. "But, yes, it was kind of hard to be a cop /and/ still hang in the same circles I ran in college. Which.... It's been a while, and the goth and grunge scene was pretty popular among the unpopulars back then. That's my roots and my old scene." He plucks out a slow chromatic scale, as if re-orienting where everything is and how to get it. One note per second. Done in 13 seconds. His timing is impeccable and doesn't waver.
Felix is leaning up against the nearest semi-appropriate piece of wall, watching Nicodemus closely while the kin plays a very slow and very precise chromatic scale on a glossy black bass, and seems to approve. "Ain't a bad scene," he says, continuing to look really-not-particularly-goth. Well, maybe the fingernails. Probably could get away with grunge, though.
Nicodemus finishes the first chromatic scale, jumps two octaves, and starts the next as he responds to Felix. "It had its merits. I like how both of them were full of a spirit of rebellion and independence and 'fuck you'." Of course, all this comes out in a level, easy tone of voice. He starts strumming a few major cords, timing still dead-on with that one-second-one-note/chord pace, fingers seeming recalling some ancient, ancestral muscle memories long since unused--but still in working order. "I just don't see anything resembling that in the modern music scene. But I haven't been paying much attention to the scene either."
"'s still there," Felix says, "It just mostly ain't burnin' up the airwaves. But was it ever? People runnin' the bigass station networks an' shit mostly ain't really in the business of any kinda rebellion an' independence that ain't sellin' nothin'. Not to say ain't nothin' =good= they're playin'... but they got their agenda an' that ain't it. Smaller stations, though, college ones an' shit, an' bands playin' clubs..." He shrugs, then grins, "An' hey, punk still ain't dead. So maybe there just ain't enough bands around here whippin' up that kinda spirit."
Nicodemus transitions from cycling through chords and into a repetitive melody--mostly one note with three others cycling in for accents. Nothing fanciful, but definitely a solid background accompaniment. Trance bass? 'Steady' and 'reliable' and 'uncomplicated' might be good descriptive terms for how he's playing. It does seem to be like riding a bike for Nick. "Grunge was definitely out there in the public eye. Goth less so, but... I think it just ate itself. And then made some abortive comeback with that whole Twilight series nonsense. And yeah, you do get some edgier stuff off the college station." Belatedly he adds, "I haven't gotten out much into the local music scene in a long while."
Felix rolls his eyes at the Twilight thing. The music is clearly much more pleasant to focus on, and he does, watching the kin play. A close observer might notice absent movement of his fingers, as if his hands were feeling slightly itchy. "Think it would be now?" he asks, "Serious question -- ain't like nothin' gets out there now, just it ain't a lot. But I dunno how different it useta be." He scans the instruments on display again, blinking and pushing off the wall as he notices one he somehow missed before, and moves over to it as if it might be magnetic. Right-handed, alas, but the body's been intricately carved into a scene of two dragons, the tail of one extending as inlays well up the neck. "Why're these always dragons?" he wonders, tracing along the body of one of them with a fingertip, "Dragons an' skulls..." Glancing back to Nick, "Anyhow. That seems to me somethin' you could fix easy enough, not gettin' out there much."
"Perhaps the better question is 'why are they not all dragons?'" Nick replies with a smile. The background music shifts, as if altering to accomodate some unheard song. "It used to be different. Clubs would have one or two nights each week devoted to the goth crowd. It was about both the music and the audience--being seen and in the scene alike. And grunge was this counterpoint to goth. And so close to Seattle like we are? It hit here pretty big. It just didn't have the staying power or the talent of the likes of Kurt Cobain and Nirvana. As that waned on the local music scene, I did, too." He hazards, "I guess I could give it a shot, if you think you can land a gig. I'm not sure I could do it regularly, though. Unless the pay has changed, it's nothing like I make at my job. And I really have to be in the mood. Mood can be a fickle thing."
"All dragons's borin'," Felix says, "...though, a'right, I grant dragons are pretty awesome. You could do somethin' awesome with a phoenix an' flames, though. An' I can imagine a really good one with, say, rats." Not that he or probably a fair number of the people who'd agree on that last part would ever be able to afford one, but in theory! Nick gets a bright grin for the sort-of-agreement. "I can. I mean, we gotta play some, get some songs, find a drummer at least. But I can definitely get a gig, when we wanna. Can't do nothin' about the pay scale, but it ain't like there's any point in aimin' for makin' it a day job anymore anyhow." The guitar gets another gentle touch, almost a caress, "Y'know the American Idol thing? Dre ain't the only one who made it." He drops his hand, and shrugs. "Pop ain't really my thing anyhow. So main question I got is: how do I get you in the mood?" He snorts softly, and grins at the kin again, "Congratulations, I ain't never wondered that sentence about a guy."
"I heard you'd made it through the first round before getting disqualified for the fake ID. They're looking for fresh young faces. I'm too old for idol and maybe too old for the wholse local scene, too. That was made pretty clear to me in that other nightclub that had Spirals in it." Nick mulls that over for a bit and considers, "Maybe I could wear a mask or something. Or.... What's the theme of your band?" he inquires. Adding, "Mix tape. Get me in the mood by giving me a mix tape of songs you'd like us to cover and that you think might be something we could actually manage."
Felix laughs, glancing up at the ceiling. "Yeah. Wasn't much chance of 'em doin' that whole background check thing an' not noticing I don't exactly exist," he says, with another shrug. "How'd Slaughterhouse make that clear? Woulda been the same thing goin' on there if you was still 10 or 20 or whatever years younger. An' ain't no theme, as yet. Ain't even a firm genre; I like a lotta shit, so I reckon y'all oughta get a word in too. You an' whoever I can get on drums. Maybe another guitar, if that ain't gonna turn it into battle of the egos." The addition gets a nod, and a thoughtful look. "Mix tape. Yeah, I reckon I could make that happen."
"You can always just get a drum machine instead of a drummer. I think you can even download an app to a phone. Done and done. Though a flesh and blood drummer would definitely be better on stage when there's an audience." Nick stops strumming out background tunes on the bass guitar, seemingly satisfied with his choice. "I had a couple people ask me if I was into young kids when I was at Slaughterhouse. That kind of squicked me out."
Felix makes a decidedly squicked face of his own. "Did you tell 'em no, I'm into dancin', what the fuck's wrong with you? See whatcha mean, though, reckon that'd make anyone feel outta place." He drums his fingers against his thigh a moment, "There's other places, though. An' it's different on stage anyhow."
"At the time I was just enjoying the loudness of the music coming out of the speakers while I was people-watching--not dancing." Nick shrugs dishearteningly. "I hadn't even thought about that until it was implied. And maybe I should have." He shakes his head. "But, yeah, on the stage is totally different than on the floor. Tell you what. Give me a ring when you're thinking of practicing next and it's not that time of the month. Give me some music to listen to so I'll be set when I show up."
"Dunno; I mean, if it ain't never occurred to me to rob a convenience store, why should I be thinkin' someone might think I was gonna just 'cause I was standin' there decidin' whether I want some jerky?" Felix says, "...although I definitely do want some jerky. So, yeah, okay. An' if you happen to get the urge to play somethin', you can call me also. I play at least some most days. Which... reminds me." He heads back toward the counter, picking up a packet of strings. "If you got anythin' you particularly like playin', or liked before, lemme know what. Helps narrow shit down some."
Nicodemus follows to the counter to pay the difference between his old and new guitar after you're done. "I need to get in some practice first," he claims, even though he seemed to be doing fine earlier--though it was admittedly fairly simple chords he was strumming, nothing fancy. "And like I mentioned earlier, Silversun Pickups' Nightlight got me motivated enough to dust my old piece off and trade it in so I could play again. They have a nice, retro sound that's not too tricky or demanding, but has a great beat and catchy rhythms. They remind me a lot of the Smashing Pumpkins. Which, speaking of, their Bullet with Butterfly Wings song?" he says, voice pitched like a question and looking to you meaningfully. "The chorus? Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage." He doesn't sing it. Maybe he doesn't care to sing. "I bet members of your family'd like that song getting played."
Felix grins. "Well, I always do," he agrees, "Fun to play, too. Okay, that's a start, then. Awesome!" Apparently he can grin wider, since he briefly does, with that. "I'll send you some stuff, next couple weeks or so, I s'pose. Then maybe we can try some shit... 'round the start of March?" It clearly feels a long way away at the moment, but the moon WAS mentioned, and it's less than a week 'til they'd be hitting his.
Nicodemus says "That'll be ample time for me to either get my mojo back or decide this was a..." He runs his credit card through the machine. "... frivolous and wasteful 400-ish dollar impulsive purchase. I'm hoping it's not the latter."