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I liked the take-charge tone in his voice.
“Where are we going?” I asked him, although the answer didn’t really matter because I’d happily follow him anywhere.
“The Sanctuary.”
He wasn’t just being cryptic. The Sanctuary was the nickname for Suspicious Activity’s main recording studio. No one was quite sure where it came from, at least not that they were willing to admit, but it was the backbone of the label for years.
Seth was halfway to the door before it became clear that it was all actually real. I wasn’t still in a dream from last night; I was actually here and had just been invited by sexy Seth to The Sanctuary! I followed at a dash, just trying to keep up with him.
The scent was palpable when we arrived. Incense mixed with other smells I couldn’t quite identify. Seth was famous for his de facto straight-edge lifestyle, so I knew it wasn’t booze or weed. Still, my curiosity was piqued.
“What are we doing?” I asked, already thinking about us as a combo.
“Checking in on a recording session. I like to keep up on things when I’m not able to produce myself.”
“Which band?”
He rattled off a name that I immediately recognized as a favorite— AGAB— and I nodded, excitement rippling through me.
It was like moving through molasses. The certainty that it was all some sort of beautiful dream reasserted itself, to the point that I was moving as though through fuzzy clouds. I was beginning to realize that working for Seth might always feel like a fantasy because my new reality seemed too good to be trust.
Suddenly another guy walked in.
“Who’s she?” he demanded.
It wasn’t the most welcoming opening, but I tried to keep things professional and to remember my place.
“It’s cool, Sven, she’s with me,” Seth answered him.
“Another intern?”
“Can you think of a better way to find employees?”
“Considering that that was how you hired me, I’m not really in a position to object, now am I?”
“Nope.”
Seth pulled out a chair and I sat down without him needing to say a word. He sat me next to Sven, who I could only assume was the musician Sven Larssen, and got back down to business.
“Okay, that was good,” he told the AGAB band. “Let’s take it from the beginning of ‘Everything You Hate.’”
The gang was all there. It was difficult for the mind to hold, but the band that so often sounded like a standing army only had three members. Each was covered in an almost clownish level of corpse paint and spikes.
“Might want to be watching the board,” Seth whispered, “unless you’re planning on starting a band.”
Readjusting my focus to Sven’s hands, the magic happened before my eyes. It was still mostly a mystery at that point, but it would all come clear eventually. Of that I was certain.
Seth wasn’t far off about me starting a band. I’d already tried a couple of times to no great avail.
Then I’d found out about one-person music projects like Spectral Lore and Boreal Tundra and figured I could do something similar. I was interested in all aspects of the label but was also working to get to the point where I might broach the subject of my home recorded demo.
Like how I’d heard writers used to get jobs at the big comic book publishers, working their way up from the mailroom, which apparently happened more often than one might think. Even if it didn’t work out, I could have experience in the administrative and producing areas. It was likely not what my parents had had in mind when they had suggested a ‘fall back,’ but it beat the tar out of the other options open to an Art History major.
The mystery smell revealed itself as what happened when sage incense mixed with grease paint and treated leather, the scent only getting stronger as the band came through to the booth.
“How was that?” the vocalist, Evil Erik rumbled, his gaze burrowing into Seth’s soul.
“Not bad at all,” Seth answered.
“I think they were talking to me,” Sven observed.
“No, I was talking to him,” Erik corrected him.
“Fancy a drink?” Seth asked him.
“Absolutely!”
The change in Erik’s demeanour from sinister, scary metal singer to friendly, normal dude was remarkable. It was like seeing a clown out of his make-up. Or a member of KISS up close.
We headed down the hall, Seth and the band walking ahead of us.
“I thought you didn’t drink,” I said, scurrying to keep up with his fast stride.
“I don’t. But I’m a tea-totaler, not a prohibitionist. I am on a first name basis with the taxi dispatcher, though.”
I nodded as we reached the bar that was our destination. Perfectly square and painted a gunmetal shade of gray, no one could say that The Cement Block wasn’t accurately named.
“You have to check your, er, jackets?” a nervous sounding bouncer told the AGAB boys.
