Page 9 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

He watches. Watches. Watches. All while Fletcher and Satoshi watch Damien.

Finally, Oren looks back over his shoulder and Damien plays the first thrashing beats of the first song I ever heard from them, “Wellspring”.

I scream the lyrics along with everyone else in the venue, jumping in time with the music. It’s almost transcendent, to be in this room, enjoying this music with so many people. The energy is damned palpable.

One song folds into the next song and the next song. A pit opens up behind me somewhere, people crowd surfing and shouting. But me? My entire focus is glued to the band.

No, not the band. The drummer.

Damien Devastation is... well... devastating. I’m relieved he opted out of a mask for the night, because watching the grit of his jaw as he works his drum set is a damn near religious experience.

As the lights pulse with the lightning-fast beat Damien keeps, he whips his head along with the tempo, sweat flying from his two-toned hair in an arc as he brings his sticks down hard on the cymbals, the snare, even the hardware.

He is so beautiful. Beautiful in a way that I can’t quite put a finger on. There is a sort of ecstatic aura emanating from him that I only ever really see from high priests and priestesses in the middle of magical ceremonies on sabbats.

I feel silly for being nervous about coming to my first metal show. Things are actually kind of turning out alright, surprisingly. I mean—I’ve already been kissed by a hot drummer. And apparently there are two other people who want to hook up too?

Best night ever.

After a handful of songs, there’s a bit of a lull in the show, and I realize I’m feeling really warm and even a little bit dizzy. I’m not well known for my cardiac prowess, and I have just spent the last thirty or forty minutes jumping and screaming metal songs while sandwiched between a bunch of sweating bodies.

I don’t really want to lose my spot up front, but I also don’t want to seize in the middle of the show. I have to make some sacrifices. I tap the shoulder of a really tall girl next to me and point toward the side of the room to signal that I want to get out. She nods and passes on the message, and the next person passes it on too, and so on until I encounter a massive bear of a guy with a kind, albeit scraggly, face.

“You want to surf out?” he asks over the din of people and the banter on stage.

“Uh... I don’t know? I’ve never crowd surfed.”

“Come on, it’s a blast,” he says. “You gotta do it at least once!”

You know what? Fuck it.

“Alright!”

He kneels before me, his fingers woven together for me to step onto. I place my boot in his hands and he hefts my weight without even a grunt. Before I have a chance to regret my decision I’m being passed over the crowd.

It’s a bizarre and surreal experience to be carefully passed over the heads of so many people. There are moments I worry about the hem of my denim skirt or the fishnets I’m wearing catching on someone’s jewelry, but I’m pleased to say that no one tries to cop a feel. Before I know it, I’m standing back near the bar, which is blissfully empty now that the show is in full swing.

I heft myself up onto one of the few barstools, panting.

The person from the start of the show, Roxie, I think Damien called them, sidles up to me.

“Hey, doll,” they say. “What can I get you?”

“Water?” I call over that music.

“Yep, on it,” they say before turning away.

Roxie returns with that glass of ice water. I down half of it while I watch Damien. When the lights spill over the writhing crowd, I watch as his expression falls for a moment before he finds me and brightens again.

Roxie heaves a sigh. “Girl,” they call over the din of the crowd. “I hope you know what you’re in for! He’s going to be following you around like a stray!”

I laugh, certain they’re joking. Just wing-manning for Damien, I figure. But sure enough, no matter where I go in the venue, Damien’s eyes find me in the crowd.

The show ends so much sooner than I’d like, even with what’s almost a two-hour set. When it’s over they all slink back into what I figure must be the greenroom and crowd either descends on their merch tables or starts flooding out of the venue doors. For my part, I hover around the edge of the room, not exactly sure what the protocol is for hanging out with the drummer of my favorite band.

Do I just go through the door I saw them go through? Is there a bouncer or something that has to give me a subtle nod and allow me through? I rock back and forth on my boots as I try to scan the crowd for any indication of what I’m supposed to do, almost ready to give up on the whole endeavor when there’s a sudden hot gust of laughter next to my ear.

I yelp, almost jumping out of my skin and losing my balance.