Post by Joshuritanzu on Aug 21, 2021 15:41:47 GMT -5
Somewhere, right now, on a continent called Australia, in a state called Victoria, in a city called Melbourne, there is a shoddy, makeshift stage for a do-it-yourself punk rock show in the basement of somebody’s musty and dilapidated house. Every speaker is blown out, every light in the room is flickering pestily, and every single person is uncomfortably close to the next. They’ve all come out to see a band called Actraiser; and that band is fronted by the rare and anomalous Scratch Strange.
The members of Actraiser begin to pile in from “backstage.” In reality, “backstage” is the overgrown and unkempt yard behind the house, and they’re entering through a cellar door with a busted lock on it. Scratch is the last of the five band members to enter, and his demeanor is cool and nonchalant as squeezes between the bassist and the drumkit to assume his place front-and-center.
Those in attendance don’t know a whole lot about Strange, aside from the lyrics he’s written. What they do know is that he’s punk rock’s universal constant. As long as there has been a scene in Melbourne, Scratch has been there, sporting the same tattered denim vest that he was wearing now. Yet despite the fact that he was present at every show there was, he carried with him an air of mystery that made him all the more alluring.
The impatient chatter that had previously filled the basement began to die down. Scratch rolled out his neck for a moment as a means of preparation. The night was going to be wild and unhinged, and the red-headed street rat wouldn’t have it any other way. Reaching forward, he pulled the microphone off its’ stand and held it to his mouth.
“Good evenin’,” Scratch said calmly, running a hand through his hair. He was already beginning to sweat in the overcrowded cellar. “This first song is dedicated to a guy named Jalen.”
The drummer quickly struck his sticks together four times, then all five members shouted in unison: “Kick it!”
First came the bassline; punk songs weren’t always known for putting the bassline front-and-center, and Scratch was the type to challenge norms. After a few bars, then came the percussion. Next, the two guitarists began to play in stereo, dueling with different pedaled effects. And finally, Scratch raised the microphone and began to sing; the lyrics were recited by the whole of the audience.
The two guitarists switch from playing in stereo to playing two dueling riffs, taking turns in the spotlight as if one was stepping back while the other forward. Scratch had begun to bang his head, whipping it around and shaking from side-to-side as he moved with the music. Here came the chorus:
Scratch now was stomping his foot along with the bass drum. The two dueling guitar riffs had ended, letting the bassline step back into the spotlight. The band slowly built the rhythm back up. Scratch wrapped the microphone’s cord around his hand several times, like he would with sports tape in the ring.
A quick succession of tom drums indicates the end of the song, and as soon as it does, the lights in the basement turn off. From the back of the room, a single spotlight was held up by a friend of Scratch’s, lighting him up as he began to speak acapella.
“I make my professional wrestling debut food Revolution1 very soon, and I’m wrestling a man by the name of Jalen Prince, and every single word of that song that you all love so dearly applies to him,” Scratch begun, eyes darting around the room. “He’s a cover band, he’s a plagiarist, he’s a counterfeit of the ones that inspire him. He’s not constructive, he’s the lowest common denominator of what he believes makes for a successful professional wrestler.”
“I give credit where it’s due, y’know? They’ve got a belt called the Futures Championship. He’s won it. Cool, good for the dude. Though, you want to know something else? The longest title reign that belt has ever seen is, what, three weeks - maybe? So again: I’m waiting to be impressed.”
Scratch shakes his head disapprovingly. He begins to pace side-to-side on the stage, beads of sweat now visible on his face as the basement continued to heat up from the bodies stacked on top of one another like sardines. The friend holding the spotlight did his best to follow Scratch, but it was a typical, sloppy, do-it-yourself job that was so precious to the punk scene - which meant it was perfect.
“This Jalen guy, he’s one of those stooges who loves to tout about how he’s the best, without having done anything to prove it or support his claim. He’s not even become a flash in the pan yet, and he’s so eager to tell everyone else that they’re a bitch. I’m not the type of guy to claim that I’m not the type of guy to fuck with when I haven’t got enough of a track record to put any meaning behind my words.”
The audience applauds; the sentiment resonates.
“I’m not the best wrestler in the world, or Revolution1. Hell, I’m not the best singer in punk rock, we’re not even the best band in Melbourne. For our kind, though, it’s not about being the best. It’s about doing it yourself, living on your own terms. I could go in to that match and get my ass kicked and I’ll get back up with a grin on my face, ‘cause I’ll take that beating on my own terms. It’s not about being the best in the sport, it’s about being the best version of yourself that you can be, and testing the mettle of that self against any and all comers. That’s what I stand for, those are my values. Could I even tell you what Jalen Prince stands for, other than his own ego?”
“No, I couldn’t. I don’t know a single thing about Jalen Prince, ‘cause I only ever hear him talk about himself comparatively; I hear him tell the whole world who he’s better than, and he’ll speak on that a lot, but he rarely ever has anything of substance to say and to show. That’s not the kind of life I lead, and not one I’d ever want to. I never want to be anything other than the most authentic version of me, because that’s how you show the world that you’re the best. No amount of championships or victories can make you you.”
Caught up in his own hype, Scratch tosses the microphone down on the stage. His pacing has intensified, as if the punk rocker can’t contain his energy for a second more. It looked like Strange was ready to fight right now, and the fans of his music had just been converted to loyalists of his wrestling as well. Needing release, Scratch launched himself at the crowd, surfing across the surface of their hands and shoulders. He screamed back at his bandmates:
“Cue up the next song, ay? We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
The members of Actraiser begin to pile in from “backstage.” In reality, “backstage” is the overgrown and unkempt yard behind the house, and they’re entering through a cellar door with a busted lock on it. Scratch is the last of the five band members to enter, and his demeanor is cool and nonchalant as squeezes between the bassist and the drumkit to assume his place front-and-center.
Those in attendance don’t know a whole lot about Strange, aside from the lyrics he’s written. What they do know is that he’s punk rock’s universal constant. As long as there has been a scene in Melbourne, Scratch has been there, sporting the same tattered denim vest that he was wearing now. Yet despite the fact that he was present at every show there was, he carried with him an air of mystery that made him all the more alluring.
The impatient chatter that had previously filled the basement began to die down. Scratch rolled out his neck for a moment as a means of preparation. The night was going to be wild and unhinged, and the red-headed street rat wouldn’t have it any other way. Reaching forward, he pulled the microphone off its’ stand and held it to his mouth.
“Good evenin’,” Scratch said calmly, running a hand through his hair. He was already beginning to sweat in the overcrowded cellar. “This first song is dedicated to a guy named Jalen.”
The drummer quickly struck his sticks together four times, then all five members shouted in unison: “Kick it!”
First came the bassline; punk songs weren’t always known for putting the bassline front-and-center, and Scratch was the type to challenge norms. After a few bars, then came the percussion. Next, the two guitarists began to play in stereo, dueling with different pedaled effects. And finally, Scratch raised the microphone and began to sing; the lyrics were recited by the whole of the audience.
“You don’t seem to have a lot to say, no, no.
Wouldn’t be missing much if you went away, go, go.
You add nothing new to the conversation,
Ironically an unoriginal creation,
And I’m waiting, waiting, waiting to be impressed.”
The two guitarists switch from playing in stereo to playing two dueling riffs, taking turns in the spotlight as if one was stepping back while the other forward. Scratch had begun to bang his head, whipping it around and shaking from side-to-side as he moved with the music. Here came the chorus:
“But what you don’t seem to get,
Is that you have to earn respect.
And if you ask me, if you ask me -
You haven’t done it yet.
I’m waiting, waiting, waiting to be impressed!”
Scratch now was stomping his foot along with the bass drum. The two dueling guitar riffs had ended, letting the bassline step back into the spotlight. The band slowly built the rhythm back up. Scratch wrapped the microphone’s cord around his hand several times, like he would with sports tape in the ring.
“I guess you could say you’ve done well enough, okay.
But our ‘enoughs’ are different, I’m calling your bluff - today!
You’re a generic carbon copy of a ton of others,
I’m the first of my kind, I’m a brand new color.
And I’m waiting, waiting, waiting to be impressed!”
A quick succession of tom drums indicates the end of the song, and as soon as it does, the lights in the basement turn off. From the back of the room, a single spotlight was held up by a friend of Scratch’s, lighting him up as he began to speak acapella.
“I make my professional wrestling debut food Revolution1 very soon, and I’m wrestling a man by the name of Jalen Prince, and every single word of that song that you all love so dearly applies to him,” Scratch begun, eyes darting around the room. “He’s a cover band, he’s a plagiarist, he’s a counterfeit of the ones that inspire him. He’s not constructive, he’s the lowest common denominator of what he believes makes for a successful professional wrestler.”
“I give credit where it’s due, y’know? They’ve got a belt called the Futures Championship. He’s won it. Cool, good for the dude. Though, you want to know something else? The longest title reign that belt has ever seen is, what, three weeks - maybe? So again: I’m waiting to be impressed.”
Scratch shakes his head disapprovingly. He begins to pace side-to-side on the stage, beads of sweat now visible on his face as the basement continued to heat up from the bodies stacked on top of one another like sardines. The friend holding the spotlight did his best to follow Scratch, but it was a typical, sloppy, do-it-yourself job that was so precious to the punk scene - which meant it was perfect.
“This Jalen guy, he’s one of those stooges who loves to tout about how he’s the best, without having done anything to prove it or support his claim. He’s not even become a flash in the pan yet, and he’s so eager to tell everyone else that they’re a bitch. I’m not the type of guy to claim that I’m not the type of guy to fuck with when I haven’t got enough of a track record to put any meaning behind my words.”
The audience applauds; the sentiment resonates.
“I’m not the best wrestler in the world, or Revolution1. Hell, I’m not the best singer in punk rock, we’re not even the best band in Melbourne. For our kind, though, it’s not about being the best. It’s about doing it yourself, living on your own terms. I could go in to that match and get my ass kicked and I’ll get back up with a grin on my face, ‘cause I’ll take that beating on my own terms. It’s not about being the best in the sport, it’s about being the best version of yourself that you can be, and testing the mettle of that self against any and all comers. That’s what I stand for, those are my values. Could I even tell you what Jalen Prince stands for, other than his own ego?”
“No, I couldn’t. I don’t know a single thing about Jalen Prince, ‘cause I only ever hear him talk about himself comparatively; I hear him tell the whole world who he’s better than, and he’ll speak on that a lot, but he rarely ever has anything of substance to say and to show. That’s not the kind of life I lead, and not one I’d ever want to. I never want to be anything other than the most authentic version of me, because that’s how you show the world that you’re the best. No amount of championships or victories can make you you.”
Caught up in his own hype, Scratch tosses the microphone down on the stage. His pacing has intensified, as if the punk rocker can’t contain his energy for a second more. It looked like Strange was ready to fight right now, and the fans of his music had just been converted to loyalists of his wrestling as well. Needing release, Scratch launched himself at the crowd, surfing across the surface of their hands and shoulders. He screamed back at his bandmates:
“Cue up the next song, ay? We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”