RHYTHM & NEWS
Saturday, February 17, 1979
BATTLE OF THE BANGS
Sparks—and punches—flew on Thursday night at theRhythm & News’ Grammys afterparty between two of the world’s biggest rock bands, and it wasn’t for the first time. Femme Fatale’s lead guitarist, Jakob Edvindsson, was seen scuffling with Vik Greene, Evergreene’s long-haired, short-tempered drummer, toward the end of the night. Fellow band members—Jon Davies, Geert de Vries, and Pia Lindberg for Femme Fatale, and George Redfern, Clarence Oldman, and Vik’s own brother, Stephan Greene, from Evergreene—tried to separate the two, but within minutes all parties were brawling.
Eyewitnesses report that Femme Fatale’s frontwoman and punk rock’s unofficial queen, Pia Lindberg, used her black patent stiletto shoes as a very effective weapon, resulting in Redfern and both Greene brothers walking away with bloodied clothes. Oldman was seen escaping before the bloodiest punches were thrown, with some witnesses saying he immediately left for theSoul Trainafterparty. At one point in the brawl, Jon Davies was seen piggybacking on Stephan Greene with his hands covering the Evergreene lead man’s eyes. De Vries was reportedly sporting two black eyes, and onlookers reported that George Redfern smashed a champagne bottle over the head of his own manager, Kevin Briggs, who, along with Femme Fatale manager Martin Dowde, tried in vain to separate the musicians.
Rumor has it that throughout all the fighting, Edvindsson did not let go of Femme Fatale’s Best Album Grammy. The golden gramophone could have been the catalyst for this latest incident between the rockstar rivals, as most predictions forecasted Evergreene as the winner of this esteemed award, which FemmeFatale received for their third album,Like a Dog. Meanwhile, Evergreene’s critically acclaimed second album,Low-Hanging Fruit, continues to struggle to hold on to a top 20 spot in the charts, despite their management recently confirming a sold-out North American tour due to start later this year.
As to the whereabouts of Evergreene’s leading woman and Stephan Greene’s girlfriend, Cassie Everard, other attendees of the party reported exclusively toRhythm & Newsthat she was seen leaving within seconds of the fight breaking out. There are no reports of her attending any of the other parties, so we assume she returned to the safe haven of her Hollywood Hills home, further cementing her reputation as the least rock’n’roll rockstar.
The scuffle does little to quell rumors that the two bands share a lot of bad blood, and the so-called Battle of the Bangs—referring to Lindberg and Everard’s heavy fringe hairstyles—continues as the music awards season dies down. With the pressure on Femme Fatale to sell out their own upcoming world tour and Evergreene to sell more albums and win awards, the spotlight remains very much on the two bands who remain fierce rock rivals.
CHAPTER 1
PIA
Isign the last album cover and toss it onto the pile. My wrist aches. My eyes are seeing double. I’ve run out of cigarettes, and the bottle of champagne in front of me is empty. I glance at the digital clock on the hotel bedside table and see it’s only just hit midnight. Early. Too early to sleep. With no more alcohol in the minibar fridge and absolutely no desire to run down to reception for more cigarettes, I guess I have to reach for my other vice: sex.
But with who?
I pick up the album I just tossed to the side. I study the picture of the four of us–Femme Fatale, “Europe’s leading punk-rock band with a terrifying, kick-ass lead woman,” according toRhythm & News. I consider each of the men I’m standing slightly in front of, each one wearing a black shirt and blue drainpipe jeans, and I tap a pointed blood-red nail on each of their faces.
Geert, Jakob, Jon. Jon, Jakob, Geert. Geert, Jakob, Jon.
Who will be the lucky man tonight?
Honestly, I can’t decide. And it’s not because I’m torn between them all. It’s because I’ve fucked them all one too many times and I’m bored. They bore me. Their conversations. Their cocks. Their constant competition over girls and attention and songwriting credits, even though I write more – and better – songs than any of them. But they’re also my best friends. They’ve looked after me from the moment we met as hungry, horny nineteen-year-olds at Het Roadhuis in Amsterdam a decade ago, and over the years they’ve never let me down when I’ve needed a backing track, a joint to smoke, or a mouth to ride.
But still, I can’t choose, so I default to the tried and tested method of covering my eyes with my hand, spinning the vinyl cover on the carpet, and then putting a finger down to stop it. Whoever that finger is closest to out of the men, that’s the one I’m fucking tonight.
I cover my eyes. I spin. I stab. I open one eye.
Jon.
“Meh,” I say, with an unenthusiastic shrug.
Still, it works for me; I’m probably not supposed to have favourites, but if I did, it would be him. Geert is often too doped up or drunk to get it up. Jakob has a tendency to cry when he comes, and worse, he likes to be cuddled afterwards. Jon is generous and efficient and least likely to annoy me. Plus, he’s even in the adjoining room, so I don’t have to go out into the corridor and risk getting spotted by a fortuitous photographer who managed to get in the hotel, leaving behind the handful of others who are camped outside waiting for us to leave tomorrow.
If only the boys hadn’t started fighting with StephanfuckingGreene last night. If only I hadn’t had one line too many and saw red when I heard that English piece of shit tease us about our crappy tour sales, like I don’t already know that his spineless girlfriend is the only reason they managed to sell out in one weekend. She is, after all, the only one of those hippies with a molecule of talent. Nobody listens to Evergreene for his overcooked guitar solos and off-key howling. Nobody goes to see them on tour because of his brother’s persistently chasing drumming style. Most people completely forget about Clarence Oldman, who really does put the “old” in his name, and about George Redfeather, or whatever his name is. Evergreene fans are, in fact, Cassie Everard fans. She’s the one they want. She’s the one everyone wants. And by all accounts, she hates that nearly as much as I do.
I don’t bother to knock as I open the connecting door that leads into Jon’s room. I’ve been listening to his muffled strumming and singing all night through thewall. He claims he’s working on a solo album, but this is one of many things he tells me to piss me off, and I don’t believe it. Like Evergreene, he and both Geert and Jakob are nothing without their leading lady: me. Which is why it stings that our current album hasn't yet reached the number one spot, and our world tour still hasn’t sold out despite our Grammy win.
“Jon, I—” I stop walking and take in the scene as I fold my arms. “Oh, God. Not again.”
To his credit, Jon doesn’t break his stroke, and he only casts me the briefest of looks. He grunts as he looks back at the magazine spread out in front of his naked body on the bed. Sorry, not naked. He has a sock on. One sock. With a hole that his big toe pokes out of.
“Who is it this time? Who’s the Playboy Playmate of the Month? Do share!” I climb up on the bed and look at the pages he’s studying with tense concentration.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” I pick up the magazine, dragging it away from Jon.
“Oi, Pia, put that back!” He abandons his angry-looking dick and leans out to get the magazine back, but I’m too quick. “For fuck’s sake.”
“I can’t believe you’re wanking over Cassie Everard!”
“What do you care?” Jon says, and he tries one last time to grab the magazine back, but I’m already on the move, sliding off the bed and standing opposite him on the other side. I flick through the pages of – I flip to the cover – oh,Voguemagazine. Very fucking fancy.