Start of the Hiatus

Officer Drew Account.

The Whiskey Hotel was fine. A sentiment attached to every statement of the few surviving concert-goers the night of October 10th, the day of the C.P. Holly Concert Hall disaster. If the band were the only ones saying it, it wouldn’t rub Me wrong in the slightest. A four hundred-seat venue un-packed of its floor seating for the standing sort of crowd to stretch the limit of the maximum occupancy for a return to their roots. The firefighters weren't the only ones disturbed, but their battle went from ragefully unkillable to smoldering reminisces of a once proud city staple. A cause felt impossible to determine and somehow stumped a twelve-year veteran fire chief who joined the investigation personally. Tickets were sold by the row despite that not mattering, according to the witnesses I picked up with front row stubs. Claims of where the fire originated were extremely egregious as I found some starry-eyed grievers and asked a few folks from the nose bleeds. They called the experience a bonding enlightenment akin to Burning Man, and it sent shivers down the spine, ending at the mass grave of over a hundred sixty people. Chief Grimm and I started with……..

Raven Clawhammer: Amateur Musician.

“We’re not blaming you. Just tell us from the beginning your perspective of what happened.”

Alright. We weren’t expecting much. Borderline has-beens using the opera house as a last-ditch gimmick. I brought a few extra beer cans I stepped on to chuck at a violinist douche if I saw one. The fact that there was a Budweiser serving bar, like some teat-licking sponsorship outside the arena space—area, whatever, made my blood boil, but Tiff said she went to their last one and called it a loogy on classical. She knows her shit, so I guess it’s good to let the blisters harden a little. I hadn’t been to a Whiskey show since Grunge on the Death Blowback in ’91.

When they opened with ‘Eat Her Throat Out,’ it had been three years too long since that jam put me on the fucking moon. It wasn’t halfway through ‘Serpent’s Locks’ me and Tiff got separated in the shoulder-bashing crowd. I have never been in a death spiral like that—the energy in that pit was choice. They even drew that shit out, going faster and faster—the concussion becoming a familiar badge of approval from me. What a whack. We didn’t leave but I took a break for some more drinks. Well, I lost Tiff for real and couldn’t find her in the front where I knew she wanted me to hold that space. By the time I made it to where we first stood, a man in grey, everything but his black bandana mask and green skull cap under the hood, was standing next to Angie Colfax. Never would’ve pegged her as a metalhead.

“The actress?!” Chief Grimm asked.

Yeah, yeah, sure. This song was new—no, it was soul shocking—no, kicked my bully’s ass in middle school for me. I’m not a poser—how else are artists supposed to test what gets the clits and dicks wet. A bomb is a bomb, but you got to have a place for it to explode. Plus, the Whiskey always peppered their new shit with their hits to keep the weekend warriors happy. But with this one, they said fuck'em because Janet came in with the drop C bass line that put my motorcycle to shame. The fruity dance with the guy in grey and Angie did piss me off, but then the dude started throwing fire with his hands. Like WHooom, WHoom, WHaah like, he was replacing the ceiling with fire even if just for a second. ‘Daymare Dry Dream’ was a finisher, and they barely got the tempo going. Tiff was missing the duo leading the crowd in fire and glow sticks with heavy, long trails like it was time Metal took glow sticks from the ravers. I think they played it twice, all the while fire tricks throughout. When they were about the start ‘Limbo a-go-go, I had to get Tiff’s ass back in here before they realized how hot it was getting. I got to the back of the auditorium and turned around—dude, dudette….Sorry, Chief Dude and Officer Dudette, he vanished in a tornado of fire. My first day of school, excitement parted the crowd. I get outside, and she’s talking to this wiry-haired woman who disappeared around the corner when I called out. She was spooked.

I couldn’t budge her back in with a bulldozer, talking like I’ve never had a nose and ear bleed before. It’s not like either of us has insurance. I convinced her to get one more drink for the road since they were cheaper here than anywhere around town at the time. We sat at the bar where I unloaded what she missed, and from our single glance into the fire-less mosh-home, that part of the act was over, so we stayed outside and had another. I almost had her when the screaming started. All I got was a glimpse between the parting double doors from a fan running out on fire into the open yard. All fire, no people, their voices in the flames clipped. No explosion, no build-up pre-alarm evacuation, just instant screams. It is like that smell has graphed itself to my nose hairs. We didn’t know what else to do but run. We just ran.

Liam Lester: Shoe store manager

“Slow down. You’re turning red—you were on the balcony, and you and your friends had just arrived, and you could see people leaving early. It was an intense show, right?”

I warned them. Okay. It was me, Levar, Dana, Jules, and Tim, and Steve. They at least took my advice on the upper-level access, not that it did them any good.

“Take your time.”

I thought I was letting my maturity show, a rocker-turned-stooge watching the animals below with envious bitterness. It was the stage collapse, the alleged mind control incident at the Whiskey-a-go-go—so we enjoyed the music. I didn’t need the badge of psycho honor that came with surviving a Whiskey Hotel show to match the psychopathy of a band who would sell shirts that joke on their death toll. None of them seemed to care, so I relaxed myself and enjoyed what I could. I’ll be honest: I let my nostalgia get the best of me, and I learned to ignore that it was ‘dollar-shot,’ ‘two-dollar beer’ in the entrance atrium. ‘Gallow Park’ plays and I could sense the provocateurs inside their lyrics stoking something wicked—otherworldly. They were turning hits into the endurance challenge, spiraling down into the darkest pits of a void-filled nothingness. The music was good, but when Angie Colfax did the duet with Moone the Loone, I hoped for a change in scenery. The ground floor scattered like roaches in the house lights to rehydrate the wrong way, and Moone and Janet began arguing with Colfax.

The stage couldn’t hold their hatred. So much yelling my friends went to get refreshments. I could hear their shit like whispers. But a suited man ran on stage and shooed them from the witnesses. All the light flashed. When it stopped on the cream white, better suited for the orchestral assembly, Moone was standing center stage waiting for me to catch the ongoing starring contest. A fire bubbled in his palm, held close enough to light a cigarette on his lips. He never broke contact. Upon the sinkhole in the center of the mosh hall, his place in hell appeared. He held fire in his hands and eyes that synced in movements. I was stunned at the lack of reaction—Okay. What about the fact my friends returned in time with the band’s headbanging breakdown on the ground floor to reclaim their glory days, huh?! Everyone on stage did their part as Moone the Loon sank beneath all of us, shushing my outcries. His reappearance came with a set of steps in lockstep with Angie that were specifically odd in their unbalanced nature. She donned glow sticks, and I was forced to ignore the hypnotic repetition that grooved between the beats intentionally, subverting the verse they sang. With the chorus came the flames.

IT THREW FLAMES. At the audience, the walls. Filled the walls with its acidic spit, and he’s got the nerve to sing over those flames. There was this trance that left the crowd numb to the danger, and Angie kept them rocking like some ritualistic ceremony with sacrifices in the pit, liquored-up Kool-Aid in hand. That tongue whipped over the upper level, forcing them to keep listening. The mosh pit restarted—no one could hear us warn them or wanted to. Levar said he saw me but convinced Dana to take me outside cause I was Panicked. She wouldn’t let me rip the Serpent from the wall to warn to save them. She went back in there for them—

“Excuse me, I have to ask. Did you take anything before the concert? Weed, maybe some kind of hallucinogen?” the Chief asked.

“Umm, a little Acid earlier that day. Why?”

James (Looney) Moone: Lead singer

“It was an act! Look, worldwide acclaim was never my bag, trust me. But it’s the way of the show—it’s the story you tell at work the next day that we planned for weeks,” he said.

“Fine, Mr. Moone. What can you tell us about the fire?”

As you fine law enforcement and service members must know, prep work is everything. To my Pyro guy, this was a dream come true. He assured the fire martial that my custom rig was well within the parameters as long as the lights were dimmed except around exits so they could have a full view of any stray bust. Exits were to remain extra bright and were decorated by Sonya with big arrows. And the bar was set far from the act, maintaining all flammable liquid qualifications and, while added last minute, did not hinder any path through the atrium and out. The first half went great, and we cut the act short since the mosh pit seemed poised for accident. At least our new songs mixed well with our old set, vibe-wise. Janet argued with me about the order over and over, even causing the intermission to go on long. It flustered me enough to have a trip up on the trap door for composers; well, that and my bitch half-sister showed up unannounced, getting mic-ed-up. Yeah, hold your applause. She arrived with our manager on her heels, mad at me for some reason. Why he wanted us to quit, I have no idea. Not a clue. He may say we cut him out, but we told him we needed a gig, and he was busy. We did the leg work, and he shows up with her for his nonexistent cut, just forcing the hell in any way so, assholes got what they wanted whatever, I mean…..Right! After the intermission.

The attitude of my bandmates and me regarding the incredulity in his percentage and several so-called good reasons why he should always be in charge of choosing the venue while peppering in the digs on the poorly chosen local openers led us to the ‘Fuck’em’ mentality also known as the show must finish or we don’t get paid. Angie’s little warm-up sesh, we call ‘Betty on the Lam,’ later, and she was primed to spoil the show with an ego-driven message toward the crowd they couldn’t tell was subtextually loaded with fuck offs to each member of the band individually. Thank you too, Skank. Anyway, I did the disappearing thing for the outfit change and rigged-up, which gave Janet time to course correct. Wouldn’t want to burn her on accident. Seriously, everyone would know it was me, and my career would end in a deserved prison sentence; that just wasn’t the time. I walked through the crowd to hop on stage with Angie egging me on, replacing Sonya’s little back and forth with Janet, and Shane’s guitar lead-in brought on the Bandit for ‘Delta in Monta Ray,’ part two to ‘Stang for Ms. Strange.’ It was tastefully rambunctious fire; I believed they would say in future reviews. For Two songs, we were Golden. And ‘Gold Steel’ is seven minutes long.

“So, this is the first show in the city,” Officer Drew asked.

Like this? Yeah, why do you think we were so careful? I would’ve gone bigger. Luckily, Sonya caught what I was working on and—umm, steered me toward a less show-offy act. We even had a pre-set evac announcement, which we all rehearsed in case of an overestimation. But truth be told, the Bandit character was retired by the time the flames took; I don’t know where they came from. The rig was off and stored by the fire martial Janet brought in specifically for this reason; the sprinkler system picked up no smoke—I only got the chance to yell ‘FIRE FIRE FIRE! EXITS ARE TO THE LEFT AND RIGHT OF THE STAGE. PLEASE FIND THE CLEAREST AND CALMLY EXIT THE HALL. FIRE FIRE FIRE,’ once before, it was like the entire balcony was weak enough to crumble. I’m like, wait, fucking WHAT?! And that’s where I first saw the intensity of the flames—out of nowhere. We’ve had equipment problems that threw sparks in other shows, but that’s when we were poor. Our shit now was beyond the standard. Shit, poor Bill could’ve told you what happened. Anal retentive or not, the guy was a fan. We let him down.

“Tell me, what did this rig look like?” Chief Grimm asked.

You know, like a backpack with lines for fluid to the hands. It ran down the sleeves, but they were rolled up as a protective fabric could be attached in their place, hence why the Bandit wore grey..... It wasn't actually my hands. That would--be....crazy.

“I can’t believe Angie was so hard to pin down,” Chief Grimm said.

“Investigations are bad for business, and the Manager says he came alone, just as surprised as the band to see her there.”

“And fire doesn’t just appear. Not with a rig that not even the wearer can describe nor straight from under the sleeve like some cut-rate Copperfield.”

“You tell me then how no one who had a clear sight of the flame ignitor survived, and all we got is a set of know-nothings and fans who can’t wait for there to be a t-shirt. Who are we missing that’s worth it still?”

“If we can find Tiff and who she was talking to and maybe….”

“Grimm, we need anything.”

“I crossed them out because they’ve been going around saying Moone can actually throw fire—”

“Anything else?”

“He was one of their roadies who made it out. Said he was backstage the whole time.”

“It’ll work. I’m going to find out about this Fire Martial William Grady.”