I think about putting something really hard on, like Spineshank or something, but I don’t. I turn on “The Sadness Will Never End” by Bring Me the Horizon. As the slow, melodic intro plays, I tell her the name of the song and the band, and I watch her expression shift to surprise when the guitars and drums hit all at once. Her features turn tight with focus, listening. The song ends, five minutes of screamo angst-driven glory. I love that song. I cue up another song, a little harder: “In Place of Hope” by Still Remains. She remains focused, listening, dissecting.
When that song ends, she’s quiet for a few minutes. I let her sit, let her process. “There’s a lot of anger to that. A lot of…bitterness.”
“Yeah. That’s the point of it.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “It…I don’t know, I’ve never tried to explain it before. Um. It’s about understanding. Someone else understands how you feel. Understands how anger can be…in your f**king blood. Part of you. How bitterness and rage and sadness can be all-consuming. They get it. They express it. It’s commiseration.”
She nods. “I can see that.”
“And really, that kind of music, it’s not as deep as it goes. It’s not as hard as it gets. There’s more melody and a variety of emotions and sounds and styles to it. You get into stuff like death metal and black metal, it’s just…rage. Pure hate made into sound.”
She frowns. “Show me.”
“Really? Why? It’s…”
Kylie’s response is almost angry. “Stop thinking you can tell me what I like, or what’s not good for me. That’s as bad as Ben trying to tell me who I can hang out with.”
“He means well.”
She gapes at me. “Why are you defending him?”
I wish I knew. “I’m not,” I say. “It’s just true. And fine. If you really want to hear something truly hard and dark, then here you go.” I scroll through select a song. “This is Amon Amarth. The song’s called ‘A Beast Am I.’ They’re actually a lot more melodic than most other death metal bands.”
She listens, and her eyes are wide, the edges of her mouth tight. She doesn’t like this. The other stuff, it’s not as bleak and fury-rife. There’s no lightness to this music, nothing redeeming. It’s unrepentantly black and edged and bloody.
She’s visibly relieved when the song ends. “Jesus, Oz. That’s…wow.”
I laugh. “Yeah. Told you.”
She bobbles her head side to side. “I can see the talent, though. I mean, to play that hard, that fast, for that long? Every song? The amount of sheer energy it must take to play that way is…just staggering.”
I’m impressed that she can see past her initial, visceral reaction. “You should see a live show of that kind of music. People leave bloody. For real. Broken bones and shit. It’s brutal. But you’re right, it takes a sick amount of speed and technical precision to play like that.”
She shudders, making a face of disgust. “I’ll pass on the live show, thanks. I can imagine.”
I laugh. “No, I really don’t think you can.” I lift up the sleeve of my shirt to show her a thick ridge of scar running along my left bicep. “I got this at a death metal show. It was…shit, I can’t even remember who was playing. I was a little…blasted, I guess. Some local band at a dive bar in the back end of Denver. I shouldn’t have even been allowed in, ’cause I wasn’t even seventeen yet, but security was a little…lax. Anyway, this guy in the pit had spiked bracelets on his wrists, the spikes were wicked sharp and two inches long, and he was flailing around, kicking, thrashing. He must’ve slashed a dozen people to ribbons, and the band was egging him on. The harder he thrashed, the harder they played. The bouncers had to finally throw him out because he was getting little too psycho even for a death metal show. Well, I got too close, and he caught me on the arm. The spike actually got caught, and I had to kick him away from me to get it loose. It was insane. My mom was so pissed. I needed like, thirteen stitches, and we really didn’t have the money. She was late on rent because of my ass.”
Kylie is justly horrified. “That’s…awful.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t mind the other stuff you played, the first couple of songs. But that’s not really my cup of tea.”
“I didn’t think it would be. I wasn’t trying to tell you what to do, or anything. I just really didn’t think you’d like it.” I pause to formulate a thought. “But then, it’s not really music you’re supposed to like. It’s music you feel. Experience.”
Kylie nods. “Yeah, I can see that. But anyway, about this open mic night.”
I sigh. “Really, Kylie? You still want me for that?” I frown. “I’m really not sure I can even play like that. I’ve never even touched an acoustic guitar. I can’t read sheet music or anything like that. I play by ear.”
“Just try? Please?”
I really don’t want to. Really, really don’t. I mean, it’s not that I give a flying f**k what people think about me. But then…that’s bullshit, because everyone cares what their peers think of them. If you don’t care, I mean, really don’t care, not even deep down where you don’t dare look, then there’s something truly psychologically wrong with you. Either you’re trying to get their approval and trying to fit in and be cool, or you’re just one of the crowd, or you’re like me, on the outside acting hard and aloof, when inside you wish you knew how to be like them. You don’t fit in, and you never will.
Could I do this open mic night? Yeah, probably. I mean, if I can teach myself to shred via YouTube videos and library books and hours of practice, I can probably learn to play some simple acoustic chords, right?
I groan. “Fine. I’ll try. But I make no promises.”
She does the squeal-and-clap-her-hands thing, and then flings herself across the room to hug me. I’m stiff, frozen. No one hugs me. Mom doesn’t hug me. Overnight hook-ups don’t hug me. I don’t know what to do with a hug. Her arms are around my neck, her body pressed up against mine. Her face is against my chest, and she’s up on her toes to reach, ’cause I’m tall and she’s maybe five-six. She doesn’t let go, but she sinks down on her feet, leans back to look at me, her hands on my shoulders, her eyes accusing.