After “Hot Blood,” a song Clay had written about his and Savy’s experience in Davis Karney’s house (using such vague phraseology as “the man with the flaming gun smiles” and “fake tits could not set us free”), Clay kept the wall of sound going by pressing his guitar to his amplifier and delivering shrill feedback and a deep, sustained hum until Fiasco could switch out his Fender for the upright bass he’d brought along (another item borrowed from the magnanimous chambers of Dooley’s Den). When the upright was set, Clay leveled off his volume and stepped to the microphone, and he and Fiasco performed an unlikely duet of The Clash’s “The Guns of Brixton,” which the crowd ate up like the ear candy it was.
From there they transitioned into “Voices in the Dark,” its ascending chord progression always the highlight of their set, then brought the whole thing home with “In Rolls the Storm,” the jam song, which delivered such a crashing, furious crescendo that Clay thought he could see the walls of the club billowing out.
The crowd wanted more. The crowd wanted to dance and slam the whole night through. Whatever Ghost had done to them, they wanted that feeling dragged out, on and on.
When the curtains finally drew shut and they were alone again in the tight, humid space, Fiasco was smiling bigger than anyone had ever seen him. Clay threw an arm over his sweaty shoulders and Savy stepped in to do the same, and they reached over the drums for Spider and hugged it out, the four of them, together.
They were immediately mobbed and separated. Most of the Viper Room was content to pat Clay on the back, offer a quick compliment or solicitation (“My twenty-fifth is next weekend. I hear you do birthday parties?”). But then some woman was shouldering her way through the throng, literally shoving people aside to cast her arms around him; and Clay wasn’t sure if he was about to be tackled, mugged, molested, or all of the above.
In the next instant, he recognized the melodramatic perfume and the quick-chattering face in the florescent-pink of the bar lights. His second housemate was beaming ear to ear at him. “I’m so proud of you, hon!” Essie shouted for everyone to hear. And she announced this as if she’d known Clay his whole life, understood all his worldly dreams and fears, all the deepest currents that ran into and out of his soul. It struck him as a particularly strange sentiment, something his mother might have said with actual merit, and he was immediately uneasy. “Oh, hey. Is my dad here?”
“He wanted to be. He really wanted it more than anything—but that Ferdinand has been keeping him late all week, the blood-sucker.”
Clay, who knew not of his father’s intention to attend the show nor of any blood-sucker named Ferdinand, nodded along. “Okay. Thanks for being his proxy.”
Then others were interceding, burly men with gnarled faces and faded tattoos, who had spent their lives haunting the Strip, and from whom an offer to buy a shot was testament to one’s musical prowess. Before Clay could entertain their offers, though, Fiasco was grappling him under the arms and dragging him away in a half nelson. When Clay managed to free himself, he found the bassist hang-jawed and giddy. “I just met some dude from Sweet Epiphany,” he barked. “They’re dyyyying to speak with us.”
“Where’s Savy?”
“Couldn’t find her. Maybe she went with Spider to the van? Let’s not wait on this.”
Sweet Epiphany Records was the creation of Bradford Garneau, guitar player for legendary L.A. punk band The Murder Winds. It was an indie label that specialized in punk and hardcore, ska and psychobilly; but they had also put out everything from spoken word to hip hop to outlaw country. Great music and an artist-first approach seemed the one true unifying theme.
Fiasco led Clay to a booth near the back of the room, where an entourage not much older than them was talking enthusiastically. At the sight of half of Farewell Ghost, they quit the conversation and one of them stood and introduced himself as Bobby Shay. Clay had been expecting another gnarled old-school punk, but Bobby Shay could have auditioned for Eddie Haskell in a revamped Leave It to Beaver. It didn’t take long for him to prove that music was his life though—the type of audiophile you could mention any band to and get a rundown of their best album, his three favorite songs, and the year and names of any changes in the band lineup. “Bobby, tell us—what’s the best album title ever?” Fiasco tested, as he and Clay squeezed into the booth.
Bobby didn’t hesitate. “Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables.”
And Fiasco turned to Clay in honest amazement. “Dead Kennedys. Yes. He’s right!”
“I love my job,” Bobby told them. “This is my office, and nights like tonight make watching a thousand Green Day wannabes worth it.”
“Well, if we knew you were here,” Clay said, “we’d have brought our A-game.”
Bobby cracked the appropriate grin. “If that wasn’t your best, I think Leigh, my boss, will shit a cinder block when she sees you. As it is, I’ve already called her. She’s at a fund-raiser up at the Castaway in Burbank, but she wanted me to ask if you’re willing to hang. She’s going to brave the parade crowd to come meet you.”
Fiasco looked to Clay,
