In the Dead of Night by Aiden James

order adds a certain flair, setting the tunes off as the potential singles they could become,” offered Chris, before Max could answer me.
    So, I guess it’s his doing, then. Max’s indifferent shrug just confirmed it.
    Christopher Grimes is our brand new front man. At one of our last gigs in May, Chris approached us about becoming Quagmire member ‘number five’. Twenty-three years old with blonde wavy hair ala Led Zeppelin’s Robert Plant down to his ass, he brings a commanding stage presence. Not to mention he’s a virtuoso violinist who can run circles around either guitarist as far as tearing off screaming arpeggios. Add that to his Geoff Tate--Ronnie James Dio operatic voice, and we have our meal ticket to the illusive big time. At least that’s what my ears and gut tell me.
    Dude’s prettier than the rest of us, too. But even with Chris’s boyish good looks and Kid Rock energy, it seemed a long shot that we’d take him in. That is, until he took a dozen downloads of our tunes and learned them all in a matter of a week. Then he added his special flavor and presence…. My God, you could’ve heard a pin drop in our rehearsal room when he finished his run-through. Then we had to work especially hard not to fawn over ourselves in telling this kid he could join us. Even Ricky’s cool with it, since he’s grown progressively weary of the strain on his voice that our complex melodies have brought on. Now he can stay in the background with me, adding our strong harmonies to Chris’s lead vocals. It sounds frigging awesome.
    “Once we come to an agreement on the order for the remaining thirty-three tunes, we’ll be able to support a longer show, say an hour or two,” continued our young prodigy.
    The only thing I worry about is whether Chris’s condescending tone and over-the-top sophistication will eventually chap my ass. Lord knows I deal with enough of that shit at my day gig.
    “Well, okay dudes,” I said, grabbing the wireless receiver for my amp and plugging it into my bass. “Let’s get rollin’.”
    Mongo set the tempo and we launched into our first set. Before the advent of Chris, we used to mosey about the stage, jamming with one another between trips to the dual microphones set up at the platform’s edge. Not anymore. Still getting used to Chris’s dominance of center stage, it’s hard not to get distracted by his antics: strutting back and forth before an imaginary audience while twirling his violin bow. When he launches into a lead, his nimble hands become a maniacal frenzy across the electric violin’s fret board.
    Ricky and I try not to get in the way of either Chris or Max, swinging our hair in time with every crunching power chord and bass thump we deliver. When Ricky’s brother, Paul, filmed us a couple of weeks ago, the way we worked as a band looked really cool, Ricky’s and my hair swinging in rhythm and catching the oscillating colored light rays.
    Of course, our new maestro stole the show, his bow shredded from the throes of what I believe was near-psychotic passion. With his mouth contorted to the side, his wild eyes convey an almost eerie lunacy. That’s how Ricky and Paul describe it. I’d say it’s more like ‘orgasmic terror’, as if he’s some deranged sex fiend. And chicks dig the dude—at least Ricky’ and Chris’s small harems do…frigging groupies. They went all gaga the other night, and we didn’t finish our work. That’s why I insisted there be no girls tonight.
    But hey, if his talent and allure gets us to the next level, then I’m all for the distractions that are part of the deal with him. It’s fine by me if he has all the chicks and media fame. He can sit in the forefront of our band photos, too, for all I care. Just give me credit for the songs I help write and let me tag along for wherever this crazy train takes us.
    Tonight’s rehearsal went very well…and with hardly any questions from the guys about Candi Starr and Dickey Rollins’