Zorgs from Europa

“Hey guys, what kinda guitar would suit Aster best?” Sylvia asked the room with a sly smile. Neither Aster, nor Floyd, nor Marion responded or acknowledged her question as she stood waiting by the wall of guitars. “—A stratocaster!” she squealed. Aster meet her smile with a look absent all frivolity and warmth. It did not waver.

Sylvia's eye-smile held strong, but Aster's gaze-reserved-for-bugs look she was casting continued to give up not an inch of ground.

“It sounds like Aster but it's a guitar!” she again peeped, Aster's thousand-yard stare unwavering.

Marion looked back at Floyd. “Do we interrupt?”

“No, no, just pick out your drum kit,” he replied, looking onto the array of kits, cymbals, and miscellaneous drum equipment that filled the percussion section of the store.

“Are you sure this is okay, man? These things are expensive,” Marion remarked, grimacing at the price tags adorning them.

“I told you Marion, price is no issue. So please, take the time to pick out the one best for you. We want you at the top of your game!” he sang. Marion's eyes darted over to the gaudiest kit in the room, surrounded by Plexiglas and affixed with a five digit price tag.

“Ah, but also please keep in mind that price is not everything!” he trilled in horror, chasing after Marion.

“Check it out Aster!” Sylvia chirped, pulling a cherry red Gibson SG from off the wall. “Doesn't this look gnarly?!” she grinned, posing with it as she ran licks down its pristine maple neck.

“Yeah it looks sick,” Aster murmured, secretly a little disappointed in the bass guitar offerings not being nearly as sleek, a thought that hung on her mind as she glanced back toward the paltry three of them that hung on faux wood walls of the music store.

“Sick?” replied Sylvia, cocking her head.

It was an exciting afternoon for everyone, as Floyd had gathered the three of them to declare that their little shop's collection of instruments was not nearly enough for a 'band of their caliber' and accordingly whisked them away to the biggest music shop in Peppermint Plains. Aster herself was uncharacteristically giddy, a wide array of musical instruments and devices she had only ever fawned at in internet articles was now right before her, the notable smell of plastic and not-yet-banned chemical additives hanging in the air as they ran from room to room like children in a musical candy shop.

As was expected as well, Aster was the best at living in sheer terror.

“You excited Aster?” Sylvia asked, elbowing her with a bright, inquisitive smile. “Our first concert!” she gleefully exclaimed. Aster almost immediately dry heaved in front of her.

“Yeah, I really can't wait,” she muttered, stomach knotting in response. Fuck, why now? Why fucking now Sylvia? We've practiced twice, we can't play a show. I don't even know how to look at people, how are you not getting this?! she panicked to herself as her eyes met the colored carpet, nodding along to Sylvia's rambling.

“Hehehe, I'm pretty proud of myself I gotta say,” she chuckled, smirking yet again. “It was a lot of work but I got us a great booking!”

Aster broke out in cold sweat. What does that mean? 'Great booking'? The Strawberry Set?

“Awesome, what place would that be—?” she sputtered in response.

“Awesome? You know some cool slang Aster!” she peeped as she affixed a flower patterned strap to her guitar. “It's a secret though!” she grinned, running off towards the drum room as Aster and her frantic inquiries followed in hot pursuit.

“But will there be a lot of people?” Aster asked as they passed an array of hand-sculpted bronze cymbals, Floyd standing beside them as he waved his cane in time with his words.

“Yes, yes this is wonderful but look at all the other kits, Marion!” he said, gritting his teeth in a light sweat.

Marion laid a buzz roll into the snare that segued into an accented para-diddle between it and the hi-hat. His foot lightly tapped away at the kick drum, a poly-rhythm thudding out pillowy waves of bass from the large drum heads.

“Fuck,” Aster whispered, Sylvia looking back with a grin.

“It's like I'm like Buddy Rich with this kit!” Marion exclaimed, throwing his sticks down into the ground. “I've wanted something like this ever since I was a kid man, I can't thank you enough!” he continued, rising to embrace Floyd.

“Yes, just please make sure you play them as well as you did here,” he whimpered in a defeated groan, looking back at Aster and Sylvia.

“I got it, Mr. Floyd! The perfect guitar!” she declared, brandishing her shining SG.

“That guitar is shaped like the devil Sylvia... You know yourself very well,” he quipped, Sylvia blowing a raspberry in response.

“And how about you Miss Aster, did you find anything to your liking?”

Aster stood, awkwardly choking on words as she tried to sputter out a response. “Uh, well they don't really have a great selection of basses so,” she whispered, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Say no more, as the band's front-woman your happiness is my top priority. If it is desired we can commission a custom bass for you,” he offered. Aster's eyes went wild.

Her thoughts immediately trailed back to her favorite guitar— the Flying V. That exotic shape that had captured so many of her nights in a wishful fugue, forever fantasizing how it'd look to hundreds of thousands of her screaming fans in a sold out stadium concert— it's aggressive shape the perfect symbol of the girl who would solo it so expertly.

These fond recollections returned to her as she watched Sylvia expertly command her guitar, and quickly came to remember that she was the band's bassist.

“Fret not,” assured Floyd as Aster drew out the design for him.

“No, I don't want it to be fretless...”

“—Uh, leave it to me, Miss Aster. We will acquire you the bass guitar of your dreams,” he declared with a smirk, passing on the design to the store's luthier.

“Oh one more thing,” she mumbled, scribbling something onto the design sheet.

“Hmm? What is this dear, some exotic design?” Floyd mumbled, his cocked head studying the twisting, floral-esque print she'd sketched right below the guitar drawing.

“It's a paisley pattern,” she stated matter-of-factly.

That is a sixties thing, right?

“I have to say I have never seen this design before, but I quite like it,” Floyd replied, brandishing a monocle as he examined it further. “Very foreign indeed. You are quite the cultured one aren't you, Miss Aster?” he said, handing it back finally to the luthier.

“Cultured swine!” Sylvia squeaked.

—

Burnt hues of amber and red cascaded past as the group made the brisk and chilly walk down main to The Strawberry Set to fetch Cecil from work— or more appropriately, attempt to steal him from work.

“Just tell me Sylvia, are we playing here?” Aster whined in horrid apprehension as that familiar venue crept into view.

“Nope!” she answered with a coy smile. “Some place even more exciting!”

Aster felt the core of her being fold in upon itself as she realized she was going to have to play for dozens, perhaps even hundreds of people and very likely fail utterly before them. In stark contrast walked Sylvia and Marion beside her, abuzz with excitement over their new purchases and rambling on about how they'd best christen them during the show. Aster could only retreat into herself, too uncomfortable and anxious to really let any joy or excitement surface up through her, or free her thoughts from what was to be an assured disaster in her mind.

They descended the staircase to the entrance of The Strawberry Set, Floyd opening the door to a room far removed from the one he had rescued Aster from a week earlier. The humid cellar lay large and open, a few clouds of smoke wafting up here and there from patrons enjoying their drinks at the bar, and the mousy-haired man known as Cecil standing up from a grand piano at the back of the room.

“Huh, why are you guys here?” he asked, shooting them a quizzical expression. Aster hacked as cigarette smoke wafted into their faces.

Floyd raised his finger to speak as Sylvia jumped in front of him. “We've got a show tonight, Cecil!” she exclaimed, sparing no time.

“And?” he replied, casting yet another look of confusion down on the pipsqueak before him.

“Well, somebody needs to play the keys,” interjected Marion. Floyd hesitantly gripped at his cane, watching Cecil throw on his coat.

“Yeah, sorry. I've been thinking about it, but I'm swamped between this job, the record store, and school. I can't do it,” he replied.

“Can't do it? Do you know how many jobs and other gigs I have? Why even play with us in the first place then?” argued Marion.

“Because I didn't have any problem helping you guys out with practice, but for a full-time thing it's not going to work—”

“But Cecil, we're going to record with Johnny Vallerie! Johnny Vallerie!” Sylvia exclaimed, throwing her arms up as she jumped before him.

“You mean the guy who hasn't had a hit record in a decade?” he scoffed. Sylvia's jubilation rumpled into a frown. “Like, awesome for you guys if it works out, but that's another thing. I don't really want to be seen next to the walking beer pitcher who still believes it's nineteen fifty-two,” he continued, Sylvia's frown turning into a look of irritation.

“Yeah, like your stuffy old grandma music is any better!” she replied in earnest. Cecil adorned a similar scowl in response.

“Post great-depression France had some of the best—”

“The Cecil I know has never shied away from a challenge,” interjected Floyd, his clenched hand shot out forward in a symbol of inspiration meant more to keep his grovelling at bay than for the other four. “Would it not be a worthy test of skill to help reinvigorate this man's woeful music career?”

“I have rent to pay, Floyd!” he exclaimed, turning to him. “And besides, I need job experience to have any hope of getting into the music department at the uni in Cherryaire. You know I'm trying to get into the experimental acoustics department, Floyd. I really can't be goofing around in some garage band.”

“Experimental acoustics...?” mumbled Aster.

“Yeah. Cutting edge, heavy stuff. Improvised compositions and electronic music and things like that,” explained Cecil. Aster's eyes opened in hushed excitement.

“Of course space cadet Cecil would be into all that spooky stuff! Straight out of 'Zorgs From Europa' !” exclaimed Sylvia as she mimed alien antennae with her stubby fingers, dropping them into guns which emitted faux laser sounds into Cecil.

Aster's furry brows twitched as her brain ran its paces in a furor.

Somebody else besides me is into compositional indeterminance methods?! Wait... I wonder how far along this world is in elements of musique concrete. Does Stockhausen exist in this world? Aster pondered as Cecil began to wave an abrupt goodbye to the group, walking off.

“But how are you going to ever hope to get into experimental electroacoustics by playing for a bunch of daytime drunks? Are they going to be happy with you switching to polyvalent form? Spatialization?”

“—Who are you?” uttered Cecil with complete incredulity as he stopped, turning back to face them.

“She's Aster, of course. She's the best!” Sylvia replied plainly, reaching for Aster's hand, who gripped back tightly in response.

Cecil stood looking at them, the clattering of glasses increasingly more prevalent as patrons crawled in for the late afternoon hangover of factories changing shift.

“I'll help you with your show today, and that's it,” Cecil finally acquiesced, Sylvia clapping in response.

—

“Just tell me, do we have a chance Sylvia?” Aster inquired in her panic-stricken tone as the blonde girl drove the five of them to their venue.

“We'll do just fine, Aster. Don't worry, it's real laid back,” she smiled, as she maneuvered the Volkswagen van down winding strips and hills of idyll, Eden-in-a-box suburbia which lay sprawling just outside of Cherryaire.

Oh, God she's become too confident. She's not going to be able to bear getting booed off stage when we bomb... Aster worried in a fit of horrid nausea and anxiety as she peered out the window in muted wonder at the tiny houses, each one hauntingly echoing sketches of the previous in their cookie-cutter blur as the van whizzed passed the pristine, manicured lawns which patch-worked 'the sprawling, masturbatory ode to aggressive individualism', to put it in Cecil's words.

How do they even have the space for everyone? she wondered as the van pulled up to one of the houses.

“We're here!” Sylvia declared, turning off the engine as another wave of internal turmoil took the best of Aster.

We're going to fail, we're going to fuck up. We haven't practiced nearly enough. I gave them my hardest material, which should be impressive, but... she recited to herself as the guys took to unloading the gear from the van. Drums, guitars, amps, keyboards, cables were all thrown onto the lawn as Sylvia ran up to the house.

“Where are we even going to plug this stuff in?” Marion mumbled.

Fuck Marion wasn't even there for half of it, why did that idiot walk out? It was just thirteen-fifteenth time with a nine-forth poly-rhythm. We're fucking ruined before we've even sta—

"Mom, we need more lemonade!" a young child screamed as he darted across the lawn, Aster suddenly noticing dozens of similarly small children scattered about in the backyard, balloons anchored in hand.

"Welcome to my home!" Sylvia shouted, walking underneath a banner that proclaimed 'Happy 7th Birthday!'

“—Are you fucking serious?” Aster mumbled gravely under her breath as she looked up at it.

“My mom said we could play at my little brother's birthday party! All the kids in the neighborhood are gonna be here, so we better play our best!” she said with a shit-eating grin as she elbowed Aster.

“And I thought Johnny Vallerie was the lamest thing about this band,” Cecil muttered, hiding his face as he walked into the backyard.

“You're the lame one, you jerk!”

—

“Okay, check, mic check one two,” Sylvia uttered as she tapped away at the head of the microphone, children running around the stage as the band fiddled with their instruments. “Well, first off, I would like to thank everyone for being here!” she gleefully started, a few parents turning their heads to the stage as she spoke. “And most of all, I'd like to wish a very happy birthday to my little brother, Willie!” she grinned, readying her guitar. “This one's for you Willie!” Sylvia peeped, handing the microphone to Aster with a smirk.

“I do say Sylvia, Aster seems to be improving already. She does not look the least bit frightened,” Floyd whispered as they watched her fiddle her cord into the guitar's input.

How the FUCK did they live without wireless?

“Yeah, she just looks kinda angry now, Mr. Floyd,” she replied with a chuckle, rubbing the back of her neck as Aster's lips came to the head of the microphone.

“We're The I Love You Forevers,” she stated dryly, launching into a distortion-drenched dissonant bass chord which shook the glasses and plates adorning the concessions table. Cecil looked over at the back of the amp as she began chugging alone, unaided by the band. Wait, why does that amp sound so disgusting— She cut the cones?! he noticed, the back of the amp propped open and a razor blade atop it.

Sylvia soon joined into the fray, her fingers contorting Picasso-like as the piece ebbed and flowed, Marion thrashing into the drums with breakneck pace and technicality.

“Fuck, an E add-eleven double flat five suspended second over a B double flat chord? It's not even segueing into anything that makes sense, it's just chromatic!” Cecil shouted above the noise as his hands desperately tried to keep up with the contorting mosaic that was the piece's composition.

“Two years in art school and here I am getting my ass handed to me,” he bemoaned as Marion struggled to keep up, the tempo unanchoring from the cacophony swallowing the suburban backyard. Floyd bowed frantically on the saw that Aster had given him as she held onto the same unchanging chord, Sylvia's grin unbreakable as she took lead spot, effortlessly dancing her fingers through string changes as she did her best to conjure forth the musical traditions of the East.

In total ebb and flow, the piece climaxed in its crescendoing cacophony, Aster jumping to slit the cones of all the other amps in a bid to wash her Valhalla in utter distortion.

“A national tour! WORLDWIDE!” screamed Floyd, overcome with frenzy in the ear-splitting dissonance as kids ran to and fro in hysterics, fetching their parents with swollen eyes as Aster brought forth the end of the world.

Marion fell over on his kit, the cymbals crashing in utter asynchronicity as he gave up on being any linchpin, Floyd's bow snapping against the sharp saw-blades.

“Aster...! ASTER!” Cecil screamed over the din as she struck at chromatic chords, one kid in the crowd throwing up.

She turned back to face him, her orange eyes seemingly stolen by something that replaced them with the coals of hell's forever stoked fires.

“Do you think maybe, we should like, dial it back...?” he offered, the hideous feedback of her overly driven bass guitar driving forward into the yard as if to expel any person from the stage.

“I'm calling the police!” one mother could be heard screaming from the back.

Aster looked out, a field of sniffles and hastily abandoned birthday cake, parents hurriedly fetching their children as they told off the woman Aster guessed to be Sylvia's mom.

“Okay,” she uttered, decreasing the volume on the amp. “This one's in C,” she stated as she began picking at an infectious, melodic bass line.

Sylvia tapped her sneaker, bobbing her head as she picked out the root-notes. “Now this is groovy!” she peeped, sweeping simple, clean chords over Aster's ear-worm foundation.

Marion raised himself off the ground, assembling his drums as he dove into the song with a heavy-handed rock beat.

All at once, the children's gazes turned to the band, their tears stymied in awe of sickeningly sweet pop melodies it was spewing forth.

“La la lalala,” Aster refrained, the group backing her up in a singalong harmony as the kids laughed and clapped, rushing to crowd around the band.

Wait, it's this easy? she thought as she sang her nonsense, one of the kids affixing a party hat to her head. She looked out at the dozen or so children and their parents, utterly enthralled by her music, and ceased playing.

The band crashed into its rhythmless lead and the song abruptly ended, the rest of the band looking in surprise to Aster as she dryly muttered “We're the I Love You Forevers” and set down her bass, the feedback humming softly into the neighborhood as the police showed up.

Despite the sudden end, the party went wild, various kids and their parents bombarding the band with requests for their albums, when they were playing next, et cetera.

Aster looked blankly across the yard as Floyd went to talk to the police, her lips moving on their own to address the crowd. “We have a show tomorrow,” she whispered, to which Cecil groaned in response.

“We have a what?”