|Volume: One Issue: One *Tanner*
||[18 Aug 2003|04:39am]
“Wait, so who’s this band you’re interviewing?” I asked over my shoulder to Pistol, who sat on a stool in the middle of the work area, swinging her legs.
“Um…” She flipped open her notebook. “Spades Are Trump. They’re hardcore.”
“Oh, okay. I’ve heard of them but haven’t heard them. That’s Drew Collins’ band right?”
“Chelly Jordan’s boyfriend?” I nodded, grabbing the stack of CD’s I had been organizing and wandered out from behind the counter. Pistol hopped off her stool and followed me out on to the store display floor.
“Yeah, it’s his band but he won’t be at the interview. I guess Oliver could only get the drummer, um, Padraic Prince, and the bassist, Tim Kelper to agree to come.”
Oliver is Pistol’s “boss” and ex-boyfriend. Together they had started
Hatsboro’s only underground music zine, OP Underground, although Oliver had slowly taken control of the project, which is one of the reasons he and Pistol had split up. I occasionally would write a few pieces, mostly show and album reviews, but I try my best to stay out of the zine. It’s just way too political for me. It doesn’t help matters much that Oliver is my “older brother” Jet’s best friend.
“Oliver gave you such an important interview?” Up and coming bands were always the best interviews. If the band managed to hold its own in the local scene, chances are the first interviewer got the assignment to cover them until they faded from the spotlight. That’s why Oliver never gave new band interviews to “younger” staff writers or anyone he disliked; which is where Pistol would fall right now. Pistol makes a stellar interviewer so Oliver is stupid not to put her on the rising stars. She’s as witty and spontaneous as they come. Shooting back remarks before you even know what you said to her. That’s where she got the nickname “Pistol.” Her real name is Melanie Clark, but no one who actually knows her besides teachers and her parents call her that. To everyone else she is simply and fondly known as Pistol.
“Yeah,” She shrugged. “He just called my cell phone up the other day and gave me the details. No explanation.”
“Eh…editors are weird in their ways.” We wandered back to the desk and I checked all the CD racks along the way, making sure they were neat and orderly.
“Yeah?” Pistol retook her seat on the stool and I picked up a box of security cases and began counting them into piles.
“Can I borrow your hoodie?” I scowled to myself. Pistol is only an inch taller than I am so we often swap clothes, but my hoodie is normally the one thing I refuse to share. It’s my baby.
“Come on Tanner, don’t be a bloke. It’s freezing outside and I promise I’ll drop it off on my way back home.” Forgetting the cases, I turned to face her, a stern look etched upon my face. She looked up and smiled meekly.
“Fine.” I resigned. I guessed there was more to this interview than she was letting on to. Ah well, I’ll pry it out of her later. “It’s over there, under that HellCat box, by my bag.” Pistol dug through the ever-present mess, finally finding my black Minor Threat hoodie, which was covered in band patches and pins I’ve collected over the years. She had just opened her mouth to say something when the ring of the telephone interrupted. I grabbed the receiver and held up my hand to her, motioning her to hang on just a minute.
“Eden’s Warehouse. This is Tanner.”
“Hey Tanner. It’s Jet.” Jet is a long time friend of mine; he’s always been a sort of protectorate when I can’t handle the world by myself. Tall, lanky, covered in tattoos and with long dark brown dreadlocks and sparkling brown eyes, he’s anything but you’re average Joe. Jet co-owns and manages The Chance Theatre, Hatsboro’s main underground music venue. It holds about 1,700 kids and put on an average of 3-4 shows a week.
“Hey!” What can I do for ya?”
“I’m looking for Pistol. You haven’t by any chance seen her, have you?” I raised an eyebrow to my red haired, blue eyed best friend who sat flipping through the latest copy of Alternative Press.
“Yeah, actually, she’s right here. What me to grab her for you?”
“No, that’s okay. Just tell her to get her ass down to The Chance now. Oliver’s having a fucking bird. Timmy and Padraic are already here and waiting for their interviewer.”
“Shit! Yeah, I’ll tell her, Jet. Thanks man.”
“I should be thanking you, Tan. Oliver is seriously going to kill himself over this zine someday. You’re gonna stop by this week to go over the bookings with Zahc, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Um tell him I’ll call about it when I get off at three.”
“Sure thing. Take care kid.”
“I’ll talk to ya later.” I smiled to myself as I hung up the phone. One of the perks of being so deep into this scene was I knew everything that was going on. What bands were touring, who was recording, when and where shows were, it’s just amazing. The ‘Core kids are awesome too. My cell phone’s always ringing with someone calling to bounce a new idea off me, to ask for a favor, or to just checking and update me on things. This scene is as close to a family as I’ve ever had.
“Tanner! Hello? Earth to Tabitha.”
“Eck.” I spat at hearing my “real” first name. “What, Melanie?” I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Who was on the phone?”
“The phone? Oh, yeah! The phone. That was Jet. Oliver’s freaking out, I guess the two guys you’re suppose to be interviewing are already there and waiting.”
Pistol’s eyes widened with panic as she glanced at her watch.
“Fuck! It’s 11:42, I’m already ten minutes late!” She jumped to her feet and gathered her stuff, throwing my hoodie on over her head. “Bye Tanner! Thanks for everything, I’ll call you after the interview, if Oliver doesn’t have my fucking head.”
I waved to her retreating form before turning back to my work, chuckling softly to myself.