Rock N Roll Fantasy

This wasn't going to be the first time Brynn Paters had played the famed Roxy on Sunset, but it was going to be the most memorable. He used to lie awake late at night when his parents were fast asleep, expecting him to be the same, with his seven dollar, uncomfortably fitting earphones cranked up to unhealthy decibels. The heavy bass emitting more distortion than rhythm in the inadequately-prepared buds thumping away against his ear drums. The screeching of Umar Brendl's high-pitched grasp at notes no man should ever hit, let alone one who sings in a metal band, leaves traces of an incessant humming in Brynn's ears long after the album has ended, while the hypnotic and formulaic pounding of the drums usually results in a subconscious air-drum clinic performed for no one. The posters adorning the walls in his room depict the fashions stereotypical of 80's metal, unabashed rock star poses shrouded in all the glitz and glamor associated with the appropriately labeled glam rock culture.

Brynn's parents never really took an interest in the things that interested him, which, coupled with their complete lack of awareness surrounding how the real world exists for most people led them to believe that this whole metal phase was completely harmless, and, in fact, led them astray in believing that all the colors and flamboyance of the scene were more or less synonymous with children's television. They felt it kept him from playing in the streets and basically being a nuisance to the other parents in the neighborhood, so they let him indulge in his little fantasy until, they figured, he would grow out of it and find a calling more apropos to his upbringing. They splurged on the fender he wanted and paid for the lessons he claimed he needed, even applauding when he was eager to showcase what he had either learned from his teacher – a burnt-out ex-junkie named Karl, who used to be in an REO Speedwagon coverband and who's greatest achievement in music was getting arrested for trying to cut a lock of Brian May's hair when he was soundchecking for a solo gig over at the House of Blues. Truthfully, neither parent had any idea if Brynn was actually getting better or if that's just how it was supposed to sound, but nevertheless they encouraged his prowess and clandestinely breathed sighs of relief that he wasn't more interested in that “gang music” making waves over on the other side of LA.

However, unbeknownst to his parents, Brynn had already succumbed to the lifestyle both good and bad. Even though he was only twelve, he was already drinking, albeit moderately and not because he enjoyed it, but because it was almost a prerequisite. Karl always had cold beer in the fridge courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Paters' guitar lesson money, so the least he could do was allow Brynn the opportunity to indulge. It wasn't long before Karl offered Brynn a toke, opening up a whole new world for the kid sixteen years his junior. Within weeks of their introduction, Brynn went from being an enthusiastic, innocent kid with an affinity for metal to rolling perfect blunts in the home of an ex-con. Karl had no remorse as theoretically he was doing what he was being paid to do - teach Brynn how to be a Rock N Roll musician. But unexpectedly to Karl, something happened that forced him to take a step back and open his eyes, even if it was for just a brief moment.

Brynn had become fucking good.

Like not just learning the notes and understanding the basic chords for the most simplistic of songs good, in a span of weeks Brynn had managed to transform from a little kid that didn't even know how to hold a guitar properly to well beyond even Karl's level of skill. He was able to mimic anything that Karl would play and, not long after, anything he heard on the radio – impeccably. The roles of teacher and student had soon turned into two musicians just jamming – feeding off whatever the other plays. Karl would watch in a stoned haze as Brynn's fingers would slide effortlessly along the neck of his jet black electric guitar, almost as if in slow motion, even though the blistering pace was unlike any he had ever witnessed. Karl was witnessing first-hand a child prodigy in the making, with a sound and skill level prime for the spotlight. Only problem was the kid was only twelve.

“Dude,” Karl would say, his attention focused on picking up the last few crumbs of weed on his wooden coffee table and depositing them into a Zig-Zag. “You're, like, really fucking good.”

And Brynn wouldn't even look up until he smelt the familiar odor of burning herb, preferring to remain attentive on the six strings resting underneath his chin. “Yeah well, I could be better.”

Karl would light up, take a deep hit and pass it over Brynn's way. “I dunno, man,” his voice unrecognizable, hesitant to exhale. “You're pretty fucking good.”

Brynn would take a drag off the poorly rolled joint and let it dangle from his lips, grey ash silently floating down and crumbling onto his hand as he swayed along to his own music. He barely acknowledged Karl now as anything more than a guy with a weed and a place to smoke it. Karl didn't much care seeing as how he was still getting paid for supposedly giving lessons. It wasn't long before Brynn got bored of hanging out with this nearly thirty year old never-was and soon found himself auditioning for local bands around the area looking for something fresh.

And it was when he met Alvin that everything changed for both the better and worst.