First-ever CoolDad Music Fiction Post

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The Sydney Leathers

Carlos was the guy they would all come to see. He’d do that thing during the set where he’d turn his shirtless back to the crowd, look to the ceiling and spread his arms wide. The tattoo that ran up his back and along his arms, when the light was just right, made him look like some kind of giant bird of prey.

“Like Quetzlcoatl rising from the ashes after the sun’s melted the wax on my wings,” Carlos used to say. Binky was never quite sure what Carlos was talking about, but something about that sounded kind of mixed up.

Tonight, though, nobody was gonna get to see Carlos Danger do his Quetzlcoatl bit. No, he had to go whipping it out at that lady just walking by out in front of the club. Cops took him right in when they heard the lady scream. Now Binky and the rest of the guys had no front man, and they weren’t gonna get paid after driving all the way to Buffalo from Jersey. And they had to bail Carlos out again.

It had been this way ever since the beginning. Carlos and Binky had formed The Sydney Leathers about 20 years before the most recent incident. Carlos was the tortured poet-lyricist; Binky was the guitar genius. There were a few times when Binky felt a little strange about putting whatever lyrics Carlos gave him together with his music, but the people seemed to eat up that crazy, depressing shit. All Binky knew was the guitar anyway, so he ended up trusting Carlos’s instincts.

They added Master Frank on bass and Clyde on drums. Those two were great guys and, really, the unsung secret weapons of the band’s sound; but to the fans, it was always Carlos and Binky. Mostly Carlos.

Things took off.

The first album sold like crazy. The Sydney Leathers were selling out some pretty big spaces. Overseas, the crowds loved them. When they played.

Carlos Danger was… well… Carlos. It was always about 50-50 as to whether The Sydney Leathers would perform. When Carlos didn’t refuse to go on out of some perceived slight from the venue, he’d bag it because he wasn’t getting the right vibes from the universe. Or he’d be passed out in the hotel. Or he’d be in jail.

For a while, this became part of the band’s mystique. Carlos wrote all those dark lyrics. He was just a tortured guy, the kids thought. They must’ve anyway, because no matter what he did, they worshipped him. Record company execs, promoters, concert venues, supporting acts? Not so much.

But Carlos Danger kept churning out his dark poetry. Binky kept weaving some beautiful shit with that guitar of his, and he was damn proud of it. You could see it in the crowd – faces turned skyward, eyes closed, hands clasped together, lips moving right along with Carlos. Then Binky would lay into that solo that everyone knew was coming, and goddammit if some of those kids didn’t levitate off the floor.

They made some people some good money, and so those people put up with all of Carlos’s bullshit.

LPs 2 and 3 just went through the roof. Binky was never as proud of that stuff as he was of the first record. Carlos was getting crazier, and it all started to seem like some kind of carnival sideshow. The critics picked up on it, kind of making The Sydney Leathers out as some kind of arena rock joke, but the fans just kept buying the records and coming to the shows.

What starts to happen when you’re Carlos Fucking Danger is that you’re pretty used to getting whatever you want. Like that whole “It’s good to be the king” thing, you know? And maybe when the whole world is constantly blowing smoke up your ass, you start to think that, “Hey I’m Carlos Danger,” instead of Charlie Dangler from Carteret.

Well, Carlos decided he wanted to push some buttons. Binky was never sure if he’d taken something that night in L.A. or if he’d just snapped. But before they even played the first note of their set, Carlos went on this… …rant or something. You name the group, and he had some nasty shit to say about them. For five straight minutes, in front of 20,000 paying customers, Carlos Danger became some Nazi, homophobe, racist, misogynist. After about two minutes, the crowd, the world turned on Carlos Danger.

Binky looked over at Frank and Clyde who were white with fear. It seemed like a real possibility that 20,000 Sydney Leathers former fans were about to tear the band limb from limb. Carlos yelled something like “You assholes don’t understand art! Fuck you!” threw down the mic and walked out. Binky, Frank, and Clyde ran.

Frank and Clyde left the band as soon as they left the stage. One by one, venues canceled stops on the tour until there was no more tour. The label dropped them within the week.

Binky didn’t talk to Charlie for about eight years after that. Then, one day, out of the blue, Charlie called him. He wanted to do a reunion tour. Frank and Clyde were already out; but the record company was on board, and they could just hire a rhythm section.

Binky didn’t need the money. He’d made a nice living hopping from band to band, writing music for them, lending them his sound for a year or so. He loved those old songs, though; and he and Charlie went way back.

Charlie promised Binky that he was done with his rock star bullshit. He just wanted to sing his songs.

OK.

As it turns out, you can be some unreliable, hate monger piece of crap; but if you had a few hit songs, there’s always somebody willing to go to your show. We’re not talking arenas here. More like small town dive bars that hold 200. The Sydney Leathers (Charlie, Binky, and two kids) drew about half that on an average night.

The people who came were the die-hards. They wore the shirts. They got right up next to the stage and shoved their camera phones right in Charlie’s face as he sang.

Charlie ate it up; and before long, Carlos was back. Only this time, he wasn’t some tortured rock poet. Instead, he was a pathetic pain in the ass with a beer gut. And tonight, Binky and those two kids had to bail him out of jail for getting drunk and being a deviant.

Dammit, though, if Binky didn’t love playing those songs.