Auditions! (Olesya, Stu, Roland, Roy)

[olesya]

[For the Above Mentioned Only]

----

"NEEEXT."

Checking off a name on her clipboard, Olesya leaned back in her chair, tipping it back on two legs precariously, her converse clad feet perched on the table in front of her. She and Stu had been auditioning folks for almost a half hour now, and nothing looked promising. At least they were in the band room, so the cacophony that assaulted their ears didn't radiate too far into the hallway beyond.

The flyers that had advertised the event:

"WANTED: One drummer and One guitarist for a band. Experience appreciated, talent and creativity a must. Will need a flexible schedule and your own instruments.

WHEN: During the lunch break.
WHERE: Band room.
SIGN UP: Either lockers 213 or 392, or on site."

A few students had signed their names on the papers attached to Olesya's and Stu's lockers, but many just decided to show up during the lunch break, and that was fine as well.

"Moore, Bethany."

Olesya read off her sheet, leaning back a bit farther in her chair. One of the few students lounging around the room stood up and walked to the center of the room where a school owned set of drums and a guitar plugged into an amp sat. Auditionees were allowed to bring their own instruments, but they had dug these out for ease sake. The girl taking her place in the center of the room, resembling a beanpole with long brown hair in two braids, took out a thin silver instrument with a mouthpiece and silver buttons down it. The short haired brunette spoke up just as the girl was putting the instrument to her lips..

"Um..excuse me, what is that?"

The girl looked taken aback. "A flute." She said matter of factly.

"I'm sorry...but we're looking for a drummer and a guitarist. There aren't many flutes in a rock band."

Looking perturbed, the girl walked off in a huff. With a sigh, she drew her pencil across her clipboard with a flourish.

"NEEEXT."

[Stu Pott]

Stu sat slumped forwards in the chair, his head held in both hands. He sighed very audibly at the people. He wasn't as mean as Olesya was to the people; he was just too nice in general.

So, when the girl with the flute came, he nearly cried in the pure audacity of it all.

He watched as the girl walked away in tears, having been discharged without even so much as a single tune played through the metal casing of the flute. He sighed and leaned backwards. He kicked his legs up, the front legs of the seat following. A little too much.

*WHAM CLATTER BANG*

He quickly jumped to his feet, clamoring to not make himself look like an idiot in front of Olesya. He sat back down after lifting the seat back to its original position, as he took another swig from the water bottle. No one had stood out. None. Not a single one. He still hoped that the boy he met on the street would show up.

"Hrm... no one seems to be any good... Not even the musical ones are what we are looking for..."

[Roland]

*FLICKER*

My shadow suddenly appears across the table (Mostly because I suddenly appear next to the table myself, but there could be other reasons.) Behind the table sit two people about my age. One, the fella, is skinny and posesses long limbs, and peculiarly dark eyes. The other, a girl, is slender and attractive, and carries an air of boredom. They both do, in fact. Auditions aren't going well, perhaps. This makes me feel a bit better; no success means better chance for me.

*FLICKER*

As the sudden appearance of my shadow across the table (caused mostly by the sudden appearance of myself next to the table, though there could be other reasons) catches the pair's attention, I waste no time. Today I wear a low-slung belt, and from it hands a long pouch...a pouch which, coincidentally, contains an assortment of drumsticks. From it I draw a simple wooden drumstick and my hand comes up, twirling the drumstick around a finger with great rapidity. I feel a little foolish, but theatrics, like communicating, take some getting used to.

*FLICKER*

3..2..1..SLAM. The hand that twirled the drumstick, moments ago is now planted on the table, drumstick slanted across the table's surface beneath it. Wait, no, 2 drumsticks...when had that gotten there, eh? Simple sleight of hand, folks, the distracting twirl in one hand, the other hand unseen planted the second stick on the table, it's as easy as Easy Bake(TM) and twice as delicious.

"I here you need a drummer. I'm new 'round these parts..."

I say this part while making eye contact with the male auditioner. What crazy black eyes! Pools of time or space, whichever sounds better. Now I shift my gaze to meet eyes of the other auditioner, which are not as weird but no less interesting.

"...but I reckon I can help you out. Mind if I give it a go?"

I'm wearing a smile that I hope is friendly. This communicating stuff isn't so bad once you practice at it, but some of the nuances are still lost on me.

[olesya]

Flicker. When had a shadows appeared there? Olesya looked up from her clipboard to the owner of the shadow. He looked about her height, slender built with some crazy sandy locks. But what caught her attention was the boy's expression. Confidence mixed with mischief and humour, a plus. His movements were swift and fluid, flicking a drumstick from what seemed like nowhere and twirling it aobut on his fingers before slamming the whole lot onto the table in front of them.

Blink, her eyes widened slightly, shaking a layer of boredom, but she didn't flinch. Points for making an entrance.

"Name?"

The female spoke, glancing over her list. there were a few that had signed up that hadn't arrived yet, but they were welcoming walk in's as well. Anything at this point, they were nearly desperate for talent. Once she received a name she would either mark it off on her list or add it with a tidy scrawl to the bottom and give him a nod to his first question.

"Alright, knock yerself out."

Her list and Stu's were the same for the most part. Same amount of names, flourished with little notes, doodles, and large cross outs of the few that had made their ears bleed. Maybe this kid would be different, but we'll see won't we?

[Roy Atenwood]

Roy walked into the room, a beat to hell red guitar over his shoulder, and a mini-amp in his left hand. His life seemed to be getting better. Invited to audition for a band....that sounded like fun. Between grades, and his job, he'd need something fun to focus on. And this seemed fucking awesome.

Of course, someone was up right now, but he'd sit in the back, and wait until this guy was done. A drummer was up, which would be cool to listen to. Listening to a good musician was almost as fun as playing well yourself. And this guy, Roy hoped, was going to be quite good. Of course, there was always the possibility he wouldn't be.

Then there was the fact he was STILL jonesing for a smoke. Not one of those wimpy Liggetts, but a good Camel, or even a shitty Carnival, since they were strong. Anything strong, right now. Any good strong cig.

This should be good.

[Roland]

"'Roland Graff' is my current handle. I don't think I signed up beforehand, so it's probably not on the list."

I will get your names afterwards, possible bandmates. That I will. Now, if I'm lucky...aha! The band room has a drum set in stock. Hell, if I had needed to lug my own set from home just for the audition, I don't think I would have bothered. Not that I'm lazy or anything.

*FLICKER*

Suddenly, a shadow falls across the ranger, drawing his attention from the half-built campfire to a rider on a horse that had appeared. "Hail, stranger. Where you headed?" Dust blows across the Earth under the lusty gaze of the red sun hanging low in the Western sky.

"Green River," comes the reply from the man on the horse. He looks down from his perch on his assailant, and upon seeing no harm in the camper's eyes, he drops his hand from the gun at his hip.

"Yon town is overrun by bandits. Thirty...no, twenty of them, all packing. If you'r headed for Green river, I reckon you should circle around as wide as you can manage." The camper spits some tobacco to the parched earth, which swallows the moisture without any qualms about its origin. Aside from its gold deposits, This land was dead.

*FLICKER*

I sit down on the round stool behind the set and survey my domain. Not a bad kit, standard school band fare. Looking at the marks and dents in the heads of the floor toms, I can practically hear the band teacher's fruitless bellowing about not using them as a stacking place for books.

*FLICKER*

"I'm out water and food; got no choice but to head for town," says the rider. The camper begins to protest, but the look in the rider's dark eyes tells him that this man is a hard-caliber. He fears no sand-scuffing ruffian.

After a mutual nod, the rider continues his journey, and it's not long before he comes to the town. A tumbleweed blows out of an alleyway and skips across the street, colliding with the smithy's porch. The smithy himself, shaking hand on a rifle and sweat on his brow, watched from a window while his family hides in the basement. The rider takes no notice. He dismounts, ties his horse near the water, and strides down the center of the empty street, unseen eyes following his motions.

*FLICKER*

First, I pull my simple leather wallet from my pocket and toss it onto the snare to deaden it a little; doubtless it would ring a bit loose without the wallet due to the rigors of school band use. I swing the crash stand arm around so that it hangs above the left small tom, just where I prefer it. I tap the hat pedal a few times to get a feel for it, and find that I need to readjust the upper cymbal so that it naturally hangs about half an inch above the lower. Good good.

*FLICKER*

The saloon is the most important building in a town like this, and it is situated halfway up the main street. From its bat-wing doors file a troup of six outlaws all carrying guns on their belts and death in their faces. The rider-no-longer stops about thirty feet away from them and stands, making no sound.

The group forms a semicircle that spreads across the street, blocking further passage. One calls out. "Ho, stranger, this town's under new management. Why'n'cha go on back the way you came now."

*FLICKER*

Time to start. I begin with a one-stick repeating pattern of 8 even taps on a closed hat, driving home a rhythmic foundation. I introduce the bass pedal, gently at first, with an interspersal of snare strikes of varied volume. Except when striking the snare, I keep my second stick twirling around my hand.

*FLICKER*

The lone man answers not. The sun is in his eyes, so he adjusts the brim of his hat lower. The seven men in the street understand each other without words. They would draw.

A crow caws in the distance. The townsfolk watching the showdown from their hiding place silently curse the foolish buccaroo for being so foolish. Suddenly, with no warning at all, the noise begins.

*FLICKER*

Anticipation builds. The snare has them on edge while the hi-hat gives them something to cling to. Now the first crash: the twirling stick stops and BANG. Louder on the snare now, and double-pedaling the bass. the hi-hat beat loosens up in favor of a rhythm that encompasses all the cymbals and the snare.

*FLICKER*

BAM. A sound like a single gunshot goes off, but all six bandits drop to the dust, one crying out in pain and surprise and the others dead in their boots. The lone man's gun is up and smoking. he quickly and skillfully clicks open its cylinder, dumps the spent shells to the dust, and jacks in six fresh shells. No longer a man but a desert wraith, the man storms the saloon.

There is no sound for a moment. Bandits drop their cards and drinks in surprise. A serving girl squeaks and races for the back door. Only then does hell break loose.

*FLICKER*

Now that salad and soup have been served, time for some meat and potatoes. Toms enter the soundscape, adding a fullness that had been absent before. I lay off the base and hat, employing loud and soft crash for flavor while beating out a driving jive on the toms.

*FLICKER*

Bullets fill the air like angry bees. Smith-Wesson, Colt, and Remington stare each other in the eye and shout their retorts back and forth in the dingy saloon. Tables are overturned for cover. The battle gains a ragged breathing rhythm as gunners drop out to reload and then re-enter with renewed fervor. Kegs and bottles burst and chips and cards fly when struck by stray shots.

*FLICKER*

I replay the same rhythm with one hand and drop my other stick onto the floor, snatching a brush from my belt continer, laying down softer, fuller beats on the snare and tom with that for a while. Cresendo and massive crash! I drop both sticks and pull up two wool-head mallets, changing the sound yet again.

*FLICKER*

Silence falls. Dust settles, and the lone man exits the saloon. His upper left arm sports a red badge. He drops his pistol into his holster and rips a shred from a dead bandit's shirt, which he ties around his arm as a bandage.

The townsfolk emerge cautiously from their hiding places. One ventures to speak to him cautiously. "Thank you for ridding us of those thieves...do you mean us harm?"

"No," says the man simply.

*FLICKER*

I've probably bored people for long enough; time to finish. Mallets are dropped and fresh basic sticks come up, and I let out the stops, employing every piece of the set in a tumbling rhythm that somehow still manages to seem to be growing. I let my arms drop a final crash, and then calmly resume the same quiet tap on a closed hat that I had started with. 8 taps later, I start slowing down, and the time between taps increases like a dying heart, until the pause between seems long enough that I have stopped, but I do one more tap, just for silly.

*FLICKER*

"What can we do to repay you?" Asks the townsperson. The man prepares to ask about provisions and lodging, but stops. Looking down, he spies the children of the town clinging to their mothers' skirts. Their bellies are caved in and their eyes sunken. The man sighs, and asks that his horse is brought, which it is. After taking the reigns, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bag of gold, which he places in the shaking hands of the townsman. The loan man speaks: "An apolgy for spilling blood in your town. Use it to give them back their strength." The townsman weeps, unable to answer. With that, the lone man mounts his horse, and makes for the horizon, riding into the setting red sun.

*FLICKER

I'm done playing for now, so I gather up my sticks casually, on the chance that they need me to play something else.