Above us, the curtains opened again and Rasputin Sings the Blues came on.
The Starlight always had at least five bands on the bill, but everyone knew that Rasputin owned the stage. Everybody else just got to use it once in a while.
It wasn’t only that other bands couldn’t compete with the stage act and the magic tricks. When Rasputin played, the music was just better. When they covered a song, it was like their version of it was the only real version.
The lead singer, Carlina Carlyle, strutted onstage with her hair piled in a knot on top of her head. She was wearing a dark-colored dress with a high collar. It looked old-fashioned, except that the skirt was short enough to show her knees, along with about six inches of thigh.
She grabbed the microphone, striking a cool, superhero pose. Her eyes were huge and too-light blue, black smeared around the lids, making her look crazy.
They were covering a Leonard Cohen song. The riff was hard and tight and the drums thumped like someone’s aching heart.
Drew came up to the half wall and leaned next to me, looking out at the pit like it was the most boring thing. “I’m so freaking sick of Leonard Cohen,” he said. “Man, do you have any idea how cool it would be if they did ‘Head Like a Hole’ or maybe some Saliva or Manson? Or the Gutter Twins.”
Onstage, Carlina was singing repent over and over, not like the backup girls on the album track, but snarling it, screaming with her head thrown back. Down in the pit, the crowd was screaming back at her, pounding their fists at the ceiling in time to the beat. Leonard Cohen could be just as hard as Reznor or Manson if you did it right.
They launched into an original track called “Formula for Flight” and Carlina took a cigarette from behind her ear. The first lyric was Burning towers down / Sleeping underground. She stuck the filter in the corner of her mouth, sending the audience into a riot.
Over by the other end of the stage, Alice was laughing with Jenna and Stephanie and some of the other hot girls. They were all wearing bright tank tops and tight jeans. When they danced, they seemed to move in unison, like they’d agreed on the steps ahead of time.
Onstage, the bassist stopped picking the line and stepped into the spotlight, reaching into his pocket for a handful of matches. The clips on his suspenders caught the light like mirrors.
“Light her up!” yelled someone from the crowd.
He saluted and stuck a match between his teeth, lighting it with an easy flick, then holding it out. Carlina put one hand against her collarbone and closed her eyes, bending to the match. He dropped it.
