DEADLY SIREN. *, JADANDY.

[Andrew Signer]

Who knew it could be so cold, so desperately frozen in San Francisco. Of course, it wasn't the weather: It was the sound coming through the rickety Big Dipper as I was sitting on a bench outside the front door. Screeching, buzzes, and moans of hopeless fans. I had to admit, it was the sound of a down-and-nevercoming band that was trying way to hard to be the next Blondie. What I couldn't comprehend was the lead singer's voice. How hideous it sounded. Like a siren without power. Deadly, but only deadly. You know what I mean?

Supposedly, The 707s were "it", according to Rolling Stone. I thought about this long and hard as I tried to block out the sound on the lonely bench. Everyone was inside, trying to find some kind of joy in the not-so wonderful band. And then I came to conclusion as to way a fucking rag like Rolling Stone would put The 707s on a pedestal full of shining, glorious light.

The lead singer must has sold the writer either drugs or sex. Most likely both. Why am I sitting out here, shivering like a scared fan? I'm here...to expose The 707s.

[Jada Dresdner]

"It's over. Thanks for coming and get the fuck out!" the blonde girl yelled into her microphone as soon as the band finished the last notes of their encore song. A forty minute set and half-packed venue of adoring fans later, she was simultaneously sweating and coming down from her high. Neither of which was particularly comfortable for her, so at the moment, she was hell-bent on getting out in some open air, grabbing a shower and hitting the afterparty as soon as humanly possible. Of course, there were the obligatory hugs, handshakes, thank yous and air kisses to hand out to fans before she could finally get outside, so it took a considerable amount of time just to weave her way through the crowd to the door.

When she finally hit the double doors of the hall, a gust of exceptionally cool breeze hit her like a wall. Sweet fucking fresh air! Like any good show, there were a few small gaggles of stray fans waiting for rides home or having a quick puff between the show and the party. The drummer from one of the opening acts threw an arm around her shoulder and offered up a quick peck on the cheek which she jokingly returned with a faux-sloppy kiss and a laugh before sauntering over to plunk her tired ass down on the semi-occupied bench where she could have a moment to roll a joint in peace.

Licking the edge of her paper, she peered over at the blonde kid next to her "Hey kid, who'd you come to see?"

[Andrew Signer]

A blinding crescendo, and then, the music is over. A wave of relief comes finally over my body. I open my eyes, making sure I am still on earth. Not in Hell. Lord, thank you for your grace you've give me. I would like to thank you, over and over again. I'm just being over-dramatic. I hear the damsel in distress say her naughty good-byes into a microphone. And I wait. Pen in my right hand, notebook in my left. I don't need a recorder. I'm confident in my speedy writing skills.

A song rushes through my head. That one song my mom used to sing to me in her deep voice: "Dream on, dream on until your dreams come true." This is what what I was put on this fucked up earth for. To fuck it up even more. To make musicians cry and break down those barriers they've spent their lifetime on. My thoughts are interrupted when a blonde chick, obviously high on something, sits her dainty ass on the bench I'm on. Already? This early? The afterparties haven't even revved up. Then I realize that it's her. Jada Dresdner. The lead singer of The 707s. The usual adrenaline rush comes over me like it always does when I get into action.

"Hey kid, who'd you come to see?"

I smile, a big fucking fake smile, and say oh so sweetly, "You, of course. Have a second? I'm with a local underground music magazine. I want to ask you some questions." I stare into her spaced out eyes, waiting. I notice her about to roll up a blunt. I say, "Excuse me, before you speak, get that thing out my sight. Thank you."

[Jada Dresdner]

Falling for the fake smile and sweet voice, she totally bought his faux journalistic interest. For a moment, but only a moment, Jada looked absolutely thrilled, the way any good front woman does when she thinks a real fan has approached her. She turned her eyes on him, lit up with the look of a woman flattered, despite being weighed down by too much black liquid liner that was almost a throwback to the sixties. Her mouth curved into a bemused smile that dropped like a lead weight as he finished his second statement, however. With a new smile, this time dramatically less than friendly, Jada continued rolling the dainty little joint, bringing it slowly, deliberately to her lips as she licked the paper again, keeping her eyes locked on his as she languidly slid her tongue down it, her gaze and curl of her lips just dripping with a big fuck you.

"Yes, I'll answer some of your questions," she cooed, sweet as a shit-coated sugar cube as she flicked her Zippo, trying fruitlessly a few times as the wind harassed it. Finally lighting up her joint, she took a big drag, holding it for a second before letting it out in a big, smoky cloud, aimed right for the journalist. "What rag did you say you work for?"

[Andrew Signer]

I wanted to reel back and knock the fucking life-ruiner out of her pale hands. Tension was lingering in the air, pure and rich. Now, my hands were shaking. Not because of fear, but because I have a short temper that is easily enflamed. Especially dealing with bitches like Jada. I like into her eyes and see nothing. Wait. I see a glint of fame, but it fades nonetheless. How sad. It's then that she blows toxic smoke into my face, leaving me to sputter about like a fool. Keep it cool Andy, keep it cool, I tell myself. Journalists have a creed to never get out of control. Leave that to the musicians.

"I work for the Underground. Now, let's get to it. How do you think your behavior affects your music? What made you get into music? Are you attention-deprived? Did your mother treat you right as an adult? Have you ever been arrested for public intoxication?" That's how you hit them with the hard questions. It makes them sweat and gets their weak hearts pumping. When they get nervous, they splurt out whatever they can think of. Which is usually worse than the actual answer.

"I can always tell when someone is lying, so don't try it, Jada Dresdner."