Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ray had never been to a church quite like this one. Its edifice was familiar. Light brown brick, and beautiful but faded stained glass. The inside, less so. Mary and Jesus and the angels looked on high as he and the rest of the rambunctious young folk filled in to the large entry way and up the wide trash filled steps to where the concert was to be held. They were a congregation of a much different type this Saturday evening. But one that was clearly in the right space. Graffiti was tagged along the walls. Anarchy symbols, NO WAR BUT THE CLASS WAR, GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE GULF. Ray shivered as he read the slogans. Thoughts he had had many times over, but had never felt super comfortable expressing back home. Things were quite different in Chicago. 

At the top of the steps, soft bumping sounds were pumped from large speakers that framed the stairway as it led to the ticketing table. The poster he had seen advertising the night's performance had not been clear about how much it was going to cost, but he could guess from the general aesthetic, it wouldn’t burn a hole in his pocket.

When it was finally his turn to pay, he asked “How much?” to the person manning the banged up folding table. 

They had as many holes as possible pierced in their face, the largest a septum so thick he wondered if they struggled to breathe. Their cute breathy voice was a bit jarring to hear as they replied. “It’s pay as much as you can. There’s also zines you can look at well.” They gestured to the rest of the table and the tables along the far wall that were also loaded with small stapled packets of paper. There were others presumably doing much the same as the person in front of him, hawking the zines. Ray noted that none of them were nearly as pierced. 

“Thanks.” He didn’t want to waste too much time as there were people behind him so he handed them a 5 and kept moving into the main hall. It was already half packed with a raised stage at the front with a drum and piano already set up and two mics on stands. The rest of the room was much more wild. A giant Jesus statue was nailed to a wooden cross on the far wall with skin darker than he had ever seen, a crown of flowers instead of thorns atop his head. Scattered and broken equipment and chairs and tarps lined the edges of the room. Fresh band posters were glued and stapled on top of faded ones creating distorted lumps along the walls as well. How many generations of musicians had come through this place? Lastly there was a line for drinks at the back right of the room. Alcoholic and non alcoholic options. He got a ginger ale and was given a pack of condoms as an add on. This place was so cool and he hadn’t even gotten to see the performers. 

He stayed near the back even as the space filled up. He stood out. He knew he stood out. This was the Bronzeville neighborhood and he didn’t look particularly…bronze. But so many of the other attendees did. Beautiful brown skin adorned in leather and fishnets and distressed t-shirts. Some were more unique than even that. Three piece suits and furs slung across arms and cinched slip dresses. Punks and typical churchgoers attended hand in hand. His simple open flannel, T-shirt, and jeans was a blaring plainness. 

Eventually the lights went low and four boys got on stage to polite applause. They had been milling amongst the other concert goers so casually Ray hadn’t even noticed they were the talent. But on the raised stage, he could see them clearly and he felt that flutter in his chest again. The same one that he had felt when he had seen their poster in the window of his favorite jerk chicken spot in the city. Four visages that had him going to a concert on the edge of the Southside to listen to music he had never heard before.

The boy who had caught his attention the most, his biceps bulging from his sleeveless cropped shirt, stepped forward to one of the mics. “Look at this beautiful crowd we got here, boys.” The crowd whooped at the compliment and Ray felt his butterflies double. 

His voice was rich, clearly southern. But to be fair a lot of people from Chicago sounded southern even if they would never admit it. “Hey y'all the names Pete McVries. This is my lovely back up-”

“Man fuck you,” the boy at the other mic said, chuckling. Jesus Christ. His voice was so deep Ray could feel the rumble in his bones. He had an electric guitar swung to his front which gave a little bit of edge. Unlike Pete who’s outfit more greatly favored the punks, this guy favored the church goers, with his pristine dress shirt and slacks, though the dress shirt was still open with far too many buttons to be appropriate for church. You could see the clearly defined lines of his clavicle and pecs.  

“Sammie Moore.” Pete continued with a cheesy grin. 

He held for applause before continuing. “On drums the awesome Art Baker.” He gestured behind him to a boy that Ray struggled to see but could definitely hear the quick riff he gave in lieu of greeting. 

Pete nodded like the noise made all the sense in the world. “Finally on keys, Tressler. One word only. Like Madonna.” The crowd chuckled at that.

Tressler, despite having no mic, still projected loud enough for Ray to hear. “Like Slash actually. Except with cooler hair.” He flipped his locs to prove his assertion. 

“And bigger delusions than either,” Pete added. “We are TAPS PAST and we’re going to play some wonderful songs for you tonight. Take you to church a little, but we won't leave you there, I promise. Y’all ready for that?” 

As the crowd cheered, Ray rolled their name over in his mind. Oh it was their initials scrambled in both words. That was cute.

“Excellent. Now while we pull from the past, I’m gonna need yall to be present. Can you do that for me?”

Be present? Stay with Pete McVries in this moment? Ray had no choice to join the crowd in its loud confirmation.

“Alright then. Boys, hit it!” The first number was light, but high energy. As Pete sang about the joys of creating and being created by art and music, the other boys played with glee. Already people were dancing, and Ray joined in with a bit of swaying. It was the second song that truly knocked him off his feet. 

It was called Pearline. Or at least Ray guessed that was the title for as many times as her name was said. Sammie was the lead on this one and it was almost unfair how swept up in his voice Ray became almost immediately. He sung about a woman who tasted of sin. The lengths he would go to have her again. To not go into the night and be lost to him forever. Then Pete joined in. Pearline had found him in Sammie’s absence. No words written were good enough for her. He was inadequate. It was such a dichotomy to the vibrancy of the previous song, but no less powerful. 

For the third verse, Pete had abandoned his mic and had sauntered over to Sammie so that they could share in harmony and diction. Pearline. So far away in body and spirit and all they had left was her taste on their lips. Well no, they had one another right? Both familiar with her taste…They were so close, eyes captivated not by the audience, but by each other and the mic they shared. And suddenly there was no mic but Pete's hand at Sammie's neck and their lips connected as the drums pounded and the piano screeched and the last of Pearline's love was shared between the two men that had loved her so brightly.

The crowd erupted in shock but Ray could barely hear it. He was stuck in this moment. In the way that the two vocalists looked at each other as they parted. Pete licked his lips content while Sammie rolled his eyes at the motion. Was this just a part of the performance or something more? What would that feel like? Without the pomp and circumstance and God nailed to a cross quite literally watching over them? Was this at every performance? For the first time in his life, Ray Garraty understood the appeal of a groupie. A person who wanted to attend as many concerts as possible just to see this again. Just to confirm the theory in his head. That was it right? Nothing more. Just…the logistics. 

Time could not stop forever and the concert continued. The next few songs oscillated between the boisterous and the somber, but always loud. As if to reach Heaven itself. With each one, he found himself getting closer and closer, ears ringing be damned. He needed to know what it felt like to be on that stage. A crazy thought, but wasn't this a crazy performance? The next number got him as close to finding out as he could.     

It began with the bang of drums. Slow and steady like the pace of a march. Then Pete began to stomp, his boot booming in rapturous harmony. He flashed his mischievous grin back at Art who beamed right back, his pounding getting louder as if they had entered a competition who could create more noise. Ray thought Pete had a fighting chance. Then the piano came in and he was blown out of the waters, Tressler's joy greater than any of them at that point. So loud that he could barely hear the much more subtle taps of Sammie’s foot delighting in the camaraderie of the band. 

Pete let out a sharp wail and then began to sing. Not mournful or solemn, but sexy. That was the only way to describe it. Perhaps the slow gyration of his hips, the sliver of skin above his cropped shirt impossible for Ray to remove his eyes from, made it worse. It was a song about a moon. A pale, pale moon that hung in the sky while they partied down below. Escape the drudgery of the hard working sunny world and indulge in the comforts of drink and drugs. Pound the walls of the joint and be merry. And merry they were. 

“Well come on now,” Pete said, still stomping the whole while. “Dont leave us hanging.” The rebellious and the rambunctious could be counted on to make noise and make noise they did. They stomped their chunky boots and high, high heels and even squeaky bunny slippers to the beat. Ray joined with his sensible sneakers. Sammie’s voice joined in on the second verse and then he was suddenly alone as Pete abandoned the stage, jumping down to the main floor. The crowd backed up a little curious what he could possibly be doing. He began to clap and stomp, pure control of the tempo. And the crowd responded back in kind. Ray felt the wood creak from the effort. Would they bring, not the roof down, but the very ground itself?  Pete weaved through the crowd keeping up his incessant stomping and clapping until he was right in front of Ray.

His face was dripping with sweat and perhaps it was that, that made his eyes flutter as they met his own. That had to be the reason. But what could explain how Ray was feeling, faint and breathless? He was not the artist. He was dull next to Pete’s light.

“Pale, pale moon. Come on, I want to hear yall!” Sammie exclaimed from the stage.

“Pale, pale moon,” the crowd echoed.”

All except Ray and Pete had noticed. “He meant everyone.” His fingers were curling upwards as his hand rose. He was like a puppeteer who had grabbed hold of Ray’s strings.

“Pale, pale moon,” Sammie said again after a beat.

“Pale, pale moon,” he choked out joining the crowd, his heart pounding as Pete nodded clearly pleased at his obedience. His legs felt like jello but he needed to remain strong. Collapsing at his feet, he couldn’t do that here. 

“I wanna scream. I wanna hoooooo,” Pete moaned and Ray felt his pants become tight, but thankfully he departed before he made a mess of himself on the dance floor. Not back into the crowd, but rushing back to the stage. He jumped up and got back to his mic as the crowd continued to chant. 

Then together, against the backdrop of the overlapping voices, Ray included, they switched their lyrics for the final time. The product of their call and response. 

“Ain't no love in the heat of the sun. 

(Pale Pale moon) 

Keep on working til the dollars won

(Pale, Pale moon.)

From the crow of the rooster till the morning dove. 

(Pale, Pale moon.)

Sing my song when the day is done.” 

The stomping and clapping did not abate once the song was over, only getting louder, more chaotic, more frenetic. And yet still, TAPS PAST were not done. Ray needed a bit of space heading back to his place at the back where he had originally been.

“This next one,” Pete said slightly out of breath, “is a special one. Take care to not hear it, but feel it.” How anyone couldn’t feel the energy that was being created in this space, Ray was unsure.  “Take it away Sammie.”  

Sammie’s voice. It was like fire. A match that quickly erupted into an inferno. The echoes as it bounced between the walls, sonic smoke. He was a liar. A lover of the blues as much as he tried to deny it. It was in the song, but also the atmosphere. Lights were flashing and the instrumentals were rising in incomprehensible cacophony. Was there really just a guitar, piano, and drums on that stage? Why did it sound like an orchestra washing over him? Everyone around him writhed and undulated. The most inconvenienced were rocking to and fro, but none looked as lost as Ray felt. He was a bottle in an ocean, desperate for the shore, desperate to drown. His mind flashed to Pete, his warm encouraging smile, his curled fingers. But Pete had abandoned the stage again. He was in the mix near the front. thrashing back and forth. Lost to the music as any of them. Or…no. As the moshing increased he was pushed the hardest. Thrown the farthest here and there. It was as if he was taking in all the excess energy on to himself so that no one was lost. A navigator in the choppy seas of this ocean of flame. How could he stand the dissonance with that wide smile on his face?

Ray felt lightheaded. Was he breathing? No, watching Pete was making him breathless. This wasn’t sustainable. He needed space from this energy. Walking out of the room felt perverse. Sammie’s sermon was not yet done. Where could he possibly be going? You need a fucking breather Garraty. Thank god his inner voice could somehow still be heard above the external stimuli. He focused on that, putting one foot in front of the other. When he reached the massive wide staircase, he gripped the railing with all his might. He took the steps one at a time. The booms of Art Baker’s drums were his metronome. He kept the pace. Staring at each step lest it betray him and he slip, fall, and roll an ankle. Even here at the bottom, he could hear it. He could feel it. But at least now he could hear his heart too. It was not as quick as he thought it would be. Somehow it was less excited and more…forlorn. What need did he have for tears in this moment? Why did his body want that so badly. No the lobby wasn't good enough either.

He kept walking till he fully reached the thick entrance doors, grateful he still had the strength to push it open. The crisp wind of the night air was a balm on his lungs. There were more steps. He sat at the very top, taking slow deliberate breaths. He could still hear Sammie’s voice. That didn't shock him. He was unsure a bomb shelter could stop that power. 

“Magnificent,” he heard a thick accent cry out in awe.

There was a man at the bottom of the steps. He hadn’t seen him before, too focused on calming himself down, pushing those strange tears deep down. His clothes looked more out of place than Ray’s own simple T-shirt and jeans. They looked vintage, like he walked off the set of Newsies or something with a newscap and suspenders and no jacket at all. But besides that, he looked very much like Ray felt-enraptured and a little bit shaken. That sense of familiarity calmed his nerves. 

“Yeah,” he croaked out. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah they're really good.”

The man blinked before meeting Ray’s gaze. Guess he wasn’t the only one distracted. “Is this some sort of…service?” he asked. Hearing him talk again, Ray could identify the accent. Irish. Huh. That was a little odd. Maybe he was an international grad student or something?

He shook his head. “Nah, it's a concert. TAPS PAST. They’re amazing.”

“Yes I can hear.” The man looked damn near heartbroken now, eyes cast high to where Sammie’s voice was still falling down like sonic embers into the cool night. 

“It’s not private, he added. “You can check it out if you want.”

His eyes snapped towards him. For the first time, he had the man’s full undivided attention. “What did you say?”

Did Ireland not have concerts? What was this guy's deal? “You can go inside. It’s pay what you can if you’re low on cash.”

The man was still staring shocked but it slowly turned into a small half smile. He walked up the small flight of steps. “Thank you.” He stuck out his hand. “What’s your name?”

His voice was kind of cute, the way it seemed to skip across vowels like a stone on a cool lake. 

Ray grabbed his hand in a definitive shake. “Garraty, Ray Garraty.” He’s not sure why he told him his first and last.

His smile seemed to get a bit wider, almost reaching his eyes. His teeth were strangely sharp. “Garraty. Mag Oireachtaigh. Good name. Old name.” It was stupid how warm that kind of made him feel. Homeland stamp of approval or something. 

"What's yours?” he asked.

“Remmick,” the man replied.

“First or last?”

“Now isn’t that the question?” Remmick took a breath. “Should we head inside?”

Strange curve, but Ray ignored it. Could he head back inside was the question for him. Sammie was still singing. Ray suspected he could truly go all night. A part of him wanted to say no and just tell Remmick he would meet him inside. Another part of him, the brave stupid part, wondered if he could perhaps join the pit with Pete. Would he be able to hold his energy as he did all of the others? He would never find out if he didn’t try. 

“Yeah, I'm ready.” he finally replied. Remmick helped him to his feet with ease. Ray opened the door for him and noted he seemed to walk inside with a bit of trepidation. He knew the feeling. Something about a church inspired deference and slowness, even in cases such as this one. Sammie’s overwhelming voice washed over him once again as he stepped back through. That voice, with what sounded like a thousand others, nestled within his deep swells.

“My oh my,” Remmick noted. “It sounds even better this close.”

“Sammie Moore,” Ray supplied. He wanted to spread the gospel of TAPS PAST to anyone who would listen. Remmick seemed like as good of a place to start as any other.  “His voice is nothing like I’ve ever heard.”

“Sammie,” Remmick echoed, licking his lips as if savoring the name. 

“And you should hear their other vocalist, Pete McVries.” Ray continued. “He’s just as insane.” Even as he said it, it didn’t feel true but he wanted it to be true and wasn’t that good enough? 

Remmick’s curiosity was piqued. “Is he now?”

Ray nodded. “Yep.” His stomach felt strangely queasy. 

“Well then let’s hope he sings another song after this one.” Remmick began walking up the steps.

“Yeah let’s.” he replied following Remmick slow and careful ascent. It was a speed that he agreed with. No need to expel all of their energy. They would need it to survive Sammie’s remaining verses.