𝐕𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 || 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐒

02 - Small Venues

VALLIE

I arrived to the show early, before doors opened to gauge what exactly they were working with as far as merchandise and such. It was a simple place, a small stage at the front of a space that was as big as a diner or sub shop. At the back was a wooden bar covered in colorful stickers and two bathroom doors that were black with random symbols painted in white.

I found that the set-up process for metal band at a small-ish venue was vastly different than giant pop star stadium tours I was used to handling. Since the upgraded venues were for the upcoming tour, this one was still tiny. Most of the work was carried out by the bands and their managers rather than venue workers. There weren't giant merch tables with lengthy lines of people. In fact, there was only about 30 fans waiting outside for a show that was opening in an hour, despite the supposed "viral" status. I walked around slowly, my work iPad in hand, just taking in the atmosphere while people fluttered about. A couple members of the band I recognized from the meeting earlier were helping set up their own merch table that lined the left wall.

The mood shifted once I followed the length of the white pop-up table – it was clear they weren't fond of me there. I trailed my finger along the edge as I looked over their merch selections, which honestly was better than I thought. The designs were different, unique – but could be better; the options and selections were slim, just shirts and posters.

"You didn't have to come if you didn't want to." A smooth voice said from just behind me, the tone snide.

I turned, thinking maybe it was one of the other members of the band, but it was the front man. "Listen, I'm just here to make your managers happy." I sighed, already irritated with his big scary rockstar attitude. If there's one thing I've learned is that the scariest looking ones are the biggest puppies in the game. It's the world-wide sensations that are the vicious wolves of the industry, or even worse, their managers.

This rail-thin tattoo-covered former emo kid was no different. I saw right through him.

"We don't need another manager on our team." He stepped closer and hushed his harsh voice so it was just between us. "We can handle it ourselves. We don't need another stranger coming in and using us."

"Jeez." Stepping back from his intensity, raising my hands up, "You're the next My Chemical Romance, got it." I said with a roll of my eyes.

He scoffed, "That's exactly why we don't need you. You don't get it. Don't you manage Harry Styles or some shit like that?"

My attention returned to the merch, picking up a shirt, lifting it up by the shoulders letting it unravel in front of me. "Hm, no, but somethin' like that." I hummed as I looked over the design, it was a skull wrapped in a cobra. "This design kinda cool, who designed it?" I asked, peaking a brow over to the singer.

His shoulders fell slightly and the strict defense in his face softened, "I did." He replied gently.

Called it - a puppy.

"Hm." Running my tongue between my lips, beginning to fold the shirt back into its original form. "You designed all of these?" I used the newly folded shirt to gesture at the rest of the merch set up before setting it back on the pile.

"No. Well, most of them. The rest of the band designed some too. We all pitch in, this band is as much mine as it is theres'." His eyes shifted back to me and hardened in defense again.

"Right." I nodded my head with my lips pressed flat, having my fill of the nonsense. I went to walk past him, stopping right when our shoulders – well when my short shoulder – was parallel to his heavily inked arm. "Since we both know I won't be taking you guys on, I wish you luck. Break a leg Pete Wentz." I shoved past him and attempted to hide my proud giddiness of the joke.

It was just to get a rise out of him, which didn't appear to be difficult. Truth was, I wasn't totally a stranger to their genre but playing dumb was more fun. Men were easy to figure out and fun to play with.

As I walked out the doors to get some much-needed fresh air and maybe a coffee, I noticed the line had tripled in length in the 15 mins I spent in there. I took a beat before continuing, the line kept growing, even as I stood there watching it. I thought about it the entire walk to the coffee shop across the street. When I returned, the line was wrapped around the building.

-

Finally, I was standing at the back of the club, watching the show from afar. Their managers insisted I watch from backstage – the tiny excuse for one anyway – probably to hide the debauchery that took place within the crowd. But I wanted the full experience; the drunken giggly girls hogging the bathroom and all. It was easy to tell who were true fans and who just found them trendy online. The regular fans were laid back, flowed easily with the energy, and their attire looked lived in. The others stuck out like sore thumbs, wearing skimpy outfits that looked like they were fresh off the racks of Hot Topic. They limped around in unbroken-in new Docs, winced every time the music was too loud, and giggled every time Noah smiled. Which in handling a pop star sensation, screaming girls wasn't new to me. But for some reason in this setting, it irked me.

Though, I was in no place to judge, I came in my regular business casual attire. I too stuck out like a sore thumb, but in a much different way. It wasn't my first heavy show, but it had been a while since those days. Midway through college I stopped going to Warped Tour every year and my favorite bands started either breaking up or changing their sound all together. Somewhere along the way I lost my love for it all, and truthfully, I just felt out of place.

The intensity on the stage and in the club was high and I wondered if they were always like that or if they were trying to scare me away. I swirled what I wished was an espresso martini in a plastic cup as I watched the 3 men upfront head-banging with hair as long as mine, and the drummer smoking a joint while his sticks landed on the drums. They weren't anything I ever imagined managing. They were rough, rugged, and unpolished.

Regardless, what I saw was mesmerizing – the way the front man commanded and controlled the crowd, the way they listened to him, respected him and each other – even the newbies. The overly-defensive seemingly insecure man from before was oozing confidence under the spotlights. His vocals buttery smooth even through the heaviest parts and seamlessly flowed between highs and lows. The guitar and bass carrying the songs, completely synced in their movements. And the drums – god the drums were borderline addictive. One of the only songs of theirs I took the time to listen to before the show was the song that landed their viral status, Just Pretend. And the intro drums to that song were something I wanted to inject directly into my veins.

But most importantly, the merch selling steadily and rapidly – almost completely gone by the end of the show.

Maybe they were the next big thing.

And maybe they were my new clients.

-
A/N: Thank you so much if you took the time to read this. I didn't see many Noah/Bad Omens fics and wanted to contribute, lmk if u liked it🖤

Might cross post onto my Bad Omens tumblr -> concreteburialplot, if anyone is interested🖤