Bozza bangs the drum and stands screaming and five hundred thousand people scream back at him. Screams of joy. Screams of sheer delight. Screams of surprise at how much fun it is possible to have.
He throws his drumsticks at them and flexes his muscles as sweat drips off his naked torso. His long hair sticks to his shoulders. He hollers at the sky and the five hundred thousand holler with him like wolves. The tiny t-shirts and baseball caps and hair and fleshtones all flow together into a sea of multi-coloured dots.
He has been doing this tour for what seems like years now. Him, and Drake and Milo. And every town has gone wild for them. In every town the girls have been chasing them. Well, Drake. And all the music journalists have wanted to interview them. Well, Drake. And in every town, now that he comes to think of it, Drake has had his own limo to take him to chatshows, while he and Milo share a cab.
Wasn’t it he and Milo that started this band? They formed Gold God Power Dog at college. Back when they had to beg, borrow and steal to get equipment together. Mainly steal. They were the originators of the melting amber sound. Not Drake. He was a struggling singer-songwriter who couldn’t sing or write a song. He just struggled. They only brought him in temporarily when Chris Creasey, the original singer left to pursue a career in horticulture. They just got used to him being there. And now, just a couple of years later, now they all have their own techs, and signature instruments, and merch, now people talk as if Drake were the Gold God Power Dog himself!
The reverberations of the last song die away, the song they agreed was there finale. Drake steps up to the mic and announces that, “Me and my band will do one more.” And the crowd scream for him. For Drake. Like they did all along.
Bozza leaps on him. They go tumbling into the crowd, a flailing mess of hair and fists and broken guitar. The screams of the crowd change pitch, into the key of consternation and despair.
And as the huge security guards pull the two if them apart and they glare at each other in hatred, Milo ambles over with his bass in his hands and says, “So are we doing one more or not?”