When Revy returned to himself, wiping beads of shiny sweat from moppy hair as he scampered lightly back to his greenroom, he had only one thought:
That was as good as we could possibly be right now!
. . .
The next morning, Revy sat like a stump at the plain wooden table in his kitchen.
Jodie was there, hovering unnaturally somewhere off to the side.
Revy scrolled through review after review in disbelief.
Comments on his performance seemed to all revolve around a few reshuffled phrases, like:
“…full of himself . . . sophomoric lyrics . . . stupid songs . . . thoughtless . . . fake . . . pretentious . . . would have been good ten years ago . . . yet another example of the failure of a generation to make anything new or worthwhile…”
And there were others.
“I thought you guys were . . . good…? Uh, yeah,” offered Jodie.
“I . . . I don’t get it,” whispered Revy. “The crowd seemed to love it. I mean, everyone was cheering and everything. They wanted more. I don’t…”
Jodie’s eyes raised only slightly from the iun in her hands as Revy interrupted his own words by leaping to his feet and slowly meandering out of the room like a sudden zombie with no goal.
Still glued to his own iun, Revy waded through to comments by actual concert-goers and fans, hoping for a more positive response than that of “The Media.”
After all, if his music really meant anything, he shouldn’t expect those corporate industry bigwig reps who wrote professional reviews to really get it, right?
But the unofficial response was worse:
“…trying too hard . . . out of touch . . . okay, but from another time . . . weirdo front man . . . ugly . . . goofy . . . hard to take serious . . . songs all sucked . . . hoping for more…”
As automatic and reflexive as the band’s performance had been, Revy lurched for his bag of designer pills, the ones made just for him.