Youthache

A washed-up punk rocker and a gator wrestler fight to save a music studio from destruction

Youthache

“Ow!” Johnny yelled. He dropped the soldering iron and put his finger in his mouth to soothe the burn. It didn’t help. The iron landed on the circuit board he’d been repairing, knocking it to the floor. The resistor he’d been replacing bounced across the workshop and disappeared under a flotsam of amplifiers, all in various states of disrepair. Johnny sucked on the finger, trying to cool the burn, but to no avail. With his other hand, he put the iron back into its stand before it scorched the workbench even worse. A fresh black scar on the tabletop joined the countless other dings, scores, stains and other marks which revealed its age.



A blister had already formed on Johnny’s finger. He walked upstairs, leaving the music repair shop and entered the attached recording studio. With luck, he’d find an old first aid kit laying around the office somewhere.



Re-vAMP – the equipment repair company – didn’t do enough business on its own to justify its existence, but when combined with Big Guava Studios the two generated enough revenue to keep the doors open. Famous bands didn’t record at Big Guava. The owner, a burned-out hippie who had called himself Funky Floyd since the ’70s, got most of his business from voice-overs for local television and radio ads. The loudmouth attorney asking if you’d been in an accident? He recorded there. Ditto for the local BBQ restaurant who made the unintentionally funny commercials on the public access channel. Most radio and TV stations now record voice-overs in-house these days, leading to a steady erosion of business. Even local kids in garage bands looking to record demo tapes found it easier and cheaper to buy some software and record on their computers. There were still enough kids slinging pawn-shop guitars to keep the lights on, but the margin got slimmer each month. Johnny had worked here in various capacities since the band broke up.



Johnny reached the top of the stairs as one of those kids walked in the door. The kid’s jaw dropped.



“Oh my God!” the kid half-shouted, “You’re Johnny DeLuca! From Youthache!”



Johnny stepped back. “You’ve got a hell of a memory, kid,” he replied. “There’s no way you were even born when Youthache broke up.”



No one had recognized him as “Johnny from Youthache” in a decade or more. In truth, there was precious little to recognize. Their legacy, to an extent that they had one, was that Billy Holmes, AKA “the other guitar player” had gone on to make it big.



“My friends and I have a band,” the kid continued. “A punk band, like yours. We all love that album. That’s why I’m here. You guys recorded the Noise Confession album here. We want to capture some of that magic.”



“That’s awesome, kid. I mean it. Listen, you kinda caught me at a bad time. You want to talk to Floyd, the owner. He can go over rates, etc. Write down your info and I’ll have him call you when he gets in. If you end up recording here, maybe I’ll stick my head in and catch some of the session.”



Johnny motioned towards a desk where a receptionist no longer sat. It still held pens and post-its where the kid could scribble his info. Meanwhile the blister on Johnny’s finger had gotten bigger. He entered Floyd’s office. These days, it often lay empty. Somewhere in the dust and bric-a-brack he found the first aid kit with an old band-aid and some expired ointment. It would have to do. Johnny grabbed a thumbtack, lanced the blister, and squeezed. He wiped the fluid on his jeans, applied the ointment, covered it with the bandage, and hoped for the best.



As he cleaned his mess, Johnny saw a certified mail envelope on the desk. The envelope itself had the word URGENT stamped in large red letters. He picked it up. It was a letter from the city. Curious, he started to read. It mostly spewed bureaucratic legalese that he didn’t understand. Yet he did understand the two words EMINENT DOMAIN. From there, he put together that The City wanted to seize the property and Floyd did not have an option of saying no. Times might be hard, but Big Guava Studio had existed since the 1970s and now the city had arbitrarily decided that, ownership be damned, the city was taking the building and demolishing it. Floyd owned the place, he’d paid taxes on it every year for over half a century, and now the city was saying “fuck you, we’re taking it and you don’t have a choice.” The letter said something about a hearing in thirty days. It was dated three days ago.



You pave paradise and put up a parking lot, he thought. He found Joni Mitchell milquetoast and boring, yet that line resonated.



Furious, he turned to go back downstairs to his work when the door opened again. He figured it was the kid leaving, but Floyd walked in.



“What the hell is this?” Johnny waved the envelope at Floyd.



“That’s why I came in. To tell you – the city wants to knock down the building and build… whatever.”



“What are you going to do? What am I going to do?”



“Me? I’m 84 years old, man. Maybe I’ll finally retire. I can’t imagine I have many more years left. The hell of it is I’d planned on willing this place to you when I croak. It’s just as much home for you as it is for me.”



Floyd spoke the truth. Johnny had worn every hat there was to wear here. He’d done voice-over, sound engineer, producer, hell even janitor. A couple times, when money had gotten tight, he’d lived in the basement where he now repaired instruments. Floyd had pretended not to notice.



“We’ll just see about this,” Johnny fumed.



“You can’t fight City Hall, man.”



“Remember my song Fuck the Government?”



“Not really man, no.”



“That’s OK. Nobody else does either. Well I remember it. Maybe it’s time to fight back. They’re supposed to work for us!”



“Right on! Fight the power?”



“It’s about time I did!” He started singing an old favorite as he walked out the door, “Cause I… wanna be… ANARCHY!”



***



Johnny didn’t wait. He coaxed his beat-up Wrangler to life, hopped onto I-75, and followed it left as it became Alligator Alley. About halfway across the state, he exited. The sign read “GATORAMA – 1 mile.” Pavement had not yet occurred to the local government. The government will steal your land, Johnny thought, but won’t even pave the damn road. The next sign read “Now entering the Miccosukee Reservation” and Johnny noticed the irony of stolen land. Would he find help here? Or would they just let The White Man fight it out for themselves.



He walked across a makeshift parking lot, through the mud, clay, and coral rock, past a small handful of protesters. They carried prefabricated placards decrying animal abuse. Johnny often sympathized with some of their less extreme positions, but not today. He continued to a grassy area with a makeshift inflatable pool. The deep rumble of native tribesmen throat-singing emerged from some speakers, providing a soundtrack for the spectacle. Inside the pool splashed a large alligator. Alongside it stood a heavily tattooed man. The man poked the gator near its hind leg. The gator twisted towards him, its jaws making an audible snap even though they closed on only air. The man then jumped on the alligators back, grabbed the beast under the jaw, and reared back. The gator found itself snoot-to-the-sky and helpless. The man took one hand away to waive to the crowd, who applauded on cue.



“The Miccosukee developed these techniques to hunt the alligator. They ate the meat, and used the skin for clothing, tools, and trade. We do this now to keep those traditions alive.”



He then kissed the alligator. The gator sensed its opportunity and twisted into a desperate roll. The man held on, rolled with the gator, and kept rolling until he was on his back, under the huge reptile. He held fast there and the upside-down gator froze. Its limbs hung limp, paralyzed.



“The alligator is temporarily paralyzed when it is upside down. It doesn’t hurt the alligator, but he can’t move.”

Out in the parking lot, the protesters screamed their disagreement and the audience ignored them.



He then rolled the alligator back over, all the while retaining his position in its back. He pulled back on the gator’s jaw again. This time he hooked his own jaw over the gators mouth and let go with both hands. He then untied a bright orange bandana from his neck, wrapped it around the gator’s jaws, and tied it shut.



“The gator can’t bite with its jaw tied shut, but he can still swing that jaw or his tail hard enough to break a bone. Every gator you see here is one the State of Florida declared a “nuisance alligator.” It got into someone’s yard, or their pool, or their lake, and they called us to get rid of it. It’s against the law for us to release these animals back into the wild. The State of Florida kills over ten thousand nuisance gators a year. It’s lucky the property owner called us. Instead of killing them, we capture them and bring them here to live.”



With his speech over, the tattooed man patted the gator on the nose, hopped off its back, and stepped out of the pool. Various other handlers approached the gator to return it to its pen. The man waved his hat, and the crowd gave him one final round of applause.



“Mick!” Johnny shouted.



The tattooed man turned. “Johnny?”



“Hey man. Long time…”



“Too long.”



“I see you haven’t lost your flair for working a crowd.”



“Not much of a crowd. This used to make big money for the tribe. Now the casinos are where it’s at. People come here for nostalgia or spectacle. I’m not even a part of the tribe and it annoys me. There’s not a show that goes by someone doesn’t expect me to do some WWE shit.”



“It’d give those protesters something to bitch about.”



Mick laughed. “Even the ones who don’t come expecting a missile dropkick off the top rope into the poor gators face still expect Florida Man and Waffle House all rolled into one.”

“What top rope?”



“Exactly! I swear half of them watch just hoping I’ll fuck up so they can post a selfie on Instawhore with my blood splattered all over the background.”



“Savages.” Johnny, “Hey, man. It’s great to catch up but I came out here for a reason.”



“Kinda figured this wasn’t an accident. What’s up?”



Johnny filled him in about the studio.



“That sucks but what can I do? I’m just a washed-up gator wrestler.”



“I want to put the band back together. Whatever name value we have is better than nothing. Play a show, raise awareness. Use any money we make to hire some lawyers and try to save the studio.”



“You talk to Kit yet?”



“No, but he’ll do it. He never wanted anything in life but to bang on those drums. Add in a cause? Yeah. He’ll play. But I needed to convince you first. How many times did I say it on stage? ‘Without my right-hand man Mick O’Rourke on the bass…’ I meant it, bro. We’d never have gotten out of the garage without you.”



“You’re laying it on thick now.”



“Sure, but it’s true. I need this. Floyd needs this. Hell, the city of Tampa needs this even if the government is too dumb to know it. That place should be a landmark.”



“Yeah, but Youthache? Nobody remembers us.”



“You’d be surprised. Some kid walked into the studio today wanting to do a demo. He recognized me. Kid wasn’t even born yet back then, yet he wanted to record at Big Guava because of us.”



“No shit?”



“Surprised me too. Nostalgia is a powerful thing. Just look at Def Leppard. They play arenas, and they’re not even good. All they do is lip-sync to and pantomime to pre-recorded tapes, yet middle-aged housewives still lose their minds. And it’s not just women – just look at Motley Crue.”



“We were never on that level.”



“Doesn’t matter. We had a record and a tour, even if just one. If that kid’s any indicator, there’s some nostalgia like that for us. Maybe we can get the radio stations to help. They did enough work in the studio over the years.”



“What about the other guitar player?”



“Not holding my breath. I mean, I’ll ask. I don’t even have his contact info but I can send something to his management. Probably too much to hope for him to show up though.”



“At least you’re honest about it.”



“More than those bastards in the government.”



“OK, you got me. I’m in.”



Johnny smiled. “I knew you’d have my back. You always did.”



***



The ensuing days were a frenzy of activity. As expected, Kit didn’t require any persuasion. He even joked about putting new heads on his drums.



Overnight, the studio became a busy place. Johnny and Floyd began working the phones. They had decades of contacts throughout the entertainment industry. What they learned saddened them. The entertainment people didn’t particularly care about government oppression. As long as it didn’t happen to them, it didn’t matter if the government destroying someone’s business. Floyd and Johnny learned to emphasize the bands reunion.



With the show as the new focal point, TV and radio people now had a product. Even if they couldn’t care less about the cause, they could sell the product. They would happily champion the cause of “Save The Studio” when it meant selling concert tickets. This, they knew how to do.



Local businesses gave their support, and in a far more enthusiastic manner. When Johnny and Floyd made a presentation to the local Chamber of Commerce, they cut sympathetic figures. They looked out on a roomful of businessmen, struggling and prosperous alike, and found kindred spirits. These men had all put their time, energy, and money into creating something which fed their families and the idea that the government would arbitrarily come along and destroy it infuriated them.



The support of the community came in varying sizes. A printer volunteered to create posters advertising the reunion. A masonry contractor pulled all his crews off site for a morning and had his people hang the posters in every neighborhood throughout the city. The others did what they could. Even if all a struggling restaurateur could do was hang a poster in his door, he did. From Clearwater down to Sarasota and all the way to Lakeland, the word got spread.



98Rock FM treated them as a cause célèbres. They’d never played a second of Youthache’s music in their entire history, yet now the band got airplay – even during afternoon drive-time. Ernest DJs touted the reunion as an Event. They treated it as if was important. By doing so, it became important. A street team materialized. Kids with far more social media savvy than Johnny and Floyd created video clips for Tic Toc, Instagram, and platforms no one over the age of thirty had ever heard of. Johnny learned about Discord servers, only because one got created to promote Youthache’s music.



Somehow the music started trending. It appeared on Spotify, and Johnny had no idea how it got released. Yet all around the city, kids started streaming it. Word had gotten out.



All this manufactured buzz would have meant nothing without an actual gig. There, it took surprisingly little time for them to find a venue. Benchmark Arena passed. The city owned and operated it. In all honesty it was too big anyway. Yet where The Arena passed, Meridian Fields stepped up. Meridian was an open area which could accommodate 10,000 people – if they drew that many – and had experience with live music from hosting the city’s annual Gasparilla Festival. Best of all, they sympathized with the studio’s plight and offered to host the event on a cut-rate deal – just as long as come showtime, Johnny thanked them between two songs.



The month flew by and before anyone could catch a breath, the show had arrived. A trucking company had loaned them the use of a flatbed trailer to use as a stage. The local music store loaned them a sound and lighting system.



***



Johnny, Mick, and Kit sat backstage. In moments, they would perform. Rehearsals had gone smoothly. With a shared mission, they avoided the bickering which ended the band the first time.



“Any word on the guitarist?” Kit asked.



“Not holding my breath,” Mick answered with a frown.



“I tried, guys,” added Johnny. “It’s been so long I don’t even have contact info for him. I e-mailed his management in hopes they’d pass along the word but that’s the best I could do. I don’t even know if anyone got the e-mail or if they passed it along.”



“Aren’t the fans going to be pissed if he doesn’t show?”



“I hope not. We never said he’d be here. Everything advertised the reunited Youthache, but deliberately didn’t mention any names.”



“I look at it like this,” added Mick, “he's so far up in the stratosphere that I’d bet he hasn’t even heard of what’s going on back here. His band is probably playing Japan or somewhere. I’m not upset that he's not here. This is his past, not his present and not his future. So, no hard feelings, but yeah, I’d love to play with him again.”



A voice interrupted. “Is this where the concert is?”



They looked. It’s the guitar player!



“Hey, guys. Got an extra amp on stage?”



“Hey!”



“Billy!”



“Been a long time, man.” Johnny extended his hand. They shook, then hugged.



“You didn’t think I’d miss this, did you?”



“I hate to say it but yes,” Johnny answered, “who knows what commitments your management had already made for you?”



“Yeah. I had to remind them that they work for me, not the other way around. Then we juggled some things in the schedule. I’ll spare you the details. Anyway, I’ve been playing the old songs in my hotel rooms on tour, so if we stick to the original arrangements we ought to be OK.”



“Can’t wait.”



“I gotta admit,” Mick added, “I’m scared shitless. There are thousands of people out there. This is a small crowd for you but don’t forget, we never played a crowd this size that entire tour. Not even close.”



“If you worry about it,” the guitarist answered, “you’ll fuck up. Just get up there and rock out like we’re still in some Ybor City shithole bar.”



“And let’s face it,” added Kit, “we don’t even have to be good. Even if we fuck up, it’s just one gig, and we still raised the money. Good or not, we just have to go up and play.”



“I have an idea,” Johnny interrupted. “When we were rehearsing, we jammed on some stuff. Guys, I’m thinking the three of us take the stage, jam on that new thing – the one you called Race Against Time. Then after a bit of it, I’ll introduce the guitar player and we go from there.”



“Sounds great!”



With that, three musicians took the stage. As planned, they started out with the new song. The audience erupted when they took the stage, but their interest waned almost immediately when faced with unfamiliar material.



After the song, Johnny announced to the crowd, “I have a surprise for everyone. First, it’s great to be remembered. I thought the world had forgotten about Youthache. How many of you out there have the Noise Confession album?!”



The crowd cheered. It seemed as if there were far more people cheering in the crowd than there were people who had ever actually bought copies of the album.



“Y’all a buncha lyin’ motherfuckers!” Johnny replied, “but that’s OK. You’re here. And you’re here to prove that You CAN Fight City Hall! Now, look around. There’s three of us up here, not four... It gives me a great pleasure to introduce… We didn’t want to advertise it because we didn’t know if he could make it… but here he is…”



The crowd didn’t let him say the guitar players name before they erupted. He walked onstage with a wave an started into the opening riff from Noise Confession. The band joined in. They sounded ragged but nobody cared. Song after song went off with maximum energy and minimal miscues. The show became a bizarre celebration of a time which never was, of a past they’d romanticized yet never truly existed. Yet it was a complete and utter triumph.



Before the final song, the guitar player walked over to the microphone. Johnny frowned. He’d never done this. He didn’t even sing backup vocals.



“I just want to personally thank all of you for coming out here tonight,” he began, “and I have one final surprise. So many of you have put your time and effort and money into showing the city that they can’t run roughshod over us. It’s been eye-opening. We made a bunch of songs about evil businesses, yet they’re the ones who helping us. The real evil here is the government! Fight the power!”



He paused to let the crowd cheer. They seemed puzzled at the revelation but once they got a comfortable catchphrase, they fell in line. Several of them had their fist in the air and we chanting “fight the power” back at the stage.



“Well,” he continued, “talk is cheap. And I’m here not just to show my support but to back it up. I’ve ordered my bands lawyers to take up the case and defend The Studio against The City. And my band is paying for it! In addition to that, we’re going to make the studio a National Historic Landmark so the city can’t ever try it again! And if that’s not enough, all the money you raised here and no longer has to pay for lawyers can go to local music programs! And my band will match whatever you raise today – dollar for dollar! The city might think they can push people around but it’s time we pushed back! That’s how you fight the power!”

The crowd started chanting “Fuck City Hall! Fuck City Hall!”



Johnny’s jaw dropped. He turned his back to the stage to wipe a tear in private. Then he gave the guitar player a big hug, causing the crowd to erupt again.



“Rock and roll!” he yelled and they launched into the encore.