Becausethewallofsoundwas…ie.
Therewasnobass.
Slipknot’smusicsuffocatedyounotonlywithguitarsanddouble-kick.Itscoresoulwasthebass—thoseultra-lowfrequencieslurkingunderground,everywhereatohoutthatsupport,nomatterhowfshyElian’sguitarwas,nomatterhowsavagethedrummer’srhythmbecame,thewholethingsoundedlikeaskyscraperwithnofoundation:t,impressive—
andalwaysoremorawayfromcolpse.
Crash—!
Withthedrummer’sfinalcymbalhit,thesongendedonabrutallyexplosiverest.
Thedrummerslumpedontothesnare,gasping.Thevocalistchuggedwater.Elianstoppedstrumming,hischestrisingandfalling.Hebrusheddampbangsbackwithhisfiurned—
andimmediatelyspottedtheercouch,watgthemwithagazethatfeltalmostlikeanevaluation.
Elian’smouthcurvedintothatfamiliar,slightlydelismile.Helettheguitarhanginfrontofhimandstrodeover.
“Seenenough,undercssman?”Helookeddownather,voicethreadedwithchallengeandfidence.“Sowhatdoyouthink—how’sourseniorband?Goodenoughforthe*number-one*eleventh-gradebassist?”
Cradidn’tavoidhiseyes.Sheadjustedherrimlessgssesandroseslowly.
Shewasonlyfive-foot-three—shehadtotiltheruptolookathim.Butthecalmcertaintyshecarried,thatsce-studentsteadiness,keptherpresenlosinganinchtohisheight.
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