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My Famous Band C5 New place and new friend
🕑 Added 2024-07-17 14:01:09 +0000 UTCBoulevard of Broken Dreams --- Green Day
---
Enoch's fingers stilled on the guitar strings as the last notes faded. His gaze swept across the sea of faces before him, lingering on Jason's proud grin and then Angel's shining eyes. A lump formed in his throat as memories flooded back - of nervous auditions, late-night practices, and dreams of stardom.
He remembered the seniors who had welcomed him years ago, their energy and passion infectious. But one by one, they had moved on - to college campuses across the country, to office jobs and new lives. The "Decibel Devils" lived on, but not as the conquering rock gods of his youthful imagination.
Enoch's chest tightened. All his knowledge and talent hadn't been enough to keep the original members together. Parents' expectations and the realities of adulthood had proved a force even his music couldn't overcome. He forced a smile, but couldn't quite banish the bittersweet ache of what might have been.
The warm June air of 1993 buzzed with excitement as Enoch descended the stage, his guitar slung across his back. Whispers and giggles rippled through the crowd, punctuated by admiring glances from starry-eyed girls. He caught sight of his mother, Emma, beaming with pride, and Uncle Johnny giving him a subtle thumbs-up.
As the last echoes of "Pomp and Circumstance" faded away, Enoch weaved through the sea of black gowns and tasseled caps. A familiar voice called out over the din.
"Enoch! My boy!"
He turned to see Randy Johnson, the burly manager of The Scarlet Piano, pushing his way through the crowd. Randy's mustache twitched with barely contained excitement as he clapped Enoch on the shoulder.
"That was some performance, kid. You've come a long way since your first gig at my place."
Enoch grinned, remembering the nerves and exhilaration of that night three years ago. The Scarlet Piano had been their first real stage, the place where dreams of stardom had begun to feel possible.
Randy's bushy eyebrows furrowed as he searched Enoch's face. "You're dead set on this, aren't you, kid?" His voice was gruff, but tinged with concern.
Enoch squared his shoulders, his eyes gleaming with determination. "Los Angeles, Randy. That's where I need to be."
The City of Angels beckoned, a siren song of record deals and sold-out arenas. Randy nodded slowly, his expression a mix of pride and worry.
As they parted ways, Enoch spotted Angel across the lawn, her parents flanking her like sentinels. He made his way over, but the temperature seemed to drop with each step. Angel's father's smile was as thin as ice.
"So, you're the boyfriend we've heard so much about," he said, his tone clipped.
Enoch's eyes darted to Angel, who gave a small nod, her cheeks flushing. He swallowed hard. "Yes, sir. I am."
Angel's mother cleared her throat, her gaze piercing. "Your performance was... impressive," she began, her words measured. "But surely you understand, a musician's life is unstable. How could you possibly provide for our Angel?"
The words hit Enoch like a physical blow. He opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out.
"Mom!" Angel's voice cracked like a whip. "How could you say that?"
Mrs. Olivia Bennett's lips curled into a sneer. "I'm simply being realistic, Angel."
Her eyes raked over Enoch, making him feel like a specimen under a microscope. "The odds are stacked against you, young man."
Angel's face flushed crimson. "Did you even listen to him sing? That talent—"
"Talent isn't everything," Olivia cut in, her voice sharp. "There are countless 'talented' singers out there, many with more connections and resources."
Mr. Richard Bennett nodded, his expression stern. "You're nothing special in the grand scheme of things, boy."
Angel's eyes met Enoch's, filled with apology and frustration. Enoch gave a slight shake of his head, trying to convey it wasn't her fault.
Richard's voice dripped with condescension. "Well? Cat got your tongue? Or do you actually believe you can make it big?"
Enoch's jaw clenched, his knuckles white at his sides. "I may be small in your eyes now, but I swear I'll prove myself worthy of Angel."
He turned on his heel, unable to bear their scrutiny any longer. Behind him, he heard Richard's gruff voice: "Let him go, Angel. It's for the best."
Olivia chimed in, "This is a fine way to end things with that boy..."
The sound of running footsteps followed, accompanied by Angel's voice calling his name, full of desperation and defiance.
---
Enoch's shoulders sagged as he approached his mother and Uncle Johnny. Their beaming faces only made the ache in his chest deepen. Back at their modest apartment, a homemade "Congratulations!" banner hung crookedly above a small spread of his favorite foods. Enoch forced a smile, but the celebration felt hollow, the bitter taste of the Bennetts' words lingering on his tongue.
Dawn broke, painting the Seattle sky in hues of pink and gold. Enoch zipped up his duffel bag, the finality of the sound echoing in the quiet apartment. Emma hovered in the doorway, worry etched on her face.
"Los Angeles is so far, Enoch," she said softly. "Are you certain about going alone?"
Enoch nodded, unable to meet her eyes.
Emma's voice quavered. "I know this is your dream, but... don't forget your old mom, okay?"
Enoch turned, his eyes stinging. "Never, Mom. I'll write, and send money when I can..."
"Oh, sweetheart," Emma's smile was warm but tinged with sadness. "Don't worry about me. I've found work."
"When I make it big," Enoch said, his voice thick with emotion, "you won't have to work another day in your life."
Emma engulfed him in a fierce hug, her tears dampening his shirt. "I'll miss you so much, my boy," she whispered, her voice breaking.
Enoch held his mother tight, the weight of his dreams and her love threatening to overwhelm him.
***
The neon sign of The Crocodile flickered to life as Enoch pushed open the familiar doors. Uncle Johnny looked up from polishing glasses, his eyes crinkling with a bittersweet smile.
"So, this is it, huh?" Johnny said, pulling Enoch into a bear hug.
Enoch nodded, his throat tight. "Thanks for everything, Uncle Johnny. For believing in me."
Johnny ruffled Enoch's hair. "You're gonna knock 'em dead in L.A., kid. Don't forget us little people, yeah?"
Next stop was The Scarlet Piano. Randy was waiting, his mustache twitching with emotion.
"Randy, I can't thank you enough," Enoch began.
Randy waved him off. "You've got the talent, kid. I just gave you a stage. Now go show the world what you can do."
Enoch's heart raced as he approached Angel's house, but his hope deflated at the sight of the empty driveway. He pressed a hand to the cool glass of the front window, whispering a goodbye to the empty rooms beyond.
Jason's house was his final stop. His friend's round face appeared in the doorway, a mix of excitement and sadness in his eyes.
"So, you're really going, huh?" Jason asked.
Enoch nodded. "What about you, man? Any big plans?"
Jason shrugged, a content smile on his face. "I'm happy here, with Lily. This town's home, you know?"
Enoch felt a pang of loneliness. His dreams were taking him far from everything familiar, and no one was coming along for the ride.
"I get it," Enoch said, forcing a smile. "Take care of yourself, buddy."
As they hugged goodbye, Enoch felt the weight of his solitary journey ahead. But with each farewell, his resolve only strengthened. Los Angeles was waiting, and he was ready to chase his dreams, even if he had to do it alone.
***
The summer sun beat down on Enoch as he stepped off the Greyhound bus, his guitar case slung over his shoulder. Los Angeles sprawled before him, a concrete jungle teeming with possibility. He clutched the wad of cash in his pocket – Randy's parting gift – knowing it wouldn't last long in this expensive city.
As he walked down Sunset Boulevard, the cacophony of traffic and chatter filled his ears. Street performers dotted the sidewalks, their open guitar cases speckled with spare change. Enoch's mind raced:
"I could start there," he thought, eyeing a busy corner. "But that's small time. I need to think bigger."
He passed a record store, its windows plastered with posters of grunge bands. "Maybe I could demo some songs... but wait, cassettes are still big now. I could record some tracks at home, make it sound lo-fi on purpose. That DIY aesthetic is huge in '93."
A flyer for an open mic night caught his eye. "That's a start. Network, meet other musicians. Form a band, maybe? But I need to stand out..."
He remembered the turntable techniques he'd introduced back home. "Mixing rock with hip-hop elements... that could be my edge. It's ahead of its time, but that might just work in my favor."
Enoch's fingers itched to play, to create. He had knowledge of the future, of sounds yet to be born. Now, he just needed to find the right ears to listen.
***
Enoch's footsteps echoed through the dimly lit hallway as he followed the landlord, a portly man with thinning hair and a permanent scowl. The peeling wallpaper and flickering fluorescent lights spoke volumes about the building's state.
"Here it is," the landlord grumbled, fumbling with a set of keys. "It ain't the Ritz, but it's what you can afford."
The door creaked open, revealing a cramped studio apartment. A ratty couch occupied one corner, while a kitchenette barely big enough for a mini-fridge and hot plate took up another. The space smelled of stale cigarettes and cheap air freshener.
"Oh, and you'll be sharing," the landlord added, gesturing to a closed door. "Your roommate's probably out. He's in a band or something. Keeps odd hours."
Enoch's eyebrows shot up. A fellow musician? His mind raced with possibilities.
"Any questions?" the landlord asked, already halfway out the door.
Enoch shook his head, his eyes roaming the small space. It wasn't much, but it was a start. He set his guitar case down, the soft thud a reminder of why he was here.
As he began to unpack his meager belongings, Enoch's mind wandered to his roommate. Would they get along? Could this be his first step towards forming a band in L.A.?
The sound of a key in the lock interrupted his thoughts. Enoch's heart raced as he turned to face the opening door, ready to meet his new roommate and potential bandmate.
The door swung open, revealing a lanky man with long, disheveled hair. His eyes were bloodshot, and he reeked of cheap beer. He stumbled into the apartment, barely registering Enoch's presence.
"Uh, hi," Enoch ventured. "I'm Enoch, your new roommate."
The man grunted, collapsing onto the ratty couch. "Dave," he mumbled.
Enoch nodded, trying to ignore the stench of alcohol. "Nice to meet you, Dave. Are you in a band or something? The landlord mentioned..."
Dave snorted. "Used to be. Doesn't matter now."
Enoch's curiosity piqued. "What do you play?"
"Drums," Dave muttered, reaching for a half-empty beer bottle. "Guitar too. What's it to you?"
Enoch's eyes lit up. "That's awesome! I'm a musician too. I came to L.A. to make it big."
Dave's laugh was bitter. "Good luck with that, kid. This town'll eat you alive."
Enoch frowned, sensing the wasted potential before him. "Hey, why don't I play you something? I've got some original stuff..."
Dave waved a dismissive hand. "Not interested."
But Enoch was already reaching for his guitar. "Just one song," he insisted. "If you hate it, I'll shut up."
As Enoch's fingers touched the strings, he hoped his music might spark something in this broken man.
Enoch's fingers danced across the guitar strings, the opening chords of an unfamiliar melody filling the cramped apartment. His voice, raw and emotive, cut through the stale air:
"I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known..." his voice a raspy whisper, "Don't know where it goes, But it's home to me, and I walk alone."
Dave's bloodshot eyes widened, his hand freezing halfway to his mouth, beer forgotten. The haunting melody seemed to pierce through his alcohol-induced haze.
Enoch's eyes were closed, as if lost in the memories the lyrics brought forth. "I walk this empty street. On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. Where the city sleeps. And I'm the only one, and I walk alone." The lyrics tugged at Dave's heartstrings, reminding him of his own solitude.
"I walk alone, I walk alone, I walk alone, I walk a-My shadow's the only one that walks beside me. My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating. Sometimes, I wish someone out there will find me, 'Til then, I walk alone."
Dave sat up straighter, his gaze locked on Enoch's fingers as they effortlessly moved across the fretboard. The lyrics hit him like a punch to the gut, reflecting his own sense of isolation and disillusionment.
Enoch's strumming took on a more determined rhythm, his voice raising an octave. "I'm walking down the line. That divides me, somewhere in my mind. On the borderline. Of the edge, and where I walk alone."
"Read between the lines. What's fucked up, and everything's alright. Check my vital signs. To know I'm still alive, and I walk alone," Enoch's voice was now an anguished whisper, the words rasping out of him as if they were physical manifestations of his very soul.
Dave felt the lyrics strike him in his core, the familiar ache of loneliness and desperation resonating with every fiber of his being. He knew that feeling all too well, the sense of being alone in a sea of faces, longing for someone to find him amidst the darkness.
"I walk alone, I walk alone, I walk alone, I walk a-My shadow's the only one that walks beside me. My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating. Sometimes, I wish someone out there will find me, 'Til then, I walk alone."
Enoch's voice soared, filled with a pain and longing that belied his youth. Dave leaned forward, transfixed, as if hearing music for the first time in years.
"I walk alone, I walk a-"
Enoch plucked a few strings, letting the notes resonate in the air before he continued.
"I walk this empty street. On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. Where the city sleeps. And I'm the only one, and I walk a-My shadow's the only one that walks beside me. My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating. Sometimes, I wish someone out there will find me 'Til then, I walk alone."
As the last notes faded, a heavy silence fell over the room. Dave's expression had transformed from dismissive to awestruck. His eyes, previously dulled by alcohol, now shone with a rekindled spark of interest.
"Kid," he said, his voice hoarse, "where the hell did that come from? Is that... is that yours?"
Enoch nodded, his heart racing. "Yeah, it's mine." In this reality, the song didn't exist yet, so technically, it was "his."
Dave shook his head in disbelief. "I've never heard anything like it. You wrote that? How old are you?"
"Sixteen," Enoch replied, trying to keep his voice steady.
A moment of silence passed between them, the air charged with a new energy. Then Dave stood, extending his hand.
"I think we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Dave. Dave Grohl."
Enoch's jaw dropped, his hand automatically reaching out to shake Dave's. His mind reeled - Dave Grohl, here in this dingy apartment, praising his music?
"I... I've heard of you," Enoch managed, his thoughts racing. Where was Nirvana? What had happened in this timeline?
Dave's eyebrow raised. "Oh yeah? From where?"
Enoch scrambled for a response. "Just... around. You know how it is in the music scene."
Dave nodded, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Yeah, I guess so."
Enoch saw an opening, a chance to change both their fortunes. "Hey, Dave... have you ever thought about starting a new band?"
Dave's eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he let out a hollow laugh. He sank back onto the couch, the springs creaking under his weight. "Form a band? Kid, you've got the wrong guy."
He reached for another beer, his fingers trembling slightly. "Look, I can see you've got talent. Real talent. You should find someone else, someone who isn't..." He gestured vaguely at himself, his eyes downcast.
Enoch leaned forward, his guitar still in his lap. "But I've heard about you, Dave. You're incredible on the drums, on guitar. Why sell yourself short?"
Dave's laugh was bitter this time. "Heard about me? Must've been a long time ago."
Enoch stood up, determination glinting in his eyes. He held out his guitar to Dave. "Come on, show me what you've got. I laid my cards on the table, now it's your turn."
Dave's eyes locked with Enoch's, a spark of defiance igniting in their bloodshot depths. "You want to see what I'm capable of?"
Enoch's lips curved into a challenging smirk. "What? Don't tell me you've got nothing to show?"
"Hmph," Dave grunted, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Just because you've impressed me, youngster, doesn't mean you can look down on me."
Whether it was the alcohol or the challenge in Enoch's voice, something shifted in Dave's demeanor. He rose from the couch, swaying slightly, but his grip on the guitar was steady.
Dave's fingers found their place on the fretboard, muscle memory taking over. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then...
The room exploded with sound. Dave's fingers flew across the strings, coaxing out a blistering riff that made the walls vibrate. His whole body moved with the music, head bobbing, foot tapping out a rhythm.
Enoch's eyes widened as he watched Dave transform before him. Gone was the dejected, drunken man from moments ago. In his place stood a true rock god, unleashing years of pent-up talent and frustration through six strings and a battered amplifier.
The impromptu performance lasted only a few minutes, but it left Enoch breathless. As the final chord rang out, Dave opened his eyes, a hint of his old fire burning in them.
"That enough for you, kid?" he asked, a touch of his former confidence creeping into his voice.
Enoch could only nod, awestruck by the raw talent he'd just witnessed. He knew then that his instincts had been right - Dave Grohl was still a musical force to be reckoned with, no matter what timeline they were in.
Comments
Banana19
Nice! ex Nirvana guy. Man Kurt shouldn’t have committed suicide.
haze2343
You can make this song for angel by the plain white ts hey there Delilah only use angel instead of Delilah.
haze2343
Awesome chapter can’t wait for the rest
Kieta Aki
I know you got a lot on your plate, but I want this one updated more. Thanks for your hard work.
