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jeanie-g · 14 days ago

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#52 trevjamie

as has been the case, my actual #52 left me with 0 inspiration, so i did 5+2 instead! and i'm actually in love w this au now?? enjoy!

[#7] Crescendolls (Daft Punk)

Hey, everybody y'all!

Trevor gets such a rush out of performing live. There's really nothing like it. He always has nerves—how can't you?—but the second his finger plucks a buzzing guitar string or he sends out that first shaky note into the microphone, it all falls away—every single time.

Their first song in a set is always more of a warm-up, a sound check disguised as a jam sesh cover, with squealing guitars and minimal vocals. It gives them their stage legs, making sure they're all on the same time and in the same key. They're never guaranteed a sound check; the venue has a lot of bands slated and only so much time. And after starting the set once with their most popular single and completing whiffing it because they couldn't hear each other, they figured coming out the gate with a softball was best.

It wasn't often that you heard an acoustic cover of a Daft Punk song, much less 'Crescendolls,' but Quinn came up with a killer arrangement on an off-day last year, and it's kicked off half their sets ever since. Sometimes he even adds the backing track of 'Television Rules the Nation' to pander to the maybe five people in the venue who recognize the mashup from Alive 2007.

It's repetitive, which helps with any last-minute tuning, and allows for improvisation, Alex letting rip a guitar solo more often than not, flirting with a key change before bringing it back. It grows in intensity, too, revving up the crowd with its catchy hook and occasional shouts, throwing the whole room into the music and setting the tone for the rest of their set.

Trevor loves playing 'Crescendolls,' so when three months after they debuted it at Battle of the Bands, another band started playing it, he was more than a little heated. They all were.

One of their groupies who Jack is trying (and failing) to sleep with let them know, hearing it though the grapevine at first and then seeing it himself when the band in question opened for an act downtown. Trevor remembered their name, The Grits—even heard them play a few times during battles—but they flew pretty low under the radar.

Now, Jack paces their dressing room forty-five minutes before they're set to open the night's battle. He just heard from the venue's manager that The Grits are slotted to play right after them, and the first song on their setlist? 'Crescendolls'.

"I mean, who do they think they are? That's your fucking arrangement!"

Quinn sighs from his spot on the bean bag. "It's not our song, Jack. Plus, they added keys."

Jack throws his hands up. "I don't give a shit if they added keys. It's still your fucking arrangement." He takes a hit from his pen and exhales the mist through his nose. Trevor's tried telling him it's not a good look to have your lead singer filling his lungs with chemicals, but he never listens.

"We can't exactly go out and sue 'em," Trevor says, picking his cuticles.

Jack takes another drag. "I'd say we could take one of theirs, but I don't think stealing their rock version of 'Barbie Girl' would really teach them a lesson." Jack laughs mirthlessly, and it turns into a cough, which isn't concerning, like, at all. "I mean, what are they even doing playing French house?"

"Trying to ride our coattails, that's what," Luke says, finally choosing to join the conversation. Up until now he was just sulking in the corner.

"You could ask the same about us," Quinn says, and Jack rounds on him.

"Q, whose side are you even on?"

Quinn just shrugs noncommittally, though Trevor clocks his teeth hooking onto his bottom lip for a second before retreating.

"Jacky, arguing about it isn't gonna get us anywhere," Trevor says. "Let's just nix 'Crescendolls' and go with '3s and 7s.'"

"No. No way. They go on after us. We're gonna play it and they'll be the ones who'll have to adjust their set." Jack runs a hand through his hair. He'll need to hit it with the hairspray again if he wants to impress Nico.

Jack's tone is finalizing enough that everyone nods their heads and doesn't say anything else. When Alex comes back from the bathroom, he looks at the three of them and chuckles.

"What, did a bomb go off?"

Luke laughs into his hand. "One just might."

They stick to their guns, though. As advertised, they start the show with 'Crescendolls,' Jack even ad-libbing some totally non-confrontational lyrics and punctuating them with the 'Look out!'

It brings the house down, as always, and from there Quinn pounds his snare and throws them into 'Drive By,' a semi-new but already cemented fan favorite Luke penned a year ago.

After that is Quinn's hearty rock ballad, 'Dignity,' which gives him a nice, long drum solo, and '7 Below,' a total riot Trevor and Alex worked on for months that lets Luke break out his fancy stylophone.

As a new addition to their set, they blend Jack's own 'Androgynous Animal' into Radiohead's 'Burn the Witch,' both allowing him to show off his seldom-heard higher register.

They close it out with Weezer's 'Buddy Holly,' an absolute blast that started as a joke in practice but ended up becoming kind of a tradition. The crowd loves it, too, singing along with Jack and losing their minds when Trevor flips his guitar to play the iconic riff on his back.

Energy's as high as the ceiling by the time they strike their last chord. It was a great set, even by their standards. Quinn even leaves his drum kit to toss a stick into the crowd; Trevor laughs as some girls (and a couple guys) go diving for it.

Trevor's so happy he completely forgets what band is supposed to follow them. Until he's exiting his dressing room fifteen minutes later to grab a water and he hears the opening bass line of 'Crescendolls.'

He stops in his tracks. "No fucking way."

Jack perks up from the couch behind him, phone glued to his hand. "What?"

"Listen," Trevor says, working to keep his voice level. He opens the door wider.

Jack strains his ear, and then his eyes grow. "Those fuckers."

The two of them rush towards the wings, dodging roadies carrying equipment and people in black whisper-yelling into their headsets. They make it to curtain-side right before the first chorus, and Trevor has half a mind to march right onto the stage and send his foot straight through their kick drum.

He does have some self-restraint, though, so he just crosses his arms and watches in disgust as these fucking no-names take their fucking arrangement, and—

The chorus hits, and the keys come in, and Trevor's eyebrows shoot up. The bass line remains steady, but one of the guitars go up an octave, and then a synth board comes in, and—

It's really fucking good. They're playing their arrangement, yes, but they're adding layers to it. It's electric.

As they play, Trevor can feel his anger dissipate, and he has to forcibly remind himself, They still stole our song and played it right after us. They did that on purpose.

'Crescendolls' eventually ends, but neither Trevor nor Jack move an inch when their drummer transitions right into their next song, which is either a cover he doesn't recognize or an original. Their lead starts singing for real, and she sounds, well, really fucking good, too. She kinda reminds Trevor of Courtney Love, which is an insane comparison to just throw around.

Once that song ends, their bassist commandeers the microphone to introduce their next song, an original he just wrote. He's on the taller side, with terrible posture and dark, shaggy hair falling just above his shoulders. He's kicking one beat-up checkered Van against the other, and Trevor snorts—he can only see his back and he's a textbook bassist. Luke would agree.

Once he's said his little speech, he does turn around, though, and Trevor's breath catches in his throat. Fuck, he's hot. His bass hangs low on his torso, a gorgeous Fender American Pro, but it's nothing compared to his face. Big, bushy eyebrows above grey-blue eyes that pierce. And, oh God, he has freckles. His white teeth shine as he smiles wide, turning his head to fiddle with his ear piece. When he turns back, he catches Trevor's stare.

And. He. Winks.

Trevor feels the blood rush to his cheeks, but he can't make himself look away. Hottie doesn't seem bothered, though, just turns back around to the audience and strikes up a riff low and syrupy, dripping with this sexy timbre Trevor usually reserves for the Arctic Monkeys.

Trevor can't help it; his eyes are on Hottie for the rest of their set. By the end of the final song, he's nearly forgotten why he was standing there in the first place. He gets reminded when the members start peeling off the stage into the wings and Jack elbows him in the side, nodding towards them.

But before Trevor can even blink, Jack storms up to their keyboardist, jabbing a finger in his chest. He's got curly hair and glasses and maybe four whole inches on him. And Trevor thinks that maybe starting something right here might not be the best idea.

"Dude, what the fuck?" the guy starts, but Jack's already in his face.

"You took our fucking song!"

Trevor rushes to his side. "Jack, wait—"

The guy looks between the two of them. "What? What are you—"

"He's taking about 'Crescendolls', Scotty," a voice sounds from behind, and both Trevor and Jack whip around to see Hottie.

He looks blasé and unaffected, almost like he was expecting confrontation.

Jack rounds on him instead. "You stole my brother's arrangement, asshole, and then had the nerve to play it right after us!"

Hottie smiles. "Well, only half of that is true. We did play it after you guys, but we didn't steal it." He tilts his head to the side, a piece of hair swinging onto his forehead. "He really didn't tell you?"

Jack doesn't sway, though now Trevor's quirking an eyebrow.

"Quinn gave it to us."

There's two whole seconds of silence before Jack blows up.

"He wouldn't do that, you dick! Not without telling us!"

Hottie shrugs. "Then maybe you should have a talk with your drummer."

Jack's eyebrows set low on his forehead, which Trevor knows from experience means he's about to throw a punch, so he grabs Jack's arm and yanks him out of the wings before they get banned.

"He's fucking lying," Jack seethes. "Q wouldn't."

And Trevor agrees, but he thinks back to that conversation in the dressing room, to the way Quinn's expression flickered when pressed, and he gets a bad feeling.

"We'll go talk to him, Jacky. I'm sure it was a misunderstanding."

Jack nods quickly, and they set off to find Quinn. Even if it's true, Trevor is less angry than he thought he'd be. Sure, it was a dick move to give up their song and not tell them (even if whatever reason Quinn had was somehow warranted), but the only thing on Trevor's mind right now is Hottie. His eyes, his smile, his voice. And his playing, too, if Trevor had to grade his performance. Don't tell Luke, but Trevor secretly thinks all bass players are inherently hot.

And if it's true, he can't really blame The Grits, can he? It was Quinn's arrangement, and if he gave them the go ahead, how were they supposed to know it was faux pas for them to actually play it?

Trevor can't help but hope they go on for an encore and play the blasted song a second time, just so he has a reason to come back out and watch. Maybe Hottie will wink at him again.

Maybe Trevor will actually learn his name.

#why did quinn sell them out...?#or was jamie lying...??#so many questions!!#and yes they're called the grits after gritty #fic request

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