I love the beginning of your song, StreetAngel95!
I just found this that I wrote for an exam about two years ago. The Question was Describe a Person you admire.
The lights dipped into a haze of cigarette smoke and the bright, peeling posters were hidden, almost as if tins of black paint had been thrown at the walls. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and beer in the auditorium. Cigarette smoke stuck to clothing and skin, causing the noses that weren’t accustomed to it to wrinkle slightly.
When the spotlights flicked and blinked on, Chris Stein, Nigel Harrison, Jimmy Destri, Frank Infante and Clem Burke seemed to have materialised magically in their positions beside a guitar, bass, keyboard and a huge drum kit surrounded by at least 10 cymbals, ranging in size from those as small as a vinyl record to one as big as a serving platter.
The crowd were like wild dogs. New Years Eve, 1978, and the Oakland Coliseum Arena was packed. Eager fans desperate for the show to commence. Then, the general buzz of the crowd erupted, starting by a single wolf whistle, into a roaring pit of testosterone and adrenaline as Debbie Harry strutted, sexily, to her microphone. For those in the front row, her sweet perfume, like honey mixed and mingled with the hot metallic smell from the overdriven amplifiers. A huge grin stretched across her face, revealing a row of straight white teeth from behind her perfectly crimson, heart-shaped pout.
In a voice like liquid, she addressed the crowd,
“All right you cheeky monkeys, who’s ready to party like it’s 1979?!!” The crowd roared, some men wolf whistled while others stared, open mouthed.
“Okay then,” she continued seductively, “this one’s called Pretty Baby”
The first bars began to ring out and Debbie turned, sweeping her one shouldered blue dress behind her, flashing her toned calves to the front row, momentarily overpowering the metallic smell with her sweet feminine scent.
In turning, her thick, backcombed, two toned – peroxide blonde and naturally dark brown – hair bounced around her shoulders, brushing her neck and exposed back. She reached up to flick it out of her eyes.
Just notes before she had to sing, she spun gracefully back round on the ball of her blue, slip on heels, clenching her painted toes to steady herself as dress, scarf and hair whipped around behind her, causing a refreshing gust around her ankles.
Underneath her neatly shaped, arched, brown eyebrows, she batted her eyelids over sparkling green eyes, lined with thick, smudged black eyeliner and copious amounts of shimmering purple and cream eye shadow and lashings of mascara.
“Stars live in the evening, but the very young need the sun, uh-huh...”
Her rosy cheeks highlighted her high cheekbones and neat jaw line as she sang. The men and women alike were uncontrollable, whistling, dancing and jumping all at once. One man in particular was overly enthusiastic. Clad in a Sex Pistols ‘God Save the Queen’ shirt, black drainpipe jeans and red converse sneakers, he moved his head madly to the music, his brown curls bouncing around his ears. He held a plastic pint glass above his head at arms length, every now and then, spilling amber drops.
Before he knew what was happening, Debbie had reached down and taken the beer from his hand. Raising it to her red lips a small drop spilled and rolled down her right breast.
The excitement still hung in the air as the last bars of the final song faded out, Debbie Harry addressed the crowd for one last time, in her smooth Jersey accent,
“Thank you so much guys. I’ve been Debbie and we’ve been Blondie. I hope you enjoyed yourselves and much as we did!”
And all was black.
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