Trevor crossed his legs at the ankle, loving the way his motorcycle boots thunked. He took a minute to light a cigarette; his audience would still be there. Right then, he had them hanging on his every word.

“Don’t you idiots know when you’ve been fucked with,” he drawled, inspecting the tip of his cigarette to see if any ash had formed yet. “Someone that camera shy just isn’t going to let you see her face so fast.”

Now, why aren’t other cities’ local scenes smart enough to do somethin’ like this? I’m talkin’ about what my favorite band’s got going on in the city of Riverview this time. Don’t be sad if you missed the news; they almost snuck this one past yours truly, herself. Almost.

Ready for this? It’s brilliant. It’s worth copying. They threw a musical Hanukkah party for the members of the local music scene. Anyone involved — roadies, musicians, promoters, journalists — could get in for a ten buck ticket that they had to get in advance and buy through KRVR, the radio station that’s so high on the Riverview scene that Bobby Bands, himself, is trying to horn in on their turf. (I hear they had the balls to turn his ten bucks away, too.)

For fifty bucks more, you could jam onstage. With the sponsors of the night: ShapeShifter. And since everything from the food to the club to the labor was donated, all the money went to one of those “keep music in our schools” charities that are so hot right now.

Took me two days, but I got hold of ShapeShifter’s Mitchell Voss. “It was Eric’s idea, really,” he said, and handed the phone over. For someone who usually lets his guitar talk for him, ShapeShifter’s Eric Wallace had a lot to say. Here’s some of it.

“Monday is the quietest day in the entertainment industry, so we picked it, figuring that no one would be committed elsewhere. And since Hanukkah runs for eight days, there’s always a Monday during Hanukkah. We can do this for years to come, and I hope we will.

“Why Hanukkah if no one in the band’s Jewish? Well, my dad and I were talking about this, wondering if the Jewish kids ever feel bad that Santa doesn’t come to their houses–“

He got interrupted here by my favorite blabbermouth. “Look, Chelle. We have Christmas parties out the wazoo. New Year’s Eve parties. You can’t turn on a fucking radio without hearing Christmas carols until you’re blue in the face and stuffing a CD in the player so fast, you break the fucking thing. It’s all about Christmas around here.”

“So we figured,” Eric said. “That we’d honor the religion that was around before Christianity but gets drowned out this time of year. We’d have a Hanukkah party and celebrate our music scene at the same time. After all, Hanukkah’s a holiday of rededication. It just seemed to fit with the idea of reminding everyone that we’re still into the local scene. It doesn’t matter how big we get; it all starts at the local level. Just like the rededication of the Jews’ temple.”

“And we managed to talk the cook into making potato pancakes for everyone, too,” Mitchell laughed in my ear. Ooh, baby. Laugh away.

Focus, Chelle. This was a good thing. Over three hundred people turned out, and they filled the fifty spaces for that big old jam with the superstars themselves. That was an extra fifty bucks for that honor, remember. Once you do the math, you get a pretty nice $5500 for charity.

And then those ShapeShifter boys topped that. They matched the take, making a cool $11,000.

Eric said his father’s church was also going to make a donation in the name of the Riverview Musician’s Hanukkah Celebration, and is going to work throughout the year toward getting more of the city’s religious folk of all denominations and faiths involved for next year. The funds won’t stay in Riverview, either, but are going to Music Lives, a foundation that spreads the wealth and the message across the country. This is important, Mitchell told me, “because without music in the schools, some of us won’t get to sing in the choir and find out that we can do more than croak. That’s what I got out of choir. That and the chance to be around all those girls in their concert best. Man, that alone made being in the choir worth it.”

So, c’mon. This is one bandwagon worth jumping on, and go figure that it’s ShapeShifter leading the way. Again. Y’all laugh at my face, tellin’ me I’m nothin’ but a ShapeShifter groupie, but if they’re doin’ stuff that’s this good, why aren’t you one, too?

You heard it first and you heard it here: Musical Hanukkah Celebrations are going to be sweeping the country. Get involved now.

(a note from Susan: While Chelle LaFleur, our slightly single-minded journalist, and ShapeShifter are as fake as the Musical Hanukkah Celebration, the Music Lives Foundation isn’t. Endorsed by Paul McCartney and Fidelity Investments, they’re helping keep music in our community’s schools. Check out their website; read the stats about how music helps our children. And if you’ve got an extra $50, for the price of a jam with ShapeShifter, you can make a positive impact on the world. If you can’t do fifty, do what you can; their minimum is five. Go on. Skip that latte and donate instead. And be sure to tell them you heard about them here.)

Another note from Susan: Music Lives seems to have folded. If you’d like to make a difference, check out the 2008 Musical Hanukkah recipient, the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation. You’ll be glad you did.

We’d meant to post this picture during the week, but it turned into a crazy week over here, so here you go. A little bit late, but every bit as funny.

Even though Mitchell is much better looking than this kid (and older, too), The Tour Manager and I thought it fit.

“A shower cap? You want me to wear a fucking shower cap?”

Amy glanced around, wondering if the walls were shaking. For a little brother, Mitchell sure could thunder. “It beats corned beef,” she pointed out.

“At least we could laugh about that!”

“Are you leaving this room?” she asked him, hands on hips. “I’m right here if anyone knocks. I won’t let them see you,” she promised even though under normal circumstances, if someone did knock, she’d shove him out into the hall and lock the door behind him.

This wasn’t a normal circumstance, and they both knew it. Not if Mitchell had actually coughed up the cash to fly her down here to fix it.

At some point, she’d make sure that he paid for this with more than his wallet. But right now, Amy needed to restore his hair. The band could only ban photographers for so long, and they all knew that fans always managed, somehow, to sneak cameras in. Word would get out, if it hadn’t already.

This could become legend.

Mitchell thrust the shower cap at her. “You fucking wear it. I’m sick of looking like a freak.”

“You should see yourself right now,” Amy told him. His hair was piled on top of his head like a turban, drips of mayonnaise-colored conditioner had spattered his bare arms and chest, and for some reason known only to him, he’d tucked a towel into the waistband of his jeans, as if to keep them clean. “You know, Mom wanted me to take pictures.”

“You told her?”

Amy wanted to laugh at his scared look. Mitchell, ever the little boy who was terrified of being caught — even when he’d been bad on purpose. “Of course I told Mom about it,” she said. “I needed a ride to the airport, remember?”

He covered his face with his hands and stomped in a circle, moaning “no” over and over again. Amy actually felt a little sorry for him.

“C’mere and let’s get this on you,” she said, taking the clear plastic cap from him. “At least it’s not pink.”

He let her sit him down in a chair and put the shower cap on. “Let the warmth of your head penetrate the conditioner,” she sing-songed, moving her hands over his head in what felt like a mystical way.

“I’m not sure if you’re telling me I have a hot head or you’re making some sex joke,” he said, reburying his face in his hands, his elbows propped on his thighs.

Amy stopped, considering. “Both, probably. Speaking of sex, are any of you guys having trouble peeing yet? I picked up supplies just in case…”

Mitchell growled. Amy grinned at her little brother. He’d always been the one who’d made people smile, no matter what he’d done and how angry he’d made them. He’d always been the one people had been drawn to.

And now, Amy told herself, he was paying the price for it. A few less excited girls, toting beer and pizza money into the hotel’s pool, slipping twenties to hotel management to keep them looking the other way… When she’d gotten to the hotel and rescued Mitchell from the room he shared with Trevor, the bass player had told her they hadn’t spent a dime of their own money over the entire three days. In fact, Trevor had bragged, they’d come out a hundred bucks on top.

Yeah, Amy thought, sometimes it sucked being such a people magnet.

“Hey, Aim?” Mitchell said, his voice muffled by his hands.

“What’s up, Pipsqueak?”

“Thanks.”

The last person Mitchell wanted to talk to about this was Trevor. But Trevor was his roommate, and Daniel and Eric were off in their room, probably with girls. Which meant Mitchell couldn’t just go knocking. Even if the interruption would be welcome — which there was no way in Hell it would be — Mitchell didn’t want anyone outside the band to see the green too closely. Not that he wanted the guys to see the green, but he was stuck on that one.

“What else can we try?” he asked Trevor morosely.

Trevor held up the slice of pizza he was chowing on. “Anchovies? I’m still hungry.”

“You hate anchovies, asshole,” Mitchell said and flopped on his back on his bed. “And why the fuck would they work if nothing else has?”

“I still think you ought to cut it,” Trevor said around a mouthful of the meatball pizza he’d special ordered, shamelessly using the ShapeShifter name to get what he wanted. For free, too, that fucker.

“Just shave it all,” Trevor said. Mitchell could imagine his usual I’m-up-to-no-good expression. “It’s hardly a chick magnet all green, but I hear chicks dig stubble. That could work for you for awhile.”

Mitchell didn’t even bother to snort. Trevor could shave his own damn head if he wanted to know about girls and stubble. But he was Mitchell Voss. He had an image to maintain as a long-haired rock god.

Which meant he had to get the blonde back.

Groaning, he reached for the phone. “Name your price,” he said to the person who answered. “But you’ve got to get your ass over here and get the green out of my hair.”

“What did you do now?” she asked.

“Are you gonna come, or not?”

“Are you going to pay for this?”

“Repeatedly,” he sighed. But yeah, he’d pay for her flight down. There was no way she could get there if he didn’t.

“I’ll call you back when I book the flight.”

Mitchell hung up and covered his face with his hands for a long minute, than sat up and lit a cigarette. Trevor was finishing the last piece of pizza. He’d eaten the whole thing by himself.

“Drastic measures?” Trevor asked, smacking his lips and flicking some leftover sauce off his fingers. It splattered on the wall.

“As drastic as it gets.”

“Good.” Trevor stood up and burped. He looked over at Mitchell. “I’m tired of your mopey ass. It’s too big a world to spend it hiding in a hotel.”

“We could go swimming,” Mitchell told him.

Trevor laughed. “There’s hope for you yet, asshole.”

“Cut my hair off while I’m sleeping tonight and there won’t be any hope for you,” Mitchell tossed back. Knowing that help was on the way made him feel that much better.

Mitchell was still waking up on the bus, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and scratching it off his chest, when he staggered into to the front lounge.

Trevor took one look at him and screeched, dropping his cigarette into the ashtray.

“What the fuck?” Mitchell asked, squinting at his band. He was, like it was any surprise, the last one up. Even Charlie the tour manager was sitting in the front lounge, pretending to read a magazine.

“Your head,” Daniel said.

Mitchell scrubbed at his beard. He’d been too lazy after the show the night before to shave; he figured that blanket fuzz or feathers were stuck in it. Again.

Eric said. “It … how’d it get worse overnight?”

“It didn’t,” Daniel said, starting to smirk.

Trevor choked on his laughter. “Hey, dumb fuck,” he said to Mitchell, who lifted his chin but still couldn’t get his eyes the whole way open.

<"Get out of the sun," Trevor said. "Man, I know plenty of girls who wouldn't stand on a street corner with hair that color."

"What are we going to do about it?" Eric asked.

"Bleach it?" Daniel suggested.

"Cut it off!" Trevor crowed.

"Same thing," the tour manager said, not looking up from his magazine. "I'll make some calls, see if we can find some beauty shop who'll fix you up."

Trevor snickered. "I want to see M in curlers!"

Mitchell growled at him and sunk into the bench seat behind the table. "If word about this gets out…"

Daniel played with one of his curls. "That's a good point. Maybe we should see if we can fix this, ourselves, first."

"How?" Eric asked.

Daniel opened the mini-fridge and looked inside. "I'm sure we can find something."

Mitchell glared at the crowd. “What’s the matter with you pussies?” he sneered.

He could feel the band holding its breath behind him. Like they hadn’t expected him to do this.

“You guys are acting like my head’s green or something.”

Trevor cracked up, laughing so hard, he doubled over, his unbuttoned shirt brushing against the strings of his bass so that it, too, had a comment to make.

The crowd, though, was stunned almost into silence. After a long pause, they roared.

“That’s been taken care of,” Mitchell told Eric and hit the opening chord for the next song.

No one noticed it until just before showtime. “Uhh… Mitchell?” Eric asked, standing over the band leader and peering down at his head.

“What?” Mitchell growled. His hangover was proving more stubborn than he’d anticipated and he’d already chugged the four quarts of orange juice that the band’s tour rider specified — and sent out a runner for two more. That meant, he was sure, he’d get halfway through the half-hour set and have to piss. Hopefully, there’d be a bathroom nearby. If not, he’d be decorating the venue.

Not that he’d never done that before.

Eric was touching his head, picking at his hair. Angrily, he swatted the lead guitarist away. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Your hair.” Eric swallowed audibly. Mitchell, through the throbbing head and now the heartburn from all that orange juice, decided to let him say whatever it was that he was scared to. Then he’d kill him.

“It’s … green.”

Mitchell turned away and grabbed the nearest lock of past-his-shoulders hair. As he held it up, he could see it — and it wasn’t as faint as he’d hoped. “Fuck,” he groaned, drawing the word out so that it was more a sound than an actual word.

“Three days in a pool, blondie,” Trevor giggled, coming over for a look.

Mitchell very deliberately placed a fist in Trevor’s gut and shoved him away. “Lemon juice,” he ordered, looking around. They had lemon juice, he was sure of it, because Daniel put it in his tea.

The drummer hustled to hand over the little plastic lemon. Mitchell grabbed it and leaned over one of the sinks in the dressing room’s bathroom, squirting the juice straight on his head and working it through his hair, trying to get it to bleach back to almost-white. Fucking stupid color for hair, he thought as he squirted and rubbed, squirted and rubbed.

Eric followed and helped. “Dans, send for more when you see a runner!” he called.

“Just steal some from the crew,” Trevor said. He was leaning against the doorframe, watching as if this was better than anything he’d ever seen.

Then again, this being Trevor, it probably was. At least until the next greatest thing came along.

“Is it working?” Mitchell asked, the fumes making his eyes water. “My neck can’t take much more.”

“Uhh… no,” Eric said. “And M, I hate to tell you this, but …”

“Spit it out.”

“It’s really green.”

“Holy shit!” Daniel said, coming in the bathroom and poking at Mitchell’s head. “How’d you make it worse?”

Mitchell jerked up so fast, he cracked his head on the faucet. He let out a wordless yowl and jumped up and down, a hand clapped to his wet hair, until the first jolt of pain faded.

Daniel clapped him on the shoulder as he left the bathroom, hopefully on the trail of more lemon juice. “Better fix it fast,” the drummer said.

Mitchell stared at his reflection. He didn’t need to get close to the mirror to see it. Green. His hair was green. He looked like a fucking polar bear at the height of summer, except even polar bears had some white left to them. He couldn’t say the same. Not really. Not without exaggerating wildly.

Trevor, bent over at the waist and holding his gut, broke into peals of laughter.

“Trev, shut the fuck up. You’re not helping,” Mitchell told him, fighting a wave of panic. They had a show to do…

“FUCK!” Daniel roared, storming into the bathroom. “Charlie just came in. Dudes, we’re on!”

They froze, giving each other terrified looks. They were about to take the stage, and their frontman, the one person everyone looked at, had very wet, very green long hair.

And the hot stage lights would probably only help one of those two problems.

The show was over for the night; they’d kicked ass — for a change, so Mitchell hadn’t worried much when their tour manager had asked him to be fast about showering so they could have a few quick words. He’d been expecting to hear that JR, the band’s manager, had set up a headlining tour. Instead, he came back to the dressing room with the next-best news he could think of.

“Guys, get this,” he said with one of those grins that should have told them trouble was ahead. “Charlie just told me that Jim Shields changed the schedule.”

“Again?” Eric groaned. He was bent over, tying his Doc Martens; his voice was muffled.

“Yeah, but this is good. He wants to take three days off after the Phoenix gig so he can go explore some of the power centers and shit in Sedona. As his opening act, we get three days off!”

“Power centers?” Eric arched an eyebrow.

“I heard his dick could use some energy,” Trevor said. He was laying on his back on the couch the promoter had brought in, one foot on the floor, the other flung over the back of the couch. Mitchell wasn’t entirely certain what he was doing with his hands — or why there weren’t any girls around. They were ShapeShifter; there were always girls around.

“Three days off,” Mitchell said again. “Hello? Three days.”

Daniel grinned at him. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

It still seemed too good to be true. “A place that’s warm enough for an outdoor pool and three days with nothing to do but have us some fun? Fuck yeah, I’m thinking what you are!”

“Outdoor pool?” Trevor asked. He propped himself up on his elbows and gave Mitchell one of those looks that meant he was plotting something.

Mitchell didn’t know his grin could get any bigger, but somehow, it did. “I told Charlie to make sure the hotel has all-night lighting out there and they know where to direct the pizza delivery guys. I, for one, am not leaving unless the cops make me. And even then, I’ll be back!”

Daniel laughed. “I’m right there with you, bro.”

“Eric? Trev?” Mitchell looked at them. As if they’d miss this.

The bigger question was who’d remember it.

Patterson sent Sonya home with the car. “I’ll wait for the boys.”

“Will there be room?” she asked. She was tired, Patterson could tell; the night had drained her. If what he had to say to his son wasn’t so important, he wouldn’t be doing this, asking her to drive herself home without him. But catching Mitchell before he’d had a chance to sleep on the night’s show was essential. It was entirely possible that he’d wake up in the morning, the entire disaster behind him and no replacement for the guitar forthcoming. It’d be as far behind him as baseball was. And while Patterson hadn’t minded when baseball had gone away, privately he thought that his son had a future in music.

At the very least, the boy had invested enough into it: piano lessons, guitar lessons, voice lessons, lessons in music theory and music composition. Some of it he’d taught himself, some he’d learned from books, some he’d mowed lawns to be able to afford. Mitchell had shown that sort of work ethic with the baseball thing, but he’d been ten and so shy, working hard had been the perfect way to hide that. Now, though, Patterson was watching this band bring his son out of that shell. What was emerging was quite the young man: smart, loyal, driven, a planner, a businessman, and just plain good to be around.

The show tonight had been a disaster, there was no sugar-coating it. From the lead singer who fell off the stage and broke his guitar to the drummer putting a stick through the head of his snare and not having a backup handy to the lighting and the sound, there was only one good thing that could be said: not many people had been there. Patterson had counted about twenty, including himself and Sonya.

Trevor was, of course, grinning like the night had gone perfectly. For all that boy had been through, Trevor never stopped seeking the joy in life; it was that quality that Patterson had noticed the first time Amy had brought him home. It was that unfailing optimism that had led Patterson to take custody rather than let him face jail time.

Mitchell, though, was the opposite. Head down, shoulders slumped. It wasn’t unreasonable to think that there’d be no more band come morning. Maybe it wasn’t unreasonable to think there was currently mo more band.

“Son,” Patterson said, trying to be gentle and not startle the boy.

It didn’t work. Mitchell’s head shot up and his eyes widened. “Oh, hi, Dad,” he said when he recovered. He grimaced. “You going to rub it in?”

“No,” Patterson said slowly, tilting his head at the empty spot on the bumper of his Bronco. As Mitchell sat, Patterson noticed Trevor hovering, just within earshot.

Well, Patterson figured, this would be good for Trevor to hear, too. “Even if I could make it sound good, I wouldn’t. You needed a night like this,” he said. “You needed to know what it feels like to fall on your face.”

“What?” Mitchell half-rose to his feet, then caught himself, as if he was suddenly aware of who he was speaking to.

“You can’t succeed without tasting failure,” Patterson said. “If you never fail, you never get to find out what you’re made of. So. What are you made of, Mitchell?”

Mitchell shook his head, his hair shaking and dancing, somehow as dejected as the boy.

Trevor tossed his own hair over his shoulder and lit a cigarette as he watched.

“Are you tough enough to suck tonight up, learn what you can, and move forward? Or is the band over now that you broke your guitar?”

“What am I supposed to play? You can’t be a guitar player without a guitar.”

“True,” Patterson said. “Is that the only problem?”

Mitchell cocked his head as he thought. Patterson waited him out. “Yeah,” the boy finally said. “I think so.” He grimaced. “I’ve been trying to save up for another one, but it’s not doing so well. I had to dig into it to pay for the latest run of t-shirts.”

“Not taking your investment back out?”

Mitchell shook his head. “I figured it was worth it. Didn’t think this sort of thing would happen.”

“But it did, so where do you go from here?”

The boy grimaced. “I figure out how to get a new guitar.”

“We’ll steal you one if we need to,” Trevor said with a shrug. “Sorry, Dad. You didn’t hear that.”

“That’s true. I didn’t.” Patterson paused, noticing that Trevor had started to fade into the shadows. He wondered if Trevor was smoking something more than a cigarette; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d tempted fate — and the local cops.

Mitchell turned to Patterson. “I want this.”

“This?”

“The band. A new guitar. Hell, a better guitar.”

“Fame, fortune, and all the rest?”

Mitchell grinned at his father. “You betcha.”

“Then, son,” Patterson said, turning to him. “You know what it’s going to take to get there.”

“Yeah,” Mitchell said, wiping a hand over his face. “A shitload of work.” He stood up and fumbled in his pocket. “I’d better get busy. Trev, you ready?”

“To do what?” Trevor eyed Mitchell and looked ready to bolt. Patterson bit back a smile. Getting that particular boy to do anything he didn’t want to was impossible; Patterson knew this first-hand.

“Go home and get some sleep,” Mitchell said, possibly the only thing that Trevor wouldn’t rebel against just for the sake of rebelling. “We need to find me a new guitar.”

Patterson held out his hand, palm up. “I’ll drive. You two can start plotting.”

With a grin that said it all, Mitchell handed over the keys.

A note from Susan: This is a particularly good outtake for the day, as it seems I’ve been nominated for A Top Ten Writer’s Blog! Talk about a good time to post an outtake that makes a statement; believe me, it wasn’t planned this way. Karma’s funny sometimes.

Any support you guys can throw my way will be most appreciated!

(with apologies to Cheesy)

Mitchell kicked the pizza box out of the way and, with a burp that shook the room, stretched out his legs on the coffee table. It bowed under his weight.

“M, man,” Daniel said wonderingly. He picked up a drum stick and scratched his back with it. “You just ate the whole thing. I thought you weren’t going to do that anymore.”

“I wasn’t,” Mitchell slurred. He laid his head back on the grimy dressing-room couch. “But I wasn’t gonna drink this much anymore, either.” He burped again.

Trevor held up a hand, all five fingers splayed. Slowly, he dropped each finger in turn, starting with the index finger. Just as he tucked his thumb in, Mitchell sprinted for the bathroom.

“Death by cheese,” Eric laughed.

“Should we save the box as a reminder for next time?” Daniel asked.

“Dumb fuck,” Trevor said, shaking his head and, for a few minutes there, feeling in tune with Daniel and Eric.

All right, all right. Leave me alone already.

Over the past few days and don’t ask my fat ass to count them, people, I’ve gotten more e-mail from you readers than I have in the past six months combined. And you’re all whining about two stupid mistakes.

I’ll own up to one of them. I forgot to add the letter S on the end of the magazine title the other day. But can you blame a girl? I was all caught up in that picture — it is still, at this moment, making me fan myself with a funeral fan I found in the bottom of my desk. Thank God for funerals, boys and girls! And so what if I decided that this issue of guitar gods ought to be about one and only?

As for the capital letters, don’t be blaming me for that. I read guitar gods magazine every quarter. I know darn well they have this thing for lower case letters.

No. If you want to blame that on someone, you go blame it on my copy editor, who now has about three back issues featuring guys I never liked anyway, like that tribute to Jim Shields once he finally gave in to the AIDS, sitting on her desk, teaching her that screwing up like she did just makes old Chelle even nastier than usual.

Speaking of nasty, who’s the smarty-artie who sent me that nasty t-shirt last week?

You heard it first, you heard it here, and this time, you heard it right. guitar god magazine featuring the very godlike Mitchell Voss. On sale in two more days.

Can you stand it?

Any you girls ready for a drool-fest? I’ve got a picture here that’ll be on the cover of the November Guitar Gods magazine featuring the one and only, totally drool-icious Mitchell Voss.

And girls, this ain’t no posed picture. This is the Handsome Man himself, outside, playing in the autumn leaves. I’ve never been sorry I don’t live somewhere where the leaves change colors until I saw this picture, let me tell you. I’m ready to up and move my fat ass to Vermont, or wherever they had to go to get leaves this color so early in the season. I’m not just ready. Oh, no. This puppy’s got me packed and on the road. It’s that hot.

My friend Mitchell is wearing a hoody that’s a pumpkin-orange, and he’s actually — can you believe this? Write this one down for posterity — laughing. That’s right. You read that right. The man can laugh. I know that’s been widely speculated about and even I had doubts about it, but apparently, even if they had to stick an ice cube down the front of those delicously tight jeans, the man can at least act like he’s doing it long enough for the camera to snap.

I hear from a reliable source that there’s plenty more inside, including pictures of Mrs. Mitchell herself, the low-key but very famous Kerri Voss, and — don’t pass out on me now, girls — their boys. I haven’t been priveleged enough to see the rest of the spread yet, but I hear it’s a doozy.

Boys, I don’t know what to tell you ’cause I don’t have an inkling of what’s inside, or why they’re running this now, during a quiet period for the band. It doesn’t matter. It’s ShapeShifter, and we’re all missing that thunder they call music.

Start saving your pennies now. Flood the newstands; I’m told the on-sale date is November 1. Let’s make this be the next in a long series of Guitar God magazines that sell out their print run. Funny, but a little bit of research tells me that of their top-ten best-selling covers, four of them have included ShapeShifter’s god-like frontman. The #2 seller, Terry Fantillo, only has two in that same top ten. Seven wives, but only two covers.

Remember the on-sale date and check out that picture. I told you here, and I told you first.

Trevor cradled his head in his arms and stared at the clouds. It was one of those days that was warm and the sun felt so good that he swore he could feel it reaching inside him and working on all those old broken bones, the ones the doctors said had healed but that hurt every now and then, anyway.

If he closed his eyes, he could imagine his body trying to repair itself. Eighteen was way too fucking young to be stuck with the scars from broken ribs, arms, and legs. Not to mention his nose; good thing Mitchell’s dad knew someone who’d been able to save it from looking and acting like a mashed potato. So fucking what if it had a hook and looked like a bird’s beak? It worked, it didn’t hurt, and hopefully no one would break it again.

The only thing he needed to make this scene down by the river even better was a girl, soothing other parts of him. Maybe even more than one. Maybe one part per girl. Trevor had a lot of parts.

When the shadow fell over him, he knew better than to hope some higher being had agreed with his plan. It had to be Mitchell, and not just because the big idiot was probably the only other person who knew about this spot. Trevor had been waiting for Mitchell to get the news and show up. Mitchell was dependable like that.

“Why’d you do it?” Mitchell asked with a sigh before Trevor even opened his eyes.

For a second, Trevor thought about pretending to be asleep, letting Mitchell rant until he got so frustrated with Trevor’s lack of response that he left. But it wouldn’t be out of the blue if Mitchell tried to kick him awake, either, and wasn’t he feeling some healing going on?

“I had a point to make,” he finally said.

“Which was?” Mitchell sat down beside him. Trevor could picture him stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankle, leaning back on his elbows and turning his face to the sun.

“That if people don’t wake up and fucking think for themselves, they’ll never get anywhere in life.”

“Maybe they’re right. That you can’t get anywhere without a high school diploma.”

“Dude,” Trevor said, opening his eyes and turning his head so he could look at Mitchell — who was, predictably, stretched out just like Trevor had imagined. “We’re in a band. We’ve got tour dates booked. We’re going places. What do we need the lies they feed us in that joint for?”

“Just in case.”

Trevor snorted, making Mitchell open his left eye, the one that was now looking right at Trev. “If things are broke, you ought to fix them,” he insisted.

“So fix it,” Mitchell said. “Don’t go running off in a huff and expect everyone to fucking get it just ’cause you tell them to.”

“If you don’t shake things up, no one fixes shit. You know that as well as I do.”

“Maybe they don’t see a problem.”

Trevor shook his head. Of course he didn’t expect Mitchell to get it. People liked Mitchell. And he was a Voss. If he came to school with a fresh black eye every week, no one would sit his ass down and tell him that he should take lots of shop classes because that was going to be the best he would do for himself in life.

“I don’t need a fucking piece of paper to prove I’m worth something,” Trevor insisted.

“So shut up and just go and be something already.”

Trevor jumped to his feet. “I’m fucking trying!” he screamed. “I’m the one getting out there and lining up gigs for us! I’m the one kissing ass and trying to figure out the fucking contracts and all that other happy shit that goes along with this! The way you three pussies act, I’m the only one who cares about this band!”

“That’s because you’re the only one of us without a fall-back plan,” Mitchell said mildly.

“That’s because I’m the only smart one around here,” Trevor shot back. “I’m the one with all the faith Eric’s always preaching about. Where’s his? Where’s yours? If I weren’t up all your asses, you’d all be perfectly happy to sit around in your mom’s basement and make music all day.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“There will be,” Trevor said, jumping up and searching his pockets for a cigarette. “When she shakes things up and throws you out of her house and on your ass. Admit it. You won’t do shit until she does.”

Mitchell shrugged. “Maybe.”

Trevor stomped a foot and dropped his lighter. “And that’s my point!” He stabbed the air with his cigarette. “People don’t do shit unless they’re forced to. I’m not sitting around, waiting for you three to stop being scared of leaving town. I’m not wasting any more time in that fucking school. And I’m not putting up with any more shit! I want to fucking live already! Do shit I can tell my kids about one day! Live, motherfucker. I know I’m not the only one here who wants to.”

Mitchell handed his lighter back. “Making another scene, or is this the one you didn’t get to make in the office at school?”

“Fuck you, M,” Trevor snarled and turned his back on his best friend. He’d known Mitchell wouldn’t get it. Coddled little brothers like him didn’t know how to scrap for shit. Well, he’d show him, Trevor would. He’d make their stupid little band into the biggest thing to come out of Riverview, or he’d die trying.

It was one of those autumn days that made everyone love being in Riverview, even Trevor. The air was so clear, it seemed every vein in every leaf stood out and could be seen from miles away. It was the sort of day when you believed that nothing bad could happen and when you spent the day laying down by the river with your best friend and daydreaming, nothing bad could happen.

“A flag,” Trevor said, his head nestled comfortably in his hands, his feet crossed at the ankle. A cigarette clung to his lip, comfortably, like being with the idiot felt.

“What the fuck?” Mitchell asked, pulling his one ankle underneath his opposite leg. Fucker could sit like that for hours, all knotted up, especially if he had a guitar with him. Which he didn’t; too afraid of dropping it in the river and watching it get swept to God-knew-where.

“A flag,” he repeated. “A ShapeShifter flag. For our fans to pledge their love and shit to. You know… one nation, all for one, buy even our shitty records and defend them to the fans who can think… a flag.”

Mitchell eyed him. Trevor shrugged and uncrossed one arm, peeling his cigarette off his lip. “A flag?” the big idiot repeated. “Why not something easier, like t-shirts? I bet they cost less to make and we’d sell more.”

At that, Trevor had to sit up. “I’m not talking of something for them. This is about us.”

“It’s all about us,” Mitchell reminded him, reaching for Trevor’s cigarette.

Trevor pulled it away. “Get your own, fucker.”

“I’m out.”

Trev grinned. “What? Spend all your allowance money again?”

“No,” Mitchell answered in the same taunting voice that Trevor had just used. “That girl last night ripped my last pack off and I haven’t had time to get more.”

Trevor nodded. “You have lousy taste in girls.”

“I bet she’d stand naked under that flag of yours.”

“Okay, not so lousy.” He handed the cigarette over. “But a flag.” He let his eyes unfocus. “United Fans of ShapeShifter. I like it.”

“You’re a dork,” Mitchell said.

Trevor glanced at him, unsurprised to see the wheels in the idiot’s own brain turning.

Trevor usually walks into a meet-and-greet to hear something along the lines of, “Oh my God, it’s Trevor Wolff! He came!”

To which he always smiles lazily, licks his lips, and wishes he could smoke here, just so he could dramatically put it out. And then he says, “Wouldn’t you rather if we came together?”

New Orleans club fixtures Jock La Feet played The Ninth Street Dive tonight to a packed house. Nothing new there; Jock La Feet is a band that, with a better name, oughta be out there on a bigger scale, sorta like Rat Catcher. I may have only been around this scene for a few short months and may have spent zero time on the far side of the levees, but I gotta tell you, if you don’t think that Jock La Feet can compete nationally, you haven’t heard Jock La Feet. Which makes me wonder if you’re realy dumb enough to think you can read this review and feel like you were there.

After a write-up like that, what I got to say next will make you wonder. And that’s ’cause at their record release party last night, Jock La Feet got showed up by this little band from somewhere West of the Mississippi, four dudes who rolled into town in their lead singer’s dad’s Ford Bronco, with the equally bad name of ShapeShifter and an even worse gimmick, where each band member identifies with an animal.

It’s their music that makes these four guys — two who seem to like their leather pants a little bit too much (was that dinner on them?), and two who seem even more bland than that — stand out. Nothing could have made New Orleans ready for this band, and as you know, this is a city that’s seen and weathered an awful lot.

Opening with “Take the Stage,” ShapeShifter erupts with speed and sound, sort of like a meteor if it was racing toward the planet, bound and determined to make contact. And like flying space junk, you can’t get away. Believe me, there were a few in the packed club who were dumb enough to try.

From that — again, horribly titled — song, ShapeShifter delivered a half-hour’s worth of music, almost ten songs in all, and all available on the band’s first record. Which, no surprise, they were selling out of the back of Daddy’s Ford Bronco until the cops tried to arrest them for not having a permit. (They escaped by skipping town.)

I’m telling you here and now, this is a band you’re gonna wanna watch. They got a lot of growing to do before they’re half the band that Jock La Feet is, which means they have a ways yet before they’re ready to tour like this again. Doesn’t matter, though, ’cause they blew Jock and the boys two parishes over.

Remember the name: Chelle La Fleur. I told you here, and I told you first.

Trevor almost ran smack into Val when she stopped in the doorway. “But … it’s raining,” she pouted.

Trevor sighed and itched for the smoke they were heading outside for. Val was always pouting anymore. He wondered how Daniel could put up with her. He wanted to know why Daniel put up with her.

“So?” he asked, raising his eyebrows like he was expecting the back of her head to see his imitation of her own perfect bored-by-the-drama-queen airs. “You’re hardly about to melt,” he sneered, shaking his head and itching even harder for that cigarette.

“Says you,” she shot back, not looking at him. That didn’t surprise Trevor in the least. He knew he was an ugly motherfucker. He didn’t blame Val for not looking. Shit, he went for days without looking. Good thing his beard grew in so fucking slow, or he’d have to do it more often. Look that was, not blame Val. Trevor Wolff did not blame others for his own issues. Not that being ugly was an issue; issues, you could fix somehow. Ugly, you were just stuck with.

“Yeah, well, look at it this way,” he said, changing his stance to a more comfortable once since he had the feeling they wouldn’t be going anywhere so fast. “The Wicked Witch of the West is the only person we’ve ever known who’s melted, right?”

“Right,” Val said warily, turning her entire body sideways, but letting her head turn to look at him.

Trevor was half-surprised that she didn’t shudder. But then again, this was Val. She’d been around with Daniel since the drummer had joined the band. That meant she’d had a whole year now to get used to his face.

“And you’re in that snobby-assed chef’s school,” he continued as conversationally as he could. The itch for the smoke gnawed at him; he told it to take a hike.

“So?” She arched her perfectly-plucked eyebrows at him.

“Wicked Witches can’t cook. It’s part of the job description.” He took a deep breath and plowed on. Anything if it’d get her out the door so he could get his fucking smoke already… “I mean, they can cook gruel and brussels sprouts and beets and shit like that that nobody likes. But anything that’d get them into snobby-assed chef’s schools?” He shook his head as slowly and dramatically as he could, making himself count to five as his head moved from one end of its arc to the other.

“You’re not going to melt,” he told her again, wishing she’d listen and go outside already. He needed that smoke and here was Val, plugging up the door and stopping him from getting his nicotine high. Bitch.

Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she said and took that first step into the drizzle.

Behind him, Mitchell came up and gave him a companionable slap to the back of the head.

“What was that for?” Trevor asked, giving him a reproachful look. He hadn’t needed it. Hadn’t particularly wanted it, either.

“One good deed deserves another,” Mitchell said with a shrug, reaching for his own cigarettes as he followed Val outside and left Trevor standing there, gaping.

Don’t forget about the Buy a Friend a Book Week contest! View it here or the extended version here!

“Dude, I never watched the news until I heard you did. And it was like someone was showing me this whole great big fucking world that I never knew was out there. I mean, yeah, I’d heard of terrorism and all that shit, but all of a sudden, I get why it’s such a big deal. I know this sounds cheesy as hell, but thanks, man.”