Episode transcript:

It was so late it was early, a time Linda hadn’t been out for a long time. She and Song An were wandering somewhere in a wooded area off a highway in Bei Bei, and Linda was starting to reassess the night’s choices.

But, there it was. A clearing up ahead with a derelict old factory. Industrial, but not industrial, noises wafted out from inside. “Ugh, come on,” said Song An. “We’re late.”

Linda followed Song An inside. A small stage was made out of discarded junk in the corner of a cavernous nothing. It held two guys with a keyboard and what in an academic setting might be called assorted percussion, but in an empty factory in the middle of the night was realistically a box of random shit. There was an overloaded plug strip to the side of the stage, and its electricity end snaked off out of the room.

The percussionist-singer screamed into a mic and … noises happened. It was amazing.

There were six other audience members, all guys, keeping their distance from one another. No one was dancing, except Song An, who didn’t need a beat to get her groove on.

No one was filming this, either, Linda noticed. At the concert’s end, without ever having addressed the audience, the two guys simply started packing up their gear.

“Who was that?” Linda asked.

“Greg and the Dinosnaxx,” said Song An, a little too loudly, in the aftermath of all that noise. “They’re from around. The one guy is a teacher at the music college.”

“Cool,” said Linda.

“Yeah, I thought you’d be impressed by that shit,” said Song An.

Everyone, including Greg and the Dinosnaxx, trundled out into the daylight Gary or Dinosnaxx had a van, and they said it was cool if everyone crammed in. “We’re headed back to the city.”

Linda crammed in, next to an old, broken looking amp. Three of the six other guys started smoking, without rolling down the windows.

Linda looked at Song An. “Thank you for bringing me. I’m having a wonderful time,” she said.

Song An sneered. “Of course you are. Be cool.”

Episode transcript:

“It’s not an art project,” said Song An, referencing the scene she had been making at Echo Bay. “It’s just what I felt like doing.”

She and Linda had both been forcibly escorted from the club. Now they were at an outdoor barbecue joint, with the rest of the rambunctious drunks.

“That can be art,” said Linda. “Art can be whatever you feel.”

Song An was shoveling morsels of beef into her mouth. When they were ordering, Song An insisted she was a vegetarian, but when the dishes started coming in, she tucked right into Linda’s carefully curated selection. Classic Song An. Linda’s reaction was to say nothing and eat all of Song An’s vegetables. Classic Linda.

The number of the bottles on the table was how they kept track of how many beers they had had, and it was a lot.

Song An did at least have a satisfying reaction to all the Weather Aboveground business.

“That’s bullshit and they’re all bullshit!” she held up a bottle to the next table, “It’s bullshit, right?!”

The guys next door lifted their beers in a return salute, “Bullshit!”

Linda had to forcibly restrain Song An from travelling straight to Moldova to kick some ass. The guys probably would have went with her.

“I don’t think that’s where they are, for real. That’s just where their IP address is.”

“Well then, I’ll kick the shit out of their IP address,” offered Song An.

Linda didn’t need Song An to do anything. It was just nice to have someone actually angry on her behalf.

“You don’t use it, do you?” asked Linda.

“Fuck the weather. You wanna go see a band? They’re playing a derelict factory up in Bei Bei. I’m trying to poach their drummer,” said Song An.

“You have a band? That’s awesome,” said Linda.

“I am the band,” said Song An.

A Didi dropped them off in the middle of a dark stretch of highway. Linda was now carrying gobs of cash these days, and paid the man an exorbitant fare, both for going off app and way out of the city. Who knows how they were going to get home.

Linda and Song An clambered over the safety rail and walked concrete pathway that narrowed as it went further into the trees. Linda tried not to think about wild dogs. Song An was unbothered, but also not too sure of the way. She chattered on about assholes and plans and bands she’d seen as they walked this way and doubled back. Neither of them had a map app, and Linda was actually starting to feel scared, especially after she pissed out most of the drunk by the side of the path.

“There’s no one out here. Are you sure this is a thing?” she asked.

“Got somewhere to be?” asked Song An.

“Yes!” said Linda. “Home sleeping.”

TRANSCRIPT

Linda hadn’t always been a respectable business owner. In her misspent youth she’d been a dissatisfied hellion, railing against the squares.

Nuts Club, 12 years ago, Punk Fest. Subs was playing. SUBS, from Beijing. Beijing sucked too, but Subs was awesome. They were Linda’s favorite band. She wanted to be Kang Mao when she grew up. And she didn’t want to grow up.

As two broke kids, Linda and Song An couldn’t afford the tickets. And they were already known at the club. Once Song An stole a bottle of gin from behind the bar. She got kicked out, but somehow managed to hold onto the gin. She and Linda split it over barbecue and got into a spectacular fight. Linda flipped the table and Song An started throwing beer bottles until the boss threatened to call the police. And then they were a team again, running from the assholes.

“We could wear disguises,” said Linda, brainstorming ways to get into the show.

“No way,” said Song An. “Never hide who you are. Or why bother being anyone at all.”

In the end, Linda didn’t remember how they got in — snuck in through the backdoor, or something — but it was the loudest, grimiest, most intense show she’d ever seen. She got Kong Mao to sign her arm after the show and she didn’t wash it off for weeks.

Song An tried to tattoo it on with a pen and a needle, “Like they do in prison, or on TV.” Linda withstood the pain for about five pinpricks. That surviving greenish dot looked like a gross birthmark, but Linda knew what it meant.

They tried to start a band themselves one summer. Practice involved screaming lyrics at each other while banging on instruments they inherited from friends who had moved on to university or whatever. It was incredible, but they kept getting chased out of their practice space for being too awful.

So instead they stole a rusty dumpster from a construction site and made it into a swimming pool for some relief from the hot, hot heat of the summer in Chongqing. It was a wet mess and, frankly, a tetanus risk, but damn if it wasn’t a good party until it fell apart.

Linda eventually succumbed to pressure to be respectable. Brian came along and believed in her pizza dreams and Song An faded into the background. At least from Linda’s perspective. Song An could never fade, and don’t let her hear you implying that she could.