Halloween is a time to become someone else. Any flaws, any imperfections you perceive yourself having are scrubbed away for a precious few hours with a simple mask or costume. But this perception of being a monster or a movie character almost entirely belongs to little kids. Because, by the time most people hit the awkward transitional era of the teenage years and onwards, the mystique of fiction loses its credibility almost entirely. Halloween instead becomes, like most holidays, an excuse for partying. One thing you cannot fault the parties for, however, is a lack of atmosphere. For while the mystique of wearing a costume has long since faded away for those past the age of twelve, the novel thrill still remains. And, instead of hiding someone’s personality, the mask begins to show their true nature. The individual with the word ‘book’ written across his or her face is revealed to be a lazy oaf, the hundreds wearing Scream masks prove to be highly uncreative people who think clichés still hold relevance, and the man wearing a business suit and a ‘Hi, My Name Is..’ nametag with the word ‘liar’ sketched in is shown to be a pretentious douche-bag. The same holds true for the gathering at the Legacy Club’s annual ‘House of Horrors’ concert, which makes up for its unoriginal name with what the organizers call ‘one hell of a shindig’. The eclectic and varied nature of the bands performing is perfectly matched by the various costumes worn by the audience. Heavy metal mixed with hippies, indie mixed with blood-stained farmers… what could be more fitting? In a place where the unique is commonplace, it figures that the only four dressed up in street-clothes would stick out all the more. They stick together side-by-side, creating an even greater eye-catching quality than they would if apart. It’s a classic ‘strength in numbers’ scenario brought to life, and immediately lets the audience know that they are a band even before they’ve stepped onstage. But this is something that could never work in any other situation or time of year; they couldn’t look like a bigger group of misfits, or further differentiated from one another.

The only one out of the group that looks even remotely like someone who belongs in a rock-n-roll outfit is Steven Etafold. With his sleeveless shirt and James Dean looks, he already seems like a perfect embodiment of the rougher sides of rock music. This suits him perfectly, considering he’s the drummer. But looks can be deceiving, as he’s also the youngest member of the group; two years younger the rest, at the wee age of 19. So it’s an interesting fact that the ‘baby’ of the group pulls off the tough-as-nails look more effectively than the oldest. Dressed up as a punk straight from the 70s, with tight jeans and a ripped shirt, he has the air of a man trying too hard to be something he’s not. But, while not the one with the toughest exterior, he certainly possesses a biting personality. When sarcastically asked by one of the more attractive ladies at the club who he’s dressed up as, the singer, Chris Violet, simply replies, ‘Myself. And I take it you’re a harlot?’, thus ensuring that he won’t be getting laid tonight. Anton Clover, if possible, looks even more out-of-place than his companions. Well, out-of-time might be a better choice of words, as his attire makes him look like someone from the Summer of Love. His afro and Elton John-esque glasses aside, his hippie clothing makes it easy to imagine him listening to Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band or Piper at the Gates of Dawn on an endless repeat. Due to him possessing the most eye-catching appearance of the four, one would assume for him to be the singer/frontman. Or at least they would, if they didn’t notice the bass guitar not-so-subtly slung across his shoulders. It’s only Evan Howell, the group’s guitarist, that looks like a typical young adult, dressed casually in a black jacket and jeans.

Wholly unspectacular individually, but remarkable when as a collective, the Peripheral Nervous System is perfectly representative of everything a true band should be. A tough, coarse exterior (Steven), an eccentric flair (Anton), an intelligent, rational core (Evan), and a frontman trying too hard to be everything at once (Chris). But untapped potential isn’t everything, and at this point that’s all this group is at the moment. But, in just a brief few minutes, they will try, and maybe succeed, at becoming something more. Something concrete, something official, and something with the musical ability and charisma to put on a phenomenal show. Because, in these four young men, an unforgettable fire is brewing.

OOC: Genius. Another stellar start to an RP :D

OOC: Great intro dude!:)

A collective murmur cuts through the air at the Legacy club. But it’s not one of anticipation for the next performance, as most in attendance are here for the festive, party atmosphere rather than the bands themselves. Aside from local heroes ‘The Ringlet Experience’, a band that had been making quite a splash in London and was marked as the closing act of the evening, there wasn’t a fan base for any of the acts on the bill. Which is why, when the next anonymous foursome quietly takes their places onstage, the noise and chatter from the audience scarcely dies down. But that doesn’t exactly bother Peripheral Nervous System, who had become quite used to indifference during the ten months since their inception. Instead, they use the chance of a few private moments before the show to set up their instruments. Evan Howell fiddles with the various guitar pedals at his feet, trying to find a satisfactory tone, while Steven Etafold, at the front of the stage, is casually flirting with an attractive girl. It’s the frontman, interestingly, that seems the most withdrawn from the audience. But it’s not one of indifference, but of shyness. For, while he is able to stare down each and every individual in attendance while the music blares, he needs the mask that melodies and rhythm grants in order to be able to even face the world beyond the stage. And so, in a move reminiscent of Jim Morrison, Chris Violet stands with his back to the audience, waiting for the musical cue. To him, frontman and singer are two different jobs, and he’s currently only proficient at the latter. It’s fairly obvious that he won’t be the one introducing the band to now-vaguely interested crowd. As Anton Clover had already enthusiastically tuned up his bass a half-hour before the show, he does the honors; “So, uh… as the others are setting up their instruments, I suppose the responsibility of making introductory statements falls upon me. Well, then, we’re called Peripheral Nervous System. Bit of a crap name, I know, but it has certain connotations. In our biological make-up, the peripheral nervous system transmits sensory messages across the body, be it pain, pleasure, or some fetishistic combination of both. And that describes us perfectly; we’re a shock to the system, something the world needs every now and then. For the philistines in the audience too simple-minded to understand such an elementary concept, there’s something here for you, too. The initials, P-N-S, sound slightly like the male variation of genitalia when spoken as one word. So, there you go, something for everyone; all for one, and one for all.”

A pounding drum rhythm emits from Steven’s kit, and sounds like the type of beat played by men at the very dawn of time. As if a switch has been flicked in his brain, Chris swivels on his feet to face the crowd, a look of steely determination in his eyes. The first two minutes of this song consist of a bass-and-drum tribal groove, serving as a simple introduction for what is to come. The music seemed to be almost black-and-white in its simplicity, but that’s the point. Far removed from the extravagant flair of more experienced groups, this is the sound of a band literally willing itself into existence. When Chris Violet’s voice finally joins in the fray, it doesn’t make the song any more concrete or solid, but rather continues the expression of wandering and searching feelings. His long, unbroken, wordless cry rings out loud and true, like a songbird taking its first flight, sending shivers down the spines of the 250 bodies in the audience. The band, despite having a simple, tribal aura, has an anthemic, universal feel to their playing, making it easy to imagine them going on to playing much larger audiences, despite still being in an embryonic stage. Violet’s wordless singing is also worldly, and becomes, to those listening, a tangible representation of happiness and misery, love and loss. It is, of course, impossible for a young man at the ripe age of 21 to be perfectly acquainted with these feelings, but he throws himself inside this role as though he is. Chris is, simply, a method actor excelling at his job. Every popping vein in his neck, and every bead of sweat dripping down his face, proves that he takes his role as the band’s singer with incredible dedication and seriousness. It’s a fitting contrast to the frontman of the other bands who had performed this evening, most of whom were either too drunk or too self-mocking to put on such a chilling display of vocal prowess.

From a technical standpoint, the only complex thing about this untitled song is the way Evan plays the guitar. By far the most intelligent member of the band, it makes sense that his playing would bring a similar level of sophistication. His eyes are constantly focused on the pedals by his feet, and he changes the tone of his playing every few seconds. The guitar seems to imitate various sounds of nature; there is occasional aggressiveness, such as the roar of a tiger, but more often than not it sounds like the high-pitched chirping of a bird. As Chris explained to the band during rehearsals, this is a song about mankind learning how to sing, so it makes sense that the sounds of a bird would serve as influence. After all, we learned to sing through nature, especially through the song of the bird. The varied style of Evan’s playing is similarly matched by Chris’ singing; as the song reaches a closure, words finally begin to form in the mouth of the singer, taken from various songs by his favorite artists, blended and weaved together to make a cohesive whole. But one line seems to cut through the rest, as the emotional weight Chris puts on each becomes almost unbearably heavy. It’s repeated several times as a mantra while the song reaches its conclusion, and is sung once more in a slightly hoarse voice after his three companions have ceased their individual playing. The line, taken from the Coldplay song ‘Politik’, is a simple one, but has a universal meaning. In these six lone words, some of the contradicting emotions Peripheral Nervous System hopes to express through their music is revealed to the audience; optimism, desperation, yearning…

“Just give me love over this…”

Edited by user 02 November 2011 01:23:18(UTC)  | Reason: Not specified

OOC: This is honestly, one of the best RPs ive read on here, thus far. Your writing style is excellent.

OOC: I know I say this a lot dude... but I truly thing you are among the best RPers that I've ever seen on this site. Fooking brilliant.