Neon flashed a rather sickly yellow ‘Ra tazz’. I suspect it was once ‘Razamatazz’ but the letters in the middle remained resolutely dark. I sipped the chilled piss that was sold as beer; one could not even use a pun about getting rat-arsed on this swill. Darkness was punctuated with coloured flashing lights, dim enough to conceal rather than reveal, and to disguise the fluid that was being sold to the punters. A few couples gyrated with more enthusiasm than grace to the sound of the overpowered speakers. I would hesitate to call it ‘music’; to do so would violate any law regarding accurate description. It was loud; and there was more than one note; and it had a headache-impelling beat which might be loosely described as tempo, but there, the similarity to music ended, the departure increased rather than ameliorated by the sounds made by the female with a microphone who was convinced that she was singing.
Fremont, the area of artists.
To be honest, most of the clientele more nearly resembled the Fremont Troll, an 18’ statue under one of the old road bridges, and one of the surviving icons of old Seattle.
I winced again at the forced vibrato of the artiste trying to hit notes somewhat higher than she could manage any more, her vodka-roughened voice unable to soar any longer, any more than her drooping assets could.
The squeal of the rat I hit with my beer mug was more musical. It expired, unable to find any will to fight the inevitable, and probably dispirited by the atmosphere of the bar. If they ever discover an exoplanet with this atmosphere, it would be logged ‘toxic.’
