rockband eridan is the preciousest creature

The pub's backroom was dingy and the potsmoke was so thick you could practically feel your shirt collars crinkling in defense.
You can hear guitar chords, faint ones, and some tinkling, and some talking. You preen your hair, making sure your purple stripe was blended nicely into the middle of your rough, backcombed rockabilly quiff. You hadn't wanted to show up looking too intensely monochrome, so the safety-pin lapelled waistcoat you wore was a vivid red. You'd been trying on shirts and waistcoats to match the horrendous, plaid, bondage trousers for about three hours before giving up. The trousers were a £10 desperation purchase, drainpipes with belts and chains looped around the legs. They were revolting. You were pretty sure the frontman of Phaze And Blood wore them in the last poster you'd seen for them.
Obviously, at the time, you'd sniggered. At the time, you had a comfortable job in an incredibly popular underground hair metal act. You spent your entire working career in the prescence of intoxicated women in leather skirts. It was gorgeous.
Anyway. Now you were here, seabiscuit strapped to your back, to beg these clowns for a joke.
Relaxed. Casual. A little punk rock, nothin' serious.
You considered it, fussed with your shirt buttons, draped your leather jacket a little more haphazardly on your arm, and lit a cigarette. You prepared your best disinterested sneer.
You were gonna open on 'are you the guys?' which seemed pretty nonchalant, and also skipped all of your stutter letters. No tricky 'who's to push through, no hard 'd's or 'k's to force past the roof of your mouth.
You push the door open to the backstage area.