One cracked window, a dodgy door, and a tiny wall-mounted heater rattling like it’s chewing rocks.
Still, I love it. I painted the walls myself. Installed cheap shelves which are now filled with demo CDs. Bought some used office furniture and a file cabinet. Use the kettle I brought from home to make coffee like it’s a goddamn art form.
My company name’s on the door, Isis Management. Black vinyl on the glass, curling slightly at the corners. Istare at it every time I unlock the place. If only to remind myself this is real.
The acts I’ve signed are pure fire.
Sidewalk Riot, of course. My latest is Peach Harvest, an acoustic trio from Killarney. Two sisters and their cousin. Their honey-warm harmonies and fingerpicked guitars sound like heartbreak at the golden hour.
Their song about their nan dying is known to reduce entire pubs to tears. I’ve got them booked solid for the next six weeks, circuiting Cork, Kilkenny, Cardiff, Derry, and Belfast. Modest fees, couch-surfing half the way, but they’re buzzing.
Then there’s GoreGlam, whom I fucking adore. They signed a couple of days after I shagged the bartender in the storage closet at Sidewalk Riot’s showcase.
Four loud-mouthed twenty-year-olds from Limerick dressed in leather miniskirts and combat boots shout about rape culture and slut-shaming with such electric rage it makes the hairs on my arms stand up. Their frontwoman, Tasha, is a goddamn thunderstorm.
I managed to bluff my way into a grant panel to get them funded for studio time. It was worth every sleepless night. They’re rough as hell, but honest. Exactly the type of artist I dreamed Isis could represent.
Pulling out my phone, I check the time. Peach Harvest is landing in Cardiff today. Tasha sent me a voice note earlier, something about their bassist, Meg, puking on the ferry. I pull out my phone and respond. Then I check my social feeds to see how the bands are trending.
Less Than Zero pops up. I swear to fuck, they have been dominating the charts for years now. I scroll through video snippet after video snippet of their show in Dublin the other night.
I was there.
I’m not sure why I went, curiosity, maybe. The last time I saw them, Fireball was on the bill andLiam still hadn’t acknowledged me in public. Even still, Connor was kind to me and LTZ has become such a worldwide phenomenon, I thought it would be inspirational to see how far they’ve come.
They’re raw. Cinematic. Bigger than anything I’ve ever seen.
Ty’s trajectory is insane. His frontman persona is a combination of sex and gasoline. You can tell he’s circling the drain, but somehow it makes him magnetic. Like you’re watching fire burn a cathedral. You want to look away, but you can’t. Connor and drummer Jace have locked in the rhythm section and Zane Rocks, the guitar player, is an absolute musical savant.
Not to detract from their success, but it certainly hasn’t hurt them to have the backing of Zane’s dad, Carter fucking Pope, iconic guitarist of the 90s band, Limelight. They’re super talented and while the industry has embraced them with open arms, I’m convinced their meteoric rise is in large part due to Carter’s support.
Not a day goes by when I don’t wish Fireball was also enjoying LTZ’s notoriety. Liam and Padraig have worked their ass off for a decade, grinding out indie albums and tours. Steadily building up a loyal following. It must be bittersweet for them to watch their brother eclipse their middling success by one-hundred fold in the span of two years.
It’s not too late. If someone gave a damn and actually fought for them, they could turn things around. Maybe I’ll be the one someday. First, I must continue to cement my own place in this industry, which is exactly what I intend to do.
I’ve started drafting a mock tour package showcasing my artists using Sidewalk Riot as the headliner. So far, I’ve confirmed venues across Berlin, Barcelona, and Amsterdam. Peach Harvest and GoreGlam will rotate as openers.
I pick up a flyer from the edge of my desk. GoreGlam’s first headline gig in Glasgow. The printer fucked the colors.Tasha’s hair looks salmon instead of red. Doesn’t matter, I run my thumb over it like it’s gold.
Everything I own is tied up in Isis. I’ve bet it all on black.
To save money, I traded suburban life in Dundrum for Stoneybatter, like shedding an old skin. Out there, I always felt like I was living the life my parents wanted for me. My own preferences muffled behind double-glazed cronuts and Zara bags.
Now I’m back in the thick of it in a one-bed flat on a lively street in a queer-friendly neighborhood. When I’m I home, I feel like myself again. Not some version dressed up for respectability. I’ve never been a guy who flinches at mess or truth or late-night music bleeding through floorboards. My place isn’t polished. It’s practical. Same as me.
My windows might rattle when the bins go out, but on Saturdays I buy fresh bread from a woman who knows my name and coffee from a lad who flirts without apology. The take-out Indian on the corner is the tastiest I’ve ever had.
One thing hasn’t changed, though. I’m still fucking lonely.
Call me obsessed or even delusional, but I’m still stuck on Liam. Nobody else touches me deeply. Not like he did. Even if our relationship was messy and too short and ended with more silence than closure, he made me feel seen. Alive. Like my body had a home.
Goddammit.
Sidewalk Riot is bleeding momentum and I can’t waste time on old lovers. I have three tour cities to lock in, a photo reshoot to schedule, and no staff. No buffer. No excuse.
Yet, here I sit, my cock hard as a fucking rock. Heavy with an ache I won’t be able to shake until…
I swore I’d stop doing this, but nothing else gets me off anymore. Not porn. Not hookups with men. Or women.
