His hands move on the bass. His fingers change shape fast on the strings, and the sound they produce is a punk-inspired melody, something all snap and pop and amphetamine throb. There’s a little funk pulsing away in the mix, too, something a twinge sex-musky about some of the clusters of notes—the song makes her want to shake her limbs around in the air frantically but also to move her hips in a slow grind.
“Oh, yeah,” she says.
Gregor bounces his head up and down a bit and cracks a hideous sneer, baring his teeth and gums for her in a grisly display—it’s that old punk trick, lending your message some cachet by making yourself look as ugly as possible. Punk logic dictates that the uglier the singer makes himself look, the more worthwhile whatever he’s saying must be. Samantha busts up at the sight of his face all screwed like that, same as if he were making faces across a crowded classroom when the teacher weren’t looking. Gregor keeps bouncing.
He begins to cycle through the melody a second time and she positions the guitar up against her body and plays some chords that fit the sound he’s making. He drops the sneer and grins at her. And then he closes his eyes and opens his mouth and sings.