Neil Mackenzie

FROM CHAPTER ONE

Although they didn’t realise it, each of them exuded an effortless cool. Spyder, their head often turned to the side in concentration was in complete command. Four corkscrewing limbs beat out a dancing, driving rhythm that, from time to time, brought out the widest of grins – as if she was celebrating being possessed by some dark melodic presence. Honey stared out to no one and everyone, in control. And then, suddenly, one leg would plant in front of the other. She dipped and recoiled in emphasis to the music before returning upright, statuesque and detached. She wasn’t seeking to charm, but the audience was charmed anyway. 

And then there was Anton. As the set went on, he played with ever more frantic energy – urgent and unfiltered, his right knee keeping the rhythm while he slammed his guitar, as if the music was trying to burst out of him. Anton wasn’t interested in polish. He snarled and shouted with fire, veins bulging, sweat flying, eyes burning with passion.

But beneath the anger was purpose. Anton’s songs were both poetic and political, and he wasn’t scared to share his views. Tonight, he told the audience of his experience at the march and the aggressive Black Jackets – his performance almost a rallying cry.

“Thank you! Thank you very much!” he shouted over the applause, out of breath and buzzing. “You’ve been an amazing audience, and this has been an amazing night.” 

More cheering and clapping mixed with whooping and shouting rattled around the room. As the front of the stage chanted, ‘we want more,’ he couldn’t help but beam. He glanced over at the rest of the band. They grinned back at him, a little overwhelmed by the fervour of the reception.

Turning back to the crowd, he raised his arms to quieten them. “Before we play our last song, I want to introduce the band,” he announced. “First, on bass guitar, please put your hands and anything else you clap with together… for Honey Beeee!” 

The crowd cheered and clapped in time as they shouted, ‘Hon-ey! Hon-ey!’ In return, Honey B gripped her guitar to her chest, bowed slightly and flashed a bashful smile from beneath her fringe. No one would have guessed she felt out of place in a sweaty club packed with punk rockers.

When the cheering died down, Anton continued. “And on drums, please show your appreciation for…” But before he could finish the sentence, someone shouted, ‘We love you Spyder’, and that started a chorus of ‘Spy-der! Spy-der!’

Spyder wasn’t one for shy glances and modest curtsies. As the applause swelled, they leapt from their stool, punching the air in time with the chants. Unashamedly out there, they vaulted over the drumkit and grabbed the microphone. 

“Thank you! Yeah! Hey, y’all.” They slung an arm around Anton’s shoulder. “Hey, you guys, what about putting your hands together for the guy who brought us all together? Give it up for Ant-awwwn!” 

The impassioned applause told it all. They knew Anton had a rare talent – a voice full of storytelling, sometimes gritty and angry, other times soft and vulnerable. His guitar playing was raw and stripped of airs and graces – just perfect for the music he wrote.

“Thank you! Thanks again,” Anton said, waving. “So, this is our last song of the evening.” He chimed out a riff that the crowd immediately recognised.  “Thanks for coming tonight. We are Them Creepy Crawlies,” Anton shouted, his words punctuated by an increasingly loud staccato guitar: “And this is… Them. Creepy. Crawlies!”

The band launched into their eponymous track, and the crowd went wild. 

Them Creepy Crawlies

Crawling through my hair

Their tickle-tickle

I find it hard to bear.

An arthro mosh pit is a terrifying place. Tightly packed legs, arms, pincers, wings, antennae and mandibles shook and pogoed, leapt and lurched. The ants and beetles at the front of the stage shouted the words back. Dressed in black or brown, they moshed with excited good humour. It wasn’t for the fainthearted. You could get hurt if you didn’t commit yourself. Crowd surfing, an ant was hoisted high, passed around, only to drop unceremoniously to the ground, capsized with legs and arms grasping helplessly.

Back from the chaos, a cross-section of more mature arthropods swayed and tapped, enjoying the music but taking a bit more care with their outfits. Ladybugs, dramatic in their red polka-dotted cloaks. Dragonflies, iridescent in blue, violet and purple. Earwigs with clippers securely bound. Caterpillars, outstanding in orange pants and yellow or rose jackets. They all stood tall on strong back legs, singing along with verve. 

Further back, bumpy locusts and wide-eyed grasshoppers in green and tan jumpsuits bounced out of time like poorly coordinated trampolinists.

And right at the back, butterflies and moths provided the most colourful of backdrops – a kaleidoscope of pink, crimson, gold and violet. Of course, everyone was there for the band, but everyone liked to see their glamorous outfits. 

Locked in the moment, the band played as if on autopilot. Unencumbered by their instruments, they were lost in the music. And Anton? Well, it was hard to look away. Eyes closed. A right leg rhythmically stomping. Infected, the arthropods gyrated, shook and sparkled under the spotlights, long ago having surrendered to his spell. 

Back out in the front room, the rhythm pulled the grumpy regulars out of indifference and forced a twitch or a tap. Outside, even the cicadas couldn’t help but scrape their wings in time.

And beyond the venue, where no one had heard of Them Creepy Crawlies, arthropods of all classes and species got on with life’s ups and downs, all bound by something mysterious and arcane. This wasn’t swarms of disorganised insects, myriapods, arachnids and crustaceans – small, insignificant or weak. This was life, most advanced. Organised and strong. Evolved and intelligent. 

As the instrumental part of the song came to an end, Anton opened his eyes, smiled at the crowd, and prepared them to yell out the final chorus of their most popular song: 

Creepy, creepy, creepy, creepy, crawlies 

Creepy, creepy, creepy, creepy, crawlies 

Creepy, creepy, creepy, creepy 

CRAAWWWWLIIIIEEEES!