Private: Trent Sadikaj
Main article: Solid Gold Rock ‘n’ Roll discography
- Leather Jacket All-Star (2013)
- Squatter’s Rights EP (2014)
- Tilly Time with Solid Gold Rock ‘n’ Roll (2015)
- Just the Tip EP (2015)
- Mama Got That Thang EP (2016)
- Play the Lotto, Don’t Play Me (2016)
- Knights In Black Satin EP (2017)
- The Forge Cycle One: Codpiece of Prismaticism (2018)
- The Forge Cycle Two: Crest the Ensorceled Hill Upon the Chrome Steed (2018)
- The Forge Cycle Three: Psychopompedelic (2019)
- Dirtbags and Vagabonds EP (2020)
- Take Some Home / In A Doggie Bag! (2021)
- Neon City Samurai EP (2022)
We’re so used to the night time routine and the day time–mostly in bed–that seeing the entire armada that is Solid Gold Rock ‘n’ Roll in the afternoon times seems almost voyeuristic. No one has a freshly laid bit of southern comfort dozing away. Trent is wearing clothing. Barry hasn’t worked his gentlemen into an undersized animal print hammock. And, because the sun is out and it’s before 5pm, most of this rag-tag bunch are nursing hangovers. So the shades are necessary in variations from Ray Charles to Police Aviator to Blood on the Tracks.
Iron Sam and Savage chill on a couch–Samira is swinging drumsticks mostly to watch the muscles in her arm work. Savage might be sleeping–he is more drug than man on his best day. Riff Tannen? A salad. Long Don? A bloody mary with too much shit on the skewer. But all of them are just background players right now, set dressing, accouterments to the convo that’s happening right now. Trent is reclining on a chaise in leather pants and a silken purple shirt that he’s tied off at the waist. He idly sips from a cup of hot tea–gotta keep your instrument lubricated, after all–but otherwise seems unbothered. Barry is on a stool, in a far too tight vintage Guelph Platers shirt (OJHL represent), idly thumbing through the latest issue of Black Tail. And the man talking to him? He’s a perpetual raincloud.
Huw Ollie: I mean the issue here innit that you got two things at once. The issue is you gotta make a decision.
Huw Ollie carries with him a weathered, weary demeanor. He’s Ian Faith by way of Red Foreman, all wrinkles and balding, but his voice is pure Lemmy, like he’s smoking hand rolleds of playground sand and peanut shells. He scratches his stubble, figuring out how to carefully work these next parts, because he doesn’t want to offend the golden and silver cows at the head of this enterprise.
Huw Ollie: And not to add to your conundrum, but sweethearts…this wrestling aint got an entire infrastructure riding on it. Eh? You got the band, me and the road crew, Schlep and Treacle–
Barry looks up, his brow furrowed.
Boogie: “Schlep and Treacle”? You’ve made that up, Huw. Those are made up people.
Huw Ollie: …they run your lights and sound, Barold.
Boots: I thought they were our attorney cats?
Boogie: Naw, that’s Wagstaff and Baravelli.
Trent and Barry each hold up a finger and recite by heart.
Unison: “Wagstaff and Baravelli, cause ‘fuck you’, that’s why”
The crew chuckles at this.
Huw Ollie: Still can’t believe they got that ad to play on the telly. Public access is just the wild west, innit? But I digress, boys. Lots of people depend on this band for their livelihoods. And Pro Wrestling, well…they don’t.
Trend Sadikaj crosses one lanky limb over the other, flashing his special boy boots. He sighs in the exaggerated manner of a petulant child, and it’s to the credit of his frankly alien beauty that he still looks good doing it. He arches his back, catlike, Flashdancelike, before resuming his complaints.
Boots: Man Huw Ollie why oh why are you trying to rain on us this hard, daddy? We’ve been chomping for weeks to get more play on the shows, and now that we finally do you can’t reschedule a concert?
Huw Ollie: Rescheduling costs money.
Boots: Is it money we don’t have?
Huw Ollie: Speaking honestly, yeah.
To this, the bassist tosses his magazine on a table and pulls off his shades in incredulity.
Boogie: Now how in the flip do you figure that, Huw? We’re raking in the green!
Huw Ollie: You guys are raking in the green. You, Savage, all of the players are on easy street. But the operations side has been paycheck to paycheck since before you two decided to go on your excursions into PRIME, and that’s only made things worse. Now I’m doing well by not being cross with you two, but you haven’t paid attention to the finances for what seems like months. We’re drowning. And this reschedule is just another stone in our pockets.
This causes a hush to fall over the relaxed, jovial nature of the crowd. Even the drummer looks up from her stick tricks, frowning. Huw stands up, hands on his hips, taking that sort of animated pace that overworked men tend to emulate from one another without thinking.
Huw Ollie: Damnit, I didn’t want to say anything. But there it is.
There’s a moment before boots stands up, that Dee-lite snake body wave to standing apparently not an affectation, he just cant help but move like liquid sex. He leans in close to Huw, and though his voice still has all his honey, he’s speaking softly.
Boots: I’ll cover it.
Huw Ollie: What?
Boots: You guys need operational income to make this all work? I’ll cover it.
Huw’s mouth works for a few, his jaw got ahead of his brain and he hasn’t got the words.
Huw Ollie: How the chuffing hell do you propose affording that?
Trent holds his arms out in a shrug, flashing a grin that could stop traffic and immolate The Virgin Mary’s golden panties. Now when he talks he’s stage Trent.
Boots: Daddy where do you think my money goes, exactly? Electric Boots don’t pay for no companionship and his villas are comped! Everyone wants to buy me drinks and give me party favors, baby! There’s real capital in being Electric Boots, and I admit it, I lean into that. But it also means I got plenty of money to play with, and I don’t just buy the expensive cars and the plum-smuggling custom leather pants! I’m part of the ownership group for the largest shopping plaza in Tishomingo county and I own two office buildings!
His eyes get serious
Boots: You ever think I wouldn’t sell off some assets to keep our crew happy and rocking and rolling, you better think again, Huw Ollie.
Barry gets to his feet and does a spin move.
Boogie: Huw Ollie fat chance!
Boots: Give me a few days to call my guy and I’ll have it wired into the ops account.
Huw actually seems to relax, and the relief on his face makes it seem like he hasnt been this properly worry free in ages. Boots clasps him on the shoulder and grins, and the old man can’t help but be charmed. He gets on a phonecall, doing something managerial, leaving them to it. After a long moment, their riffmaster, the man on the custom Gibson SG himself, lowers his Oakleys and posits a question.
Riff Tannen: Yo, Boots. Why’d you do that, for us and all them I mean?
Rich Savage: Yeh seems y’just givin’ away your retirement plans, aye?
Boots: Babies…you guys are friends. Family. And most of all, aside a few gripes, you aint given us half the hell that ole Huw Ollie has about pursuing our dream.
Iron Sam: So who ya got, then?
Boots: Nah, Electric Warrior don;t do logistics. Boogie man, show the band our boogie plan?
Boogie: The team, Masters of the Multiverse B Team.
Long Don: That name is too long.
Boogie: I ain’t disagreeing.
Iron Sam: Yeah but like what’s their…thing, you know?
Boogie and Boots stop dead in their little dance. Trent looks to his bassist and partner, confused. Barry shakes his head, clearly confused.
Boogie: What do you mean?
Iron Sam: Like…strengths, what their moves are, specific things they like doing. Their names? Stuff that’s like…regular strategy.
Another exchange of looks.
Boogie: Strate…look, no, okay? I know their names. It’s Mark Freedom and Ramadan Schlitz.
Boogie: …I think.
Iron Sam: So you guys basically go out, get on TV, throw down the gauntlet, take on all comers, and when you get your chance you don’t do any scouting or prep work? Like far be it from me because I ain’t ever stepping foot in the ring, fuck that. But…you wouldn’t go into the recording studio without making sure the tracks was tight, would you?
This offers a long moment of reflection. Trent is not a classic “brains” guy. Which means generally he needs a brains guy to compliment his beauty. Unfortunately, Barry isn’t really a brains either–he’s obviously the brawn. Face and Muscle. Hog and other hog, honestly. That means that they likely aren’t operating at full power, because they’ve been at this shit this long, and Samira’s proposal seems to be the first time such preparatory work has occurred to them. Boots leans in and speaks sotto voce, kicking off a hushed tones huddle.
Boots: Have you seen any of their matches?
Boogie: I thought you were gonna watch ‘em.
Boots: When would I have though?
Boogie: When would I have?
Boots: Look I know we’re in candyland for a guy like you cause you love them women of the night, but–
Boogie: Companions, bub.
Boots: –beautiful they are, trust me, I’ve seen the snapchats. But maybe this is why we ain’t rocking the house like we thought we would?
Boogie: Agreed. We need a gameplan.
They turn back to their team, nodding resolutely. Barry flexes his considerable guns, grinning.
Boogie: Iron Sam you are as insightful as you are steady with the fills and Peart-tier on the solos. We do need to prep more, we do need to scout our competition more heavily. Even if that feels like homework. And we’re gonna start that…right after this match. Right? Like it feels too late to really shift game plans right now.
To this, Trent Sadikaj nods and steps forward. His eyes are all “let me take it from here”–the natural assuredness of a frontman, walking dick-first into danger. He tosses his arms wide and lets his mane shake in the midday light, almost glistening like gold.
Boots: Listen my collected cosmopolitan cosmonauts, right now this isnt about that Master of the Universe. We ain’t here to play them games, mama! You think either of them boys got the jock to lay down the Stallion and the Stud, you better think twice! We all might be in PRIME, but them boys is select on most days and choice if the sun is shining on them and light hits ‘em just right. Boogie Barry have they seen the likes of us?!
Boogie: They ain’t even dreamed of the likes of us!
Boots: They aint even been part of a scene with the likes of us!
He shakes his mullet. Shakes his bridge support quads. Shakes his boulder shoulders. This man is feeling the rhythm and the dude just has no mercy.
Boogie: I admit, I admit. We’ve been ignoring the fact that it takes a lot to get to the top of this mountain. But if you think we aren’t used to grinding it out then you’re dead wrong, buddy. We slept six to an Econoline, did I couldn’t tell you how many battles of the bands, scraped and scrimped to afford studio time–you think it, we did it. So grinding it out? That isn’t anything Solid Gold can’t handle. And it all starts with you. B-Squad.
Boots: You can’t escape the pure unfiltered power of Rock and Roll, baby! And when that Rock and Roll is Solid Gold? That’s a story that begs to be told. Chapter one, verse one. In the beginning there was The Rock, and it was good! And the heavens did thunder and roll, and they brought down their children of lightning and stone! They dubbed one the Stallion, the other the Stud, and they were goooooooood, sweet baby! So Master of the Universe, bring your ice packs, cause them egos is about to be bruised up something fierce! Have mercy, have mercy, Have! Mer! Cy!!
With his trademark preacher stomps, Trent has not only gotten Barry fired up, but the band as well. They rise from their respective lounges, and it’s all cheers and smiles. Say what you will about their seeming inability to properly prep for their matches–you could probably do a multi-part deep dive on it at this point–but there’s one thing you can’t ever deny. A lot of teams might be fighters, warriors, scoundrels, or thugs. But Solid Gold? Solid Gold are true, true believers.