A Tyrant

As he stepped on the rickety stage, he frowned, displeased. The other band-members were waiting for him, in a semi-crouch, like lions ready to spring. He touched the microphone with his long fingers, and by uttering a single greeting to the teetering crowd, he had us all enraptured. Then, the harsh notes started playing, and we started yelling, biting, hitting, jumping and singing along with his words. As our melted souls grew into a unitary orb of pulsating energy, I could see him marvelling at our force. He coiled, bowing to us, and then sprung up again, holding a blood-red guitar like it was a sword. A weapon, to charm and kill, to empty and fill. I sat in front, in a trance like the rest, and saw every motion his Adam's apple made. I heard the magnified sounds of electricity roaring in his nerves as his fingers bent on the strings. The halls of my barren soul echoed with his mellow voice, and ruptured with his purr. A growl he then let slip, caught by the general chaos, with no consideration for the arcade of my heart; I now have none, for it was demolished by the demonic fluctuations of his voice. He was like the God of Wind should look like - the pitch-black hair, the uncannily breathtaking piercings, the discreet goatee, and the arms that could all weather bear. As inconstant as his name, his voice grew and settled down like a storm, leaving us open-mouthed and him drenched in the cold water of his toils. His beads of sweat rolled like boulders down his face, wetting the ground and guitar below. I imagine the blood-red instrument must have hissed like one possessed by the devils of music when the holy, icy water of his weaver struck him. It must have pierced a hole in the undulating body of the guitar, forever giving a scratched quality to the music - that's originality for you mortal souls.
A cascade of forked, black-nailed fingers poked his forehead as he leaned in to hear the growling of the crowd. He grinned, flashing white teeth - we covered our eyes and yelled, but not with distraught.
In the end, the music died, and we were left cold in our hides. With him gone, the sense of unity was once again free to fly away from the hoardes of restless teenagers. We backed away from the stage, still looking past the instruments and curtains, hoping to catch a glimpse of that torrent of electricity that had just sung to us. He was, apparently, gone, yet in our hearts the memory of his magic shone.
He is, after all, only human, and his tumultuous upsurges of tempestuous energy do not last for long...