Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven

by Robin Ray

CHAPTER 23

  Weekends in Woodstock were typically festive occasions, and this Saturday was no exception. The Triple C Rally – Concerned Citizens for Change, had convened. Several leaders of the community, as well as their supporters, gathered in the sprawling. dewy field in front of the Playhouse to discuss their demands and proposals from the angels. The three ersatz leaders, Wolfman Jack, Wendy O. Williams and Phil Lynott, sitting behind an elongated table containing microphones, pads, pens, water jugs and other items, were all wearing wide, white headbands, similar to the Japanese Hachimaki, with red, yellow and blue C’s silkscreened around the length of it instead of Japanese characters. Atypical for the Punk Princess Wendy, she was attired in a comfortable red kimono decorated with flax flowers of different sizes and colors, a matching light blue obi around her midriff, wooden clogs, and flowers in her hair. Wolfman Jack, sitting to her right, was dressed in a long, yellow tunic with white pyjama pants and light brown flax slippers. Phil Lynott, sitting on Wendy’s left, was similarly attired in a long blue tunic with white pyjama pants, bamboo slippers, and multi-colored streamers in his afro. Scattered throughout the audience of approximately 400 were luminaries such as Tommy, Dee Dee and Joey Ramone, Stiv Bators, Darby Crash, Ritchie Valens, Duane Allman, Lou Reed, Nico, Karen Carpenter, Ray Manzarek, Nicolette Larson, Dusty Springfield, Ronnie James Dio, Bon Scott, Keith Moon, John Entwistle, Jerry Garcia, George Harrison, and many others. Some were waving white flags with the tri-color 3C logo, others were sporting 3C buttons or handing out 3C pamphlets to the late arrivals.

  As was the norm for any rally, several refreshments booths were giving out bottles of water, juice and beer while others were serving treats like grape leaves stuffed with tomato & rice, vegetable egg rolls, Buffalo and Korean-styled fried cauliflower, bean-stuffed fried jalapenos, scallion pancakes with Queso dip, potato & caper empanadas with cilantro sauce, broccoli pizza with berbere sauce, curried eggplant with chickpeas & spinach, and several other international tastes representing a smorgasbord of flavorful not-to-be-missed cuisine.

  Gregory, just entering the outdoor convention, strolled around the grassy knoll soaking up the sights and sounds. Some groups of people were singing and playing guitar, others were dancing to music blasting from virtual speakers, while others were just lounging around enjoying the sun and passing a psychedelic bowl around. Having not had breakfast, the detective checked out the various snack booths and opted to stand in the queue of a food shoppe called A Taste of Hunan where several chefs were busy tossing vegetables in their large woks or mincing heads of lettuce, ginger and other ingredients.

  “They have this every year?” the PI asked the couple of guys waiting in front of him.

  “Yes,” the bespectacled, long haired gentleman wearing a camouflage dashiki and dark blue pants answered, turning around, “but it’s bigger now. Long time coming, and way overdue, too, I would say.”

  Gregory nearly collapsed when he realized the man who had just answered his question was the legendary Beatle…

  “John Lennon!” he shouted, greeting the songwriter as if he’d known him for years.

  “Shhh,” John whispered, smiling. “You’ll blow me cover.”

  “Mine, too,” George Harrison said, turning to wink at the PI.

  “This is unbelievable,” the PI blushed. “You two look good.”

  “How else should we look?” Lennon asked.

  “Well,” Gregory attempted to clarify, “I…I…”

  “Relax, mate,” John consoled him, patting his shoulder. “No sense getting torn to ribbons off meeting a couple of songwriters.”

  “Right,” the detective said. “Y’all are just songwriters just like the Pacific is just water.”

  “What’s your name?” the ex-Beatle asked.

  “Greg Angelicus,” the PI answered, shaking the musicians’ hands. “Nice meeting you.”

  “Same here,” Lennon and Harrison swore.

  “So, what’s this all about?” Gregory asked. “I notice these 3C signs all over.”

  “Yes,” John said, “Concerned Citizens for Change. As far as I know, this has been in the planning stages for some time, maybe months, maybe years. No one wanted to lead it because, you know, they don’t trust the angels that much. Are you an angel?”

  “No,” the detective shook his head. “I’m a PI. I just got to Heaven this past week. It’s been pretty intriguing, to say the least. Hey John, tell me something. How come people have so much beef with the angels? Are they that oppressive?”

  “Well, to me, they’re okay,” John admitted. “I mean, I’m not really sure why people don’t like them. I get along fine with Ba’al’figor, L’Da, all of them, really. They’re just doing what they do – keeping order in Heaven. You know what a rock and roll crowd is gonna be like. Bottom line: no challenging of authority, no rock and roll. Pretty simple. It is what it is.”

  “What about you, George?” Gregory asked. “Get along with ‘em?”

  “To tell you the truth,” the My Sweet Lord scripter said, “I keep such a low profile I hardly run into anyone at all. It’s even rare I’m out for this meeting. Maybe I’m getting old, I guess.”

  Gregory gazed around the environment. “Well, looks like they had a pretty good turnout today, and I don’t see any long faces anywhere.”

  “Uh huh,” the Imagine singer agreed. “Your ID card won’t be decredited, either. Who can beat free Buffalo wings and beer?”

  “And eel pie,” Harrison beamed.

  The PI nodded. “Hopefully one day the wings will be real but I doubt it.”

  “Eh,” John shrugged, smiling. “You can’t have everything. Besides, when doubt gives way to truth, reason can’t be far behind.”

  Minutes later, snaking through the crowd toting a glass of malty Märzenbier in one hand and a bag of Hunan salt & pepper cauliflower in the other, Tony arrived close to the front of the stage to get a better view of the three hosts. After a few more adjustments of the papers on the table, Wendy demanded attention by tapping her mic.

  “Hello everybody,” she began. Almost immediately, people stopped playing their instruments and switched their amps off. “I’m Wendy O. Williams. To my right is Wolfman Jack, and on my left is Phil Lynott from Thin Lizzy. As you can see,” she then stood up, “I’m respectfully dressed today. I know some of you were worried that, me being me, nobody would take us seriously. But we’re not gonna let that happen, right?” Pumping her fist in the air, the audience cheered before she sat down.

  “I must say,” she continued, “we weren’t expecting this kind of turnout. Those of you who remember the fiasco from last year’s rally can clearly see that what we have here is a definite improvement. So far, knock on wood, no fights, no disagreements, no unnecessary conflicts. Before we start discussing what changes we’d like to see, are any new arrivals to Heaven in attendance? Please raise your hand and introduce yourself.”

  “Hi, all,” a gentleman of about 70 raised his hand. “I’m Keith Emerson.”

  The audience applauded.

  “Wow, Keith,” Phil told the new arrival. “You sure look different. I would’ve walked right past you on the street.” He then addressed the audience. “The last time I saw Brother Keith was back in ‘77 when Thin Lizzy and Emerson, Lake & Palmer played Cardiff. Nice seeing you again, man. Welcome.”

  “Thanks,” the legendary keyboardist waved.

  “I’m Paul Gordon from the B-52’s,” a curly haired man in his early 50’s raised his hand and said, introducing himself. The gathered throng clapped.

  “Hi,” a beautiful woman in her late 50’s, wearing dark sunglasses and a large gold cross around her neck, claimed, “I’m Denise Matthews. Y’all remember be as Vanity. I feel blessed to be here among such great company.”

  After the applause for her died down, Dale Griffin from Mott the Hoople, Engineer Gary Loizzo, Producer David Gest, Paul Kantner from Jefferson Airplane, Gary Richrath from REO Speedwagon and Scotty Moore introduced themselves with a
ll receiving hearty welcomes. The applause for Scotty Moore was especially deafening, a salute not lost on Wolfman Jack.

  “For those of you young uns who don’t know Scotty Moore,” the bearded, gravely-voiced DJ explained, “he’s probably the most senior cat in attendance here at 84 years old. But not only that, he claimed his legendary status as the inventor of the power chord as heard in the beginning of Elvis Presley’s ‘Jailhouse Rock’ which, as we know, laid the groundwork for all rock guitarists everywhere. So, welcome Brother Scotty. You’re an inspiration to us all.”

  The audience cheered the Rock ‘N Roll Hall of Famer again.

  “Okay,” Wendy said, tapping her mic for attention. “I have the list here of your grievances which you submitted to the committee over the past couple of months. There were so many of them we had to chop ‘em down.”

  A few members of the crowd booed their disapproval.

  “Wait a minute,” the punk princess added, holding up her clipboard. “There were duplicates. There were duplicates.”

  “Whose side are you on?” an anonymous voice from the crowd shouted.

  “We’re all on the same side,” she insisted. “I mean, let’s face it. If we present the angels with a laundry list of problems, chances are they’ll just chuck the whole lot in the waste bin without even looking at it.”

  “I have it on good authority,” Phil Lynott added, “that the citizens of Media Heaven got what they wanted because they didn’t overload the system with demands.”

  “This is a joke!” another voice from the crowd screamed.

  “Who killed Amy Winehouse?” a third voice yelled.

  Wolfman Jack pointed to his clipboard. “That’s the first item on the agenda – we want to know if there is a cover up. We know they haven’t been forthcoming with their explanations, but believe me, We. Will. Keep. The. Pressure. On!” The DJ sounded so believable, punching his fist in the air, that he received a mighty round of applause.

  “The next item here,” Wendy stated, “is an increase in our credits. I totally agree. We don’t get enough for the work we do around town. I’m grateful there’s a soup kitchen, but sometimes that’s just not enough. Does anyone have anything to add to this?”

  “Yes,” Karen Carpenter answered, raising her hand. “I’d also made a suggestion that, if they couldn’t increase our credits, could they at least make items like personal supplies cheaper? Some things are too damned expensive as it is!”

  The audience applauded. A few started shouting “Karen!” “Karen!” “Karen!” Phil took another look at his clipboard.

  “That’s also addressed on here,” he informed the crowd. “It’s been added to number 13 – the littering fines are way too high.”

  “Shouldn’t we agree, though,” Wolfman added, “that this is our Heaven and we should respect her by keeping her beautiful in the first place?”

  Approximately half the crowd started booing.

  “You’re not even a musician!” someone yelled at the bearded host.

  “Yeah!” added another. “Why ain’t you in DJ Heaven like the others?”

  Wendy tapped her mic for general order.

  “Please, please,” she stated as the consternation died down. “Divisiveness won’t help us today. It will never help us. As it is, they already view us as privileged brats with our hands in several cookie jars at the same time. We have to prove them otherwise. Can I get an amen, somebody?”

  “Amen!” about half the audience replied.

  “That’s more like it,” Wendy smiled. “Next on the agenda is less work hours. Is everyone in agreement with that?”

  The audience clapped their assent.

  “Good,” she nodded. “Some of you have also said that jail time is too harsh and unfair. We agree. I have spoken to the angels about this but they said those directives have been established for centuries and their hands are tied.”

  “They’re lying!” someone exhorted. “All angels lie!”

  “No use spreading false rumors,” Phil explained. “We know that’s a physical impossibility. My understanding is the nature of their spiritual matter won’t allow it because their souls are taxed beyond fragility. In other words, they do have powers, but it comes at a cost even to them. Also, remember, they sprung up from the sub-atomic matter here, which makes them essentially connected to everything around us. Lying would be tantamount to denying all these things exist.”

  “Well put, Phil,” Wendy thanked him. “That said, there’s a question here that no one has ever seen anyone elevated to Level II Heaven. I asked around about this, too. Come to find out, one of the pioneers, one of the first members of Rock & Roll who isn’t here with us today, is Danny Cedrone from Bill Haley & His Comets. He arrived back in 1954, started a life of ascetism almost immediately, and ascended to Level II in the early 60’s.”

  “1963,” the Big Bopper shouted from the audience. “I was there.”

  “Thanks, Big Bopper,” Wendy said. “Another request on this form is for real meat. Ladies and gentlemen, you know that request is impossible since animals cannot consciously practice austerities like fasting, penance, meditation, non-possession and abstinence.”

  “Then what’s the use of coming to Heaven if you can’t enjoy something as simple as a hamburger?” someone shouted to a healthy round of applause.

  Phil Lynott tapped his mic several times for attention, which he eventually received. “Folks, probably no one here loves a nice, juicy, wet, slobbering, thick, real steak like me. Hell yeah, I miss it! I won’t lie. I know some of you here say it’s not fair that you didn’t consciously choose this afterworld, meaning you don’t have to deal with the restrictions, and I agree with that. However, there is no middle world, unless you count Earth which we can’t return to. And while there, we did make a choice, whether you want to believe that or not.”

  “And remember,” Wolfman Jack added, “we’re all intertwined. The universe is finite. Matter circulates in its own environment. When we hurt another living being, we’re causing harm to ourselves because of our connectivity. And by causing harm, we corrode our souls, making it impossible to reach Nirvana. In other words, all our lives are bound together by mutual support and interdependence. Just the nature of the world. Capeche?”

  The audience applauded the DJ’s comments.

  “The next item on the agenda is forced labor,” Wendy continued. “Can someone tell me what that’s in reference to?”

  “Hi, all,” Mama Cass shouted from the back. “I get a lot of complaints that people are being mistreated on the farms; specifically, a few vineyards, a black bean farm, an orange grove, and some of the farms that produce exotic tubers and roots like Jerusalem artichoke, cassava, ocas and yacón.”

  “What kind of complaints?” Wendy asked.

  “Extra-long hours, no breaks,” Cass answered. “There are also some that feel their right to avoid violence is taken away because to cultivate tubers means killing the entire plant.”

  “I’m sorry that’s an issue,” Wendy asserted. “That will be discussed with the angels.”

  “And they said some of the supervisors are mean,” Cass added.

  “Thanks, Mama Cass,” the Plasmatics singer said. “We also read that a few of you think a human should also be involved in processing the rules of law, not just the angels. I couldn’t agree with you more. As a matter of fact, all the judges should be humans, but who am I to say?”

  “Hardly anyone gets in trouble anyway,” Phil noted, “but we’ll look into it.”

  “I want to go back to Earth!” a voice from the middle of the crowd shouted.

  “Me, too,” Wendy added. “There’s still a lot of TV’s I’d love to take a chainsaw to.”

  “What about abolishing the ‘first chosen’ rule?” another anonymous voice yelled.

  “Again,” Wendy explained, “that’s out of the angels’ hands. Who wouldn’t want kids?”

  Gregory leaned into the man standing next to him. “What’s the �
��first chosen rule’?”

  “You can only copulate with one person,” the stranger said. “The first one you chose.”

  The PI looked confused. “How can they prevent that?”

  “Easy,” the man answered. “Your genitals disappear when you move to another partner.”

  Gregory flinched. “That’s ridiculous.”

  The man shrugged. “Haven’t you wondered why there aren’t that many ladies around?”

  “It’s Rock & Roll Heaven,” the PI stated. “99% of rockers are men, I think.”

  “True,” the stranger conveyed, “but you know rockers. If something has a heartbeat, they’ll fuck it. Why do you think they stay here and don’t travel to other heavens populated with women? They can’t do anything out there anyway, at least for a year.”

  “A year?” the puzzled detective asked, scratching his head.

  “That’s how long it takes for genitals to grow back,” the man assured him.

  “How do people go to the bathroom in the meantime?” Gregory wondered.

  “There’s a slit,” the man answered, pointing to his crotch.

  “Oh, come on,” the PI waned. “I’ve heard of some stories in my life, but…”

  The stranger unzipped his pants and exposed his genitals-less crotch.

  “Da fuq!” Gregory swore, staring at the unusually barren groin.

  “When it’s gone, you lack a sex drive anyway,” the stranger explained, zipping his pants up. “Probably designed that way to help “encourage” people into asceticism.”

  “Wow,” the PI freaked. “Just when I thought I’d seen it all.”

  “So, I guess that’s it,” Wendy concluded, addressing the crowd. Gregory, deep in conversation with the stranger, never got the chance to hear what else the audience had requested.

  “Everyone,” Phil said, “enjoy the rest of the day. And for those of you who’d like to be involved in residency selection, feel free to contact the committee at any time.”

  “Thanks for coming, all,” Wolfman Jack stated. “And like I’ve always said – if you do right, everything will come out right. Good day.”

  “Wasn’t so bad, huh?” the stranger said to Gregory as the crowd started breaking up.

  “Pretty cool,” the PI related. “I’m worried about my co-worker, though. I haven’t seen him in a day and we still have a lot of work to do.”

  “Eh,” the man shrugged, “probably out getting shit-faced.”

  “Maybe,” Gregory mused. “He just doesn’t seem like that kind of person, though.”

  “Heaven does strange things to a man,” the stranger said. “I should know.”

  “I’m beginning to believe that,” the PI remarked.