Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven

by Robin Ray

CHAPTER 28

  Simply for the fact that Woodstock was a small town, bad news travelled fast. By morning, half of the residents already knew that Brian Jones, ex-guitarist, keyboardist and multi-instrumentalist from the Rolling Stones, was in seclusion at the hospital, but interestingly enough, people believed he was set up. How was it, they wondered, he was able to get his hands on heroin? Not only was it banned like all other illegal drugs, it was also impossible to come by. Cultivating plants like the opium poppy, jimsonweed, the coca plant, peyote, Ayahuasca and others are not allowed; of course, since their seeds are nowhere to be found in any of the heavens, it was never necessary to enforce any laws against their possession. By noon, about two dozen protesters, all wearing the white Japanese headband with the tricolor C’s, were marching back and forth in front of the hospital with bongos and banners. Their chant?

  HEY HO! HEAVEN, NO! BRIAN JONES MUST BE LET GO!

  Because of the protests and unnecessary agitation of the citizens, preparation and practice for the upcoming three-day festival was put on hold. Some of the angels went around trying their best to convince the populace that they had nothing to do with this tragic turn of events, but they were hardly believed. Some musicians were outraged enough to try to attempt looting, but their minds were quickly swayed by the handful of monks and nuns ambling around town.

  The ascetics of Woodstock were an interesting crew, to say the least. They all lived in a monastery called Karma Triyana Dharmachakra up on Meads Mountain Road; the men slept on the west side, women on the east. Opened 24 hours a day, anyone was welcome to enter barefooted to meditate in the Buddhist-inspired temple or chant phrases based on any theosophy they wished. Being it was located in R & R Heaven, the monks and nuns were either musicians or employed in a music-related field. All have since adopted new monikers as befitted their lifestyle; amongst the ascetics were folks like singer Alexander Sharp from The Orioles, songwriter Charles Tobias, saxophonist King Curtis, singer Miss Christine, singer & guitarist Bobby Fuller, and several others.

  The ascetics were well respected because of the sacrifices they made which, in essence, were twofold – live the kind of life that would get them to the upper levels, and being the inspiration for all laymen and laywomen. There was no hierarchy within this sect; everyone was equal. Monks and nuns wore the same outfit, a plain white, seamless robe, and had only one possession each, a bamboo bowl which they use to beg for food from the residents twice a day. Most of their time was spent studying scriptures and teaching the populace what they’ve learned. Typically, when a layman or laywoman had decided to adopt that strict lifestyle, they abandoned all their possessions and loved ones. Sex, drugs, alcohol and entertainment became things of the past. For approximately 10 years, they will live a life of extreme penury, doing their best to avoid violence in their words, thoughts and actions. After the ten years have passed, if they have managed to purge as much karma from their souls as possible, they will rise to Level II where their austerities will be much easier to tolerate because the pangs of hunger and loneliness will no longer exist, relieving the burdens on their minds and souls.

  Brian Jones, lying quietly in one of the quiet, rear rooms of the hospital, was completely oblivious to the commotion being perpetrated outside on his behalf. In fact, he would probably even doubt there’d be much of a fuss because, well, as of late, he’d begun to feel invisible. Several citizens had noticed his countenance had changed; the effervescent smile and enchanting eyes he’d once possessed had been usurped by bitterness and, to a certain extent, lethargy. Most of his friends simply figured he was probably burning himself out writing and recording an album for over two years, playing all the instruments as was his wont, without engineering or production help. After years and years of performing around the heavens, he’d became the kind of talent most musicians envy. His pianism was unparalleled. His affinity for exotic instruments grew to include rarities such as the Turkish oud, the Maui xaphoon pocket sax, the Tibetan dung chen horn, the Nigerian goge fiddle and the Moroccan gimbri – a three-stringed lute with a rectangular body, making the instrument look like the Mediterranean cousin of Bo Diddley’s cigar-box guitar.

  Everyone knew Brian was a genius, the Einstein of the guitar, the Tesla of the piano. He had perfect pitch, knew the intricacies of unusual, rarely used scales like the Phrygian dominant, Byzantine, Persian and Indian seven-note. His memory was encyclopedic especially when it came to the blues. He could tell you the birthdays and birth places of the legends, from Howlin’ Wolf to Blind Lemon Jefferson; from Ma Rainey to Honeyboy Edwards and many others. All he needed was one day with a new instrument he’d never encountered before and he’d master it overnight. He was the go-to guy when recording musicians and producers needed someone to resolve discrepancies in their audio mixes, mostly related to compression or reverberation errors. But, naturally, such genius came at a high price. Aristotle once said, “No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.” The old Greek philosopher must’ve been really prescient since it appeared Brain Jones was already in his mind.

  All of that genius-slash-madness took a backseat as the ex-Stones member sat on the side of his hospital bed with his head in his hands. Drugs had been his panacea, his buttress against a world he once considered vacuous and emotionless. It made him feel invincible, almost untouchable, but at times, unapproachable. It caused him to compose music no one could understand; naturally, most folks suspected he may have gone over the deep end, but no one had a clue his cure-all, his sweet, darling elixir, his silver bullet through the heart of unbearable pain was heroin. But there he was. As yet, he wasn’t a shell of his former self, but he sure did feel like yanking every nerve out of his body one by one. Such savagery would have to wait for another day, however, because he had company.

  “Hey, Brian,” Gregory greeted him, entering the room.

  “What’s up, man?” the recuperating musician asked.

  The PI grabbed a wood & hemp chair from the corner near the restroom, placed it next to Brian’s bed and took a seat. “How are you doing?” he asked the sullen patient.

  “Okay,” Brian answered. “They’ve been poking me left and right,” he said, pointing to injection spots on his arms, “and I should be out of here in three days.”

  “That’s when you’ll be released?” the PI inquired.

  “Not yet,” the multi-instrumentalist told him. “First, I gotta do a month or two in rehab. They’re gonna ship me off to Medical Heaven. It’s gonna be pure hell. You know, that place is so dry it makes a nunnery look like Studio 54.”

  “Less trouble for you,” Gregory guessed. “I gotta say, I was surprised when I walked in here just now. I’d met your nurse outside and she said you had withdrawal symptoms this morning but now it’s gone.”

  “Yeah,” Brian explained, looking at his arms. “You gotta like how celestial tissue heals so quickly. Wish I had better control of my mind, though. I’ll see how long I last before I get sucked in the padded looney bin.”

  “You know your fan club’s outside raising royal hell, right?” Gregory enlightened him.

  “Are they really?” the musician wondered, astonished. “That’s a surprise.”

  “You founded the Rolling Stones, man,” the PI related as if needing to remind the genius musician of that well-known fact. “Anyway, the Labor Day Festival’s on hold till all this stuff gets straightened out.”

  “Now I feel guilty,” Brian moaned, lowering his head.

  “Ready to talk?” Gregory asked.

  The guitarist stood up, walked over to the window and gazed out the back. His entire panorama was the forested canopy stretching forth for miles towards the South Beach and the gently waving sea beyond that. He could make out the faint sounds of his supporters but not clearly discern their chant through the window’s muted glass pane.

  “I can’t betray anyone’s trust,” he finally asserted, planting his palms on the glass.

  The PI got up and approached him. “In my experi
ence as a police officer,” he said softly, “I’ve met people who would rather slit their own throats than snitch. But that’s not what I’m requesting from you; it’s bigger than the both of us, than everyone in this heaven, and I think you understand that well. Where’d you get the heroin?”

  Brian kept his position without flinching a muscle. He started biting his lips as tiny pools of tears welled in his dark grey-green eyes. The forest was beginning to resemble an impressionist painting with its various hues savagely blending together like angry watercolors on a mad canvas.

  “Ain’t life grand?” he suddenly laughed, then turned to face the PI. “You’ll be remembered as a great detective; I’ll be that crazy guy who started the Stones and was the first member of the 27 Club.”

  “I’m glad you brought that up, Brian,” Gregory said. “I hate to ask you now, but we’re running out of time. Are you willing to take a polygraph?”

  “I suppose now you think the J in 27J must mean Jones,” he figured. “I’ve already been mauled about Amy Winehouse. I could tell you now I have nothing to do with that.”

  “Just ruling out everyone,” the PI said. “You understand.”

  The blond-bobbed guitarist thrust his arms out as if expecting handcuffs to be slapped on his wrists. “I confess,” he remarked. “I killed Amy Winehouse.”

  “How?” Gregory asked, eyeing the musician with doubt while he lowered his arms.

  “Strangling?”

  The PI shook his head. “You’re guessing.”

  “Drowning?”

  “No one in this town suspects you, Brian,” the detective admitted. “But just for the record, will you take the polygraph again?”

  “Anytime, man,” the rocker promised.

  “Feel up to it today?” the PI asked.

  “I feel up to it right now,” the ex-Stones clarified. “Lead the way.”