Back Up

by Paul Colize

  Jim’s guitar had just five strings. He followed my gaze. This was one of his strokes of genius, he had taken away the low E string and tuned his guitar to open G. He’d show me how to blast the guts out of a Gibson.

  Discreetly, he reached out a hand and winked. He held a small, blackish pellet in his palm, and a few pieces of paper the size of a postage stamp. He asked if I’d prefer some Afghan primo or a tab of lysergesäurediathylamid. He pronounced the German compound name with evident relish.

  He was carrying some good stuff. Afghan primo was the best hash on the market, but it was hard to come by. I had tried some once or twice in London. The resin was shot through with delicate, white veins. Sonny assured me it was goat shit, used as a binding agent. As for the acid, this was a chance to try my first trip. I took the pieces of paper and stuffed them into my mouth.

  When everyone was in position, Larry signalled to the technicians, then turned to Steve, who was sitting on a chair, frowning, with his head in his hands. Sullenly, he got to his feet.

  Larry pointed his index finger to the ceiling and waited for silence.

  He clicked his fingers four times, and a growl of thunder rang out.

  Steve’s riff was wild, fierce and jubilant. He generated feedback and saturated noise like nothing I’d ever heard. After the fourth bar, Larry’s bass joined the dance, a huge, formless rumble. I put together an intro fill and came in with Jim.

  All hell broke loose. Pearl Harbor had invented something completely new.

  The ground shook. The whole building shook.

  Berlin shook.

  Their music had phenomenal power. Sustained by the demonic bass-line, their riffs came together, swirling and soaring like furious gales coupling to form a hurricane. Larry hollered until his voice cracked, telling all the world that girls just wanted it all night long. Between couplets, he went into further detail, accompanied by long, raucous howls.

  It was bestial, terrifying, inhuman.

  Drowning in the vortex, I thrashed and hammered like a madman.

  And the more I thrashed, the more I felt overwhelmed by a mixture of spite and despair.

  The acid was doing its work. I was soaringly, dizzyingly high. I began to pour sweat. I prickled with goosebumps all over. My hands left trails of light as they moved. The studio’s light bulbs exploded with blinding flashes.

  The atmosphere was surreal. The guitarists twisted and writhed. Karl was shaking his head from side to side. The technicians were having a fine time behind the controls.

  Motionless at the back of the booth, the three stooges stood stock still, like British Bobbies policing a march.

  We did four numbers straight off without stopping, barely even pausing for breath. Finally, the technicians signalled that they had what they wanted.

  The world stopped.

  I was lost in flight, gorged on decibels and LSD.

  I came to on the pavement outside. The members of Pearl Harbor were clapping me hard on the back. Karl paid me my dues and everyone disappeared.

  The rain was still falling.

  I found myself laughing helplessly. I stood for some time, laughing all alone on the pavement, my nose pointed skywards, with rods of icy rain pouring over my face and trickling down my neck.

  Then I began to come down.

  The descent was dizzying, too.

  I wanted to die. I could see the Mercedes star on the roof of the Europa Center at the far end of the Tiergarten, two or three kilometres away. It wasn’t revolving slowly as usual; it changed colour, and size, and rose into the night taking the sky-scraper with it.

  There were no taxis passing. I felt bad. I had no idea what to do.

  The S-Bahn was close by. I could have taken refuge there, like the drunks and druggies. The West Berlin police weren’t allowed there; the S-Bahn was run by the GDR, and their cops left the Western junkies alone.

  I could have taken refuge in the S-Bahn and things would have gone no further. But I went back to the studio, hoping to get to a phone.

  52: FIFTEEN MISERABLE SECONDS

  I crossed the courtyard. The rain was beating down harder than ever, my face was soaked and my vision blurred. I walked to where I thought the studio was. I was a tiny nutshell blown about by the storm.

  I found the door to the basement. I went in. I was soaked from head to foot. I fumbled in the darkness, but couldn’t find a switch. Arms outstretched, eyes staring, I felt my way along the labyrinth of passages, crashing into the walls.

  I found myself standing outside the studio door. It was closed. I was about to pass out, my head was spinning, my legs were wobbly. I had to get out of this trap. I shouldered the door hard, and it fell open.

  I saw straightaway that I had made a terrible mistake.

  A dozen people were busying themselves in the room, but silence reigned.

  Everyone stopped and turned to look in my direction. The technicians I had seen during the recording had gone; others had taken their place. Some of the men were wearing baggy white overalls, skullcaps, gloves and masks over their mouths. They looked like lab workers experimenting on mice in a TV documentary.

  It was colder in the room. The aroma of hash had disappeared, chased out by the smell of disinfectant. For an instant, the smell took me back to my concussion, and my stay in the clinic, back in Brussels.

  The room was lit bright as day by powerful standing lamps. The drum kit had been dismantled and sophisticated-looking equipment had taken its place, together with big metal containers topped with dials, their needles dancing. In the booth, four technicians were bent over the mixing deck with an expression of intense concentration, headphones over their ears.

  The three men in suits were still there. As throughout the recording, they were watching proceedings in the studio. They looked alarmed and furious at my intrusion.

  A fourth man was standing beside them. He was older than the others. His attitude suggested he was their superior. He was almost two metres tall, with a pale complexion and eyebrows low over his deep-set eyes. His hair was as white as his shirt. The four men were wearing headsets like those used by the runway staff at airports.

  I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. The place and time seemed uncertain. I felt I was moving through some parallel world, or playing a role in a science fiction movie. Were it not for the four men, who clearly recognised me, I would have thought I was dreaming, or had found the wrong door. I knew LSD could produce hallucinations, but I wasn’t tripping now, and these guys were real.

  The tall man stared in my direction. He shot the others a questioning glance, signalling my presence with a jerk of the chin.

  One moved across to where he stood and told him in a low voice that I was the drummer. He spoke English with an American accent. He looked uneasy. Once the information was delivered, he took a few steps back.

  The tall man came forward and stood in front of me. He was broad enough to block my field of view. He asked me what I wanted.

  I stammered a few words about the rain, the taxi, the distance, the Mercedes star soaring into the sky, whatever came into my head. Before he had time to react, I had turned on my heels and fled into the dark passage.

  I’ve spent enough time with musicians to know that most recordings are reworked after the take. There are myriad ways to dress things up and improve the results. I knew that mixing had become part of the creative process in its own right. I knew that some musicians liked to try special effects, too.

  I also knew that the process was usually carried out in collaboration with the artists.

  Less than fifteen seconds had elapsed from my return to the studio to my hurried exit. Fifteen miserable seconds.

  53: SANKT BONIFAZ

  When I opened my eyes, it was light and Mary had left.

  A delicate haze floated in the room. Confused images jostled in my head. My heart was beating hard and fast, I could hear it pounding in my ears.

  Mary had left me a note on the table.

  She had tried
to bring me round, without success. I had come home later than her, and she had been worried. She asked me to call the Graffiti as soon as I was up and on my way.

  I stared around me. For a moment, I felt I had dreamed the entire thing: the recording session had never taken place. I had taken too much dope and had a bad trip. I had smoked too much, drunk too much and swallowed too many pills. My brain was playing tricks, I had suffered hallucinations.

  I splashed cold water on my face. The mirror showed my reflection: haggard and gaunt with dark, sunken eyes.

  I made coffee and swallowed a couple of Tuinals. I pierced the gel capsule with a needle, to accelerate the impact. I had to distance myself from the nightmare. Its persistent aftertaste stalked me.

  I found the money in my pocket as I was dressing. The notes were brand new. I counted them out. Six hundred and twenty marks.

  The evidence was plain. The recording session really had taken place. Still, I needed to know whether what I had seen afterwards was real, or a figment of my imagination.

  Points of light danced before my eyes. Little by little, the images became clearer. I remembered the guitarists, and the pieces of paper. Jim had assumed I was hooked on LSD, and given me enough to trip out a horse.

  I went out. The staircase swayed. The fresh air did me some good. The trees were showing their first signs of colour. The rain had ceased. Cold sunlight bleached the street.

  I headed for the first telephone kiosk and called Mary. She was relieved to hear my voice. I had been agitated in my sleep. Several times, I had sat up in bed, choking. I had sweated, and seemed feverish. I had spoken gibberish, in a mixture of French and English. She thought I was delirious.

  For my own peace of mind, I called in at the Viktoria. The barman recognised me and asked how the evening had gone. I muttered a vague answer and placed a fifty-mark note on the counter, by way of thanks. I wanted to know how the back-up request had come through to him.

  He slipped the note into his pocket and offered me a beer. He’d received a telephone call at about 11:00p.m. He didn’t know the caller, but the guy knew there was a resident rock band at the Viktoria, and wanted to hire their drummer for the evening. He said he would pay the musician 500 marks and give the barman a further 250 marks for his trouble.

  The caller said he was having trouble finding a player. But the Viktoria was packed, and the group were in full swing. The barman had turned down the offer, but said he would talk to the group at the end of their set, around 2:00 or 3:00a.m. The man sounded agitated. He insisted. The barman couldn’t get him off the line. That was when he thought of me. There was nothing else to tell.

  I set out to find Pearl Harbor straightaway. In less than half an hour, I discovered they played at the Yoyo bar, on the Ku’damm.

  The place wasn’t far away. I called in.

  The bar had just opened and the boss was in a foul mood. I asked what time the band began playing. He replied that Pearl Harbor wouldn’t be playing there any more; he had fired them that very morning. I tried to find out why, but he told me to clear off.

  In despair, I headed for the Graffiti. While Mary finished rehearsing, I told Gunther all about the night before. I told him how I had gone back to the studio after the recording; that I had seen strange things. But I gave no details. I didn’t want to pass for a lunatic.

  When we got home, I told Mary about the previous night. She stroked my face while I delivered my story, gazing at me with the gentle benevolence of a parent listening to a child’s made-up adventures. I didn’t insist.

  Days went by and I came round to the idea that I had hallucinated everything – the second part of the evening, at least.

  Mary’s contract was coming to an end and we were preparing to return to London. The boss at the Graffiti was pleased with their residency and had offered them an extension, but they refused.

  I spent my last days in Berlin watching out for Pearl Harbor’s single. But there was nothing. I asked at all the city’s main record stores, but the disc wasn’t registered, nor was it listed as a forthcoming release.

  In early April, we returned to London. In just three months, everything had changed. Hippies were the latest thing. Everyone wore brightly coloured, fringed clothes. Hair was very long, and beards and bead necklaces were de rigueur. The music had changed too. Acid had made its appearance, and everything was soft and sluggish, from the beat to the way guys of my generation walked. They dragged their feet, looked stoned and spent their days sitting in front of the United States Embassy calling for peace in Vietnam.

  My room at Brian’s was taken, and the few things I had left behind were waiting for me in a corner of the living room. Sonny had been thrown out as well. He was living with a few friends in Chelsea, in a flat belonging to a guitarist who was on tour in Australia.

  Mary returned to her lodgings in Kensington and introduced me to the landlady. She took her to one side and told her we were going to get married.

  The woman was clearly a decent soul, with gentle eyes. She frowned and asked Mary to repeat what she had said. Mary said she knew it was against the rules for a couple to live together in the house. She would be looking for somewhere else right away, but begged the owner to let me stay temporarily. She begged for me to be allowed two weeks under the woman’s roof, while she sorted herself out.

  The landlady looked me up and down.

  I felt awkward and uncomfortable with my tattered kit and unkempt mop of hair. She smiled, and her smile reminded me of my mother. She turned to Mary, jerked a thumb in my direction and asked if she really intended to marry a character like me.

  Mary took me by the hand and nodded.

  The woman sighed. We were to make ourselves at home, and she would give us a more spacious room that had just become vacant.

  Her name was Virginia Fowler. Her husband had died in the Blitz. I remember her with a special fondness.

  I asked Mary what Mrs Fowler would say when she found out she was lying. She gazed at me, shrugged one shoulder and said she was telling the truth. The full significance of her words was lost on me, at first.

  That night, Mary bit me so hard she drew blood. Next morning, the dried blood had stuck my earlobe to the pillow. My ear was misshapen for life. I woke Mary, took her in my arms and told her I wanted her to be my wife.

  My life bounced back. I was going to marry the woman I loved. I wanted my mother to know. For the first time, I considered a trip home, but there were so many obstacles in my way. I was wanted as a deserter in Belgium, and as a witness to a suspicious death in France.

  Mary was enjoying more and more success. There were quarrels from the moment we returned. The bassist and drummer left the Frames, while the guitarists followed Mary. One was called Bob, an emaciated, bearded guy who scratched his head constantly. The other was a quiet, effective musician by the name of Tom.

  I applied for the post of drummer. They accepted me. We began the hunt for a bassist. London was crawling with talented musicians and we soon found one who suited us. In late April, we formed a group. Four musicians and a girl singer. Mary and The Governors.

  I kept in touch with Sonny. We saw less of one another now. From time to time, he would accompany us on the harmonica.

  Those few weeks were the happiest and most serene of my life. I went back to work at the record shop. I had enough money coming in. I worked all day, and we played at night.

  Mary had kept her existing contracts, and signed new ones all the time. She was dazzling, and her confidence grew. I played almost every day, getting better all the time.

  Life seemed simple. We were in love. We talked about our future marriage and imagined a thousand different places for our honeymoon. We took our time. We made love. We drank. We laughed.

  It was during this time that Mary and I discovered the many and wonderful virtues of cocaine.

  From time to time, I kept a half-hearted look out for Pearl Harbor’s record in the racks. Nothing appeared and gradually, I began to forget the
whole business.

  By early June, I was scarcely giving it another thought. Until the Massacre of Sankt Bonifaz.

  54: HAND

  Snow fell thickly on the night of the twenty-third to the twenty-fourth of December.

  Traffic was disrupted and it was 11:00a.m. before Dominique reached the clinic, after a three-hour journey to cover the few kilometres separating his work and home.

  After the stormy mid-November weekend, he had redoubled his efforts with X Midi, as the nurse had advised. Encouraged by her firm assurance, he had taken a more direct approach. He had reminded the man of the procedure: one blink for ‘yes’, two for ‘no’, and had asked him straight out if there was anything he wanted to confide.

  The man had averted his gaze.

  Dominique had beaten a retreat. The next day, he asked the man if their pact still held. He wanted to be certain he had his trust. The man had stared at him for a long while, then blinked his eyes once. But had taken no further initiative.

  The patient had made further progress over the intervening weeks. The movement in his fingers was more supple, and he could turn his head further – ten degrees to the left, and to the right.

  Dominique called out his usual greetings and headed for X Midi’s room.

  He was in the habit of informing his patient of his absences, ahead of each weekend, or when he took a day’s leave in the week. That morning, at around 9:00a.m. one of the night nurses had called Dominique’s mobile to tell him that X Midi was showing signs of distress. The man knew the hours kept by his care team, and seemed distraught when Dominique failed to show. She had tried her best to reassure him, but to no avail.

  Outside the room, Dominique launched into one of his imaginary dialogues.

  ‘Dominique! You’re late!’

  ‘I know. It’s been snowing.’