Scary Modsters... and Creepy Freaks: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection)
Page 1
Contents
Title
Copyright
Dedications
Acknowledgements
Introduction
Have a Cigar
Friday on My Mind
I've Just Seen a Face
Spill The Wine
I'm Not Like Everybody Else
Biff Bang Pow!
I'm Into Something Good
The Job That Ate My Brain
The Last Rock Show
Proud Mary
All Sold Out
I Can't Control Myself
I Wanna Take You Higher
Can't Find My Way Home
Bless The Wings (That Bring You Back)
Freak of the Week
Wedding Ring
Oliver's Army
The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle
Stupid Jerk
A Million Miles Away
Money Money
Who Do You Love
Broke Down and Busted
Boris the Spider
The Threat
Up in Her Room
The Ghost Of Change
I Can Remember
Him Or Me (What's It Gonna Be?)
I Don't Know How To Be Your Friend
The Element: Fire (Mrs. O'Leary's Cow)
Beautiful Child
Revenge
After The Fall
I Don't Like Mondays
Forever Afternoon (Tuesday?)
Time Is Passing
Strange Movies
Flight 505
When Angels Sing
Heads I Win, Tails You Lose
This Wheel's on Fire
Tired of Waiting for You
Poet's Problem
Communication Breakdown
See Emily Play
My Mind's Eye
Today Your Love, Tomorrow The World
Afterglow (Of Your Love)
Fresh Air
Faithful
Fly to the Angels
Wasted on the Way
Playlist
To My Readers
It's A Marshmallow World
Queen Midas In Reverse
Voices Carry
Moonlight Serenade
Something To Dream On
The Forbidden Flower Series
Love's Forbidden Flower
Time's Forbidden Flower
About the Author
Playlists for all of the Rock and Roll Fantasy stories are listed at the end and can be found on my YouTube Channel.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, essays, and reviews.
Copyright © 2014 Diane Rinella
Cover art copyright © 2015 Diane Rinella
Cover art and design by Heidi "Azurylipfe" Darras
http://azurylipfe.daportfolio.com/
with Diane Rinella
ISBN: 0615984045
ISBN-13: 978-0615984049
Dedicated to the ones I love…
For Maria: Because she understands.
"Birds of a Feather" - Paul Revere and the Raiders
For Brian: The song of our first dance still fits.
"Wonderful World" - Joey Ramone
For Trishalana: I adore you.
"Trishalana" - Paul Revere & the Raiders
For Steve: Even though you are stuck with me, you never complain. Amazing.
"Waterloo Sunset" - The Kinks
For Andrea: Because only a true friend would tolerate me for so long.
"Thank You For Being A Friend" - Cynthia Fee (The Golden Girls version)
For Frank & Alice Rinella and Tony & Jean Rinella: I miss you more each day.
"Memories Are Made Of This" - Dean Martin
For Joshua: Simply said, "I Remember You" - The Ramones
Acknowledgements
How do you even begin to acknowledge people you will never meet, let alone tell them how much they mean to you?
To my readers: Thank you for allowing my words into your heart. When I published Love's Forbidden Flower I never expected how many wonderful people would share their thoughts and stories. If you read my Forbidden Flower series and are now allowing me into your heart again, you truly are a gift. If you are new to my work, thank you for taking a chance on me.
To my beta readers, Miranda Johnson from Mommy's a Book Whore, Julie Barman, and N. Stevenson Jennette III. Thank you for telling it like it was and putting up with my crazy questions.
Thank you Jennifer Theriot, whose fantastic novel, Out Of the Box, is mentioned within these pages.
To the World's Greatest Stalker, Darla Roybal. Thank you for motivating me when my inner spirit fails.
My long-time friend Steve Stone, with whom I could banter about music for days on end and never grow weary. Those conversations inspired much of this book.
Last, and in no way least, my husband, Brian Preston, and our daughter, Trishalana Rinella Preston. Thank you for tolerating the madness that is me.
Introduction
Rock and roll isn't about the Beatles. It is about them playing The Cavern Club—that cramped, musty, brick cellar where England's greatest entertained bored, working class youth. It's about kids who dreamed big as they spent every hard-earned penny recording demos. Some of those bands went on to top the national charts. Fast forward a few decades and a lot of those hits are lost because corporate big wigs choose what should be remembered.
Rosalyn's real life counterparts seek what time has forgotten. That being said, to have any realism in Scary Modsters I could not stick to mentioning only the bands people are told to know, no matter how fabulous they may be. I've done my best to keep the number of references some may find obscure to a minimum and to never rely on them to imply meaning without explanation. It's not the song that's important to Rosalyn; it's the effect it has on her.
A playlist, composed of each chapter title and the artists whose song it represents, is at the end of this book. It can also be found on YouTube.
As for Peter's tale, while all of the events depicted in this book are fictitious, rock history books are loaded with similar horror stories. Some of his real-life contemporaries had interesting rides.
For those who do not catch the references in the title:
Mod - A British subculture, focused on music and fashion, that originated in the nineteen sixties.
Mobster - A participant in organized crime.
Scary Monsters [and Super Creeps] - A David Bowie album.
Happy discovering!
Have a Cigar
May 13, 1966 was a day most wouldn't give a turnip over. Take a look at this picture. You see that guy? The smarmy, dark-haired, young businessman sitting behind that big, wood desk? That's Ben Stoddard, or as he likes to call himself, Big Ben. I refer to him as Mr. B.S.. He's the one who took me. I mean he took everything—my career, my happiness, the girl I loved, and my life.
Now look to those four young lads sitting across from him—the ones that seem as if they've never had a penny to their names. The ones eager to sign on that dotted line. That handsome devil with the sandy blonde hair and the stupid grin—that's me, Peter Lane; singer, guitarist, hu
ge chump, and idiot extraordinaire. I was on top of the world at that moment. We all were. You know that witticism about how you have to be careful you don't sign your life away? It's no joke, because that's exactly what I was doing.
We had just been given a new car, a swanky apartment, and unlimited credit at all the fancy boutiques on Carnaby Street. You've heard of Carnaby, right? The place where every self-respecting mod paid too much for clothes he couldn't afford, even if they had been offered at fair prices. We were told to dress like we owned the world because we soon would. A tour was being planned so we could conquer America, just like The Beatles. All we had to do was sign on that little piece of paper you see on Mr. B.S.'s desk. We signed it in blue ink from a fountain pen—but had we known whom we were dealing with we would have pricked ourselves and used blood.
Two years later I was hovering above my casket, watching people lower my body into a dark, dirt hole, and cringing at how the once beautiful man had become broken, burnt to a crisp, and about to be devoured by worms.
Everyone thought it was an accident.
Then and there I vowed revenge. Plotting it was easy, but finding my way back was another story.
Friday on My Mind
A brunette, a raven-haired beauty, and a girl looking like a peacock all walk into a bar. No, it's not a joke; it's my not-so-mundane life that generally feels like the setup for a wisecrack.
No matter how many times my friends and I claim we are going to do something new, every Friday night we find our tushes planted at Mulligan's. However, today our weekly Friday night venture truly seemed out of the cards since my friends were originally too tired from their workweeks to consider anything short of collapsing. When you are in your early thirties and single you should be embracing life, not rotting on a sofa. Thus, when my friends bailed, I detoured into Warped Records which is both a second home and how I envision my little corner of Heaven. Some would call the smell of old album covers a dank stench, but to me it's a musky perfume that seeps into my pores and comforts me with the knowledge that no matter what fails me I always have my sanctuary.
Among the bins of paradise and the blaring Siouxsie, the perfect gem captured my gaze and held it for ransom. Before me was a pair of eyes so unlike any other that they were nearly indescribable.
Piercing? No. That implies they shot through my skin and reached my heart; however, these somehow reached my soul. Captivating? Again, that was misleading. While they did hold my attention they also kept me at bay. Perhaps haunting? Yes, they did indeed haunt me. They also seemed to follow me to wherever I stood. A true description was so elusive that the color wasn't easily defined. They were deep blue, yet also flannel grey with a hint of green. In a certain light they seemed black with specks of gold.
All of these emotions and colors were brought forth by just one picture—a picture on an album that had been slipped into plastic and unceremoniously tacked to the wall, yet somehow it jumped out at me and begged for worship.
"Who are those guys?" I asked Shane, the store's clerk. Shane's tight black pants, white Split Enz T-shirt, black suspenders, and short, curly, brown hair made him look like a skinny, nineteen eighties teenager in a forty-something-year-old's body. His hot pink English Beat button sold the outfit. In an odd way our obsessions make us kindred spirits. It may be like we are third cousins, twice removed, but kindred nonetheless.
"Not a clue." Shane absent-mindedly tapped a pencil on a note pad while his hazel eyes sat on a ragged copy of Rolling Stone that was decades out of date. "How is it you don't know? You're the super genius no one can stump." He sighed, conceding to the call of duty. "I suppose you want me to halt my important work and show it to you."
"If it's not too much of a bother to pull yourself away from that fascinating article on INXS that is so old it will soon disintegrate, then yes, please. I would appreciate your struggle of removing the tack for a lady."
With the flick of his wrist, Shane sent the magazine spinning across the counter. "Geez, you practically live here, so I thought you would be more at home yanking the thing off yourself."
"Glad to see that chivalry is alive and well at Warped Records."
The album was presented with a bow. "Milady, as per your request." Shane's smugness made me grin. "Anyway, it arrived with some other records from a recent estate sale. Rob seemed to know who they were."
My eyes honed in on the price tag. "Six dollars? That's a lot for a potentially crappy band no one has heard of."
Shane's view floated from the magazine to the notepad. "Yep. Six bucks is what this says. I hung it next to the two hundred dollar, Jagger-signed, Goat's Head Soup to be funny."
Four men, who were partially obscured by a golden overlay of paisleys and swirls, stared back at me. Their clothes were colorful, slightly Edwardian, and accented with fur. It was all very fashionable for the nineteen sixty-eight copyright printed on the back of the cover that held no liner notes. Three of the men felt so insignificant that they were but mere blurs. All I noticed was the cute one with the sandy blonde hair and magnetic eyes whose signature started with the letter P.
My fingers glided over the autograph. The ink felt as if it were luxurious azure velvet. It also gave off an energy that put a beat in my head. What really caught my attention was a spot of what appeared to be dried blood. When I touched it, a fuzz, reminiscent of the thrill I get when hearing a vintage guitar effects pedal, vibrated through. I had to have that album!
My purchase consisted of a modest haul of a single, three CDs, and the mysterious album I could not let out of my clutches. I got into my ninety-seven Mustang and headed home. The plastic bag of music sat in the passenger seat and taunted me to dive into it. I popped in a CD and cranked The Seeds' sixties garage rock classic, A Web of Sound. Its dated-sounding, tinny fuzz and groovy beat had me dancing in my seat. Strange looks were drawn from two cute guys in a vaporwave-exuding, black Mercedes as we sat at a stoplight with our windows down. I waved. They snickered.
Although my only external reaction was a shrug, internally my heart frowned into my stomach. I've tried to be like them and embrace something trendy. But in being part of the in crowd I found I was betraying myself. My heart only sings when I'm truthful about my passions for clothes and music of the past. I really hope those guys are genuinely experiencing joys I can't find in the current times instead of hiding from themselves like I once did.
Once home, it was straight to the family room stereo to listen to The Stones and crack a beer while dancing to Exile On Main Street. I had to shove aside stacks of albums I had taken out of the oversized, shutter-door closet the night before for reorganizing. With the signed album propped on the sofa as if it were an audience, I shed my alter ego by ripping off my tailored suit coat. The liberation of no longer feeling dressed for a corporate costume party brought me back to life. The flick of my neck with each shoulder roll sent my deep-auburn, iron-pressed locks flying. My hips ground while I stared at the record. I kicked my stilettos across the room (nearly landing them in the stone fireplace) before shimmying out of my skirt. My butt plopped onto the sofa with me wearing nothing but my blouse and panties. The man on the album with the engaging eyes pulled my attention to him. "Who are you?"
From my cell phone I typed "Deep Trance" into Wikipedia before taking a swig of beer. As the details appeared the malty liquid was nearly sprayed out of my mouth before being choked back. Clearly Rob, the shop's owner, had no clue as to the value of the album. Easily it was worth six hundred, not the six I thought I foolishly paid.
Deep Trance was the third album by the legendary band Love Machine and marked a departure from their usual pop sound. The album lacked label support causing some to believe it was intended to fail in order to offset the financial gains of other bands. The original cover was to depict the band behind an opaque veil of psychedelic swirls, but management rejected it, claiming that the photo made the band unrecognizable. A test run of the rejected cover produced a handful of copies that were likely destroyed
.
Love Machine! "Holy St. Elvis!" The infamous, chart-topping, UK band that barely caught a break in America? That had to mean—
I grabbed the album while still a little dizzy from my revelation. "This is signed by Peter Lane!" In a grand master flash I was standing on the sofa, bouncing and squealing at the top of my lungs, "Oh, my God, Peter Lane! Peter freaking Lane!" It was a proud fangirl moment—the flipping out over the scribbling of a dead legend that sat in my hands. My only embarrassment was over how I ever missed who the guy was. Thankfully Rob missed it too. With a jump I flipped my legs out from under me and landed my butt on the sofa. "Well, Peter Lane, I certainly never expected to meet you, such as it is."
My deep-brown eyes were more drawn into the image than ever. Peter's impish gaze seemed so deep and powerful. His eyes were now a solid black, and my mind started slipping into their void while haze clouded my peripheral vision.
The sudden screech blaring from my phone brought my hand to my heart and snapped me back into the present. One Direction blasted through the air, clashing with The Stones. Darla was calling. Sometimes my friends' taste in music scares me.
"Hey," I answered. My voice sounded oddly detached.
"Drinks! Twenty minutes! Mulligan's! Meet us there!" came screaming into my ear.
"What happened to being too tired?"
"Don't know. Don't care. I just got a burst of energy. Must mean we are not meant to be at home tonight. Get on it!"
I've Just Seen a Face
August 1966
My personal playland awaited, or so I tried to convince myself as a cute little bird held my door open so I could strut into the hive known as Klein Photography Studios on a balmy London morning. Truthfully, I was utterly clueless as what I was to do. Rave Magazine claimed that I was the face of the mod generation and actually desired my mug on their cover. Whoever could have imagined me, poverty-born Peter Lane, on the cover of a pop magazine? Darling little girls were going to pin my picture to their walls. It was hardly the musical accolades I desired. Still, it was bloody amazing.