Bright Midnight

by Chris Formant

  Gantry felt himself getting a little nervous, as his heart rate picked up ever so slightly. He cleared a couple of albums off his “dining” table and sliced open the manila envelope with a leftover dinner knife. He almost didn’t want to look inside. Without reaching in, he turned the envelope upside down, and the contents floated out: He read:

  No drug overdose. Murder. There were others. Look and see. It didn’t stop.

  This one was typewritten, just as the previous note was. But this time there were two other objects. One was the size of a dollar bill and had dark ink smudges on the back, almost like carbon paper had rubbed off on it. Maybe an old ticket receipt of some sort, the kind that were filled out by hand. The other was smaller, without smudges, a printed piece with clearer letters that looked like “Sup,” followed by “70 conc,” and then “970,” but the letters were either rubbed raw or had faded over time.

  It was beginning to feel like a weird and sick joke. Like something that Alex might try to pull off, that would lead to a complicated ruse or maze of some kind.

  The first message felt random, but this one seemed more specific, yet still arcane. He pulled on his reading glasses and looked more closely at the dollar-bill-sized piece. In the corner was what looked like a corporate logo, perhaps a globe with some lettering. Next to that was a word, “Date,” and then a line, which obviously had originally been meant to contain a handwritten date.

  Neither piece made any sense, but then neither did jigsaw puzzle pieces if you didn’t have the box art to go with it. The pieces were so old that the writing could barely be discerned, all except for the broken letters on the small piece of paper.

  He had two messages, or parts of messages. The title of a very obscure song, “My Little One,” possibly on a label of some sort, and two pieces of paper, maybe a ticket and possibly part of a poster, or even another label.

  This is not some random, game playing weirdo, he thought to himself; someone wants me to connect these.

  Gantry needed to see what he could find. He opened a bottle of Chianti, poured a glass, and booted up his laptop. He began searching combinations of the enigmatic letter code on the piece of paper until finally a bright light went on over his head. He began to fill in the letters like a game of hangman.

  SUPer ConcERT 70. Berlin, September 1970.

  He felt proud. Now he had something to go on. He Googled the full phrase and date and unfolded the files he’d brought home from his Dead Artists folders, as the options were listing. Now, like finding the corner of a jigsaw puzzle made entirely of blue sky, he was mildly elated. Taking his eyes from the screen, he re-read the newspaper report he’d kept in his file as background about Hendrix. The opening quote still amazing him:

  I want to do with my guitar what Little Richard does with his voice. — Jimi Hendrix[3]

  At the end, he was the world’s highest paid rock & roll performer, headlining at Woodstock in 1969 and the Isle of Wight Festival in 1970, before dying from what English investigators said was barbiturate-related asphyxia. He was twenty-seven.

  Gantry still found it hard to believe that Hendrix went from playing at Army dive bars to sold-out crowds at the largest rock venues in the world in only nine years. What a small world it was…he thought to himself as he scanned the article…

  Keith Richard’s girlfriend was so overcome by his explosive energy that she recommended him to Chas Chandler, who immediately signed him and flew him to London. Jimmy became “Jimi,” bassist Noel Redding and drummer Mitch Mitchell were recruited, and the Jimi Hendrix Experience was formed.

  Gantry remembered the iconic sixties image of Hendrix burning his guitar, then smashing it to bits, transforming rock and roll into performance art and propelling Jimi Hendrix to the pinnacle of rock and roll. But his legend was sealed at Woodstock…

  His psychedelic version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” at the end of the Woodstock Festival forever burned him into sixties zeitgeist. An exhausted Hendrix collapsed as soon as he walked offstage.

  Gantry knew that there had been no lack of speculation on the cause of Hendrix’s death. All of them, including official police reports, were unclear and widely disputed.

  According to the coroner, Hendrix aspirated his own vomit and died of asphyxia while intoxicated on barbiturates. The words were there in black and white, as he read them slowly:

  “Insufficient evidence.”

  “Murder was plausible.”

  “It seemed as if he drowned in a large amount of red wine,” came from the doctors who tried reviving him.

  Gantry put the newspaper story down and looked at the first page that came up on his Google search; a poster printed in sepia tone with a bare-chested Hendrix standing in the foreground. The photo was taken with a wide-angle lens, and his legs spread apart as he loomed upward from the bottom of the frame. Between his legs and behind him were three young women, girls actually, also bare-chested. In the far background were two men. The image might have been a handbill, but there was no type on it, nor any mention of the concert and no other identifying information.

  At the bottom, the words: Super Concert 70. Berlin, September 1970 were printed.

  Gantry leaned back and pulled on the ends of his mustache. This is a piece of that poster. Same typeface. Super Concert 70.

  Hendrix, Canned Heat, and even a surprise appearance by Janis Joplin, he remembered. None of them had ever performed in Germany.

  Gantry jotted some notes on a pad and continued to scroll through references to the concert—and then it hit him like a punch. Holy fuck, all three of them—Hendrix, Joplin, and Al Wilson of Canned Heat, were dead less than thirty days after that concert.

  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  All within thirty days! What the hell is the connection? He stood up and backed away from the computer, and turned down the stereo just as “Riders on the Storm” was ending.

  Who would know about that concert? Who could he bounce this off of? He needed to talk to someone about this?

  Maybe, Dennis…yeah…right…He lived in London then. Maybe he remembers it?

  It was almost 1:00 a.m., but he knew that Dennis was a night owl. He took a shot.

  Dennis answered the phone on the third ring.

  “Gantry, what the fuck do you want at 1:00 a.m.? Are you in trouble?” Dennis snapped.

  “No Dennis, but I have a question straight out of left field. Do you remember a concert in Berlin in 1970 called the Super Concert?”

  “You have to be fucking kidding me. This couldn’t wait until the morning?

  Gantry didn’t answer.

  “Well then, my friend,” a calmer Dennis said, “yes, I do as a matter of fact. I actually got over for part of it. It was the biggest event ever held in Berlin. Huge buzz in Europe about it at the time. Everyone tried to go. And thank you for waking me up, asshole, to answer your Trivial Pursuit question.”

  “Dennis…sorry. Really sorry. But what else can you tell me?”

  “Well, I do distinctly remember the event and the entire scene because the stage and lights were set as usual, but the promoters lined up all the speakers to face the Berlin Wall. The local radio station broadcasted most of it live, and I was told it was the single biggest day of defections ever. Why do you want to know all this at one in the morning?”

  Gantry was reluctant to share anything beyond what he’d already told Dennis.

  “Umm, I…”

  “Oh come on, spit it out. What’s up?”

  “Well, someone is playing a game with me. I got a package. It contains a piece of paper that I think is part of a poster for Super Concert 70.

  “Jesus, Gantry. A piece of a poster…a poster? Probably a fucking prank. Go to sleep! After all, you do work for Rolling Stone magazine. Wackos must send you stuff like this all the time. I’ll tell you this, though, it was a magical event, and with the surprise appearance of Joplin, well, it was pretty special.”

  He jotted down “Brian Jones, Al Wilson, Jimi
Hendrix, and Janis Joplin.”

  “Thanks, Dennis. Sorry to bother you.“

  Gantry was now too worked up to sleep, so he lit up a joint and floated back with the Doors music, recalling the August 1970 opening party at Hendrix’s state of the art, Electric Lady Studios in Greenwich Village.

  “God, what a talent he was…” He sighed as he began to reminisce.

  Eddie Kramer, the chief engineer, gave Gantry a personal tour that evening. The highlight coming when Hendrix walked in on them in the control room and pulled Kramer aside to discuss an idea for using their new multi -track tape recorder to create a unique sense of depth on a piece he was working on.

  “Jimi is such a perfectionist,” Kramer said to Gantry, “he remembers every note he ever played. By the way, Jimi, meet Gantry Elliot from Rolling Stone.”

  “What do I have to do to get on the cover again…drop dead?” Hendrix laughing at his own joke, as he shook Gantry’s hand.

  “Hey Eddie, let’s get out of here and get something to eat; too many posers here. Gantry, come on with us.” They headed out the back door.

  “Stage Deli,” Hendrix barked to the cabbie. “If we’re going to pig out, that’s the place. Best strawberry shortcake on the planet.”

  Gantry remembered the trio feasting on gigantic corned-beef sandwiches, monstrous onion rings and six-inch-high shortcake. Never mind the looks Hendrix got from the after-theater patrons.

  “Do you know that I was kicked out of my first group, at our very first gig, at a synagogue in Seattle? Can you imagine? They said I was too flamboyant! Me, flamboyant?”

  “I know, and you just wanted to make the guitar do what Little Richard does with his voice,” Eddie said, predicting where Hendrix was going next.

  “We’re like an old married couple,” Jimi said.

  The crotchety old waitress gave them a dirty look as she dropped the check on the table. Eddie picked it up. “Almost twenty dollars! Jeez, New York prices. Jimi, you have any money?”

  “No wallet, señor,” Jimi retorted.

  Gantry was stuck offering only a shrug and a nervous smile.

  Hendrix laughed. “Well, I guess we are going to have to resort to the old chitlin’ circuit credit card.”

  “What’s that?” Gantry asked.

  “Well, you get up and nonchalantly walk around a bit, and then walk out. You first, then me,” Hendrix said to Gantry. “And then finally, Eddie walks out.”

  “Oh great, so I’m the one who gets caught?” Eddie said, irritated.

  “Don’t be a pussy,” Hendrix scolded him.

  “Go, Gantry. Let’s meet one block south,” Hendrix ordered. Gantry was glad to be a part of the moment and did as he was told. Hendrix showed up like clockwork, and then the two waited. And waited. No Eddie.

  “Uh oh. He musta got caught. He’s gonna be so fucking pissed at me tomorrow. The ole ‘CCCC’ worked again.” Hendrix threw his arm around the young writer as they meandered off down the street.

  A month later, Hendrix was dead.

  Gantry stayed up all night going through his Dead Artists materials, reading article after article about each of the four artists, including a newspaper account about Al Wilson of Canned Heat.

  Blind (Owl) Al Wilson Dies

  Alan Christie Wilson died on September 3, 1970, at the age of 27. He was the founder, lead singer and primary composer for the group Canned Heat.

  Canned Heat gained worldwide attention and secured their niche in rock & roll history after their performances at the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival and Woodstock in 1969. The band’s hit, “Going Up the Country,” sung by Wilson, became the festival’s unofficial theme song.

  Wilson died in Topanga Canyon, California of acute barbiturate intoxication. Reported as a suicide, his friends suggested that he was extremely distressed about management issues.

  Gantry took a deep breath. The kicker was in looking at his playing dates. Wilson never showed up for the concert in Berlin. Canned Heat went on without him, not knowing that he’d died the night before.

  After another glass of wine, he fell asleep on the sofa while mentally toggling back and forth between the 60’s rock stars. “Just a fried out hippie…”

  Gantry woke up early, still in his clothes. He’d gone to bed restless and awoke in the same state. He could see the sun peeking through the buildings across the street, as he walked over to start a pot of coffee.

  This entire thing is taking up too much thinking. If it was a joke, it would eventually run its course and the sender would move on to someone who’d react to the notes. After all, that’s probably all the sender wants anyway, to get a rise out of someone, get some attention.

  Gantry took a large swallow of coffee and walked into the bathroom. It was so small he couldn’t use the toilet without closing the door. He ran the water as hot as he could stand it and stepped into the stall and closed the tattered plastic shower curtain.

  Letting the hot water run over his head and down his spine, he relaxed and let the always-stiff morning muscles go limp. He relished his morning showers. He put his hands on the tile in front of him, arched his back a little, and felt the hot water run over him. Getting old is a bitch.

  His mind drifted, and he began to realize just how isolated and insular he had become. He was bored beyond belief, and he was tired of pretending he was still important to Alex, to the magazine, to the culture. He lived in a small, one-room apartment, alone, with only two close friends and no girlfriend.

  Sad...sad. Maybe he was making too much of this.

  Gantry stepped out of the shower, toweled himself off and started to get dressed.

  As he pulled on his boots, it hit him. Super Concert 70…The other piece of paper is an airline ticket!

  Gantry flew over to his dining table and spilled out the three pieces. He picked up a notepad and began to make notes.

  What were the harmonies here? The concert was in Berlin. Anyone coming from the U.S. would have to fly, including Wilson. But Wilson died the day before the concert. The dollar-bill-sized paper was an airline ticket with a faded Pan Am logo—a globe.

  He pulled a magnifying glass out of the drawer in the small cabinet next to the dining table. Lining up the large lens, the small, smudged type became more legible. It read, “September 3, 1970.”

  The day before the concert.

  Gantry couldn’t scribble fast enough. He wrote each thought as a bullet point one after the other.

  Super Concert 70 Berlin.

  Canned Heat, Joplin and Hendrix there.

  Wilson, Hendrix, Joplin dead within 30 days of the concert.

  Brian Jones dead the year before.

  All dead at age 27.

  Someone is claiming they were all murdered.

  Maybe his decision had been made for him. Whoever was sending these messages had to either have been present or had to have been at the concert. On the other hand, the sender could have stolen these items, or gotten his hands on them in some other manner. Maybe it was someone from a studio. God, how many people knew all four of these artists well enough? Too many to count. An unused airline ticket meant that the sender had either taken it off Wilson’s body or gotten it from among Wilson’s personal belongings.

  Gantry began to think of the possibilities: management, friends, deranged fans, ex-lovers…He realized his list of potentially common connections was bewildering, but it was very possible that this could be the work of one person, and that person wanted him to connect the dots. Someone was trying to tell him to make the connections.

  But why the games? Why make it difficult? It didn’t make sense.

  Rolling Stone Offices

  The Next Morning

  Groggy from the wine and poor sleep, Gantry unlocked his office door at 10:00 a.m. and immediately made a strong pot of coffee and turned on his computer. Standing over his desk, he found himself oddly relieved. But then, on top of the mail stack, he saw a now-familiar large manila envelope with his name. It was hand-addressed with
a Sharpie.

  “What the fuck!” he shouted, loud enough for everyone on the floor to hear.

  “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding. This can’t be happening…”

  For a moment he didn’t want to touch it. The mail boy must have brought it in with the late delivery yesterday. He sat down and reached for his crossbones opener, slit the top, and turned it upside down over his desk. This is the third package in less than twenty-four hours, all anonymous. Someone was very eager to get his attention and his immediate focus.

  He shook the envelope and the contents including a glossy paper slid onto his desk.

  “Hendrix—High, Live and Dirty” was commercially printed in dark ink on a red background.

  Gantry picked it up and stared at it, trying to place the title. It took a couple of seconds for him to remember the jam session at the Scene Club and the rare bootleg recording that had been made of it, “High, Live and Dirty.”

  Like the two previous clues, this one contained more than just the printed paper. There was a folded and stained bar napkin with the logo of the West Forty-Sixth Street club. It was neatly creased and folded twice. Turning it over, Gantry wasn’t surprised to find a handwritten note. The edges of the letters had gotten wet, and the handwriting had grown some watery veins outward, but he could still make it out:

  “To Jimi—Let’s do a record together. It would be great — J.M.”

  Gantry took a deep breath and released the paper. “Now what…?” He then dialed an old friend’s number. The phone rang several times, and a deep male voice answered, “Yeah, it’s Lenny.”

  “Lenny, it’s Gantry Elliot. For a second there, I thought I was talking to a message machine.”