There was a second’s pause, and then Lenny Kravitz said, “Oh, Gantry. Hey, how the hell are you? Been a long, long time, buddy. What’s up?”
Though well known as a musician, not many knew that Lenny Kravitz had a world-class collection of Jimi Hendrix memorabilia and an even greater knowledge of Hendrix history. Years ago, Gantry had written “An Old Soul in a New Body” as the headline for his interview with Kravitz after his first album. Lenny loved the review and never forgot Gantry, and the two had kept in touch.
Gantry needed to catch up before asking a favor.
“Lenny, good to hear your voice. The question is, what are you doing? Any new work on the horizon?”
“Funny you should ask. I was just at the Rumpus Room in Brooklyn recording a new song. It’s a retro sixties psychedelic number, very cool. Mellotron, Leslie amps, recording on tape, the full monty!”
Old soul, Gantry thought.
“That’s great, man, just fantastic. I’d like to hear it sometime. Hey, I don’t want to take you from your psychedelia, but I have a question only you could answer.”
“Shoot, brother. Anything.”
“Have you ever heard of a Hendrix recording called ‘High, Live and Dirty’?”
Kravitz laughed. “Of course,” he replied. “The Scene Club, down on 46th. A drunken affair.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, Gantry, I’m surprised you don’t remember. It was really more of a party. The recording was pitiful, almost incoherent, and sad, really. Someone in the audience taped it on a little cheap cassette deck and then managed to get it published…Are you still there, buddy?”
“Absolutely. Just taking some notes.”
“Must be important. Where are you going with this?”
“Nowhere just yet,” Gantry said, already formulating a lie.
“Okay. Well, Johnny Winter had some blistering riffs on the recording, and Jim Morrison was drunk on his ass, not really singing as much as he was cussing throughout the entire thing. In my opinion, it was the low point for Hendrix, real low, and even lower for Morrison. Boy, what a waste of talent. Did you get a copy or something?” Kravitz asked.
“No, and I didn’t know Morrison was there.”
“Yes, and he was out of it—on his ass. I was surprised, really.”
“At what?”
“That it took two more years for him to crash and burn. Truly sad. He could have done so much.” Kravitz sighed.
“Are you there, buddy?” Kravitz asked again.
“Yeah. Sorry, Lenny, I was just thinking. I appreciate your help. Send me a demo when you’re done. I have to go.”
“Okay, Gantry, will do. Don’t wait so long to call again.”
“I won’t. Thanks again.”
Morrison…the note was from Morrison.
The conversation sparked a memory of Jim Morrison in 1970 Los Angeles.
It was one of Gantry’s first assignments for Rolling Stone; an interview with him to uncover his musical influences. They met late one afternoon at the Hullaballoo Club on Sunset Strip.
The legend around the singer had already swelled. He was referred to as a mystic, a drunkard, and either a genius or a waste. Gantry wanted to expose the real person as best he could.
When Gantry got to the club, Morrison was already there, nursing a Coke. The surroundings were dark and somber, the pungent smell of crushed cigarette butts floating in ash trays of spilled whiskey and beer added to the morning-after ambience. A beat up jukebox in the corner was turned off in deference to the group about to take the stage.
Morrison told him that he’d come to the club to listen to a group, JK and Co., as a favor to a friend. The group was just starting its first song. They were so young; he was surprised they were playing where alcohol was served. Jay Kaye, the leader and vocalist, was only fifteen, Morrison pointed out. They’d gotten a little buzz on the underground stations for an album they had just recorded in Vancouver. He was impressed by the band’s complex layered psychedelia and mature poetic lyrics.[4]
“They have a bright future,” Morrison said. “Listen to the texture of the harmonics and the lyrical interplay. I think this song is called ‘Fly.’ Close your eyes. Don’t you feel the air under you?”
Gantry was genuinely surprised with how articulate Morrison was. He explained over the next hour how he had been influenced by Huxley, Blake, Rimbaud, Moliere, and Norman Mailer. He mentioned only poets and writers.
When Gantry asked why he hadn’t mentioned any musicians, Morrison replied that he was a poet, not a musician.
“I only sing to bring my poetry to life,” he said staring at Gantry.
Then he broke up laughing, “I guess I do have one musical influence…Frank Sinatra.”
His parting words still haunted Gantry: “I see myself as a huge, fiery comet, a shooting star. Everyone stops, points up and gasps, ‘Oh look at that!’ Then whoosh, and I’m gone…and they’ll never see anything like it ever again…and they won’t be able to forget me, ever.”
Gantry wiped away a slight tear, not for Morrison, but for himself, as he thought about how much time had passed since then. He couldn’t remember where, but he’d recently read that “knowledge is better than ignorant dread—though not always more pleasant.”
Gantry was now completely wired and fixated on the increasingly intimate collection of clues. He needed to talk to someone he could trust, to help sort out what to do. He called Dennis.
“Dusty Records,” the voice said.
“Dennis, it’s Gantry.”
“Eh, mate. Sorry about the blow out last night, to what do I owe the pleasure of a call?
“That’s all right. Can we talk? It’s kind of urgent, in a very weird way.”
“Urgent and weird, now that sounds like a man with a story to tell. You know Dusty Records, home of total classic recall. I’m here ‘till ten tonight.”
“Dennis, I’m jumping in a cab…see you in thirty minutes.”
Dennis Briganty was originally from the West End of London. He grew up surrounded by music. His father had worked for EMI, the British record company, and was transferred to New York in 1975. He had been involved in the production of the Beatles’ White Album in 1968 and Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon in 1973. Dennis grew up surrounded by music and the business of making it. Dennis claimed he went to Columbia University for three years, but ended up dropping out to try his hand at creating an independent label, which quickly failed. During that time, he’d met Gantry, and their mutual interests helped forge a friendship. Gantry was working for Rolling Stone by then, and Dennis’s failure in the record industry was the reason he started Dusty Records, where he bought and sold collectible albums and, later, tapes and CDs.
Every several years, Dennis would return to his old haunts in the West End, where many of his friends still lived, including an old flame that never quite burned out…a cheeky and spirited Irish gal.
Dennis was muscular, about six-feet-two with a narrow face and a mop of thick, fading red hair that sat on his head like a plate of crispy hash browns. His appearance and his occasional lapse into a cockney accent made him an odd but friendly fixture in the neighborhood.
Dennis saw Gantry standing at the windowed front door and buzzed him in, just as they do in jewelry stores filled with expensive gems–which was exactly how Dennis felt about Dusty Records. His records were his gems. The store was musty, dark, but somehow perfect, like the bargain bins in the used bookstores on Bleecker Street. There were row upon row of two-sided shelves with tapes, 45s and LPs.
This place and this man were the safest, most comfortable environment Gantry knew outside of his apartment.
“Ya know, Dennis, I never asked you, but what do you think all these are worth, to the right people?”
“Never added it up, just too busy buying and collecting,” Dennis said. “Some of these I got at a street bazaar down in the village years ago, when they were practically throwing them away. Some are worth thousands now. I used to collect them whe
n they were new, when I was young, living in London. My pops used to bring them home in a wheelbarrow. I don’t know…maybe a quarter million altogether, maybe more to the right person. But you and I know that’s not the point.”
“Amen, brother.”
“So, what’s up?” Dennis took an old Stones album out of its pristine jacket and placed it on the turntable as delicately as he would maneuver a vial of nitroglycerin, using only his fingertips, and careful not to allow his oversized Celtic cross ring to touch the record. The music filled the store, muffled by the tons of cardboard LP’s on the shelves.
Dennis reached behind the counter. “Here we are mate—two Macanudos, not Cuban, of course, but sufficient for today.”
The two men puffed away, smiling at each other for a few silent moments, until unexpectedly interrupted by Dennis’s coughing spell.
“Sorry, the price I pay for the pleasure of your company,” he laughingly said.
Gantry particularly loved the smells here: the rich aroma of the Macanudos, the musty odor of so much cardboard pressed closely for so long, and the almost damp smell of the orange shag carpet. Nirvana.
“So what about the urgent and weird?” Dennis asked.
Ever since Gantry and his wife had divorced, he and Dennis had spent years of good, quiet times sharing just one subject–classic rock & roll. But this would be a first, Gantry sharing something other than lyrics or riffs.
“Oh, you know, I’m so fucking bored in that place,” he started, but then interrupted himself. “But don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t have a better job. It’s just that, well, you know, these days all I do is pretend to be relevant, as Alex puts it, and to be his friend. Sometimes I wonder if he just keeps me around because we go so far back. But then again, I do get one glorious day each year to report on the inductees’ ceremony,” he said with a note of sarcasm.
“Sounds like you’re feeling sorry for yourself,” Dennis observed. “I think I know how you feel, mate. But, I’ve been independent all my life, you’ve worked for Alex most of yours. I only need to be relevant to people who want old rock and roll albums. You need to be relevant to an entire generation. Problem is, your expertise and your relevance are stuck in the 1960s, and your audience is today. That’s why it bothers you.”
He moved his chair in closer to Gantry. “Try thinking of it this way: you don’t have to be a leader or one of those uber-high-earning executives; you only need to be relevant to yourself. Alex wouldn’t have you working for him unless he really needed you. He needs your history, your knowledge and—hah—your wisdom, mate.”
“I guess you’re right, it’s probably just the boredom talking. Makes me feel like the world is racing past me sometimes,” Gantry said, pulling the pieces of paper from his pocket. “These came to the office the other day,” he said, holding them out.
“What are these?”
“You tell me.”
Dennis took the slips of paper from Gantry. He read: Brian Jones was murdered. It was not an accident. There were others. Look and see.
He gave Gantry a quizzical look.
“Read the other one,” Gantry said.
Dennis squinted. “Doesn’t look like anything to me.”
“Look closer.”
Dennis put on a pair of cheap reading glasses and looked again.
“Hmm. I don’t know. Where did you get these?”
“They came in the office mail. I didn’t give them much credence other than some curiosity until that bit about Jones started me rummaging through my old Dead Artists file. You know, the one I started when that Myth of 27 thing got going.”
“Yeah. I’d almost forgotten about that.”
“So I ran across an article about Jones drowning in his swimming the pool. It seemed real strange that whoever sent this chose Brian Jones.”
Gantry pulled the Jones article from his valise and handed it to Dennis.
Dennis began reading out loud as he skimmed though it:
Brian Jones found dead…singular emblem of 1960’s sex, drugs and rock and roll…Prince Valiant-coiffed founder of the Rolling Stones….Brian Jones was rock and roll.
“Dennis, he was the one who contrived their unique weaving guitar sound…Paint it Black….Under my Thumb,” Gantry explained, “Read the last paragraph?” Gantry added.
Dennis read slowly, “In August of 1969, a devastated Jones was replaced by Mick Taylor……less than a month later, Jones, an excellent swimmer, was found motionless in his swimming pool…..dead at the age of 27.” He put the article down.
“Now look real close at the other paper,” Gantry asked.
Dennis squinted again.
“It looks like it says, ‘My Little One.’ What the hell does that mean?”
Gantry filled his friend in on the story.
“I’d say that’s pretty damned obnubilate, wouldn’t you?”
Dennis grinned. “You know what this looks like?”
“What?”
Dennis held the slip of glossy paper under a light.
“See this?” He pointed to the back corner. “Printed very faintly, it looks like it says, ‘O Studios.’ That would be short for Olympic Studios, where the Stones used to record. Damn, this is an old demo tape label! The kind they used back in the sixties.”
“Hey, let’s hear the song?” Dennis said, “Let’s Google it.”
“I don’t think…” Gantry stopping himself as Dennis sat in front of his monitor.
Dennis punched out, “My Little One, Brian Jones,” and up popped still pictures of Jones in his Prince Valiant haircut and Hendrix, his hair tied back in his ever-present bandana, sporting one of his many jackets with brocade buttons and braid.
“No song?” Dennis said.
“Nope,” as Gantry pulled an old cassette tape out of his pocket.
“You must have a cassette player somewhere in this museum?” Gantry asked.
“Of course,” he grabbed the tape and popped it in an old GE cassette player in the tape section and the psychedelic treasure started playing.
“Wow,” Dennis said. “Un-fucking-believable! Listen to how Jones’s sitar and Hendrix’s guitar riffs imitate each other and then weave in and out like a jazz jam. They’re using the old Rolling Stones’ weaving guitars formula.”
“Who else is playing with them?” Dennis asked.
“Dave Mason and Mitch Mitchell.”
“I can’t believe this has been buried all this time!” an excited Dennis blurted.
“Yeah, somethin’ else. Now if I could only figure out why someone would send these.”
“I wouldn’t spend too much time on it, mate, probably just a hippie nut case. You know how that shit always recycles every time one of the stars dies.” Dennis reminded him.
“But, don’t you think it’s a little spooky that they would send me a bit of a demo tape label from an obscure collaboration. This isn’t some random kook. They had to have been there, or something. How else would they have gotten that tape label?”
“Come on Gantry, get real man. Let it go. No reason to get your bowels in an uproar,” Dennis said in a dismissive voice.
“I guess you’re right, but…on the other hand, then how would you explain this?” he said dumping out the second message and contents.
“This envelope was left on the table that Alex and I were having drinks on at Marty’s last night.” He spread them out in front of Dennis and explained what they were. “And then this envelope was delivered to my office this morning.”
A speechless Dennis’s eyes widened.
“Still think it’s a random kook?” Gantry asked. “I think I should head uptown to show these to Alex.”
“But you were first on my list, for anything that is urgent and weird,” Gantry added.
“Thanks for thinking of me,” a still stunned Dennis answered.
Dennis watched Gantry’s cab move slowly around the corner and then out of sight. His phone rang a unique ring three times, then stopped…Then rang two time
s, then stopped…
On the third ring, Dennis grabbed the phone, and listened.
In the uptown cab, Gantry called Alex’s private line on his cell.
“Christ, Gantry, do we have to go over this now?” Alex complained into the phone propped between his shoulder and ear.
“I need your opinion on something important,” Gantry insisted.
“It better be. All right, come over, but I don’t have much time.”
Gantry took the cab to Alex’s Upper East Side apartment. The traffic was unusually heavy, even for Manhattan, so he had time to think. Two mysterious clues delivered to his office, one to Marty’s and two of them claiming a star was killed. Was it just coincidence that the famous dead stars were all twenty-seven, just as the old myth contended? If Jones was killed—if they all were killed—the question was, why? Clearly someone wanted him to see this as a string of murders.
The cabbie pounded on his horn as another taxi ran the red light not inches from his bumper. Not even the sudden braking and honking could tear Gantry from his thoughts.
The taxi pulled up at Park Avenue and Fifty-Ninth Street. Gantry paid, grabbed up his small, tan valise filled with the messages and files, and exited the cab. When he reached the seventh-floor penthouse he found Alex sitting quietly with a glass of scotch and a cigar. He’d visited several times before, usually for parties, but was always amazed by how huge the apartment was; it seemed as vast as a warehouse, albeit with better furniture.
Alex’s, “Hey, buddy” belied the mood Gantry had anticipated.
“Come on in. Have a seat. Want a scotch?”
“No. I’m fine,” Gantry said, sitting down in a large, purple goose-down chair beside Alex.
“My man, you have a look of concern. What’s up? Did someone steal your only copy of ‘Purple Haze?’…Just kidding. Really, what’s on your mind that brought you uptown at this time of day? I hope it’s not about being best man. I can’t get another best man now, buddy, nor would I want to. Don’t tell me you can’t come,” Alex said in rapid fire.
“No. It’s not about that,” Gantry said, pulling the zipper on his valise and carefully putting the pieces of paper on the immense, glass-topped coffee table. Gantry could hear stirring in another room, which he assumed came from Alex’s soon-to-be-partner in marriage. Somewhere music was playing, a light, nondescript jazz ensemble, not Alex’s style.
Bright Midnight Page 4