Death Metal

by Mark All

  He returned to the studio and began gathering guitar cables, winding them neatly and securing them with Velcro cord ties. His motions slowed as the idea surfaced in his consciousness that there was something else connecting him and Jessica. Something akin to a band’s commonality of purpose, though more like a religious imperative. The desire to spread the music.

  His feelings for Jessica and the music had become entangled, confusing him. Getting the music out there was the main priority, but he also felt a strong attraction to the label rep. If he got to know her better, he hoped he could keep the music from ruining a possible relationship. He’d lost Amber by obsessing over music to the point of ignoring her. He didn’t want to do that again, especially to a smart, sharp beauty like Jessica Chandler.

  The sound of Mike’s van, the one he bought after the wreck, intruded on his thoughts. David stacked the wound cords into a road case and carried it out to the staging area in time to see the van back up to the sliding glass doors and park. Mike and Alan got out and approached. Mike didn’t look all that happy, and Alan looked kind of spacey.

  “Guys, come on in,” David said, sliding the doors open.

  They exchanged greetings and Mike, the band’s de facto road and stage manager, sized up the pile of gear, which took up most of the room, and sighed. “I used to be able to load up in my sleep, but it’s been so long, I can’t remember what goes where.”

  Closest to the door sat David’s Marshall amp head and its two four-twelve cabs, along with four monitors and the small PA head that powered them, which they used to supplement the club’s massive sound system to give them more control over what they heard on stage. Those would go in first, beside Mike’s drum kit, which would already be in the van, along with the fog machine, lasers, and other special effects they’d use in addition to the club’s stage lights.

  “Yeah, you had packing the van down to a science,” David said. “Unfortunately, my mental 3-D diagram of where everything goes has faded.”

  “It’ll come back. Let’s start with the guitar cabs, then the monitors.”

  Lifting his bottom cabinet, David grunted. “I don’t remember these being so heavy.”

  They set up an assembly line, David passing the heavy speaker cabinets to Alan, who hefted them onto the van bed for Mike, who dragged them into place, stacking them in a secure geometric pattern. They loaded the speaker cabs, then the floor wedges, and then stopped to catch their breaths, blotting sweat from their faces.

  “Let’s go in the studio for a minute,” David suggested. “Get some air conditioning.”

  “Getting old?” Mike said, but followed him.

  “Like Indy said, ‘It’s not the years, it’s the mileage.’”

  Alan brought up the rear. He seemed to be on some other planet, singing his parts under his breath. He had muttered something about rehearsing, but it all sounded pitch perfect to David. The phrase “fugue state” came to mind. David didn’t know the clinical definition of the psychiatric term, but it seemed to fit, given what he knew about the intricate structure of Bach’s fugues.

  Looper. They’re calling them Loopers.

  David sat on the bench at a Hammond B3 organ, then caught Mike’s attention and inclined his head toward their singer. Alan was nodding, jiggling the cords of his ear buds, off in his own world. David raised his eyebrows quizzically. Is he okay?

  Mike shrugged, but looked troubled. “This whole phenomenon is too much to take in. The song going viral overnight, getting a contract after all these years—when we didn’t even exist as a band any more. The Loopers though, that shit’s freaking me out.”

  “It’s probably being exaggerated for sensationalism.”

  “I don’t know,” Mike said. “I read that somebody died. Skipped work, then his wife came home and found him in his recliner, a gun in his mouth, his brains all over the ceiling. His iPad was playing our song.”

  “I don’t think music can make anyone do something like that.” David shifted uneasily on the piano bench, trying to convince himself. “Priest and Ozzy had to deal with lawsuits in similar circumstances. It’s not our fault. An unhinged fanatic is going to do what he’s going to do, it takes more than a song to push him over the edge.”

  “Great, lawsuits,” Mike groaned. “I hadn’t even thought about that. Except maybe from John.”

  “Leave him to Jessica. I think she can handle just about anything.”

  Mike was silent a moment, then said, “I’m having some wicked nightmares lately.” He stared meaningfully at Alan, who was lost in space, bobbing his head, singing softly.

  “I never remember my dreams,” David said. He thought for a moment. “You and I aren’t Loopers.”

  “Hunh,” Mike said, but David could tell from the look on his face that he knew what David meant.

  “‘Fire It Up’ may be having some almost supernatural effect on people—but not so much on you and me.”

  “It sure seems to have affected Alan,” Mike said. “I had a feeling I’d be better off without a copy of the song, so I’ve resisted downloading it. Although I have to fight to keep it from playing in my head all the time.”

  David frowned. “I do have all the songs shuffling on my own Mind Radio. That’s natural, considering how many hours I spent producing them. It doesn’t keep me from functioning, though. I’ve built up, I don’t know, an immunity to its effect.”

  Mike looked thoughtful. “It’s like everyone has a role, and they’re driven to perform it. You to manage the project, the recording sessions, to produce, mix, and master. Me to run the logistics. We may not be Loopers, but we’re so absorbed by the music, we can’t not do it. This album drives each of us in the direction we need to go. To get it out into the world.”

  David didn’t like this idea. “Like there’s some unseen hand guiding us? Affecting everybody differently?” A thought occurred to him. “Maybe there’s just some kind of physics behind it. Like the frequencies are affecting people’s brain waves. Something in the synthesizer parts.”

  Mike laughed sarcastically. “Yeah, maybe he put in a subliminal hypnosis track. ‘Listen to this over and over! Buy many copies!’”

  “Funny. Whatever, I don’t want to believe that some weird force is controlling us.” He could not deny that Vince had come back from the dead with this music, but he felt an almost insurmountable resistance to even think about it, let alone question it. This conversation was making him perspire more than loading the van had.

  “Well, something’s going on,” Mike said, serious again. “This music has a kind of…magical effect. Not a good one. I feel like it’s manifesting the creepier aspects of Vince’s soul.”

  David swallowed to wet his dry throat. He remembered Vince’s sly grin. Why was he so unwilling and afraid to admit that something otherworldly, something scary, was happening when it clearly was? His mind retreated from this line of thought and he found himself wishing he could just take off with Jessica and live happily ever after. Like that could happen. She was a label rep. She might be attracted to him, but she was attracted to a killer guitar player on the brink of a huge success. To deserve her respect, he had to fulfill his potential, he had to rock the world. Besides, regardless of the affection of the hot chick, he needed this. The wreck had ruined his life, and he wanted it back. Wanted to contribute something, to prove that he could contribute something. He shook his head. “No. That’s bullshit.”

  “Is it?” Mike asked. “You’ve always had a blind spot where Vince was concerned. The guy was an asshole, David. Talented, but an asshole. No matter how talented they are, assholes ruin everything. It’s their nature, it’s what they do.”

  David jumped up. “So he was an asshole. There are a lot of brilliant, successful assholes. Anyway, he was just eccentric. Like brilliant people tend to be.”

  Mike stood as well. “Eccentric? He was a narcissistic sociopath. Vince had a dark streak, and I feel it in this music. You pretended it wasn’t there, you avoided confrontations with him
because he was a great songwriter and player. If you’d stood up to him, been on our side, the wreck would never have happened!”

  The world stood still for David. Mike looked like he realized that he’d just crossed line, rung a bell he couldn’t unring—but wasn’t backing off from it.

  “You’re blaming me for the accident?” David said coldly.

  “There’s no such thing as an ‘accident.’ It’s always somebody’s fault. Sure, Vince directly caused the wreck, but if you hadn’t had a blind spot when it came to him, hadn’t always supported him, taken his side, he’d never have had the nerve to bring up that contract. The wreck would never have happened. He probably would’ve left the band.”

  “Without him, we wouldn’t have been who we were.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. We don’t know who we could’ve been. He dominated the creative life of the band, and you kowtowed to him, hitching your wagon to his ‘brilliant’ fucking star. You should’ve stood up for us, but more importantly, you should’ve stood up for yourself.”

  David slammed his fist down on the organ. “We didn’t become a viral sensation on our own, though, did we? We have the most successful song in history thanks to Vince.”

  “That’s what’s bothering me. I don’t know why you can’t see it, why you can’t feel it. Something’s not right about this.” He looked at the floor, then back at David. “I’m not doing it, man. I can’t. I’m not playing the concert, and I’m sure as hell not going on any tour to support this album. It scares me. It ought to scare you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Friday early evening

  Jessica let herself into her hotel room, awkwardly balancing the chilly ice bucket against her chest, and irritably kicked the door shut. Surprisingly, her good mood after getting David to sign the contract had gradually evaporated since she’d left him. She swore as she nearly dropped the bucket, but managed to fill one of the tiny hotel glasses with ice and water, then flipped her computer open and booted it up.

  Tired from the long day and the drive from Atlanta to Athens, she planned to carry the contract and release form to the other band members the next day. The singer and the drummer were helping David load out, set up at the theater, and do a sound check this evening, and besides, she’d be fresh after a good night’s sleep, and prepared to deal with the problematic bass player. Tonight, she’d hype the concert and upcoming album on Facebook and Twitter, her blog, and industry friends’ blogs and sites, then get some pictures of David and his studio up on Pinterest. Sadly, he had not agreed to take his shirt off.

  She’d really been taken by the guitar player, not just physically attracted to him, but feeling as if she were walking on air when she was with him. Only her discipline and professionalism had enabled her to concentrate on getting her job done with him. She resented her current moodiness souring her memory of the afternoon.

  Her aggravation was only partly due to her fatigue. The recalcitrant bassist situation had begun to bug her, as if she psychically sensed there was something more going on there. Also troubling was her own lack of concern with getting the band to agree to tour. It all contributed to a free-floating but growing unease with the project. There was no specific cause for her disquiet she could put her finger on, just an impression that they were all building a house on loose sand that was about to shift.

  She checked her email to find a number of messages, including one from Ben with an Important! icon. It said simply, “CALL ME.” That didn’t sound good. Frowning, Jessica got her phone and speed-dialed him.

  Her boss answered on the first ring. “Hey, sweetie” he said. “How’s it going in Bulldog Country?”

  “Great. David’s a good guy, somebody we can work with. He signed the contract, and thinks he can talk the others into touring.” She had doubts on that score, but one thing at a time. “Except the bass player. I’m going to get the others signed tomorrow, and hopefully convince this John Emory guy to sign the release if he refuses to be part of the band’s impending world renown.”

  “You can do it.”

  Sure she could. It was her job, and she was good at it. She was the Musician Whisperer. “So what was your urgent plea for contact about?”

  Ben sighed. “Reports of the Loopers are increasing. It’s getting worse. A woman sat in a bus station with her squalling infant for four hours before somebody got a clue and called the police. Child and Family Services took the baby. Mom went bonkers when they took her iPad. Other similar incidents.”

  “Hm.” This disturbing trend did not allay her doubts.

  “We’re crossing the line between viral sensation and public health hazard.”

  “Ridiculous,” Jessica said, wishing she felt as convinced as she sounded. “It’s just a song. Nobody blamed the Beatles for the Manson massacre. Well, not many people.”

  “The Beatles didn’t have the Internet. The TuneBuzz blog is calling for us to stop production on the album. Barring that, banning and boycotting it. Even though they haven’t heard it.”

  “Bit hypocritical on their part, seeing as how they review some pretty morally questionable gangsta rap and death metal.”

  “Just shows what we’re up against if even they’re concerned about the effect of this music. They’re not the only ones, either.”

  Jessica snorted. “Again, this is absurd. If anything, it just means we need to get the album out there as soon as possible.”

  “Before the situation gets worse, you mean?” Ben asked.

  “If you want to put it that way.”

  “Not filling me with confidence. So what’s the status of the album?”

  “It’s done, in the can. We just need to get the rest of the papers signed. Which we will tomorrow.”

  Ben grunted, then was quiet.

  “Ben? There’s something else, isn’t there? What is it?”

  “Charlene,” he said. “She didn’t come to work today. Didn’t call in. Doesn’t answer her phone.”

  Jessica’s uneasiness resurfaced. She knew they were both remembering her friend sitting at her desk in a fog, the earbuds trailing like twin umbilici to the source of digital audio crack. An image suddenly came to her of Charlene sitting in a bus station, bobbing her head to the music, and Jessica shivered.

  “She’s probably just hung over from clubbing too late last night,” she said.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Ben ostensibly agreed.

  “I’ll call her. Maybe she’ll pick up if she sees it’s me. If I can’t get her, I’ll drop by her place Sunday on my way home.”

  Ben grunted again. They spent a few minutes going over the flash marketing campaign, ad placement, and social media efforts. Marketing even had a Word Of Mouth Phone Tree going.

  After she hung up, Jessica tried Charlene. Her call went directly to voice mail.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  One year earlier …

  Penumbra’s van chugged along on the rain-slick road after the biggest and best gig they’d ever played, at the Hellfire Club in Atlanta. They’d exited the Athens perimeter onto a hilly, winding back road, with only a few miles to go before they would reach David’s house. A haze of elation, exuberance, testosterone, and sweet-smelling pot smoke filled the vehicle, igniting boisterous banter.

  “We are on our way now,” Mike shouted. “Rock ’n’ fuckin’ roll!”

  Laid-back Alan, the driver, passed a fat joint to John, who rode beside him in the front passenger seat, and sped up the windshield wipers. David, Mike, and Vince sprawled across stacked road cases, racks, and speaker cabs in the rear. The Hellfire Club had a spectacular sound and light system, so they’d only needed to bring their stage gear. John took a brief toke, turned around in his seat to face the back, and handed the joint to Vince. The keyboard player held it under his nose, took a deep snort, and passed it to David.

  “Good gig at a major regional venue,” Vince agreed, trailing smoke from his mouth and nostrils. “But if we really want to make the Big Time, we�
�ve got to have a better product.”

  John snorted. “A ‘better product’? It’s music, man.”

  “I’m aware of that. I wrote half of it,” Vince replied. “I have a vision that will take this band to the top—not just commercial success, but artistic success.”

  “Have you, now?” John sounded skeptical, resentful, antagonistic.

  David didn’t like the way this was going. They’d been in such a great mood after the tour kickoff show, a smashing success, and here Vince was bringing up the vision thing again. Now John was getting all huffy.

  “We need a brand,” Vince continued. “A consistent style. Most of our music is progressive metal, so that should be our identity. I and David write all the prog stuff, so he and I should be the sole composers.”

  Mike choked on his toke, coughing and sputtering, belching smoke. “Say WHAT?”

  “The rest of you can start a side project—I’ll be glad to play on it, as will David, I’m sure—but Penumbra’s genre needs to be finessed.”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the van, thick as the heady smoke.

  “Last time I looked, this was a band,” John said tightly. “You know, a group effort?”

  “Oh, I’ll need you all to fill in your parts.”

  “‘Fill in our parts.’” John said through clenched teeth.

  “Wow, Vince,” David said. “You picked a hell of a time to bring this up, first night of the tour promoting our first CD. Maybe we should table this till some other time, check out the response to all the songs at the shows.”

  “Um, dude?” Mike said testily, staring balefully at Vince. “We’re not sidemen. We’re a band. A family.”

  Vince waggled his head nonchalantly. “Yeah, but not that cohesive, you know? You guys write some nice tunes,” David didn’t like his tone of voice on that word, “but to be a true artistic enterprise, our sound should be stylistically consistent. Congruent.”