“Oh, man, I can’t take all this,” Casey said.
“Okay,” Jessie said. “Here’s the plan. We walk to the car without all this baggage. Then we get in the car, turn around and come back to get our stuff.”
“Good plan,” Casey said. “Let’s get out of here before that cop comes back. I can’t believe he didn’t stop to check us out. One look in the bags and we’d be in handcuffs.”
“He’s probably late for lunch. Or maybe he’s headed back to the station for shift change.”
Casey pointed down at the skull. “No, I’ll tell you what just happened. The Voodoo cow skull just saved our ass.”
“What makes you think it’s Voodoo?”
“It’s Voodoo from the bayou,” Casey said. “I can feel it. Look at it. It’s staring back at us, like it knows more than we do. It’s exactly what the mystery man, Gabriel, said we were going to find.”
Jesse looked at the skull and understood what Casey was saying. The skull looked like it was trying to communicate some kind of message. The empty eye sockets and nose bones seemed to be snarling out a warning.
“What’s it trying to say?” Jesse asked.
“I don’t know but it doesn’t look good.” Casey bent down to take a closer look at the skull.
“You’re the one who wants to bring it home,” Jesse said.
Casey picked up the skull by both horns. “Let me tell you something about this skull. We didn’t find it.”
“What do you mean?” Jesse asked as he stared at Casey and the skull.
“It found us.”
CHAPTER TWO
FRITZEL’S
The band had a one-bedroom apartment on Esplanade Avenue on the east side of the French Quarter. Esplanade was lined with tall trees and historic, Creole mansions. The band’s apartment building was not one of those mansions. It was a modern-ugly brick building near the Mississippi River and the old U.S. Mint.
The other three members of the band were singing and working on vocal arrangements when Jesse walked in and put his two grocery bags of contraband on the narrow kitchen counter. “You’re not going to believe what I got at the grocery store.”
“Steaks for a week?” Butch guessed. He was the band’s lead guitar player and Jesse’s main songwriting partner.
“Better than that,” Jesse said.
Tim, the band’s fiddle and slide guitar player, had a guess of his own. “Two twelve packs of cold Coors beer?”
Dale, the band’s lead vocalist and self-proclaimed “best looking guy in the band,” didn’t say a word. The look in Jesse’s eyes said he was delivering something much stronger than beer.
“Is that what it looks like?” Butch asked, peering into one of the bags.
Jesse picked out a large mushroom and held it up for the band to see. “These came right out of cow pies on the bayou today, gentlemen. Casey and I picked them fresh this morning for your tripping pleasure. Be careful, I ate one about four hours ago and I’m just now able to carry on a conversation. The drive back to New Orleans was a killer. We had to stop every ten minutes. This shit will freak you out.”
“Looks like they’ve still got manure all over them,” Tim said.
“Let’s try them out right now.” Dale reached for the bag.
“No, no, we better wait.” Jesse held back Dale’s arm. “Believe me, these things will kick your ass. We better wait until we get set up and tuned up at Fritzel’s.”
“That’s only an hour away,” Butch said. “It’s Sunday. We play 6 p.m. to midnight.”
The Fritzel’s gig had been a salvation for the band, known as The Divebomberz. It was six nights a week at $120 per night, plus tips, for the whole band. Before Fritzel’s, the band had been so broke they spent their last $10 at the grocery store on red beans and rice. The band played on a small bandstand at the back of the club. A door to the right of the bandstand led to an open-air brick patio outside. It was in this private garden that the band gathered for its highly anticipated mushroom ceremony.
Butch had tuned up his Epiphone acoustic guitar with the Barcus Berry pickup and small Fender amp. Tim had his fiddle rigged with a similar pickup and a Marshall amp. Jesse’s bass guitar ran through a small Peavey amp. The band used one of Jesse’s harmonicas as a pitch pipe for tuning.
Dale was always in tune and always in costume. While the rest of the band wore blue jeans and t-shirts, Dale was in a blue, silk, flowered jump suit with sleeves as wide as his bellbottom pants.
“I believe I’ll have two to start,” Dale said.
Jesse handed him one. “These shrooms are strong. Start with one and see how you feel in a half hour.”
“I’ll start with half and see how I feel in an hour,” Butch said.
“Me too,” Tim said.
“I think I’ll have one more just to be sociable,” Jesse said.
The band ate the mushrooms and took the stage to kick off the performance with “Jambalaya” and “Hey Good Lookin” by Hank Williams. The club filled up fast for a Sunday. The crowd was singing along by the time The Divebomberz got to “Will the Circle Be Unbroken” and “Sweet Home Alabama.” The band sounded great, hitting all the changes and accents perfectly, singing four-part harmony better than ever.
The magic mushrooms began kicking in about halfway through the set. Slowly but surely, the psychedelics started turning the music into something you could taste and touch and see. Rainbows began pouring out of the small but powerful speakers.
“Let’s hear it for my band,” Dutch shouted between songs as he rang a ship’s bell near the front cash register. “First one to the register gets a free Heineken.” Dutch ran his bar like a carnival barker. He was a barrel-chested, grey-haired brawler from Holland who loved to shout. He wore a ship captain’s hat to emphasize his authority and hide his bald spot.
Dolly, the vivaciously plump waitress, struggled through the growing crowd to bring the band a round of frosty mugs filled with Heineken beer from the tap.
The more the shrooms elevated and intoxicated, the better the band played. The better they played, the more they cranked the volume. The louder the music, the more wild the scene became. The music created a magical loop that spiraled upward into a zany crescendo. Jesse felt like he was riding on top of a freight train. Tim’s fiddle was dancing wildly with Butch’s guitar. Dale’s tambourine turned the euphoria into a gypsy caravan on steroids.
Fritzel’s was packed with people by the last song of the set, “Daybreak and Dixie,” a bluegrass classic that the band transformed into hard rock. The crowd was on its feet as the band took off like a jet airplane. The entire room, including Dutch, was getting a contact high. The music became a tunnel from the real world to a realm of fantasy and pleasure. Jesse was watching his dream come true. His bass guitar and songs and band were rocking the Bourbon Street crowd into a fever pitch. Six months earlier, he could not have imagined such a scene. Now, he was a major part of making it happen. He looked at each of his fellow band members and saw them being equally swept away by the moment.
The set ended to thunderous applause as the band retired in a full sweat to the back patio garden.
Dale took off his shirt and began drying himself off with a bar towel. “Oh, man, we sound better than ever. And I am officially tripping like a mad dog.”
“I need about four beers to get back down to Earth.” Tim sat down hard at one of the chairs around a glass-topped table.
Jesse passed him a thick, smoking joint of marijuana.
Tim took a massive hit and passed it on to Butch.
Butch held up his hands. “No way. I’m high enough already. I’m not even sure how I’m playing my guitar. It feels like it’s playing itself.”
“You sound fantastic,” Jesse said. “We all do. The crowd is going wild. It’s like they’re getting high with us.”
“We are,” Casey said as he burst into the band’s meeting like a magician coming through a curtain. “I’ve been passing out shrooms since before you got started.”
He was carrying the perfectly cleaned cow skull. “Here it is boys. This is the Voodoo spirit of the bayou, from me to my good friend, Jesse. I spent the last few hours cleaning it with bleach and a brush.”
The band instinctively took a collective step backward. The skull was ominous and glowing white in the low light. The bones below where the nose used to be formed a sinister, hollow scowl. On either side of the broad, flat skull, an evil, empty, eye socket glared fiercely, knowingly. The skull presented as a spiritual force of nature.
Dale was the first to recover from the shock of the skull. “What’s his name? It looks like he’s mad about something.”
Jesse leaned in close to his mushroom-hunting, Law School friend. “Jesus, Casey. What are you doing bringing that thing in here?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t love it,” Casey said to the band.
Then he addressed the skull, “This is your new band, Voodoo cow skull. You’re going to help them write hit songs and make it to the top of the charts.”
“Is he our agent?” Tim asked.
“He’s more than that,” Casey said. “He’s your ticket to spiritual enlightenment.”
“I think I’m having enough enlightenment for one night,” Butch said.
Casey put the skull down and took a hit on the joint. “How about those shrooms? The mystery man led us right to them. By the way, where are they? I need some more. I passed all mine out to the crowd.”
“You did what?” Jesse asked.
“Don’t worry, I’m giving them away. I’m not selling anything.”
Jesse turned to look at the band and then returned his focus to Casey. “Are you out of your mind?”
“No wonder people are getting so crazy,” Butch said.
“Come on, this is going to be a night to remember,” Casey said. “What do we care? They were free.”
“The Voodoo cow skull says pass them out,” Dale said.
“Might as well share the wealth,” Tim agreed.
Jesse put his hands on his hips. “You’re going to cause a riot.”
Casey held his hand out for more shrooms. “Perfect. Let’s blow this scene into some front-page news.”
The band looked at each other and then at the skull. A unanimous decision was reached without a word being spoken. It was as though the skull had dared them to add fuel to the psychedelic fire.
Jesse relented and gave Casey a large bag of shrooms. Casey left quickly, without saying thank you, to distribute them to the crowd. The band took an extended break trying to get their bearings for the next set. The cow skull hung out, sitting on the table like another member of the band. Tim was the first to ask it a question. “What song should we start the next set with?”
Jesse was surprised to find himself actually waiting for the skull to answer.
“He says come out swinging with ‘The Orange Blossom Special,’” Tim said.
The band was still laughing when Dutch came back to the patio. “What’s going on back here? It smells like one of your pot breaks that take too long. You’ve got a packed house out there. It’s more than packed. It’s getting dangerous. I’ve never seen it like this. People are lined up on Bourbon Street to get in. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s time to go out there and knock them dead.”
Once Dutch left, each member of the band picked another magic mushroom and held it up for a toast. “Here’s to knocking them dead and living to tell the tale,” Jesse said.
“I’ll eat to that,” Dale said.
“God help us all,” Butch said, chewing on another mushroom as the band went back into the bar to take the stage.
The club only sat fifty people at small tables, but it had a long wooden bar that stretched the entire length of the shotgun-style building. The header over the bar was covered with hundreds of neckties; a visual gag from Dutch about how many people had “tied one on” in his establishment. Beneath his gruff exterior, Dutch was a good-hearted jokester. Sight gags based on American sayings were his favorites. The tip jar near the cash register was always propped up to “tip” at an angle.
The band had to remove people from their playing area to begin the second set. The small bandstand was a two-level riser, slightly higher on the back. Butch and Tim were set up behind Jesse and Dale. The crowd from the street was surging into the club, pushing people forward and onto the first level of the bandstand.
Somebody outside yelled, “Mushrooms at Fritzel’s!” Evidently, Casey had been spreading the word, as well as the magic mushrooms.
Jesse could tell that the night was going to get even crazier than it had already become. People were screaming with their hands in the air. Their eyes were wild and the band wasn’t even playing yet.
Tim hit the first note on his fiddle and the roar of approval from the crowd almost drowned him out. The band turned up its volume as “The Orange Blossom Special” went from blue grass to rock and roll and back again. Butch’s guitar was blasting a Chuck Berry rhythm under the screaming fiddle while Jesse thumped his bass hard on the one and the five of every chord. Dale had a tambourine in one hand and a shaker in the other, sounding a lot like the drummer Jesse knew the band would have to find. The musical frenzy ignited a primal response from the drug and alcohol crazed fans. They raised their arms and cheered in unison. People were standing on chairs to get a better look at the band. Jesse was overwhelmed by the crowd’s enthusiasm. He could see the crush of people trying to wedge their way into the club. The music was the only force keeping the band from getting overrun. People in back were yelling and pushing to get closer to the action. Women were climbing up on the bar to dance. A few big guys near the front were linking arms to hold back the crowd. Drunks were chugging pitchers of beer. Dolly had trouble maintaining her balance on the slippery floor and fell down with a full tray of Tequila shots splashing all over.
The room seemed to be rotating like a merry-go-round gone wild. Two delirious young women tackled Dale to the floor. He pushed them off and got back up, shaking his tambourine, without missing more than two or three measures. The temperature in the room rose to sauna bath levels. Dutch had called in his backup bartender, who was in a full sweat by the time he fought his way through the crowd and into position behind the bar. The backup waitress never did make it in. The crowd was tight as a rugby scrum. More than a hundred and fifty people had crammed into the club.
Three songs into the second set, Jesse had to stop playing momentarily to puke into a cup. The room was spinning. So was his stomach. Nothing seemed real anymore, not even his own vomit. Butch saw him do it and had to do the same. The music never faltered. The club became dangerously overcrowded. Jesse could see Dutch was having a hard time selling drinks. Customers at the bar were packed so tightly they couldn’t move their arms. It was a crush of humanity.
Across the street from Fritzel’s, Murphy Campo and his Jazz Saints were playing to an empty house. Next door, Johnny Horn and his Jazz Giants had a roomful of nothing but chairs. The neighboring club owners were not happy with the hippie happening at Fritzel’s.
It had been Johnny Horn who sat Jesse down three weeks earlier in the back patio to impart the facts of life about the music business. “Here’s the way it is,” the older trumpet player said in his raspy, cigarette voice. “We’re all whores in this business. What you’ve got to decide is whether you’re a cheap whore or an expensive whore.”
That important lesson was on Jesse’s mind as the crowd grew ever more wild and crazy. He was feeling expensive.
Near the end of the extra-long set, between songs, Jesse heard what sounded like someone speaking through a bullhorn. The garbled sound was coming from Bourbon Street, behind what could only be described as a mob scene. Whoever it was, he was beginning to make the crowd settle down. Eventually, Jesse could hear what was being said through the bullhorn.
“This is the New Orleans Police Department. You are in violation of the city noise ordinance. Your decibel levels are too high. You must stop playing immediately.”
It was obvious the police could no more gain access to the bar than anyone else. But they had a bullhorn, and they were warning anyone who could hear them that further police action was imminent. The band looked at Jesse for a heads up on what to do.
Jesse said to Butch, “Never argue with a man with a microphone.” He was referring to himself, not the bullhorn operator.
“Don’t do it, Jesse,” Butch warned.
“This is the New Orleans Police,” the man with the bullhorn said again. “You are in violation of the city noise ordinance. We will start making arrests if you don’t stop playing and clear this area.”
The crowd booed loudly. So loudly they drowned out the bullhorn.
Jesse quieted them down. His microphone was louder than the bullhorn. “Okay, everybody quiet down. I need to talk to the police. Please, be quiet so the police can hear what I have to say.”
A hush fell over the crowd. Even the bullhorn operator seemed curious and ready to listen.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your cooperation. I have something to say to the New Orleans Police Department. Are you ready to hear it?”
“Yea!” everybody in the crowd screamed.
“I said are you ready to hear it?”
“Yea!” everybody screamed again, as if it was possible to get any louder.
A small voice inside Jesse’s head told him not to proceed. He paid it no heed. A darker force was driving him. A force that told him he had the hottest band in the world and that the rules no longer applied to him or anybody he knew.
“All right, then. Here’s what I have to say to the New Orleans Police Department.” He made the crowd wait a full ten seconds before he shouted into the microphone.
“Fuck you, pigs. Fuck the New Orleans Police. Go back to your pigsty. We’re having a private party here. Go fuck yourselves.”
Pandemonium erupted. The cheer from the crowd sounded like some football star had just scored the winning touchdown as time ran out in the game.
The band kicked into “Little Liza Jane,” and the party rocked on as though the evil police had finally met their match and been defeated forever. The bullhorn operator didn’t try to compete with the rock and roll hysteria. The band played on with all the wild determination of a herd of horses that just broke through the gate. Jesse saw Dale looking at him with profound admiration. Butch, on the other hand, looked at him like he knew the episode would not end well. Tim kept playing fiddle like he was welcoming the Devil to New Orleans.
Rock and Roll Voodoo Page 3