“Were you here for ‘Hurricane on the Bayou’ and ‘I Want to Believe?’” Butch asked.
Tony seemed overjoyed. “I loved that one about the Hurricane. You guys wrote that? Far out. That’s all it takes. All I need is an ass-kicking band with great songs. Nothing to it, right?”
“You got that right,” Rick said.
Rick had been around more than the rest of The Divebomberz. He’d even played keyboard with the house band at Muscle Shoals Studio, the Swampers. “If you can get us in, we’ll be there tomorrow.”
“We might be able to do it,” Tony said. “But first, I need a tape so the people with the money can decide if they want to invest in you.”
“We’ll get you the tape,” Dale said.
The rest of the band was completely star struck by Tony and his war stories from the trenches of big time rock and roll. He wasn’t even forty years old and he’d already seen it all. At least that’s how he liked to tell the tale. Tony hung around all night, partying with the band and Donna and several waitresses. It was obvious he had flown in more for Donna than for the band. About 2 a.m., once the customers cleared out, he and Donna started laying out lines of cocaine on a low counter behind the bar.
As Jesse walked toward the bar, he was looking right at Tony when he heard the Voodoo voice say, “That man is a thief.”
Jesse stopped in his tracks. There was no doubting what he had heard. He listened for more but there was nothing. He hadn’t heard the voice in such a long time he was beginning to think it had forgotten about him.
The rest of the band passed him by and did their lines, even Rick who swore he’d never touch the stuff again. Eventually, Jesse stepped around the bar and took a long snort of cocaine that jolted him wide-awake. Although the band had tried to take seriously Johnny’s warning about hard drugs, there was no effort to abstain once the cocaine opportunity appeared. After all, they were running low on what little marijuana they’d been able to scrounge, and the alcohol they’d been drinking all night needed a kick in the ass.
Jesse looked at Tim to see if he had heard anything from the voice. Tim was too busy with one of the waitresses to be any help at all.
Donna noticed Jesse not being the life of the party. “What’s with you, Jesse? You got quiet all of a sudden.”
Jesse tried to snap out of it. “Don’t mind me. I’m just a little high. Maybe what I need is a shot of tequila to take the edge off.”
It was nearly 1 p.m. on Sunday before the band woke up and got around to packing up their gear. They were getting a late start on what would be a long drive back to New Orleans for everybody except Rene. He and the equipment trailer would hang out in Shreveport until the return engagement at Johnny’s coming up on Wednesday. Spring had returned and the roads were perfectly dry.
Donna came in to pay them and book a return engagement in August. Tony wasn’t with her, but she had his hand-written instructions on how and where to send a demo tape.
“So what did you think about my friend from Los Angeles?” Donna asked. “I told you I had friends in the music business.”
“He seems like the real deal,” Rene said. “Do you really think he can help us?”
“If Tony can’t help you, you can’t be helped,” Donna said. “And I know he can. He said he would.”
Donna left after a short visit and the band finished packing up. Excitement levels were high about their new Los Angeles contact. Everybody was sure they had found the man who could help them get a recording contract with a big record label.
Jesse continued winding up chords without saying a word.
“What’s with you, Jesse?” Dale asked. “You’re not saying much about the big breakthrough. Don’t you think Tony is our guy?”
Jesse didn’t say anything. He wasn’t about to use the Voodoo voice as a bucket of cold water on the newly raised hopes and dreams of the band. “I’m a little concerned that he didn’t come by today to say goodbye.”
“You’re a little concerned that he wasn’t your idea,” Rene said.
Rick sided with Rene. “Come on, Jesse. Don’t be such a downer.”
Jesse shrugged it off and tried to show some enthusiasm for making a tape and getting it to Tony in Los Angeles. But, at this point, it wasn’t Tony that had Jesse worried. What concerned Jesse was the alliance between Rick and Rene that made him feel like he was losing control of the band. They had even made comments about how he needed to improve his bass playing and how he maybe shouldn’t sing so much. He was beginning to think that every member he added to the band took him a little further away from making the music he wanted to make. When the band started, it was just Jesse and Butch. It was two guitarists, singing original material. Once Dale and Tim got added, Jesse shifted to bass guitar and the band started rocking up bluegrass and country standards. By the time Rene and Rick came onboard, the band was mainly learning popular hit songs because people in clubs want to sing along with songs they already know.
To top things off, the voice of Voodoo seemed to be warning him that every move he needed to make in the music business was going to be a wrong turn. It had warned him that Pete was a slave owner. It had told the ship captain it was time to defect. Now, it was warning him that Tony was a thief.
Jesse drove the band back to New Orleans. He had a lot of time to think. There was no conversation. The boys were asleep. The miles rolled by quickly.
Jesse didn’t like slipping into a funk about the future. He tried to talk himself into a more positive frame of mind. Maybe they would get to record at Muscle Shoals for Capitol records. That would be a dream come true. But the voice sounded quite sure that Tony was a thief. At least it hadn’t called him a slave owner. The fact that Tony came to hear them at all was definitely a good sign. Everyone who came to listen loved the band.
Jesse couldn’t help but slip into uncertainty and trepidation. He didn’t think Capitol Records was going to work out. Tony would forget about the Divebomberz once he got back to L.A., like he would forget about Donna. Tony was in it for Tony. That was plain to see.
Jesse kept driving and listening for the Voodoo voice. There was nothing on his private airwave but his own thoughts. That was a good thing. He was beginning to realize that listening for the voice was as important as actually hearing the voice. Listening for the voice was getting outside of himself. He didn’t need to hear anything. All he needed was to get out of the center of everything.
The sun had set by the time the band made it back to New Orleans. They awakened, one by one, as the city lights loomed in the distance. The Crescent City looked like a giant party palace, shimmering in the night.
Nobody talked much. By the time he dropped off each band member at his respective dwelling, all Jesse wanted to do was get home to Amy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
RED LIGHT
Jesse and Amy didn’t have much time together. He got home late Sunday and she had to be up early Monday to teach school. That left him alone all day with nothing but his guitar to keep him company. That was fine with Jesse. He often said, “Your friends will let you down. Even your family will let you down once in a while. But your guitar will never let you down.”
So he made himself a pot of coffee and sat down to play guitar and write himself a song. What the heck, he thought. That’s how it all started out. What am I worried about with all the band politics? I don’t have to let anything stop me from writing a song.
He decided to write a tune about his game of running red lights. He kept track of how many times he got away with it before getting arrested. He was up to two hundred and forty-five successfully run red lights, and counting.
It took four hours, three pots of coffee, a half pack of cigarettes and three joints before he finally had the song completed. It was a good one. The song practically wrote itself. One verse led to the next. The chorus leaped out of thin air and grabbed him by the throat.
It didn’t matter what anybody else thought. He had learned to trust the process o
f listening for the muse. It was pretty much the same thing as listening for the Voodoo voice. Both the muse and the voice were something you felt more than actually heard. Listening for either one was like letting yourself out of a cage.
The song started on a cool country lick in D. The refrain went to E minor and the chorus started on a good old cowboy C chord. Jesse wrote it for his vocal range. He could sing it well. The tune had a ton of lyrics, but Jesse had them memorized by the time Amy got home from school. He played the song for her.
Late one night at the traffic light
I was waiting for the stop to go
I looked both ways but there
Wasn’t nobody coming
So there I was obeying the law
When I began to feel a little foolish
I said the light was red
But man those streets were empty
So I took a deep breath and stepped on the accelerator
Guess I knew they’d catch me sooner or later
Sure enough come a police car right out of nowhere
Wants to see my license
Wants to smell my breath
Well I told the law he was being small
For taking me to the jail
I said that red light
Can’t see what I can see
But as you might guess I was in a helluva mess
Because I ran a red light that night
But I must confess I’m gonna
Do it every chance I get
Cause it’s so much fun running red lights
Especially in the dark without no headlights
It makes me feel like an urban guerrilla
It’s a revolutionary thriller
And a genuine time killer
So remember this song when your chance comes along
To strike a blow against the great computer
Stop wasting gas
In the name of electricity
You might find when you make up your mind
There’s a lot of red lights to run
And you better run a few if you’re gonna
Get where you’re going
Cause that red light can’t see what you can see
Go ahead and run it
That red light can’t see what you can see
Yeah, yeah, yeah, run it
Amy bounced up and down and clapped enthusiastically as Jesse finished the song with a flourish and held the guitar over his head for emphasis. She hugged him as he set down the guitar. “Do you think the band will play it? It’s a little bit of a novelty song.”
Jesse winced and shut his eyes as he tilted his head toward the ceiling. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing bad,” Amy said. “It’s just not your standard I love you but you broke my heart so I’m leaving.”
He waited for her to continue but she clammed up.
“What? That’s all you’ve got to say? Come on, I can see you’ve got more.”
Amy shrugged her shoulders and lowered her head. “Well, you know how I feel about your red light game.”
Jesse took a big breath and puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. “You don’t like it.”
Amy looked up at him and tried to be the voice of reason. “It’s not that I don’t like it. I think it’s funny and all. I like the stand up for your human rights bit. But it’s going to get you in trouble. We can’t afford any more tickets. I’ve already bailed you out of jail once. I’d rather not do it again.”
Jesse thought back to his one-day stay in the New Orleans jail and realized she was right.
Amy kept up the pressure … “And another thing. You’ve been talking about how we all need to escape the prison of self, or whatever you want to call it. Then, you turn around and run red lights like the law doesn’t apply to you. Call me crazy, but I think breaking rules for sport is about as self centered as you can get.”
“I only run red lights when there’s nobody else around. When it’s stupid to sit and wait for no reason other than to obey the law. It’s not selfish to want to be free. The people of this country had to fight to be free, and now our freedom is vanishing in a terrible web of technology.”
“If a red light challenges your sense of freedom, I’ll hate to see what having a wife will do.”
“You wouldn’t tell me to wait for traffic that wasn’t there.”
The phone rang. It was Butch, right on time. Jesse put the phone on a chair and played him the new song. He sang it soft and slow so his songwriting partner could hear the changes coming and feel how the words fit with the melody.
Amy applauded after she heard the new tune again.
Jesse talked with Butch for a minute, then said goodbye and hung up the phone.
“Well?” Amy asked.
“He loved it,” Jesse said.
“He’s not mad that he didn’t write it with you?”
“That’s not how we are,” Jesse said.
“What about the rest of the band?” she asked, alluding to the fact that original material was losing out to hit songs on the band’s playlist.
“Once Butch learns the guitar part and I get the bass line down, the rest of the band will turn this little song into a monster hit.”
“Excuse me, Jesse. It’s not a hit until you sell a million copies.”
Jesse grabbed her and lifted her off her feet in a huge hug. “Details, details, my beloved. Your future husband just wrote a great song today.”
Jesse was jinxed as soon as he wrote the song. The very next night he got a ticket for running a red light in the Garden District. The New Orleans police officer didn’t care that Jesse was the only car at the intersection, and that no one had been put in danger. Nor did he care to hear Jesse’s new song about running red lights. The officer wrote Jesse a ticket and gave him a stern verbal warning. “Traffic safety applies to all drivers,” he said as he shook the ticket in Jesse’s face. “You better be a lot more careful. You’re going to get cute one night and kill somebody.”
Jesse drove away in Harley, scarcely able to believe he had not been able to talk his way out of the citation. It pissed him off that the cop had been so condescending.
Jesse watched in his rear view mirror until the law turned off his emergency flashers and drove away in the opposite direction. Once the police car was out of sight, Jesse crumpled up the traffic ticket, threw it out the passenger window and promptly forgot about it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MACED
Amy came up to hear the band on the Friday of their third booking at Johnny’s Cimarron Club in Shreveport, Louisiana. At least thirty motorcycles were angle parked, back tires to the curb, in front of the club. This was the night The Wheelers decided to make a long road trip to catch up with their favorite band.
The club was packed as she worked her way inside during the middle of the second set. The Divebomberz were putting a funky spin on “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones. Dale was doing a great Mick Jagger, alternating between deep, dark warnings and fierce whispers. Jesse and Rene and Butch were laying down a solid, rhythm thunder that sounded like a Mardi Gras parade trying to squeeze down Bourbon Street. Rick was wailing on the Hammond B-3 organ and Tim was fiddling like the devil in the song, laying traps for troubadours who get killed before they reach Bombay. The band sounded like moonshine music from the forbidden swamp.
Amy couldn’t believe it was the same band she had seen getting their start at Fritzel’s on Bourbon Street. It was a much better band, even, than the one she had seen on public television in New Orleans. Rick and his keyboards, and months on the road, had rounded out the sound and vaulted the band to new levels of musicianship. Her eyes filled with tears of appreciation as she waded through the crowd to get Jesse’s attention. The band looked more professional than the last time she had seen them. Their stage movements were more fluid and controlled. They looked more self-confident. Jesse wasn’t jumping around anymore.
The Wheelers had the same reaction as Amy. The
ir favorite band had gotten much better since the last time they heard it. They got as close to the band as they could, and shouted out their appreciation like bloodthirsty fans at a boxing ring.
Jesse was shocked to see Dupre dancing right in front of him, doing a two-step without a partner. Dupre wasn’t limping anymore. The Safari fire injury had healed. He waved at Jesse with the sarcastic wit of an inmate who’d just gotten out of federal prison. It was so loud in the club that Jesse had to read his lips when he pointed all eight fingers at himself and said, “I can’t believe I’m here.”
Rose, the Italian woman, was also dancing right up front. She was doing a hippy shake that caused her short black skirt to ride up dangerously high. She had not given up on Jesse.
Jesse saw Amy making her way through the crowd. He waved the bass at her, and gave her a big smile. This was going to be interesting, he thought, having Rose and Amy in the same spot. Rose turned around to see what Jesse was smiling at. When she saw Amy, Rose turned back to glower at Jesse. Jesse wouldn’t meet her stare.
The band finished the second set with a spirited rendition of “Your Cheating Heart” by Hank Williams. They didn’t play it like Hank’s slow rolling version. They played it like the English punk rock band, the Sex Pistols, hard and fast. The crowd loved it. Country punk had come to town.
Once the band took a break, Dupre came up to give Jesse a big hug before Jesse could put down his bass guitar. The biker crowded Amy out until Jesse took her into his arms for a welcome-to-Shreveport kiss. Rose was standing right next to Amy after the kiss.
Jesse thought he was going to have to introduce the two women until Amy spared him the trouble. “Hi, I’m Amy. Jesse and I are getting married in June.”
It was a definite “back off, he’s mine” move. Rose looked at Jesse, who smiled to let her know it was true. Rose turned around abruptly and disappeared into the crowd.
“Who was that?” Amy asked. “She didn’t look too happy to hear you were getting married.”
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