Brain Dead Blues

by Matt Hayward

  A tense silence filled the room as Bill stared at Elliot with wide eyes, waiting for a reaction. Then he smiled. “Play me a radio track that's hot at the minute, even five years from now, and I'll bet you my right testicle that when the fad that launched it is over, it's going to sound about as powerful as an old man's fart. That's all it was to begin with, right? A manufactured piece of auto-tuned wholesale garbage in a shiny package for the masses. And at a reasonable price, too.”

  Outside, the night wind howled. The wood of the cabin creaked, groaning as it settled. Elliot realized he didn't really know Bill Jennings, at all. Sure, he knew the man's musical persona, but not the man behind the mask. And now, with the note, with Wayne gone, with Bill's overnight disappearance, he didn't know what to think. “I still don't see where you're going with this, Bill.”

  “You asked about that note there on the table.” Bill rearranged himself on the chair. “That note was from a fan who came to my show last night in Killdubh.”

  Elliot had missed the show because he and Wayne had needed to have another meeting with the Arts Council in Dublin. It'd been Bill's second show. At the first, in Ballybriggs, Bill had been on top form, and Elliot'd gotten goosebumps all over. He felt safe leaving the second show with no supervision.

  Bill lit another cigarette. “You remember that old man who I left with after that first show?”

  “Sure. The guy who reminded me of Tommy Chong, yeah. Family friend, right?”

  “That's what I told you.” Bill blew smoke from his nostrils. “I never met that man before in my life.”

  Elliot's skin crawled. “Why'd you leave with him?”

  “Because that man understood music. He said some things to me at the bar that I haven't heard someone speak so passionately about since I was a very young man.” He nodded slowly. “Learn to know your own kin, kid. Learn to recognize them. It will take you far and save you a lot of trouble in life. That said, he was one of mine.”

  “What happened?”

  “We went back to his place and talked music. We had some twenty year malt, and he told me things I always thought to be true, but never thought possible. Paths have been opened for me, Elliot. Bridges built. I see things in a way now that I could never put clearly into words… But I can play it.”

  “You guys wrote a song?”

  “Calling this creation a song would be like calling the Titanic a rowboat. Nah… Nah, this is something much more than a song, kid. This is energy. Pure and absolute. This is a gateway.”

  Elliot went cold. He wanted to get away from here. Wanted to find Wayne. Suddenly, he was regretting ever contacting Bill Jennings. “What are you getting at? I'm not understanding.”

  Bill smirked, blowing smoke. “Then let me explain it to you.”

  ¨¨¨

  Bill Jennings entered Leroy's Lounge in Ballybriggs at eight-thirty with his worn-out Gibson guitar case clutched in his right hand. At thirty-three years, the guitar had been with him longer than most of his friends. The leather handle, in need of repair, creaked with each step. Bill didn't mind. He was used to the sound.

  “Bill, it's very nice to have you here.” An old man approached, wearing overalls and a greasy baseball cap. A friendly smile spread across his face as he extended his hand for a shake. “You're the biggest name I've ever had come to my bar. I can't thank you enough.”

  Bill nodded, shaking the man's hand. His palm felt like leather, calloused from years of manual labour, Bill guessed. “Thanks. I take it you're Leroy?”

  “In the flesh. Please, Mr. Jennings, if you need anything, just give me a shout. Drinks are on the house.”

  “Thank you, I'll do that.”

  Bill left Leroy and looked around the room. He guessed it could comfortably seat perhaps two-hundred patrons, maybe another fifty standing. He'd played places only half as big back in the States. The seats weren't full, but at least half were. Audience members craned their necks to look at him. Some smiled, others stared. Bill waved before making his way to the bar. The place smelled of sawdust and stale beer, but to him, it smelled like the raw stench of live music.

  “I'll have a pint and a glass of tap water, please.” Bill lowered his guitar and went for his wallet.

  “No charge, Mr. Jennings. We're glad to have you. Guinness do you?”

  “Sure, thank you.”

  Bill smiled as the bartender poured his drink. He wasn't used to getting free drinks at shows, not anymore. Back in the days of Two Smoking Barrels, he'd have gotten not only free drinks, but full catering and his own changing room. Maybe even a groupie or two. Those had been the days when the music industry had money. Times had changed.

  Bill thanked the bartender and took his pint. After a sip, he turned towards the stage as Leroy got to the house mic. “Attention, please, ladies and gentlemen.”

  The white noise of chatter died down.

  “Thank you. My name is Leroy Kava—”

  “Go on, Leroy!” Someone shouted. The audience chuckled lightly.

  “Heh. Yes. I'm Leroy Kavanagh, and I'd like to thank you all for coming out. It is a very special night. When I was a younger man, I enjoyed not Country and Western, like many other people around this village, but Rock 'n' Roll.”

  The crowd whooped and cheered, stomping their feet and clapping.

  “Yes. It's funny how many of you enjoy the same music as myself, but back then, Ballybriggs was a very different place. If you didn't go to mass on a Sunday like a good little boy, and if you didn't listen to the charts like everybody else, then you were odd. And they didn't like you.” Leroy's face fell serious. “I remember being called names because of my taste in music. One in particular that stuck, because of my lack of weight and fuzzy hair, was Thin Fizzy.”

  An outburst of laughter.

  “Yes, it's funny to laugh about now, but back then, it was very hurtful, indeed. Either way, what I'm trying to say is, isn't it funny how times change? Over the years, those bullies who hated Rock 'n' Roll either kept quiet in their homes or moved away, allowing many of you younger folk to move in, bringing a much needed piece of culture along with you. We needed culture.”

  A slow applause swelled.

  “Thank you. I don't want to stay up here and ramble, but I will say this… Our community needs Rock 'n' Roll. Our community needs diversity. Thank you for keeping me in business for as long as you have. I opened this bar with the hopes of having Rock 'n' Roll bands come through on a weekly basis, and ever since nineteen eighty-six, I've done just that. And now, nearly thirty years later, I have the honor of bringing to my bar, one of my all time favorite vocalists and guitarists. And we're very happy to have him. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming, all the way from Seattle, mister Bill Jennings!”

  The crowd stood, cheering and applauding not like seventy-five people, but hundreds. Bill worked his way through the center isle, embarrassed by the empty seats at the back. The audience clapped his shoulders and shouted praise as he passed. Climbing the stage, he nodded to the sound engineer, sitting in a booth out of sight to the audience. The crowd fell silent, watching eagerly. He lowered his guitar case to the floor and knelt beside it, taking out his Gibson.

  “You can chat amongst yourselves for a minute,” He shouted over his shoulder, very aware that seventy-five people were watching an elderly man squat on a stage with his butt turned. People chuckled. “Going to be a little while here.”

  After an embarrassing few minutes of back and forth with the sound engineer about cables and microphones (and having to ask the bartender to bring him a stool), Bill was ready.

  “Good evening ladies and gentlemen.” His voice came clear and crisp over the modest PA. “I'm very happy to be here in Ireland and doing this tour.” He began tuning his guitar as he spoke, an old distraction he knew many guitar players used to keep the show moving. “The plan is to put out my first solo album, recorded here in county Wicklow, and have it out in the next couple of months on Packman Records. I'm very honored that the
re's still an audience willing to listen, and I thank you for your time. Some of you may remember this one. Two Smoking Barrels recorded it way back in '79. It's called The Marionette.”

  A polite clap rang out as Bill played the first chord. He closed his eyes and let the notes roll past his lips as he got lost in the music. It always happened that way. He could be doing a show in a full stadium or even in a tiny café — it didn't matter. When the music started, he drifted through the same sonic landscape.

  Forty-five minutes later, he thanked the crowd for coming out. They gave a standing ovation and cried for an encore but Bill shook his head and said he hadn't prepared much else. They seemed to understand.

  Nodding to Elliot and Wayne (their signal to start packing equipment) he made his way to the bar, the audience hobbling behind like a row of baby ducks after their mother. He signed a total of fifty albums, mostly original 70's vinyl pressings of Dog Tired and The Marionette, the biggest releases by Two Smoking Barrels. He'd even signed a handful of rare singles that he'd never known existed.

  “That's the last photo I'm doing, thank you all very much.”

  Bill settled at the bar and ordered another pint. An old man sat smiling beside him, drinking what looked to be whiskey. Elliot and Wayne were at the far end of the bar, sorting out the financial side of the night with Leroy Kavanagh.

  “Nice playing,” the old man said. His voice sounded doughy, as if he'd had one joint too many. His hair reached the middle of his back, tied off in a frizzy ponytail. The bushy beard on his face lifted as he smiled.

  “Thanks,” Bill said. He pulled up a seat next to the man. “Did you come for the show?”

  “Sure, sure. Buy you a drink?”

  “I'm covered, thanks. But your next one's on me. Little token of appreciation.”

  “Much obliged, dude.”

  Bill cracked his back and thanked the bartender when his Guinness arrived. He took a large mouthful and wiped away the froth stuck to his beard. He thought no place in the world could pull a pint of Guinness like they could in Ireland. “First show out of the States in nearly twenty years,” he said. “First show ever here in Ireland, actually. Did you enjoy it?”

  “Oh, I thought it was perfect, man.”

  “Thanks. You got a name?”

  “Frank,” the old man said. “They call me Frank Carpenter.”

  “Well, it's a pleasure, Frank. They call me many names, most of them bad, but you can just call me Bill.”

  “Bill it is.”

  Frank stared him in the eye, as if searching for something. He shifted his position on the stool and cleared his throat. Then he took another sip from his glass.

  “There's magic in music, isn't there?” Frank asked, swirling the now nearly-melted ice cubes.

  “There sure is.”

  “Can make your whole body shiver… Make your hair stand on end… Bring you to tears of joy… The entire scope of human emotion, tapped into by one brave enough to do it. You've got power in your hands when you play, Bill Jennings. You've got all the power in the world.” He finished his drink and motioned to the bartender for a second. “If you just knew how to release it.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Bill's knuckles tightened around his pint glass. His eye twitched. Who in the world does this man think he is? Telling Bill Jennings, of all people, if he only knew how to release real emotion in music.

  “Let's drink up,” Frank said. “And then I'll show you. I have many things to show you.”

  Bill saw something just then, a sort of glow in the old man's eye. It lasted only seconds, then vanished. Trick of the light, Bill thought. For god's sake, drink up.

  Ordinarily, fans didn't spook him, no matter how fanatic or wild they may be, but Bill didn't pin Frank as a typical fan. Bill'd been around many famous musicians in his life, and each one seemed to emit some sort of gravitational pull, as if, without even asking, you simply knew they were important. Their presence demanded your attention. Frank Carpenter had that very vibe.

  “I have a place near here, Bill. Little cabin that I'm renting for the time being. I've acquired something that I'd like to pass along to you, if you'll have it.”

  At least he's not a crazed fan, Bill thought. He’s not drooling all over me. Besides, I've got at least fifteen years on the guy.

  Bill finished his pint with a gulp. “Okay, you’ve piqued my curiosity. What is it?”

  The old man smiled, showing gnarled and browned teeth. “Come and see, man.”

  ¨¨¨

  The cabin sat off the main road, tucked away down a narrow country lane. Bill and his new companion had taken a local taxi, free of charge, courtesy of Leroy's Lounge. As the cab taillights disappeared, smoke-like clouds wafted from both men's lips.

  “How long have you been here?” Bill asked. He slipped his hands deep inside his pockets and shivered.

  “Just the past week, man. Renting it from a very nice couple who own some properties all across Ireland. I mean, it's cheap, it's cosy, and that does me just fine. Know what I'm sayin'?”

  “I get you.”

  Bill observed the house. A claw of weeds crawled up the walls. The stone front had once been painted white but now had faded to a nasty, curdled yellow. Red bricks broke through the shabby paint like sores, and as Bill watched, a spider the size of his fist scuttled along the surface.

  “Jesus, that thing was huge!”

  “Get them in the winter, man. Looking to find someplace warm, I think. Don't like the cold, they mustn't. Like myself.” He chucked, showing crooked teeth that made him look ridiculously goofy. “Hey, never thought I'd have something in common with spiders, did you? Eh?”

  “Guess I've never given it much thought.”

  “Hah. Anyway, let's get inside before we end up like that guy at the end of that movie. Know that one?”

  “Sure.”

  Bill didn't, but he also didn't want to stand outside much longer. The forest looming behind the house gave him the creeps, and after seeing that spider, he didn't want to think about what else might be out there.

  Frank spoke, as if reading Bill's thoughts. “Ain't nothing out there to worry about.” His voice sounded low and thick, his eyes far away. Bill's skin crawled. “Nothing big, I mean. It's Ireland, man. Just some birds, foxes, and maybe the odd newt, you know?”

  “Sure.”

  Bill felt too stunned to ask Frank how he'd known what he'd been thinking. I gestured with my eyes. That had to be it. Frank Carpenter could get a good read on people. Those types of people existed in the millions.

  Frank clomped through the overgrown plants towards the front door. When he reached it, he gave it a kick. The door swung open.

  “Safe to leave it unlocked like that?” Bill asked. He made his way to the doorstep.

  “Nobody around here, man. Nobody at all. Wicklow's like Ireland's free-zone. No nothing around here but forests and tiny towns. Being a Yankee like yourself, I like that. Don't you?”

  “Sure.”

  Frank led the way into the hall with a smile. Bill closed the door behind them. The door jammed before it reached the frame and he pushed it with both hands, slamming it shut. Frank apologized, saying that always happened, then clapped his hands. The light bulb overhead, caked in cobwebs, popped to life.

  “You've got to be kidding me,” Bill muttered, his mouth open. “Clap-activated lights, in this place?”

  Frank nodded. “That couple who rent it to me are odd, right? Everything's, like, spooky, or something.”

  Bill agreed. He observed the hallway as he followed Frank to the living room. A damp smell drifted in the air, reminiscent of dirty, boggy clothes. Water, Bill guessed, had settled into the strangely painted orange walls. Mold spread from one corner, looking like a Rochester test. They entered the living room.

  “Cosy,” Bill muttered. But he didn't mean it. The small room had a single couch to one side, looking like the carcass of some unfortunate animal. A small stove sat across f
rom it, rusted and ancient. To the left of that stood an old fashioned television with a bent antenna. All around were crowded bookshelves.

  “It does the job, man. Know what I'm saying? Here, have a seat.”

  Bill did, and instantly regretted it. The damp, oily material made his body shiver on contact. He forced himself to smile. “Thanks.”

  Frank laughed. “Dude, you hate this place, right?”

  Bill tried to object but Frank waved his hand. “Me, too, don't worry! But we don't have to be here long, so relax. I just want to give you something, that's all.”

  Bill still couldn't put his finger on why he'd decided to follow this man home, and the more time that went by, the more insane the decision seemed. Frank had absolutely nothing he wanted. In fact, he was quite content with how things were going, so there was nothing he really needed. With the tour booked, he had a free place to stay while tracking the album, and once sales took off, he hoped to rent his own place. It wouldn't be a lot, but it would do. So what brought him here?

  Frank smiled, his eyes dopey. “You're here because something tells you it feels right, man. And you're correct in thinking that. It's like a calling, isn't it? You just feel it, all deep in your bones and stuff.”