Brain Dead Blues

by Matt Hayward

  “Sure, I do.”

  “So, let's quench that curiosity, baby.”

  Frank sidled to the bookshelf, his white ponytail bouncing. His head moved slowly from side to side as he read the spines of the books. “All right,” he said slowly. “Here it is.”

  Pulling one of the books free, he presented it to Bill with a crooked grin. “Ta-da.”

  Bill exploded with laughter, his side hurting with each breath. “A phonebook? That's what I came all this way for?”

  Frank he-hawed, a completely idiotic sound. “It is a phonebook, man! How amazing is that? But you know that old saying. Never judge a book by its cover and all that.”

  Bill wiped a tear from his eye, getting himself under control. “What do you mean?”

  “Open it.”

  Bill tossed Frank a look before working the dusty pages. He had no idea what he was looking for, but he thought he'd know when he found it. He was right. “What in God's name is this?”

  Pulling out two sheets, Bill grimaced. The texture felt more like dried out stretches of skin than paper. He held them by the top corner, wrinkling his nose. Horrendous, He thought. Terribly old things, awfully filthy, and somehow dreadfully wrong. Faded ink lined both sides of each page in a mismatch of text and symbols.

  “Frank, just what the hell am I holding?”

  “The secret to the universe, man. At least, a part of it, anyway.”

  A cold chill worked its way up Bill's spine. “What do you mean?”

  “Ever hear of the Necronomicon, dude?”

  “You mean that fictional book by that old horror author? Lovecraft, right?”

  “Give the man a prize. You're spot on, friend… Only, you got something wrong.” He leaned forward, his voice quiet. “That book's not fictional.”

  Bill stayed silent a moment, trying to find the right words. Part of him, the rational part, wanted to throw these pages at Frank and walk away. The other part, the curious part, kept him rooted to the couch with a tingle of excitement in his lower stomach. I'm onto something here, He thought. Something important… He itched to find out.

  Smiling, Bill laid the pages on the couch next to him. “You almost had me there, Frank.”

  “Oh yeah?” Frank teased.

  “Yeah. I mean, what's even written here? Gibberish from a million years ago?”

  “To some, sure. You're partly right. But not if you know how to read it, and know what to do with it.”

  “One man's trash and all, huh?”

  “Exactly. Hand me those puppies, would ya?”

  Frank took the pages with a quivering breath that sounded almost sexual. Bill shuddered. The old hippy shuffled the pages about, seeming to look for something in particular.

  “You know all about the tritone, I'm sure. Being a musician, right?”

  Bill laughed. “The Devil's interval. I'm a rock musician, Frank, so you'd be right about that.”

  “Give me a prize, I say, huh? You know, it was first called that when Guido of Arezzo developed his system of hexachords. Did you know that? They called it Diabolus in Musica…”

  “The devil in music.” Bill nodded. “Handy piece of information to have if I'm ever at another pub quiz.”

  “On the button, man. And you know why they called it that? It's because they were tapping into the root of something great. They knew it, too. They could feel it. Anyone who heard it could feel it, and they didn't need a scientific reason to know why. Some primal part of them just knew that they were hearing something insanely powerful, and evil.”

  “Which is what?”

  “One of the oldest secrets in music, man. A key to open up people's minds, to open up doors.”

  “Doors? What kind of doors?”

  “Doors to places you couldn't even imagine, my friend. Other worlds. Worlds that would make you lose your mind even if you only gave them a glance. Places with no water, only sand; others with skies as purple as a bruise; some with spiders the size of school busses. They'd be sure to make the one on the outside of this house like a microbe, right? I'm telling you, there are things living out there that would tear you limb from limb just for being. Because they hate your kind.”

  Bill didn't ask why these creatures hated him, hell, he doubted he could say anything at all at that moment. His mind whirled at a thousand thoughts per second. The excitement building inside him was undeniable, as if he'd bought a brand new sports car but the salesman kept dangling the keys and talking about the amazing features instead of letting him drive the beauty.

  Because that's exactly what's happening here, Bill thought. This crazy bastard's already made up his mind. He's going to give me control. Control of things beyond anything I could ever have imagined.

  “How does this work, Frank?” Bill tried to hide the excitement in his voice, aware that he wasn't doing a very good job. “What do we do?”

  Frank nodded slowly, another doped-up smile splitting his face. “We write a song together, you and me. Right here, and right now. I teach you the melody, and we write the words, you dig? For this to be effective, all we need is the right melody. Music is an international language, you know that. You can throw any old words into the melody and it will work — so long as you sing it with conviction. You need to feel this melody, deep down inside you, and make other people feel it, too. Think you can do that? Think you can sing this for real?”

  Bill's mouth became a thin line. “I make a living off of singing from my heart. Don’t doubt that. I've never played a single show without giving it every fibre in my body. I don't believe in playing unless I mean it. That's what performing is all about.”

  “Well then, there's something we can agree on.” Frank no longer looked goofy and good-natured. Now, Bill thought, the man looked terribly ancient, and deadly serious. “Let's get started, shall we?”

  ¨¨¨

  Elliot leaned against the wall, trying his very best to keep down the ball of nerves that threatened to take him over. He'd listened to Bill's tale of Frank Carpenter quietly, without question. Now, he needed answers, but he didn't know where to begin.

  “So, we wrote that song,” Bill said, lifting his head to look Elliot in the eye. “And I swear, I've never heard anything like it. Frank had an old Guild acoustic in the kitchen, said it was from '87, gorgeous thing, and he gave it to me. He told me what notes to play, how to play 'em. Everything about it was nerve-wrecking. I couldn't play one note for too long, because that could cause serious damage, Frank said. I couldn't bend a note too much, because even the slightest semi-tone over would render the tune useless. It had to be perfect. And I was determined to make it so.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Bill Jennings sighed. Something shimmered in his eye and Elliot thought for a moment that the man might cry. “I'll tell you something, kid. Whatever this Frank Carpenter is, wherever he's from… he ain't human. And he certainly ain't of this world.”

  Elliot waited for Bill to continue, not knowing how to react, while Bill nibbled at his lower lip, his eyes seeing something that Elliot couldn't. He had the look of a man who'd seen the Devil himself.

  “We wrote the damn song, man. We did it.”

  “Why?”

  Suddenly, Bill slammed his arms down, making Elliot jump. “Are you a musician? Huh? Are you? Do you know the first thing about being an artist?”

  “No?” Elliot said, barely a whisper.

  “Over thirty years I've been trying to do one thing. And that’s to get people to understand what I'm about. I've written songs that made people cry, I've written songs that people've told me have gotten them through the worst times in their whole lives. Soundtracks to better days, even. I've looked out into the eyes of thousands, seen their undivided attention laid upon me like a goddamn God, kid… And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I haven't seen that for nearly fifteen years.”

  With a sniffle, Bill fell back into his seat. He wiped his face and crossed his arms over his chest, breathing slowly. �
��You know what I see when I get up in front of a big crowd now? Let me backtrack a little, actually. First of all, there is no big crowd for me. Not anymore. Can you imagine what that's like? Imagine owning your own army of devoted fans, and then, one day, they're all just gone… You have no idea what that feels like. To work so hard, build what's in no way less than a fucking empire, and then see it all dwindle out… Poof… From thousands, to hundreds, and then, just a handful.

  “Those handfuls of people, the devoted ones who remember, like the ones I've been playing to here in these small towns — they understand music. They get it. And they just want to feel that raw, pure energy I can offer. We agree on that?”

  Elliot nodded, not wanting to speak. He was beyond such things. Bill continued.

  “So, as I was saying, those big crowds these days, when I do get to play them, are a joke. The only time I get to see a sizable audience is at a festival. A lower slot on the bill when the place is still just getting busy. A nostalgia act for the older ones who've allowed time to take that feeling away from them. They don't remember what music feels like. And now, when I look out onto those crowds, I see blank faces… People talking amongst themselves, drinking beers and dancing to unheard music. Teenagers, I swear to fuck this is true, with their phones out, taking pictures of themselves at the front barrier to prove they were there. Posting it online to their friends who don't even care. Honestly, no one gives a shit! We've devalued music so damn much that people just expect you to bleed for free. And why would you do that? Why would you tear your heart out to write the best thing you've ever written when people won't pay attention, and even worse, want it for free?”

  “You could do it,” Elliot offered, “because you love it?” As soon as the words left his lips, he regretted it.

  Bill smirked. “Because you love it? Elliot, kid, listen… I was put here to do the one goddamn thing I'm good at. No, that I'm perfect at. Playing music is the hand that God dealt me. I can write music better than most of the human population, and I'm not being big headed when I say that, I'm just stating what I know to be fact. I can play, sing, express, better than most anybody. That’s what I got put here to do. Now, imagine what it feels like, when that's your damn trade, and that's what you're the king of doing, and people want it for free. They demand it for free. And they won't even listen for more than ten seconds to something you've worked on for months. What else am I supposed to do, huh? Sell coffee or work in a grocery store? When I have so much to give? Can you see where I'm coming from?”

  Elliot could. Of course he could. He didn't doubt that the world had swiped the carpet out from beneath every artist's feet in the last decade, leaving them up shit creek without a boat. “I know where you're coming from,” he said. “And I agree.”

  “Thank you… Elliot, we've gone too far, and now there's no turning back. Isn't that the saddest thing you ever heard? There's no way people will pay for music like they used to. The pull factor of being a rock star as a teenager is drying up, and one day, it'll be gone completely. Because every two-bit mongoloid with a laptop and some software thinks they can be a musician. People who have no business being a part of the industry are now taking over. We've gone too far.” Bill was silent a moment, seeming to contemplate. “How do you think record sales will be for this release?”

  “I think we can get into the thousands within the first week.”

  “One thousand? Worldwide?”

  “One or two, with the right promotion.”

  Bill laughed. “See, that's what I'm talking about. Back in the day, shit, even in the nineties, you'd be talking over a hundred-thousand in the first week for me.”

  “So, what are you thinking of doing?”

  Bill's eyes widened. “Oh, no, see, I've already done it, Elliot. Frank and I have cracked it. We've made something that nobody can resist. If music was a drug, you've only ever heard tobacco and beer. This is China White fuckin' heroin.”

  “That note,” Elliot said. “That was caused by the song?”

  “I premiered the new track last night, kid. And I can safely say, it's the greatest thing I've ever written.”

  “What happened? Tell me, what happened.”

  “We've gone too far,” Bill said with a smile. “And now there's no turning back.”

  ¨¨¨

  Bill Jennings took to the stage of Patterson's Bar in Killdubh at eight. At nine-fifteen, he thanked the audience and packed the equipment. Nine-twenty, he stood at the bar and ordered his first drink. And at nine-thirty, his first fan approached.

  The newcomer wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Bill guessed him to be in his late twenties, with long, greasy hair, and a faded army jacket drooped over his skeletal frame. Admiring the large number of badges adorned to the jacket, Bill smiled and raised his drink.

  “Thanks for coming out,” he said. “Hope you enjoyed it.”

  Chatter filled the bar, but something seemed off to Bill. The audience, a measly fifteen people or so, kept shooting Bill strange looks.

  “You don't talk? Want me to sign something?”

  Bill noticed the man sweated profusely. His moist forehead glistened beneath the dim glow of the bar lights. He licked at his cracked lips.

  “What was that?” He asked, his voice like sandpaper. “What in the world was that?”

  Fear washed over Bill then, making his stomach flutter. “A new song,” He mumbled. “Did… Did you like it?”

  The entire room fell silent. Bill felt their eyes on him, crawling all over his body, including those of the bartender and other staff members who hadn't paid in tonight. The audience looked closely, their pupils scanning frantically, as if looking for something in particular. Bill wanted to be sick.

  “I think I should—”

  A glass slammed on the bar. Bill looked over his shoulder and saw Frank Carpenter, sitting alone with a smile on his face. The old hippy nodded to Bill. “Tell the boy what it is you played, man.”

  Nobody seemed to notice Frank as he spoke. Their attention stayed on Bill.

  “It was, um… Just a new song, is all. You liked it?”

  “I loved it, Bill Jennings.” The man spoke slow, as if he'd recently been sedated. He never blinked. “I more than loved it… I felt it. You touched me.”

  “And me,” a man said from somewhere out of sight. The audience gathered in a semi-circle, blocking Bill in. He suddenly felt very claustrophobic.

  “Me, too,” another woman agreed. More joined, mumbling like an active bee hive.

  “Will you play it again?” The first man asked. His eyes vibrated in their sockets.

  Bill tipped his head. “I'm packed up, kid. Sorry about that, really.”

  “Please. Play it again, please… My arms are itching… My heart is racing.”

  “You… You what?”

  “My groin feels all funny,” he said. “Oh god, I need to hear it, please…”

  A skin-crawling symphony of begging spread throughout the crowd. That noise reminded Bill of the living dead from a movie he'd once seen back in the early seventies. It'd scared him beyond words then and it absolutely petrified him now.

  “I…” Bill struggled to talk. It felt like a golf ball had been wedged down his throat.

  “He's working on recording it as the new single as we speak, folks.” Frank jumped off his stool and stood, smiling. The audience watched him. “I'm his manager, and that's an official press release right there.”

  “Is it true?” The first man asked. He looked at Bill with something akin to panic.

  “Um, yeah… It's the first single for the new album. Should be done real soon.”

  A large man stepped forward. He trembled slightly, scratching at his rotund belly. “When?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” The big man broke into tears. “That's hours away, Bill! How the hell do you expect us to cope without it for hours? I mean, what am I supposed to do? Go home to my wife and tell her that I can't do nothing because I have to wait until
the morning to hear Heaven again? Is that what you're expecting? I'd kill her if she spoke, you know that? Her goddamn voice isn't yours… I… I can't do that, Bill. No. You can't make me kill my wife.”

  “Then how about this,” Frank offered. Bill suspected a laugh lurking just behind the man's lips. “I shouldn't really be saying anything, not to the public, you know? But you guys have been so great that I'll let you in on a little secret.”

  All eyes went to Frank now, and the relief lifted like a physical weight from Bill's shoulders.

  “There's a second song,” Frank said.

  The crowd erupted into chatter.

  “Quiet down and listen, folks. There ya go… Yeah, there's a second song. And if you thought the one you heard tonight was good, this one's going to blow your goddamn brains out the back of your heads. Imagine what you heard tonight as the appetizer. We're cooking up the main course as we speak.”

  “Oh God, I just can't wait,” A woman yelled. She sounded like she was close to orgasm.

  “I'm sure you can't, darling.” Frank pushed himself past some of the audience members and made his way to Bill's side. He clasped Bill's shoulder and gave a tight squeeze. “But now, we have to get back to the studio, okay? We're working real hard, day and night, to make it perfect and get it to you as soon as possible.”

  “All right,” a balding man with glasses said. “I guess that's fair.”

  “It's more than fair. We'll have this new song available to you as soon as we possibly can. Hey, we'll even get it on international radio.”

  A redheaded woman lifted her hands to her mouth. “Oh thank God,” she said, shaking. “Thank fucking Christ.”

  “Sure, sure. And thank you all for coming out tonight, but like I said, we've got to get going now.”

  Another woman screamed. A man standing beside her told her to shush. The entire audience looked as if they were jacked on coke.

  “Please don't go,” the redheaded woman said. “Play that song, just one more time?”

  The room exploded in agreement. They begged, pleaded, and one man fell to his knees, speaking in tongues, his head tossing back and forth. Another emptied his pockets and began sorting through the contents. He approached Bill.