The Wild Harmonic

by Beth W. Patterson

  BETH W. PATTERSON

  THEWILD HARMONIC

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters and incidents in this

  work are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

  actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Beth W. Patterson

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the

  scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without

  the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the

  author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book

  (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained

  by contacting the publisher at Inquiries@ClevelandWritersPress.com.

  Hidden World Books

  Cleveland Writers Press Inc.

  31501 Roberta Dr., Bay Village, OH 44140

  ClevelandWritersPress.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-943052-39-4

  eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-943052-38-7

  First Edition: March 2017

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Smoke & Shadow Books is an imprint and trademark

  of Cleveland Writers Press, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their

  content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  on file with the publisher.

  Cover and Interior Design by Monkey C Media

  Dedicated to the memory of

  The Lord of Garbage,

  the greatest shape-shifter of them all.

  Rest in peace, you sick bastard.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  ACT I: TRACKING

  Chapter 1: Prelude to a Howl

  Chapter 2: Cadenza

  Chapter 3: Theory and Practice

  Chapter 4: Aria and Fugue

  Intermission

  ACT II: PHASE SHIFTERS

  Chapter 5: Phantom Power

  Chapter 6: Backward Masking

  Chapter 7: Phase Interference

  Chapter 8: Ground Lift

  Chapter 9: Dominant Preparation

  Chapter 10: Coda

  Intermission

  ACT III: VARIATIONS ON A THEME

  Chapter 11: Ambience Synthesis

  Chapter 12: Splitter

  Chapter 13: Splicing Block

  Chapter 14: Signal Flow

  Chapter 15: Outro

  Playlist

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Warmest thanks to my mentors, advisors, and beta readers: Bill Fawcett, Jody Lynn Nye, Kevin Dockery, Gena Valentine, James P. McCormick, Wayne R. Oliver, Ben Waggoner, Sarah Neilson, Elyn Selu, Soner Çiçek, Gerald Trimble, Maria Ferguson at Wolf Howl Animal Preserve, Dan Lively, Shandy Phillips, Mark Soderquist, Lisa “Ronicus” Davis, Lisa O’Hara, Bob Craven, my real-life pack (Stephen “Salty” Randall and Rob “Buckshot” Schafer), and Woha the wolf.

  Major kudos to my awesome editor Patrick LoBrutto for steering this endeavor in the right direction and to Paul Huckelberry for making this all happen. Also to the real Darren Cook, aka Captain Thylacine of the Never Never.

  And extra special thanks to every musician with whom I have played. For better or for worse, you all made me what I am. And thanks to my family and friends for loving me in spite of this.

  ACT I

  TRACKING

  “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be

  insane by those who could not hear the music.”

  —FRIEDRICH NIETZCHE

  CHAPTER

  1

  PRELUDE TO A HOWL

  It’s time to flip the switch from ‘standby’ to ‘on’ and unleash the beast!” Raúl the drummer shouts, and I bare my teeth in assent. He starts us off with a mighty cadence across the tom toms and we all jump in on a tight downbeat. We hit the crowd hard with a clenched fist of bass, drums, keyboard, horns, electric guitars, and the commanding presence of our menacing-looking Rasta frontman. The mural of Bob Marley behind us stares out at some unseen vision. Gods, I’ve missed playing reggae.

  Frenchmen Street, just over the border of the French Quarter and into the Marigny district, is a hot bed of music, less touristy Bourbon and full of authentic bands, unique restaurants, and art markets. And while the Jamaican-themed Café Negril hosts bands of every sort, on the weekends reggae is king. It’s been years since Hurricane Katrina, but the aftereffects have still filled the denizens of New Orleans with an even fiercer need for ceremony, and the long, narrow club is crammed with people hungry for life.

  And I am hungry, too.

  As Nigel, our lead singer, calls out a tribute to Haile Selassie, Raúl and I drop out for eight bars and I grab the moment to dislodge a strand of my long, Creole mustard-colored hair from the strap of my tank top. Onstage in a packed club, it doesn’t matter that I am not a pretty woman. For even in a musical city like here in New Orleans, no one plays bass quite like I do. Oh, sure there are better players, with better tone and timing, who can hold down grooves that would keep a train from derailing. They can play soaring solos, or raise a band to new heights from the ground up. But I’m the one who stayed in the spotlight all these years. I have instinct and a ferocity that allows me to dive so deeply into the sound, I don’t see anyone’s judgment. When I become one with the music, I am a pair of eyes, a pair of ears, a pair of hands, and frequencies. At the same time I’m holding in the core of my being a darkness that I can’t let the rest of the world see.

  My bass is a comfort in my hands, the thick strings gliding under my fingers, the familiar weight balanced across my shoulder, and the smoothness of the body leaning into my right side like a favorite dance partner. I forget to be uneasy, and let myself ease into the pocket. Raúl and I sit out when only the guitar and keys play together in what they call riddim, then dive back in when it’s just bass and drums together in dub. We all close in together and raise our voices. The vocal harmonies are especially tight tonight. We are all just a bunch of misfits come together, and tonight we are creating a sound. It’s who we are.

  Many people, including voodoo drummers, Jesuits, and music therapists, have told me that repetition of rhythm can induce a trancelike state. You can also see this in mantras for meditation. These structural riddims certainly have gotten me into another universe altogether. In reggae, there is no showmanship allowed for a bass player. Just create solid bass lines without variation, and pay attention to the spaces between the notes as well.

  A current of sound energy connects Rowan and me. Just thinking of him makes my breath quicken. Even if he weren’t working as the soundman tonight, I would still be able to pinpoint his location. His dark, laughing eyes are shining in the back, even though the spotlights prevent me from seeing past the edge of the stage. Much as I’d like to, I’m not going to try to seduce him tonight. Maybe I’ll just lunge for his throat. That would be safer. Something is going on; it scares me. We have more in common than he knows.

  The PA system here at Café Negril isn’t great, but at least I don’t have to worry about how I sound when Rowan is behind the board. He can do a world-class job of slaying feedback and balancing a mix. Most folks who have worked with him have remarked that they don’t know how he does it. Live or in the studio, it’s as though he can hear notes before they even start. I would bet my bass that his keen auditory senses are because of what he really is.

  Trust in Rowan has been creeping up on me. That never happens, not in years. Not for those like me. It’s like somethin
g magical, or something much darker. I wish I knew why, or even how he is doing this. Sometimes I feel as though he would understand me better than anyone on this planet … and I am terrified of how crushed I’d be if I were wrong.

  A hoarse, high-pitched screeching from around the corner of the bar tears the fabric of the night air, jangling my nerves. A cat seems to have just met an untimely end in the street. Helpless to the animalistic desperation that stabs at my senses, the scent of death assaults my nose: bodily functions shutting down, blood flowing, energy shifting. I don’t lose the groove, but I give the room a desultory glance. The crowd continues its oblivious dance, but Raúl and I exchange a fleeting glance of concern. One side of my upper lip peels back from my teeth.

  Nigel calls for riddim, which I accidentally interpret as dub. Among the crisp guitars skanking on the upbeats and the keys filling in the smaller gaps, I suddenly stick out like a low thumb. I try to make my blunder sound as deliberate as possible, sliding my note slowly down the neck and into oblivion. Why couldn’t my friend at the voodoo shop find a potion that wards against stupidity?

  I have to free myself, if this is not real. This unhexing charm had better work. I’d have been better off tucking the gris-gris bag in my bra, held against my skin, but that would have been too distracting. The comforting lump of it in my pocket will have to do. The scent of pungent smoke and the sweet herbs tucked into it promise a miracle. My lungs creak as I try to inhale some sort of immunity to this obsession with Rowan, because if I continue to feel like a bloodhound on a scent trail, I’ll never get through the gig.

  What is really frightening is that I don’t want to fight it. It’s like a delicious drug, which scares the hell out of me. If Rowan is doing this, he does not know the danger he is putting us both in. But I can’t seem to resist it. Is it wrong to crave dangerous toys? There is a big, swollen full moon in the sky, and I think it’s making us all a little mad. The glowering disk always has affected me more than others.

  No! I have to focus on the gig, and I watch Raúl’s bass drum pedal to ground myself. Raúl and I have been working together for a number of years now on various blues, funk, and reggae gigs. I can always count on him to keep everyone in line, signaling the changes with his clockwork playing. Nyahbinghi chants are next. Even though I myself am not a Rastafarian, this piece needs to be given the respect it deserves: Babylon and Zion and freedom and fire.

  The intensity of the show increases. Assorted scents fall into complex olfactory harmonies of their own: sweat from the dancing audience, the acrid tang of cheap, spilled booze, and cilantro from the tiny grill past the bar where many a starving musician can get an insanely good taco on a thrifty nickel. A fainter odor: I can tell that someone almost made it to the grimy restroom way in the back. The girl dancing by herself up front is putting on an impressive veneer of joy, but the scent of her loneliness is so far in the olfactory foreground, I have to shield myself from her secret melancholy. Time to dig into my strings, ground, and bring myself back to task.

  We launch into a ragga dancehall song next, the sharp accents of the intro shooting across the stage and up my leg bones. Raúl shoots me a comical grin, and I chuckle. It’s going to be okay. We always have fun when we work together. Raúl never tells me what made him decide to settle in New Orleans, but he seems to love it here. Even though he expresses no desire to leave this crazy town, he always teases me that he’s going to steal me away and take me to his native Mozambique with him … exaggerating his accent, occasionally switching to Tsonga or Portuguese, describing his native African culture in outlandish caricature. Perhaps I would like to meet his brother? He would just eat me up. Once you go Mozambique, no other will you seek. (Or it will hurt to take a leak, or it will make your whole week—there’s a different rhyme every time he goes into this act.) Most of us musicians are a crude bunch, and Raúl’s antics never fail to get a laugh out of me. There’s a genuine harmlessness to it all, and I’m quite certain that he can sense that my affections secretly lie elsewhere.

  I squint through the lights at Rowan. Either this little gris-gris bag doesn’t work, or I really am in love with him. No way to know for sure until the bag does its magic, literally. So there’s nothing to do except lose myself in the music for now, swaying to my own spell.

  But with the trance-induced groove, an awful realization creeps over me.

  Rowan hasn’t bespelled me at all. Why would he? He could have any woman he wants, and I am not exactly a prize. My heart does a nosedive into my gut. I am so screwed. It’s far easier to lift a curse than it is not to feel an emotion.

  Finally we are on the last song in the set. Most people have begun to trickle out as Nigel brings us down with a song about feeling irie, mellow and agreeable. But the ones who are sticking around are still craving more. As much as I am feeding on this power surge, I can’t wait to get home. This is Frenchmen Street, not touristy Bourbon, but it’s still getting too crowded. It will be too risky to even tell Rowan goodnight. I simply don’t trust myself.

  But he is gone before I’ve even packed up my bass. I am torn between the relief of keeping my secret and the empty longing for something I have never known.

  Back uptown in my tiny one-bedroom apartment, I heave a groan of relief and frustration. Surrounded by my comforts—my books, my Rush posters, hazardous toys, and knickknacks, I am in my territory now. I can keep my secret, even during the full moon, but it’s physically draining. It’s time to fully be myself.

  My blinds permanently drawn, it is now safe to throw self-consciousness to the wind. Stripping off my stage clothes and throwing my little gris-gris bag onto the floor, my body finds much needed relief as I drop to all fours and allow the change. It feels good: stretching my spine, extending my tail, and feeling my fangs protrude, as if the beast of me has been cramped in a kennel all month. As long as my playing doesn’t sound pure white, I don’t mind if my fur is. Another growl that can’t be helped resounds, this time from my stomach. Between the long gig and now my body’s change into a large wolf, it voices its displeasure at me for not having grabbed a burrito at the venue.

  Only one more day of the full moon, and tomorrow’s gig is a showcase. It means that I’ll have only forty-five minutes onstage, and I’ll get to see some friends. It should be far easier than what I had to deal with tonight. A lot of my musical peers will be there. Comradeship in the music scene is invaluable.

  There’s my fellow bass player Teddy Lee. Teddy is going to go places, but right now he doesn’t seem to be in a rush. Like Raúl, he’s one of the few people on the scene that I feel I can trust. He’s also one of the best musicians I know, but most people can’t seem to get past his high falsetto singing voice and abnormally large chin. When Teddy’s not onstage, he’s outright hilarious … cheerful and cuddly-looking, like his name.

  My childhood best friend Sylvia has promised that she’ll there too. I am so relieved to have her back in my life, a pillar of comfort in these dangerous and uncertain times. She and her family had disappeared suddenly when we were in our teens, and one blessed night when we were reunited a few years ago on a gig, she explained that it was a witness protection program. And just like that, we picked up where we left off. I still find her new job hard to wrap my head around, but I know it’s the same old Sylvia I knew from our days of sleeping over at each other’s houses and playing games to scare ourselves silly. Fed up with the madness of the music scene, she quit gigging as a progressive rock keyboard player to become a nun and a church organist in St. John Parish. She was always wise beyond her years, and a beacon of reason. But she’ll still be eager to hear my gossip and recent discoveries of gloriously bad movies.

  And Rowan will be running sound again, dammit. This stupid gris-gris bag was a rip-off. Some miracles can’t be bought or sold. There are charms to heal broken hearts, charms to attract love, but nothing is going to kill my feelings for him.

  A high-pitched whine escapes my sinuses like a whistling teakettle, and then I remem
ber that the neighbors can hear me. Growling to let off steam is not an option, so I pin the offending cloth pouch beneath my paws as I would a mouse and snatch it in my teeth. With a violent shake of my head, I imagine its neck snapping. Shredding the gaudy fabric, I roll in the pieces, twisting and turning like a decapitated snake.

  The oils and crushed herbs permeate my coat to my skin, and the scent soothes me. A moment to let my heightened sense of smell pick up on every subtlety, and the bag’s contents begin to work their magic. They make me drowsy and relaxed, and my physical shell flows back to human form. The magic can’t break my love, but it can keep me from fretting about it for a while. Naked, I drag myself to the fridge for a post-change snack of high proteins, sliced turkey breast and yogurt. Then I crawl into bed and ready myself for mystical dreams.

  Only one more night of the full moon to go while I have to see Rowan. Then for a few weeks I can go back to being a normal musician—whatever that is.

  I could bite my own leg for choosing this line of work sometimes.

  As it is, I’m already irritable—I’ve had a hell of a day. Now my bass is strapped to my back in a padded gig bag tough enough to withstand a grizzly attack. Ahead of me on a hand truck, I’m pushing my rig, which when cranked at full volume, could blow the toupee off of a crooked attorney. Remaining positive was possible until just a second ago, when I reached for the door of the club and some patron of the arts decided to call out, “You play that thing?” Would he ever dare ask a female police officer, “You shoot that thing”? Grrrrrr …

  I’ve often wondered if my male bandmates get asked any of these dumb questions, but now I need to focus on more important things. Namely how I’m going to pull off this show for the second night in a row without throwing myself at Rowan.

  Before my eyes have a chance to adjust to the dim light of the club, I can sense him. Without looking I can locate him behind the mixing console. But of course, he would be. His punctuality defies the musicians’ lackadaisical stereotype. But then again, Rowan is not your average anything.