‘So, why did this kid slit his throat, Butterbugs?’ asked Old Atrocity.
‘We could only guess.’
It was certainly time to review what had happened out on location with someone Butterbugs trusted.
‘You witnessed it?’
‘I did. I was in shot with them all.’
‘Quentin directed? No second unit stuff? Ernie Lazslo was lighting cameraman, as well as operator in this sequence?’
‘Affirmative.’
‘And?’
‘And this, this kid, probably not that much younger than me; well, he seemed poised to make a gesture of some kind.’
‘What you’re saying is that he was an SOB in search of attention!’
‘Not really, but I follow you.’
‘He wasn’t impressed by being on a picture show shoot?’
‘I don’t think so. I reckoned that he thought there were bigger things in this world.’
‘Like – himself?’
‘Psychoanalyzer…?’
‘Remember, Butterbugs, I’ve been around the corner a few times.’
‘You’ve seen it all?’
‘Well, maybe.’
‘Seen what I’ve seen?’
‘What?’
‘Kid slaying himself onscreen?’
‘Well, not exactly… Plenty of gore, though. Of the cinematic kind.’
‘Then maybe you can understand why I’m not exactly coherent in my summing up…’
‘OK, Gen-Y-er. I hear ya. But still, what the hell happened?’
‘It was harrowing, my friend. I was a camera. Maybe we all were. It happened so fast. We just watched, witnessed, in medium shot, no filters, no additional lenses or attachments. Because of that, we all did the right thing, and covered the event with the best camera operator etiquette possible.’
‘And you let it happen?’
‘I can admit it, yes.’
‘And all the others?’
‘They too, would have to admit it, if they could. But you know what? We all may have been, well, voyeurs, but the one professional voyeur, Ernie, on camera, was the first to reach the kid and administer first aid. Alas, his unintended job of self-dispatch was so effectively executed, that there was nothing to be done. The knife had been sharp and deeply applied, and the stroke from right to left was profoundly efficient. You’ll probably think I’m lying when I say there was very little blood. Apparently you can kill yourself in the throat area without severing a jugular.’
‘Holy shit. I know you’re talking in scripted language right now because you’re probably still in shock.’
‘Thank you for understanding, Old Atrocity.’
‘No problem. Uh, well, who do you think put the kid up to it?’
‘I dare not guess. It was all over so fast, and the others, his friends, associates, whatever, were also blown away. I can’t imagine that it was a plot.’
‘No?’
‘No. Here’s what I think. And motion pictures are involved in this issue.’
‘Butterbugs, people have been talking about the negative influences of the cinema on impressionable types for the longest time.’
‘I’m not trying to break new ground, Old A, I’m just trying to sort out my personal encounter. I’m wondering… You know, the New Realism has been awfully hard on audiences.’
‘I would agree. You may be a newcomer to our town, but you speak the truth.’
‘It is only because I am no longer a newcomer. In these months I have adopted the resident’s eye.’
‘OK, fair enough. Go ahead.’
‘How is the dividing line discerned – between the real and the cinematically real? I think that’s why the young fellow tried his knife out, to see how all those cords and connectors would react when he came up with a surprise.’
‘Sounds more like video game influence than our Industry.’
‘Such games do not offer ideas, so much as sensation. Cinema offers both, in powerful doses.’
‘You speak like a concerned parent!’
‘I only speak of a dead youth.’
‘Poor soul. He was mad in what he did.’
‘I don’t think so. He just thought that, with realism tangible and witness-able up on the screen, why couldn’t the energy up there be applied to himself, down on the ground, and that he should be capable of the same desirable powers . .?’
‘That’s pretty common, Butterbugs. The tragic files of the glorious motion picture experience are littered with such unhappy examples.’
‘Yes, but what is different here is that this misinterpretation did not happen on the exhibition side, but on the creative, shooting-set side. This fellow, he was ahead of the game, ahead of everything and everybody. Quentin said, ‘I wasn’t even able to influence him yet!’ And he was right.’
‘I see, young actor. You bring up a remarkable point. Truth… and illusion…’
‘I think the kid thought that what he did really wouldn’t be real. Not on a movie set, where anything is possible. In such a place, death, his own included, could not be possible without a concerted decision put forth by creative commanders and craft executors.’
Old Atrocity tried to make light: ‘So, the director didn’t even tell him, ‘CUT!’, huh?’
Butterbugs was getting choked up. He didn’t even sense the bad joke.
‘It is there that my analysis ends.’
After a bit of respectful silence, Old Atrocity offered, ‘Drug world?’
‘Yeah, that was in play, but I don’t think it was the deciding factor. Truly, I do not. The group was dangerous, but I think it was alienation that drove them to cling to the New Realism for their truth. Sonny and I have seen the outright horror of the tarry sands, and what they have done to both people and land. No forgiveness for those deeds is possible.’ He paused. ‘Truth! I hear that his loyal pup froze to death in a position of bowing to the improvisational ‘headstone’ we placed there. We were – We are… devastated. In this affair… I feel so… Feel so… helpless!’
Butterbugs was breaking up.
‘There’s a good old man…’ Old Atrocity halfway hugged him.
‘Thanks, chief. I’m better… now…’
‘You seem to have an uncommon understanding.’
‘I don’t know. Alienation. That’s what it was, I think. And the reality of motion picture shows; something to grab onto to make the alienation end. Of course, I myself was an ‘alien’. For so long. For so long.’
‘But you took it out on yourself.’
‘So did that kid.’
‘Sufferin’, bleedin’ Chickamauga! I can say no more…’
Just then the exotic-appearing assistant director came up, inviting Butterbugs to get on his blocking tabs. His English was broken – in ruins, actually – but the message was clear:
‘Places!’
‘Sorry, Old Atrocity. To work.’
‘Cheerfully?’
Butterbugs smiled broadly. ‘Of course. Glad to be here.’
Where he was, was the ‘American Bandstand’ (ABC) set.
Suddenly, busy presentation music was heard with a Ringo-Starr-hitting-a-tympani-drumhead effect, followed by the booming voice of William Conrad (in a special Guest Announcer appearance, up in the booth), which pierced the air.
‘And now, for a beautiful new show: Urgent Talent NOW! The Hawaiian Pineapple Band’s hit song, by Bibby Blubb-Blubb and Maury Jones; with creative consultant: Vic Mizzy! And now I turn you over to your host, the Dean of American Bandstand and American Bandstand-type shows: Dick Clark…!’
Youthful cheers and screams were heard. A panel flipped, enabled by a new pneumatic engagement system just hooked up by Old Atrocity and his crew, and flats on the stage kept flipping, until new levels of a brown and azure set were revealed, against a cyclorama of silvery glamé, perfect for Butterbugs and a host of other members of the Swing Set Zingers to start moving in, from both stage left and stage right. The guys wore black dinner jackets with novel thin-tie/
thin-bow-tie combinations, and the gals had scarlet tank tops and super-short pom-pom skirts, with knee-high drill-team boots and rawhide tassels.
Dick Clark’s words were to the point:
‘Teeny’s here, fans. She’s moving way past her hit single from just yesterday, ‘I Wanna Marry A Chimp Cage Cleaner’, and who knows the next firecracker she’ll be setting off? We have only but to look, and listen!’
BLAM went the band. Downbeat yielded to a pounding bass line, hot with gasping sex, panting with desire.
In the meantime, the emptiness of the centrally-located elevator shaft was gradually filling with a rising entity that, when illuminated by four xenon spots of iodine light, birthed a golden string-bikini for all to see, powerfully reflecting metallic glam-light back into the audience in 100,000 spangles, astounding every awed member, both locally and globally. Filling these pieces of skimp was the glowing willowy body of none other than Teeny Topper, pouring her heart out in a brainpan-melting version of her latest single, ‘Orra-Borra You’, and slammed out supportingly by the Hawaiian Pineapples.
She was a one-person Rockette, coupled with a Post-Madonna, Post-Taylor, Post-Perry, Post-Li’l Kim, Post-Whomever Era canniness for what makes an audience pay attention, beyond obvious pandering moves and motives. In short, she was a stunner, a boffo performer of the first water, and anyone who watched her, heard her, instantly loved her (and that was everyone). For they knew that, while she was performing, everything in the rest of the world was cold and dead in comparison. Sex wasn’t her only asset, but she could kick higher than a gymnast, and her crotch covering – a mere heraldic crest, ‘just enough for modesty’ – had been specially engineered by NASA experts who were trained in ceramic tile slippage.
[A web-based legend persisted that Ms. Topper’s ‘G-Pad’ was actually anchored in utero by means of a system of gentle adhesives and caressing suction cups, also NASA-engineered, which had so far proven foolproof. Conspiracy theorists further insisted that within this intimate kit was a special clitoral stimulation unit, operated via GPS-type remote control, the playstation of which remained under the sole stewardship of her current partner, Boyfriend Bamber, who was always in the Control Room at every one of her shows.]
The whole show was full of surprises. No one could have conceived that Ms. Topper, who had recently wrested the tiara of leadership from Britney Spears (who was so enraged that she chucked the performance thing and immediately embarked on a screenwriting career), would continue to oust, in quick succession, Miley Cyrus, then Preena Moes, then Jhambi Kharves herself. As a result, it was simply unbelievable that she would have condescended unto ol’ ‘Bandstand’ with her gracious presence. But if the Perpetual Teenager couldn’t have snagged her, who could? And if it hadn’t been for Sonny Projector, the second surprise of the show, Butterbugs, would not be doing backup support for her, right now.
In his new role as ‘The Stranger From An Undiscovered Country’ (a Sonny-generated concept), who was available for discovery by persons significant and stimulating in the entertainment world, Butterbugs was encouraged to make ‘diverse’ gig appearances. Actually, two new acquaintances of Butterbugs, the aforementioned Messrs. Blubblub and Jones, aided and abetted by the venerable Mizzy, had requested the young actor play into today’s show as something of a lark. He had appreciated Blubblub & Jones’ song cycles, in which they explored their Darfurian heritage, much interpreted by Springsteen, Joni Mitchell, Robin Trower, Jessye Norman, Elvin Bishop, Country Joe, Tony Bennett, Iggy Pop, the Fish, and Sinatra (on six hit albums alone), so there was no question of refusal on account of trifles like scheduling conflicts or non-appreciation. Sonny endorsed the overture, and by taping-time in the afternoon of the same day, Butterbugs was in situ for costume fitting, followed by his just-concluded heart-to-heart with Old Atrocity, who happened to be on hand to work stage-engineering wonders.
‘Teeny Topper! Center stage! What a razzle, and what a dazzle!’ growled Bill Conrad up in the booth. ‘And with a hit to be, ‘On Top Of Your Love – Always On Top’, she takes us by storm!’
The band jumped into a mind-stripping rhythm of an anthem-like stomp, soulfully enjoined by Teeny’s tiny-waisted forces, and she had the whole house claim-jumping with an exponential frenzy, dictating that she was in charge of both control tower and playstation, as well as her audience’s minds.
The broadcast crew, seasoned by years of cable-powered self-importance, went into Presidential Assassination Mode, as the director, sensing metaphysical importance to be imminent, got unusually creative in capturing the talent on display. Dick Clark was dishing out orders, and set the tone as all-stops-out, for in his long years he knew when to kick ass, based on hunches, gut reactions, and just plain sensing the weight of the moment.
‘Get a camera ready to go in!’ he commanded.
The superstructure of the ’60s-vintage studio was successfully vibrating to the beat, and all associated apparatuses were, so far, up to par, in order that all young people might experience ecstasy on earth. And the pace, plus melody, quickened and deepened as Teeny’s song proceeded.
‘Say, that girl’s terrific!’ Barterro the switcher said to Kreenelle the camera girl out on the crane, and the camera girl said, ‘She sure is,’ into the intercom mike, and Dawm the director heard it and said, ‘What a talent’, and Dick Clark picked up an earphone mike and echoed, ‘Yeah, she’s got it! BOY does she got it!’
And that’s why the burden of proof is always on the performer, in center stage, at the right time, making all the proper moves, with confidence and purpose, and possessing a will to dare everyone else off the face of the earth.
She did. With all the right moves.
Teeny pirouetted as a response to a new chord change from the band, reminiscent of what Alfred Newman could do with a Reinhold Glière score in full orchestra, only in this hopped-up hothouse of increasing heat, the distortion-free amplification did most of the work, compelling the performing artiste to take notice of opportunities on the stage that surrounded her, in order to expand her offerings in split-second style. Fueled by the high octane of the music, she cast her gaze across the host of supportive stage-filling personnel behind her. Then those violet eyes absorbed the most catchable feature they could possibly encounter in these conditions. It happened to be Butterbugs, complying with those who surrounded him in subservient background formation. He was perfectly in-step with their Buzz Berkeley-ish rhythm responses too, one of those figures meant not to distract from the feature in the spotlight, but to cushion the viewer from too-stark staging or overdone solo acting by a star who might not deserve it.
In the human hedge of her backgrounders, she indeed chose notice of Butterbugs. To be sure he was eligible. But costumed as he was, not a stand-out. Still, in the electroflash timing of the moment, aside from his visage, there was something else that Teeny noticed. It was a kind of turbo-vibe, operating on a plane far removed from the omnipresent but oh-so-prosaic wavelengths of amplification and gyration. The demanding pull of an occult mystique was there, and even though she was the key-lighted player, an undeniable force overrode her status, requiring her to pull in this human asset as part of her act. It was easy, because she knew instantly that this was the right thing to do, and it would enhance the already highflying high she was experiencing while doing this here act.
Like the new pro that she was, showwomanship guided her strategy: to stylishly step in accordance with the full blast of the band, as if pre-choreographed, in the direction of her goal, in order to engage him as part of the plan.
Long, long gams high-heeling over to the stage’s lesser-trod sector, Teeny kept belting in candied tones:
‘Oh! You! Orra-borra you!
Oh! Hey! Morra-shorra me!
Oh! My! Shinka-shinka soul!
Wants! Your! Tenka-tenka heart!
And! My! Fenka-fenka bod!
Will! Have! Your choonka-choonka rod!
Tribal, savage beat!
It was a collision c
ourse, steered by might, sensuality and quality, yet with no other option than to follow the tractor beam to Butterbugs. Like a dervish-moth of ass-kicking splendor, right into a Parsee-attractive flame.
Band-produced gong effects pushed her moves yet further, so that her motivation made total sense to everyone watching – a mass 64 million-strong.
Unsuspecting of actual animal magnetism in the midst of this charging whirl, she steadily zeroed in on the male ‘chorine’ who was simply doing what came rhythmically. Just like the others surrounding him, in order to look like the hip appliances they were, in association with the magic star in their midst.
Then, the contact. A glomming. Teeny couldn’t help it. She had found the living inspiration for her song. At last. There they were: two performers physically engaged in a law-of-physics joining. In contrasting black and white. Perfectly coordinated with the music. Marvelously assisted by the kids on the boards.
Right on cue, Kreenelle, manning the RCA Living Color Television camera on the monster crane, moved in majestically – all the way – capturing the encounter in a stunning medium close-up. It caught Teeny’s lithe thigh as it rubbed against Butterbugs’ sober leggings, then traveled up to a screen-filling rendition of the two in deep kiss mode. In on-air time, it was a very lengthy mode indeed: about forty-five seconds. No world record, but the band had to go into rubato footing in order to score the scene. Both Blubblub and Jones personally grabbed their lead and bass guitars and jumped down into the pit, just in time to musically adjust the improv goings-on onstage.
Not surprisingly, Teeny was covered with sweet, spurting sweat, but it was totally unplanned that her body makeup and lipstick, with such a lot of territory to cover, should come off in any way. (She had the widest mouth, the fullest lips, and the longest limbs in ladies’ show business.) And so it did, through direct, gluey contact with a member of the supportive Swing Set Zingers.
For one syncopated moment, she released him, and both turned to the audience (and the camera) for presentation. Here, in the midst of the musicale, was mute but amped-up evidence, showing how closely she’d plastered herself onto Butterbugs. The camera caught the essential image perfectly, and the communal gasp it generated amongst the millions was one of the humanity’s biggest simultaneous actions.
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