Weekend at Prism

by John Patrick Kavanagh

  Finally, above BB1 was Master Control, devoted to Staging, Recording and Security.

  “Shall we begin our countdown or are you just gonna stare at the scenery?” Scanlan chided.

  “Oh. I was just…Hey, you’re the expert, I’m not. I’ll do whatever you request, sire.”

  “Uh, that’s not my understanding. You’ve got the chair. I’m just an old fart brought in to provide some color.”

  “C’mon, Connie. We’ve been over this.”

  He’d gone to New York twice to watch his partner tape segments for his popular show, captivated by the breezy, charmingly Midwest ease he projected, instinctively adjusting to guests and topics on the fly, able to bring more spark to a story than it might have deserved, along with possessing an encyclopedic grasp of pop culture dating back a century. But Potcheck and Walbee had refused to alter their vision of how things were to be handled no matter how much Spotswood lobbied to play the second banana.

  “Okay. I direct you to pretty-please-with-a-cherry-on-top get me into that zone of yours.”

  “Hey! There’s not enough room for me in here,” he cackled, tapping the side of his head. “But if you must,” he continued, grabbing a remote and bringing up a pair sidewinders, “how ’bout we start from the beginning.”

  An hour and change later, they did.

  “Potcheck Enterprises Games welcomes you to the exclusive worldwide broadcast here on Fox of the World Standoff! Tournament weekend,” announcer Kevin Sultan began, “brought to you by Jennings Cold Fusion, Analog Machinery Incorporated, Pinkiefinger dot com, Southern United Enterprises, Data Empire, Coors Light, Babylon Systems, Jeep and additional sponsors. Here are your hosts, Jip Spotswood and Connie Scanlan.”

  “Good evening or good morning or good wherever you happen to be. I’m Jip Spotswood.”

  “And I’m Connie Scanlan.”

  “Connie? I’ve got to say it’s one of the great pleasures of my life to be sharing the anchor desk with you, a legend in broadcasting, for our planned 18 hours of air time to be held over the next three days, kicking off… let’s see… an hour 29 from now with the first of the four rounds in the one hundred million dollar, winner-take-all World Standoff! Tournament, covered by Phil Schuster and Richie Levenfeld. Then we’ll be handling the inaugural concert to open this absolutely fabulous Oasis Theater where we’re currently parked in two of the best seats in the house.”

  “Thank you Jip, both for your kind sentiments and for the opportunity to be sitting next to one of the most popular cultural authorities, best-selling authors and nicest guys in the country.”

  “I understand you’ve got some breaking news.”

  “I do.”

  After waiting a few seconds, Spotswood asked, “Care to share it with us?”

  They both laughed.

  “I certainly can. Prism sources have confirmed that at tonight’s show, at the request of headliner Linda Bowen, she’s going to be joined by one of the other new stars in the pop music firmament, Angelique Caulfield.”

  “I’ve got a feeling there…well, as far as I know, the biggest audience Linda’s performed before was 1,500 at Park Place in Chicago, so facing the prospect of an audience maybe three billion larger, and only one album under her belt, she wouldn’t mind having another newcomer aboard to absorb some of the heat.”

  “Along with a few more seasoned musicians. Don’t be surprised to see a few walk-ons by members of the competitors in tomorrow night’s Battle of the Bands, Pandora’s Obsession and CCBBA.”

  “Ya see? That was about as perfect a tease for our next segment as I’m gonna get!”

  They both laughed.

  “A few weeks ago, Jip and I individually had the pleasure of sitting down for chats with the founding members of both of the groups. Though we’ll be airing the interviews again tomorrow before the Battle, coming up, we’ll all get to see what CCBBA’s Dave Lera and Andy Polanski had to say to my partner. Stay tuned.”

  ***

  Reynolds sat staring at the Big Board, the pencil’s eraser resting between his nose and upper lip, his fingers slowly moving the point as he studied the sixteen images as information blinked below them. Chip and Mary, on either side with arms folded, waited for the next question.

  “The Postmaster?”

  “Hasn’t left his room all day. Breakfast, lunch and a six pack of Bud delivered by RS. Two pay-per-view movies.”

  “What ones?”

  “Uh…the original Batman with Nicholson and A Few Good Men, also with Nicholson.”

  “The Love Puppy?”

  “Shopping at Fashion Show Mall and Caesar’s.”

  “Mary? Abscess is at Hoover Dam?”

  “Left on a bus just past ten. Still there, apparently.”

  “Who’s tailing him?”

  “Slats.”

  Reynolds grunted. “Is it just my imagination running away with me, or are all these miscreants acting like touristas?”

  “Blastcap’s been running all over the place since this morning,” Chip said, “and so have Middles, Kingdom, White Moon and Red Dragon, but nothing suspicious.”

  Reynolds grunted again. “Anything on Cassandra?”

  “Nothing,” Mary replied. “No reservations anywhere in town, far as we can tell.” She paused. “How about I run the Alias Estimator against Rezfind? If we get hits…unless she’s staying in a no-tell…might be worth a shot.”

  “Do it.”

  ***

  Spotswood stands in front of a high, sweeping arch, a desert panorama the only other thing prominent in the frame. He wears jeans and a Hawaiian-type short sleeve shirt festooned with red and green chili peppers.

  “I’ve just completed a long drive on an unpaved single lane highway a pretty good hike from the greater Santa Fe metro area and have been deposited at the structure you see behind me. With memories of my parochial high school education, I’d like to apologize to my sophomore year Latin instructor, Brother Leo, for not being able to decipher the legend carved into it.”

  He points to the distance and another dirt road straight as a yardstick, seemingly stretching to the horizon.

  “I’m told that if I follow this other avenue, I’ll arrive at a retreat owned by Mr. Andrew Polanski where, I’m also told, I’m expected.”

  The next shot is wide, displaying the gargantuan adobe main house, several outbuildings and a generous infinity pool complimented by a pair of waterfalls. Seated at an Arthurian-worthy table beneath an elaborate, latticed sunscreen are three men, surrounded by three cameras and a scattering of lights, reflectors and umbrellas. In the background, two security guards stand, their automatics dangling from their hands.

  “I’m here with Andy Polanski and Dave Lera, two-thirds of the founding members of The Alliance, and a delicious gin and tonic. Not in evidence is percussionist and deodorant spokesperson Mick Stanton. So I’ll begin by asking where’s Boomer?”

  “Jip, as you know,” Lera says, “Mick has punctuality issues. In this case, it involves missing his ride.”

  “He could have come with me and the crew.”

  “In this case, the ride was on a Southwest flight from Denver this morning.”

  They all laugh.

  “Same old Boomie we’ve known for years,” Polanski grins. “This is not an unsolved mystery.”

  “Speaking of mysteries, tell us about the greeting I saw at the head of your driveway. Is it a lyric from one of your songs?”

  Polanski removes a turquoise and silver folded knife from his jeans and after examining it, rubs at an apparent smudge on the handle. He always carried it with him as it had played a pivotal role in his legendary status. One evening years before he’d flipped it open to slice a baguette top to bottom and had instead severed both of the tendons in his left index finger. Though he’d reached a hospital in time to have them reconnected and later underwent hours of physical therapy, the strength never returned enough for him to properly play guitar bar chords. Refusing to be denied this ability, he�
�d invented the Digital Chord Sequencer, an engineering marvel that when attached over the neck and strings of his Strat allowed him, after being pre-programmed, to continue to strap the instrument on occasionally and step out from behind his keyboards, a move that often brought audiences to their feet.

  “Edgar Allan Poe.”

  “Then why is it written in Latin?”

  “I liked the way it looked.”

  Lera shakes his head. “Remember that you’re asking perhaps the only member of the Hall who’s also a member of the Illinois and California Bar Associations. Latin’s a second language for him.”

  “Inactive member,” Polanski corrects him.

  “From one of Poe’s poems, then?”

  “Short story, actually. One of the greatest, maybe the greatest opening sentence in American literature.” He pauses. “The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as best I could, but when he ventured on insult I vowed revenge.” Then with his index finger he presses a lever that makes the blade flash open with a click.

  The look on Spotswood’s face makes the other two bellow.

  “Don’t ask for an elaboration,” Lera cautions.

  “Point taken. So let me ask you this. On New Year’s Eve, you are going to be part of what’s easily to become the most watched concert in history.”

  “I think some hack once referred to it as the biggest rock concert ever held in the history of the universe,” Lera adds, raising his chin to him.

  “Any special preparations you’ve been making?”

  Polanski lights a Dunhill with a stick from a small matchbox and takes a deep drag. “The ground rules…acoustic this, 1964 that…not our typical modus operandi, but mi amigo nailed it down pretty quick.”

  “We’ve got Latin everywhere today. Dave?”

  “I came up with what?” He looks to Polanski. “Half a dozen variations?”

  “Four at the most,” his partner replies then extinguishes the cigarette with a flick of his ring finger.

  “Then we narrowed it down to two…ran through both a couple times with everyone and settled on the one that worked best.”

  “You’re regarded as a master when it comes to formulating set lists. What does that entail?”

  Lera takes a sip of his cocktail. “Biggest consideration is the audience profile. Playing a regular concert is typically much different than a private affair. Then I try to get a feel for the energy vibe, are these folks here to actually listen to us or are we only providing incidental background music. Age is a factor, the boy-girl ratio is a factor. Transitory considerations.”

  “Such as?”

  “Uh… say Harry’s arthritis… if his fingers aren’t happy, we’ll work around that to lighten his load.”

  “There’s been some reports that since the end of your last tour…actually during it, Billy Blair’s voice was going on the blink. Has that impacted your choices?”

  “As Davie said, a transitory consideration,” Polanski says.

  “Could your set list change based on the songs your opponents perform?”

  “Like will we start calling audibles?” Lera asks.

  “If you will.”

  “No, we won’t,” Polanski says. “Where the rubber meets the road, we aren’t competing against them. We’ll be competing against our past performances, seeing if we can top those.”

  “But do you have any strategies you’ll be bringing to the stage?”

  “To play the best set we can,” Lera says.

  “Andy?”

  He thinks a moment, fingering the large silver and turquoise ring he always sports on his left little finger, a ring that he’d confided off-the-record to Spotswood was his most valued possession, an heirloom passed down from his grandfather to his mother to him. “Experience teaches…at least it taught me that if you can get an opponent off-balance early on, get ’em against the ropes, delivering the knockout becomes easier.”

  “Dave?”

  “We’ve got an interesting opening gambit in mind. Ought to do the trick.”

  “Andy? As the largest single shareholder of Pandora’s Box of Obsessions, the holding company that essential owns your competition…”

  “My interest in PBOO is purely a financial one. I took a chance on it that’s done well.” He gestures to his surroundings.

  “So you don’t think you’ve got a conflict of interest?”

  “None whatsoever. Laura ‘n’ Pam’ll, I’m sure, put on a tremendous show.”

  “But we’ll put on a tremendouser one,” Lera chuckles.

  “Could you share with our viewers a little bit of background on how this all came about? We’re you surprised when…what were your thoughts when you heard about the invitation?”

  Polanski gestures for Lera to respond.

  “We were having a snack before our last show at the Staples and one of the crew brought over his tablet showing the invite and handed it to Andy. He read it, said to me, ‘You are not going to believe this one’ and passed it over. I figured it was a prank, so we had Jeremy make a few calls to check it out. Turned out to be legit.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “We did a quick survey and everybody was on board except Christie. So we told her to give it some thought, then me ‘n’ Andy and Jeremy discussed a few items, and then we had to leave it aside because we had a concert to do.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Business first,” Polanski says. “So during the intermission, everybody’s waiting on Chris. She makes a phone call, orders a shot of something, fires it back then says, ‘Count me in.’ Dave tells Jeremy to get with Potcheck on the details and then we went out and played one of the best second sets we’d ever done.”

  “While we’re taking five before the encore,” Lera says, “Jeremy tells us all is agreed, as to the major details I mean, and here we are with…where in God’s name did you get that shirt?”

  The interviewees laugh.

  “In town. Seemed, I dunno…”

  They laugh again.

  “Let’s talk about those details,” Spotswood continues, not missing a beat. “Top billing?”

  They don’t respond.

  “I’ve heard your fee is larger than Obsession’s.”

  They pass on answering.

  “How do you feel about the structure of the Battle?” He glances to his notes. “Seven songs apiece for both teams. At least one acoustic number, one cover of a 1964novelty recording and one additional cover of either a song by the other band or a number from the 80’s. Either of the covers performed acoustically will count as the use of only one of the seven allowed. Option to perform a medley of a pair of tunes that will count as a single song and an option to have up to three sidemen play on one number. Option for one five minute timeout per band.” He pauses. “Did you have any input on those parameters?”

  “Pam and Dave worked that out,” Polanski says. “Only thing set in stone was the ‘64 thing, the year Franklin was born. His dime, his rules.”

  “Odds-makers are saying you’ll do Surfin’ Bird with Mick on vocals.”

  The interviewees seem impressed.

  “It’s really a great song,” Lera says. “And who but Boomsma to pull it off?”

  “What exactly qualifies as a novelty song?”

  “It’s an amorphous concept,” he continues. “Me and Pam danced it around and… she sent me a list of 20, I sent one back and we agreed they’d all qualify.”

  “Any duplicates? I mean, is it possible you’ll perform different versions of the same song?”

  “Possible? Sure. But highly unlikely.” He pauses. “You mean the novelties or any song?”

  “I was thinking those but…so you might be thinking of matching one of the songs Pandora plays aside from those?”

  “Our list is set,” Polanski says. “That’s why it’s called a set list. If they do one we’ve decided on, so be it.”

  “Pandora’s Obsession is scheduled to arrive in Las Vegas in a few days to get settle
d in and begin rehearsals. The Alliance?”

  “Usually before a big gig we like to get into town at least a day before for a walkabout, ’specially if we’re new to the venue. Couple warm-ups, sound checks and… you know Geno’s on the boards, don’tcha?”

  Spotswood gives a wide smile. “Yeah.”

  “So that part’s taken care of.” He pauses. “We’re really anxious to give the Oasis a look. Hear it’s quite something.” He pauses again. “So, we’ll probably get there with 48 hours to spare.”

  “Probably 72 to make sure Mick shows up,” Polanski adds.

  They all laugh.

  “Just three more questions which I have for each of you. Andy? You’re…”

  “Lemme ask you a question first.”

  “Okay.”

  “Look me straight in the eyes and tell me that it wasn’t you who came up with the idea for a battle of the bands.”

  “It wasn’t. Scout’s honor.”

  Polanski regards him. “Continue.”

  “Andy, your place in the pantheon of rock ‘n’ roll legends is already secure. The Alliance is already in the Hall of Fame, you and Dave are already in the Songwriters’ Hall of Fame, you’ve got a shelves full of Grammys and other trophies, you’ve got walls wallpapered with gold and platinum discs, you’ve got a little black book the size of an encyclopedia, you invented the Digital Chord Sequencer and you’re richer than God. The upcoming concert is probably never going to be equaled, much less surpassed. Tell me what you’re going to be thinking and feelingwhen the concert wraps.”

  Polanski gives it some thought, toying with his ring again. “Relieved.” He hesitates. “Some of my contemporaries, and even guys older than me notwithstanding, I’m getting a little too long in the tooth to keep up…there’s a certain level of excellence I demand from myself that…and from others…that if it can’t be delivered, perhaps I should ease into being a…what do you call it, Dave?”

  “An eminence grise?”

  “Yeah. One of those.” He pauses, grinning. “Writing and producing, maybe. Plus I’ve got all that other stuff…mentoring for one, charitable another…a bit of elective surgery I’ve been putting off…that’ll keep me off the streets and out of trouble.”