Spotswood knew exactly what it was though had never seen it positioned as prominently, more often being stuck in a pocket or to the side of her belt or taped to the back of her bass. It was an options chart, smaller but similar to the ones every NFL coach employed to map strategies, force decisions or cover their mouths when radioing to quarterbacks or assistants high above the playing field. “I’d guess just something to jog her memory.”
“And here’s CCBBA’s second song.”
It was Just Let Me Say, one of Christie Cramer’s best lead vocals.
Obsession responded with a perfect counterpoint and an interesting choice, The Adulteress, from their second album.
“Though the tabulation delay is now close to a full minute, CCBBA maintains its lead with 189 million votes to Pandora’s 52. They’ve made a little headway, Connie.”
“Percentage wise, yes. But still an awful lot of catching up to do. Here comes CCBBA for a third number and Dave Lera has moved over to the Attack System to join Polanski as the keyboards are reshuffled. Any guesses on this one, Jip?”
“I’ve seen them do this on… either Rearrangements or Last Saturday Night.”
And Rearrangements it was, the pair joining Christie on the complex backing vocals while Billi poured her heart into the lead.
As soon as the number ended, a circular platform slowly edged to center stage, Loveland seated in front with an acoustic 12 string, Watts standing to the left supporting a standup bass and Walsh to the right holding a pair of brushes to use on a snare, a high hat and a ride cymbal. After crossing her legs to support the instrument then adjusting the microphone she said, “This is the first one I ever wrote. Hope you like it.”
The intro was soft and jazzy, sounding much like a torch song from the 1930’s or 40’s. Then after glancing to Polanski who was leaning shadowed against the System’s riser, she sang,
He went to school for twenty years, studied day and night
Bought a townhouse with a yard but nothing came out right
He was making money, making all the girls
Choking on ambition, out to conquer the world
Now he’s coming up twenty-eight and can’t take the strain
Of his baby’s demands, or the corporate chains
He said… I don’t wanna be a lawyer
I wanna be in rock and roll
Throw away this briefcase, get a guitar
I wanna be in rock and roll
Don’t give me no news about paying no dues
I wanna be… a rock and roll star
The congregation dropped into a prayer-like silence as if meditating on the message hidden in the lyrics, but when she strummed the closing chord, they bust into wild cheers and clapping, providing the most frenzied standing ovation of the concert proper.
“Absolute perfection,” Scanlan said softly. “And harkening back to a very eloquent description from Inside The Box, may I presume you’ve heard that composition before?”
“You may.”
“And take a look at those numbers. Let’s see… with a current two minute lag, some of those votes started coming in after the first verse… CCBBA still leading with a shade over three fourteen while Laura Loveland has just single-handly jacked up Obsession’s tally to 267 million.”
“We were originally scheduled to take a commercial break at this juncture but the powers-that-be have called an audible so seems the caissons are going to keep rolling along.”
“Do you know what a caisson is?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
They both laughed.
“But speaking of rolling, take a look at that setup moving into place for CCBBA’s fourth.”
The circular platform was easily three times the diameter of the previous prop. At center-front was Polanski’s baby grand piano with its lid elevated not more than a foot, Cramer and Blair seated to either side of him. Just behind them Lera manned a harpsichord, Harry Hansen an acoustic six string, DJ Wingrove a handheld acoustic bass and Mick Stanton astride a barebones drum kit. Most surprising were two tuxedoed string players ready with cello and violin bracketing a female violist wearing a floor-length black gown, all of them equipped with sheet music resting on stands.
“I don’t have a date for a party I’m going to tonight,” Polanski said, prompting scores of his female fans to begin shouting out offers. “And here’s the reason why.”
The opening quickly identified the song as Who’s Holding Donna Now, the classic DeBarge ballad from the mid-eighties. Spotswood had no idea why this tune had been inserted nor why Polanski would be apparently taking the lead vocal. But when he hit the chorus, Christie and Billi layering in a gorgeous harmony, everything fell into place—knowing he was going to be on the receiving end of a love letter, he was sending one right back.
When I keep wondering who’s holding Laura now
When I keep wondering whose heart she’s knocking around
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to be in his shoes right now
One of the side screens displayed Loveland casually standing alone across the stage, hands behind her back, while a tighter shot of her face on the opposite screen showed her lower lip quivering a bit.
As Polanski unleashed a passionate rendering of the final chorus, he purposefully turned his head toward her and nodded as the close-up of his target lingered on a single tear falling from one of her eyes. The applause was deafening as Watts stepped to her side to whisper something, and while there wasn’t any audio, an amateur lip reader could confirm that the response was I can’t. Watts seemed to think a few beats, then focusing up to Master Control, she formed a T with her outstretched hands indicating Pandora was going to take its lone five minute timeout.
“Game, set, match?” Scanlan asked.
Spotswood again thought of Polanski’s words about everything being well-rehearsed, then for some reason pictured a basket of St. Bernard puppies. “Lemme get back to you on that.”
“Coming up following Pandora’s Obsession’s five minute timeout, the second half of the Battle of the… actually, I’ve just been told we’ll be tacking on those commercials we skipped earlier, so stay tuned.”
***
Bernardini set his trans to the side then froze the three active images on the monitors. After making some notations on his legal pad concerning the just completed conversation, he flipped back to the first page and began reviewing the source intelligence intently. Then pausing, he reached for the just-delivered DHL International Express envelope and opened it, removing an unmarked, garden variety Ziploc quart bag holding what looked to be a six inch long piece of very slender pink thread.
Pluto’s theories on the possibility that extremely low frequency microwaves might be a method to transmit signals to one of the players had always lacked efficacy as to how reception could be accomplished with a nonmetallic antenna, but now that Franco’s contact in Rio had explained a possible solution that might provide a workaround of that issue it appeared to not only be a likely resolution to that piece of the puzzle but also an extremely clever one.
The blip in Kerensky’s performance MacKay had brushed off, after multiple viewings of the precise moments in the Territorials where they’d occurred, now came into better focus. One slight deviation could be written off, even two if there were no other apparent anomalies. But not three.
The intelligence Strauss and Stonehill had finally produced, however, was no doubt the smoking gun Bernardini had guessed would eventually lead to uncovering the Big Fix, though unfortunately not offer an answer as to what could be done to prevent it.
Lifting his trans he paged through the contacts list to the Os, pressed Overseer then held the device to his ear. After a pair of rings the man answered, “Yes?”
“We need to talk.”
“Go ahead.”
“In person.”
“When?”
“As soon as can be arranged.”
After a moment the man responded, “Keep your phone handy.”
>
“I shall.”
“Someone will call you back in a few minutes.”
And in a few minutes, a woman did and Bernardini answered, “Ciao.”
“I’m returning his call. Follow these instructions.”
“I’m listening.”
“In fifteen minutes, be outside of Cartier’s examining the necklace display in the window to the left of the door. A woman… ”
“Who?”
“Me. A woman will step beside you and comment on an emerald one, to which you’ll respond It is beautiful. After she moves on, hesitate maybe ten seconds then follow her at a prudent distance as she makes her way through the concourse. When she eventually reaches one of the elevator banks, watch until one of the lifts opens and two tuxedoed men step off and motion to her that it’s available. As she steps in call Please hold the door. As you make your way to join me, one of the men will ask Do you have the time, sir? and you’ll reply No I don’t.” She paused. “With me so far?”
“Continue.”
“One of the men will join us in the elevator. Once the door closes we’ll explain the steps necessary to assure your arrival for the appointment isn’t witnessed.”
“I understand.”
Click.
***
“Welcome back to Fox for the second half of the Battle of the Bands pitting Christie Cramer, Billi Blair and The Alliance versus Pandora’s Obsession. I’m Jip Spotswood.”
“And I’m Connie Scanlan. During that break we consulted the terms of engagement for the Battle and they state quite clearly that words from our sponsors automatically stop the clock on any timeouts that have been called so according to our monitor here in Broadcast Booth One we’ve got two minutes and change before the start of the second half with Pandora’s Obsession coming up to the plate after that pair of exceptional acoustic numbers. Jip? What’s your impression as to who is leading?”
“Without seeing the voting results, which we haven’t since… Laura Loveland’s song, I wouldn’t even hazard a guess except to say, as you already have, that there’s no doubt Obsession’s back in the game.”
“So far CCBBA has thrown the Polanski Attack System, the debut of Billi Blair and that reworking of Who’s Holding Donna at her, but she’s still standing.”
“And will no doubt continue to do so. Returning to the rap she gets in some quarters of sometimes being a little on the fragile side, if she was going to wither she already would have. Having said that, Obsession still has four songs to perform before the final bell so I’ll reserve judgment. But the next number ought to tell us a lot.”
“They’ve signaled they’re ready to proceed so let’s return to the stage.”
Watts stepped out of the shadows with Cox and Norman who both carried pickup’d Spanish guitars. Walsh sat as his kit as Magnuson moved to Loveland’s keyboards. Then Poof! Dave Brodnan, grasping a trumpet, appeared dressed in an elaborate, black and gold Mariachi charro uniform and tipped the brim of his huge sombrero to the cheering audience. Then turning to the side he motioned, yelling, “Muchachos!” and an identically outfitted trio walked to join him, one each with a trumpet, trombone and tuba, smiling and waving to the crowd. Then Loveland made her entrance.
She wore a provocative version of classic senorita peasant garb—a revealing off-the-shoulder white blouse and black ribbed skirt complimented by a red sash, black satin flapper shoes and a pair of bright red roses in place of her barrettes. As she approached the front-center stage microphone she languidly cooled her face with an embroidered fan then, after reaching her destination, folded it and began tapping it into her palm while she absorbed the ovation and kept tapping until the audience calmed down. Cox played a brief flourish and then the lyrics from Come a Little Bit Closer burst forth.
The howls of glee continued through the second verse and chorus. Just before the instrumental bridge, she dropped the fan and yanked off the two roses, letting her luxurious hair fall past her shoulders. Then, as the proposition bettors had predicted, she burst into a maniacally sensual Strippers Disguised as Singers dance that brought the crowd to its feet. Making it back to the mic with no room to spare and still rocking on her heels from the routine, she sang,
“Then the music stopped.”
And it did. On a dime, a characteristic the band had so perfected for live performances that it was known in the business as a PO stop, though hadn’t ever been employed in the middle of a song. Leaning down, Loveland retrieved the fan and began cooling herself for real this time, beads of sweat glistening on her forehead. Smiling slyly, she waited again for everybody to calm down, but this time they refused until Watts shouted “Would you please let the woman finish her tale of woe?” As the throng eased up a bit, Walsh tapped his sticks together three times and as the final chorus wrapped, with Jose’s girl returning to him. The roar was astonishing.
“As you can see from the numbers on your screens,” Scanlan began, “CCBBA’s lead has shrunk to less than five million votes and that’s with a current three and a half minute lag time which doesn’t take into account… Jip? That had to be the greatest performance of the night so far.”
“I don’t know where to begin. The staging. The arrangement. The cheeky revisiting of Jay and The Americans’ chestnut from 1964. El Mariachis. That PO stop. Laura’s SDS.”
“And not a bad outfit.”
“Tell me about it. I thought Billi’s couldn’t be topped, but I thought wrong.”
“And here comes the response.”
Going with their 1964 novelty requirement, CCBBA opted for a medley of Dead Man’s Curve sung by Blair coupled with Fun, Fun, Fun handled by Cramer. Though the execution was cleverly done to connect the pair of stories into a single narrative, and Christie doing some endearingly coy posturing as the girl who’d had her T-Bird taken away, the response from the house was weaker compared to the one earned by Come A Little Bit Closer. Apparently sensing a problem brewing, Polanski called across to Lera who nodded then made a timeout signal as Watts had.
In a moment Stacey King’s face filled both of the side screens. “CCBBA has attempted its five minute timeout option but it will not be allowed because it can only be honored prior to their next song. No penalty will be assessed and the timeout will be allowed if requested at an appropriate juncture.”
The lights came up on Pandora’s side of the stage where Loveland, who’d changed out of her peasant dress into a silver blouse, black leather blazer and starched indigo denims, had returned to her keyboards. “Hope we can do justice to this,” she said, then the group launched into a cover of one of The Alliance’s early hits, Sweet Sunday Afternoons. While the original had a smoothly lazy tempo, their version picked up the pace and added a backing vocal arrangement absent from the single that melded perfectly with Dave Lera’s excellent melody, so much so that the side screens showed him smiling and nodding as if realizing he should have thought it up himself. When the tune concluded, the crowd let go with another rollicking show of appreciation.
“Connie, I’m thinking back to a lunch conversation we had, must have been back in November, when we were kicking around our thoughts about what CCBBA and Pandora’s Obsession might be thinking of doing or avoiding and if memory serves correctly, I believe we were in complete agreement that neither band would attempt covering the other based on the downside risk of coming up short in the comparison column. Now that Obsession has pulled another rabbit out of Pandora’s Box… ”
“Here’re the new tallies and they’ve taken their first lead in the voting.”
“And it’s a substantial one. With close to a six minute delay and only two songs each left to perform, PO has 693 million votes versus 659 for… imagine that. Over one-point-three-five billion texts have arrived. Incredible.”
“Looking to the stage, there seems to be a mechanical or electrical issue over in CCBBA’s area that a crew of technicians is checking out.”
“Polanski, Lera and Stanton are huddling. Might have to do with whether or
not they’re going to opt for their timeout.”
“Lera and Stanton are pointing to the drummer’s riser that… his instruments are facing away from the front of the stage so that might be what the problem is. So while that gets sorted out, what did you think of the strategy behind that rendition of Sweet Sunday?”
“Seeing that it came out just fine, chalk one up for Pamela Watts whom I’d venture made the call and probably was also behind that new background vocal.”
“Mick Stanton seems to have taken charge of things and along with the crew is manually rotating that platform back into position. The others are headed to their own places so it appears we’re about to continue the contest.”
“Let’s see what The Alliance has chosen as their penultimate number.”
It was Deadline On My Heart, a straight ahead rocker featuring both of the singers trading lines in the verses. But the main attraction, the crowd-pleasing start-stop chorus sung by both, was what got everyone to their feet.
When the number ended, the applause was as intense as it had been for Witchcraft, so much so that Polanski seemed to look about in wonder then grabbed his mic and smiled, “Thank you very, very much.” But the cheering just increased.
“Jip, it was an excellent delivery of an excellent song, probably my… one of my favorites from their catalogue, but am I missing something? That’s quite a show of appreciation from those assembled here in the Oasis.”
Spotswood could only conjure a single explanation. “I’m not a mind-reader and at best an armchair pys… nah, not even that. But I’d guess Ms. Blair’s recent, uh, change in status put a completely different spin on the… gave the lyrics a different twist.”
“Exactly. It was like hearing a classic song that you know so well but hearing it for the first time.”
“The upcoming response ought to be interesting.”
For the second time during the Battle, Pandora’s Obsession appeared to have been knocked off stride. Near the center of the stage, Watts glanced at her options chart then holding a hand to the side of her mouth barked first at Norman, then to Cox, then looked to Loveland’s keyboards but the chanteuse was nowhere to be seen. So Watts yelled something to Walsh, the drummer didn’t appear to understand what was transpiring so she gestured to Brodnan with a spinning motion to play something but the sax player held up his hands as if not knowing what was being requested. Throwing up her own hands in frustration the bassist yelled, “Where the hell did Laura go? Shopping again?” and Poof! Loveland appeared front-center behind her antique Farfisa organ caressing herself in a lustrous dark gray, ankle-length fur.
Weekend at Prism Page 24