Painted Black

by Greg Kihn

  Bobby walked up Charles Street, lost in thought.

  Where was Cricket?

  Bobby became concerned. He decided to go to the Bluesette that night if he couldn’t find her. Maybe showing up unannounced in Baltimore wasn’t such a great idea after all. He expected to be welcomed with open arms, but the reception thus far had been disconcerting.

  Eventually, he made his way back to Read Street where the Urch Perch had just finished their set. The crowd loved every note. Bobby was used to the Liverpool beat groups and the loose, jammy San Francisco hippie bands sounded strange to him. He liked it though.

  The show was over, and the crowd began to dissipate. Bobby’s feet hurt. He was depressed and tired. But he still hadn’t found Cricket.

  Walking back to his truck, he remembered the night he met Cricket and how she used her black belt judo skills to vanquish two muggers on the street. He remembered how shocked he was and how taken aback. Cricket was no ordinary woman. He found that out the first night.

  But where was she?

  He drove home hoping to find her there, but she was still out. Her mother, babysitting Winston, sent disapproving looks his way when he suggested she go home. She refused, citing the Grandmother’s Babysitting Creed. Winston was still her responsibility until his mother returned, she explained. Period.

  Chapter Seven

  2,000 Light-Years from Home

  Keith Richard’s Bentley, Blue Lena, rolled south outside of Paris with Tom Keylock at the wheel. Keith stayed in the front seat smoking joints and playing 45 rpm singles on the Lena’s front-seat record player. The American R&B music blasted out of the car as they rolled through the French countryside.

  Somewhere near Toulouse, Brian suffered an asthma attack. He heaved and gasped for breath. On the surface, Anita and Keith acted concerned, but they were nearly fed up with Brian and all they really wanted was to get to Morocco as soon as possible. They planned to drive through France and Spain, then cross over to Morocco at Gibraltar.

  On the second day, Brian became too sick to continue. He developed a respiratory infection and had to be hospitalized. He told Anita, Keith, and Tom to continue without him and that he would catch up in a day or two in Tangier.

  As soon as Brian was gone, Keith and Anita’s sexual tensions began to rise. They’d been eyeing each other for some time now, and Brian’s unpleasant personality only made Keith seem all the more desirable. After being careful not to become too friendly while Brian was around, they let their inhibitions go as soon as he was out of the car.

  As the Blue Lena rolled through the night, Keith and Anita attacked each other like oversexed tigers. Tom Keylock—sworn to secrecy by Keith—could hardly keep his eyes on the road as Anita gave Keith a major blowjob. Shortly thereafter, they made passionate, penetrating love in the backseat. All three of them knew it was playing with fire. Brian’s reaction would be impossible to gauge, but he was sure to become violent eventually. Keith and Anita didn’t care.

  They arrived in Morocco and registered at the beautiful El Minzah Hotel in Marrakech. Although they booked separate rooms, Anita slept with Keith. They smoked hash and drank wine. They strolled the storybook Kasbah shopping area for whatever pleased them. They bought colorful scarves and jewelry and paused for mint tea and pastries at the outdoor restaurants. The two love exiles seemed supremely happy.

  For once, Anita was free of Brian’s terrible temper, but Keith warned Anita again and again not to take their liaison seriously. It was temporary, he insisted. And when Brian returned, they would have to return to their previous relationship. Clearly, Keith didn’t want to destroy what he had going with Brian.

  Two days later, a demanding telegram from Brian arrived. Reluctantly, Anita agreed to return to Toulouse and escort her boyfriend either back to London, where he could fully recover, or on to Tangier, if he felt better.

  Anita returned to France dutifully. Brian was now insisting on flying to Morocco to meet his friend Brion Gysin as well as Mick, Keith, Marianne, and driver Tom Keylock.

  The minute Brian saw Anita, he could see deceit and betrayal in her eyes. He immediately accused her of what he was convinced had happened and which indeed was the sordid truth. Keith and Anita had been playing house the whole time he was gone.

  Screaming at Anita, Brian described the scenario.

  “As soon as I was gone, Keith made his move, didn’t he? And he had his way with you, didn’t he? You cheap little German slut! You had sex with him! Admit it! You sucked his dick! You spent every moment together, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  Of course, Anita denied everything. Her ability to lie was quite sophisticated, and she could stick like glue to the flimsiest of plausibilities.

  The fight came to blows as most of their big arguments did. In the end, Brian relented and they drove on to Marrakech.

  That first night, the Mount Vesuvius of Brian’s paranoia erupted again and the Pompeii of his ego was buried under tons of ash. He was devastated by the idea that Anita would cheat on him. And with Keith! That made it ten times worse. He thought Keith was his friend, his band mate. Didn’t he know something like that would destroy Brian? How could they be so callous?

  The thought ate away at Brian. He became even more enraged. He attacked Anita and she fought back, throwing things and destroying most of the hotel room. Brian beat Anita to the verge of unconsciousness. The sounds of the physical abuse echoed through the ancient hotel, making Keith wince. He spent an unpleasant night listening to the woman he had just been making love to a few days before being beaten senseless. Eventually, the hotel management knocked on the door and threatened to throw them out if they didn’t quiet down.

  In the morning, sitting around the pool with Keith, Mick, and Marianne, Brian and Anita were coldly silent. They both bore a few cuts and bruises. The tension was terrible.

  That night, Brian and Anita had another row. This one was even louder and nastier than the night before. Anita locked herself in the hotel room and wouldn’t let Brian in. He became completely unhinged and pounded on the door until the concierge threw him out. He stormed out, cursing and slamming doors.

  Brian returned a few hours later with two tattooed Berber prostitutes. He demanded that Anita participate in an orgy. Anita refused. Brian overturned a platter of food and began throwing things. He grabbed Anita and beat her. The two prostitutes fled in terror, and Anita stood her ground. Brian was a disgusting pig, and she had had enough.

  Brian chased her around the hotel suite, beating her mercilessly. Fearing for her life, Anita fled to Keith’s room.

  Keith looked at Anita and said, “Fuck this. I can’t watch Brian do this shit to you anymore. I’m taking you back to London.”

  As the sun rose the next day, Tom Keylock knocked on Keith’s door. He opened it a crack and squinted out.

  “What now?” Keith rasped.

  “There’s a plane-load of reporters that just landed at the airport. They’re digging around for more Stones stories.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “We gotta get Brian away from here for the afternoon. I got Brion Gysin to take him to the central square of Jemaa el Fna to record some local musicians on the portable tape recorder.”

  Keith rubbed his unshaven chin. His hair was standing up as if he’d seen a cartoon ghost. He looked like hell, but at the same time he looked elegant. There was gypsy quality to Keith that Tom Keylock admired.

  Keith said, “This is our chance! I want you to drive me and Anita back to Tangier today so we can catch a ferry back to Málaga.”

  Tom Keylock, who answered to the Stone management team, was hesitant.

  “Ahh, Keith … we just can’t leave him here.”

  Keith said, “Yes, we can! Don’t give me a hard time about it! We’re doing it and that’s that. Fuck Brian. He’s out of control.”

  Tom Keylock waited for Keith to say some
thing more, but the conversation was finished and Keith closed the door.

  “Get packing, Anita. We’re leaving just as soon as Brian is out the hotel.”

  “But …”

  “Are you having second thoughts? After the way he beat you last night?”

  Anita sighed. “This is going to kill him.”

  Keith sneered. “Ha! It’ll probably kill you first.”

  “I don’t want to hurt him.”

  “Are you daft? Get packin’. It’s time for Brian to face the truth.”

  When Brian returned to the hotel after a carefree day listening to and recording the local musicians, he was shocked to find everyone gone and the rooms empty.

  All the color drained from his face. His worst dreams had come true. They had all checked out.

  He phoned Brion Gysin in a panic. His voice trembled, and Brion could barely understand him.

  “They’re all gone! They’ve abandoned me! I don’t know where they went! The hotel won’t tell me! There’s no message! I’m here all alone! Please help me!”

  The Bluesette was a tiny Baltimore nightclub built into a row house on Charles Street. They didn’t serve alcohol so teenagers could go there. It was the center of the rock and roll scene in Baltimore. It was very small, like the Cavern Club, but lacked the moist WWII bomb shelter ambience.

  As Bobby looked around, he visualized the savage, young Hamburg Beatles blowing these people away with great songs and tight harmonies. There were no long guitar solos for the Fab Four, just straight rock and roll. Anything rock and roll reminded Bobby of his time with Beatles in one way or another. Bobby suddenly wondered what Brian was doing. He hadn’t thought of him now for one full day. A pang of guilt quickly flashed through his mind. He’d skipped town and left Clovis in charge. Clovis was used to the structured world of the recording studio. Brian was an enigma. He lived in the age of rock and roll wildmen like Keith Moon, yet he was a gentle soul and wouldn’t dream of driving a Cadillac into a swimming pool. But when Dr. Jekyll turned into Mr. Hyde, he would get incredibly violent. He became a woman beater. Anita usually paid the price. Brian Jones had a number of different demons, to be sure.

  To Bobby, the Beatles differed from every other band on the planet. In the early days, they were closer than brothers. No one had ever gone through what they were experiencing and it drew them closer than words could tell. Like explorers, they were constantly in unknown waters, navigating by the stars like ancient mariners. Bobby watched the transformation himself. If you listened to their music, you could hear the magic between the notes. There had never been a band like the Beatles. Never would there be the likes them again. Bobby was convinced of that.

  The Rolling Stones were made from completely different DNA. As individuals, the band didn’t seem to like one another very much. In fact, the overall impression Bobby got was that they tolerated one another as coworkers—no more, no less. Bassist Bill Wyman and drummer Charlie Watts seldom hung with the others. They had nothing in common with the rest of the band. They kept their distance from the glimmer twins, Mick and Keith, who were as close, in their own way, as John and Paul. But the two bands had different atomic structure and were driven by different powers.

  And then there was Brian, the ultimate outsider. He orbited around the double stars of Mick and Keith in a wobbly figure eight. The Stones and the Beatles seemed forever opposites, yet balanced somehow within the musical universe.

  The Bluesette reminded Bobby of countless Merseyside and Reeperbahn rock and roll joints. He could smell the energy. He could sense the excitement. His feet stuck to the floor, making gentle sucking sounds as he walked up the steps. It felt good to touch base with such an old and dear friend as live rock and roll.

  The cigarette smoke stung his eyes and brought back memories of the Cavern. The Bluesette had its own roxy toxic atmosphere. It fit twenty-five people, fifty if you squeezed them in like sardines. But on summer weekends, it was not unusual for a hundred kids to show up and just hang around the building listening to the bands from outside.

  Art Peyton ran the place with his wife, Sharon. They presented local bands and sold overpriced Cokes. The club was popular with rock fans from all over the city. All the Baltimore bands played there.

  The band known as the Urch Perch, also managed by Art, lived upstairs in cramped apartments above the club.

  Cigarette smoke swirled through the lights. The band onstage was loud and surprisingly good. Bobby Dingle walked in and edged his way around the tiny dance floor to the bar and ordered a Coke. The band hit the chorus like a sledgehammer. The lead guitarist also sang lead vocals. His voice was high and edgy.

  “Hey, baby!” he screamed. “See what love can do!”

  The band finished their first set and took a break. Bobby scanned the crowd. He didn’t see Cricket.

  “First time here?” a voice asked.

  Bobby looked around to see a guy in a cranberry shirt and white Levis smoking a cigarette. His hair was a little long, but nothing like the shaggy musicians. He was no teenager but had the excitement of youth in his eye.

  Bobby’s ears were still ringing from the loud music.

  “What?”

  “I said first time here?”

  “Yeah …”

  “I’m Art. I own this place. I can tell a first-timer, they always have big eyes.”

  “I’m English. I just got in.”

  “Hey, are you in a famous band?”

  “No, actually, I’m an antique dealer.”

  “Are you looking for somebody? You have that look.”

  Bobby waved cigarette smoke away from his face.

  “Yeah … a girl named Cricket.”

  Art Peyton laughed.

  “Funny name.”

  “Funny girl,” replied Bobby. “What’s the name of that band?”

  “You don’t know? These guys are the most popular band in the Baltimore-Washington area. I thought that’s why you came in here. They’re called Grin. The lead guitarist is amazing. His name is Nils Lofgren. He plays piano, accordion, guitar, everything—and he writes great songs.”

  Just then, Bobby saw Cricket coming in the door with four of her art school friends, including Dirk, a former boyfriend, who still made Bobby jealous.

  He pretended not to notice her at first. As soon as she came into the club, that became impossible. The intimate dance floor pressed everybody up against everybody else.

  “Bobby!” she squealed. “You came!”

  She rushed into his arms, and he hugged her tight.

  “When did you get here?”

  “Just today. I went by the house, and your mother told me you were at the Read Street Festival, and then Graham said you might be here … so I came.”

  Cricket hugged him again.

  “Oh, Bobby!”

  Bobby noticed the band had returned to the stage. The drummer was already testing his drums. Nils Lofgren plugged in and hit an E chord, which reverberated in Bobby’s teeth.

  Bobby shouted over the noise.

  “Let’s get out of here. It’s gonna get loud.”

  As they left the club, they noticed dozens of teenagers hanging around the door. Some were dancing to Grin right there on the sidewalk. Bobby and Cricket walked up Charles Street arm in arm. Bobby had a million things to say, but didn’t. It wasn’t the right time.

  “How’s your father?”

  “Oh, he’s just about out of the woods. They say he’ll be home in a day or two.”

  Bobby stopped walking and turned to Cricket. He put two hands gently on her shoulders and guided her around to face him.

  They both looked somewhat lost.

  “Do you love me?” he asked.

  Cricket blinked.

  “Do I love you? Of course I love you! You’re my husband and the father of my son.”

&nbs
p; Bobby stopped. That was the answer he sought.

  “Do you love me?” she asked back, challenging him.

  “Yes, of course I do!” Bobby answered.

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Bobby looked around at nothing and slowly shrugged.

  Cricket smiled and sniffed. The unbearable notion that Bobby might not return dissipated. She hugged him as tightly as she had ever done.

  “Let’s go home,” she whispered.

  The next few days were blissful for Bobby. The soothing influence of Winston and Cricket pushed away all his misgivings about Brian.

  He was 3,628 miles away.

  As the days passed, Bobby fell into a groove. Cricket’s friend Bonnie lived nearby and loved to babysit Winston. One day, she invited them to a party being thrown by some musician friends of hers.

  “These people are incredible musicians. They play western-swing-jug-band-blues-ragtime music. They all live in this magical little section of Baltimore that’s like a time warp. The houses are pre–Civil War. They have actual dirt roads right down in the middle of the city. A bunch of musicians took over a couple of the houses, and they all live there together. The group is called Bloody Mary and Her Black Plague Trolley Car Museum.”

  Bobby laughed. “What a great name! I love it!”

  “Oh, they have several names, depending on who got the gig and who’s singing lead.”

  “Are they all as good as Bloody Mary?”

  “How about Omar St. Groovy and His Snake Stomping Review? Or Orange Juice Jake and the Blind Ethnic Peg-leg Pygmies?”

  Bobby’s laughter was genuine.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me! Who makes this shit up?”

  “These are highly unusual people.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “But they’re very serious about their music. They dress in old-time clothes and have handlebar mustaches. The only thing is they don’t actually have a jug player. Nobody could figure out how to play it and not look like a fool. So, technically, they’re jugless.”