The Kill Riff

by David J. Schow

  Hogging center stage, trussed up in bondage harnesses to flaunt his chest fur, was Pepper ''Mad Max" Hartz, in spandex tights, buccaneer boots, studs, and wristbands. His spring-loaded chromium dildo waited inside its special codpiece slot, an Alien ready to burst from its egg and do its bit. For this concert, Hartz's hair had been punked out into oily spikes with a blood-red streak, when he shrieked, the mike stand seemed to recoil.

  Stage right, parallel with Lucas but at an extreme forty-five-degree angle to his position, was Rick Hicks-"rhythm guitar, temple blocks, and white noise," according to the sleeve of Pain Threshold. That was a lie, too. Hicks chorded the bass line in an altered, static key. He was not playing rhythm or contributing texture; he was adding volume. His job, along with that of the bassist and drummer, was the AC/DC bottom line-a tidal wave of four-four sound, period. Hicks' part was boring enough to give him plenty of latitude for onstage antics and elaborate flourishes intended to hide the fact that he knew maybe three keys in toto. He capered in and out of his spotlight, wearing black leather dunnage jazzed up with chains and a doggie collar.

  Stationed far stage left was Texas McClanahan, tucked behind his bastille of keyboard equipment. Miles of wires webbed synthesizer to mellotron to electric piano. Texas had been a big fan of Rick Wakeman and resisted the technology that could combine most of his variations into a single keyboard. All Lucas could see of him was his wildly bopping head, which enthusiastically jogged up and down to the beat, though not the song itself.

  After a sustain that held and held and held, like a chainsaw ripping through a log, the band leapfrogged directly into "Rock Rocket" from Primal Scream.

  Between Texas and Hartz were the targets.

  Tracking to the left of Texas, Lucas picked out bass player Tim Fozzetto. His area of movement extended from the keyboards, behind Hartz, past the drum set, and halfway to where Rick Hicks was jumping around.

  Fozzetto was sheathed in an ebony jumpsuit with a weightlifter cut in the front. Bands of holographic foil twined around his thighs and wound down to the tops of his silver space boots. He teetered on at least six inches of platform heel; maybe Kiss had had a garage sale. He was stroking a long, mean-looking Fender fretless bass, pumping forth a growling low-frequency mimic of the riff Rick Hicks was diligently copying. Fozzetto's hair was a rag-cut rat's nest of bleached white, making him an easy pick-off.

  Fozzetto strutted past the drum riser, planted in its traditional upstage center post. Behind a dental staircase of octave drums, Jackal Reichmann tortured his monster kit with the sadistic glee of a demented nine-year-old setting fire to an anthill. He was completely surrounded by drums. There was a double bass, three different floor toms, and a flat set of yellow Syn-drums wired in as well. It was like the vast control panel of an alien spaceship. Behind him on a trellis depended five bronze gongs in ascending sizes, plus a sheet of tin to bang on for good measure. Another rack, at a right angle to the first, held squeeze-bulb horns, cowbells, brass chimes, a xylodrum, other percussives. Hovering above, struts extended to the ridiculous popstar height espoused by good old Keith Moon, were the cymbals, at least a dozen golden UFOs. Reichmann loved them to death. He was clad in tight white leather bikini panties, white leather jackboots that reached to his knees, and an assortment of armbands from shoulders to wrists. He had given up the mohawk Lucas had seen on the back cover of Pain Threshold in favor of a weird loose crop that flowed around his head like seaweed underwater. To achieve the kind of hard beat 'Gasm needed to back up Hartz's guitar madman act, Reichmann could have done as well pounding on a trash-can lid.

  The song ground to a finish, and Reichmann stood up, banging his sticks together one-two-three-four, inciting the crowd to put its hands together for the segue into "Love Torpedo," 'Gasm's first FM hit. The first of three, as Chic Garris, manager of On the Brink, might have put it. Same beat, same pace. The audience went bananas. Lucas supposed that rock fans in Tucson would clap for any damned thing. Some self-proclaimed music critic would write the whole genocidal mess up for tomorrow morning's edition of the Arizona Daily Star, and if anything was more excruciating than the dreck reeled out by 'Gasm, it was the bilge that always sprouted by the column inch in the papers, courtesy of some talentless refugee of the University of Arizona's journalism department.

  A working-class metal act, 'Gasm was not entitled to a gig inside the Community Center's "acoustically perfect" Music Hall. That was too prestige. 'Gasm's promoters wanted a venue that could be hosed down after the show, like the tiled interior of an Australian pub. 'Gasm was also, in the promoter's words, "too category," which meant they lacked the muscle to sell out a reserved-seating concert. Half the seats would be empty at showtime, and that was embarrassing. Better to lower the price than raise it and bank on ticket turnover instead of high-priced status. The result of this thinking milled below, jostling cattle awaiting not a slaughter, but perhaps a sacrifice.

  It was a mock war. The band had to get the audience off. If they succeeded, the prize was acceptance. If they lost, if the fans refused to be impressed, then retaliation could assume a thousand ugly shapes.

  "Love Torpedo" ended. Lucas mouthed Pepper Hartz's words soundlessly as he asked if the audience felt all right. In the roar that surged forth in response, they ran through the intro to a longish tune called "Agent Orange Blues." Fozzetto, as it turned out, could stroke a pretty fair blues foundation when liberated from 'Gasm's smash-your-head persona.

  Penetrating the Arena was an operation, that had required Lucas to leave his room at the Holiday Inn (formerly the Marriott and, before that, Braniff Place) in the predawn and spend part of the day camped out on the roof of the Tucson Community Center building itself. He'd had to duck an idly probing helicopter searchlight or two after the sun fell and showtime rolled near. Security at the arena's entrances was unreal. The sheriffs patted down all ticketholders, removing dope and liquor, a scut duty usually relegated to the ushers. But they were also searching for grenades, or switchblades, or Saturday Night Specials. A lot of people had raised hell, and the anti-authority mood was suitably ugly. Some raised hell because they didn't like giving up their weapons. Almost everyone had seen the news, and many were here in the hope of witnessing a tragedy. The band sensed this, and it had not provided for a spontaneous, warm rapport. At first the audience was howling because it had filled the arena, and it was hungry. Once the music started, they seemed to forget about the death factor, and it became more like a run-of-the-mill heavy metal show. The response 'Gasm had gotten to the intro to "Agent Orange Blues" demonstrated that.

  Lucas had cut a hatchway in one of the rooftop industrial air-conditioning ducts, using a pair of duckbilled tin snips. He dropped in his nylon bundle, followed, and bent the metal shut behind him. The vents were three-by-three tunnels of aluminum. Lucas clambered about the system until his penlight and architectural sketches told him he was where he needed to be, and then he snipped himself another hole. He had spent the duration of the opening act, a band modestly dubbed the Nuclear War Babies, stretched out in the rush of cool air within the vent, eating a tuna-salad sandwich and sucking on a collapsible carton of grape juice. Then he eased through and landed silently on the catwalk. Being up top amplified the sense of distance to the concrete floor, which looked as if it were a hundred feet straight down. Actually, he was nearly level with the uppermost row of balcony seating, which was so far behind him it was not a consideration. His invisibility was guaranteed. His black clothing made him a ghost on the far side of the bright lights. He felt queerly like the Red Death sneaking into the Bal Masque.

  Each 'Gasm album was a solid carload of five-minute-long cuts, which meant their live versions of the same songs ran seven to eight minutes. Rock bands aware of their own limitations tend to milk each tune for all the solo spots and fooling around they could squeeze in. As the obligatory blues tune "Agent Orange" droned on for nearly thirteen minutes, during which Hartz's true skill as a guitarist became wincingly evident. He posed, picking a si
ngle note forty-two times-playing not his guitar, but his audience, which grew more frenzied with each simple pluck. Jackal Reichmann, dusting his kit in a time signature way too lethargic to hold his attention, nearly dozed off while playing.

  Lucas never took his eyes off the band except to spot-check the empty catwalk behind him. He unzippered the nylon satchel and drew out the Dragunov sniper's rifle. A small cardboard box sealed with gaffer's tape was affixed to the right side above the trigger guard. It would contain the expended shell casings as they were spit out by the Kalishnikov rotating-bolt breech, the efficient system that was the heart of the Soviet Union's number-one field weapon, the AK-47 automatic. The magazine and scope were already in place. The box had occurred to Lucas during his session of spin/sight/shoot in the forest. It would not do to have his brass raining down on the heads of the crowd as he gave them what they were really waiting for. This way was better. Less evidence.

  The sound pounding out of the massive Marshall amps was beyond description. It made Lucas' face buzz, made him squint and grit his teeth. It was like being sandblasted. The bass line thudded inside his chest, compressing his lungs; the catwalk shook like a palsied dinosaur beneath him. He thought of the muscles needed to hold down a madly pistoning jackhammer. The physical challenge here was the same. Rock'n'roll had come a long way from Chuck Berry… technologically speaking.

  In his mind, he previewed the panic below.

  He had allotted himself a generous fifteen seconds to take out both targets following his first shot. It would require another thirty seconds or so to backtrack to the hole in the ductwork and climb through. Once in the duct he would resheathe the Dragunov. The Arena bowl was seated in a man-made crater that put the bottom floor underground, but the roof of the building was still several stories up. The fire ladder Lucas had climbed up was not a viable escape route. It was not on the building's dark side. Lucas assumed there would be people watching it-later-so he had packed a light claw-hook-and-nylon grappling line. What was the joke the paratroops used in jump school? It's not the fall that kills you, it's the sudden stop. His physique was reliable enough to risk a fast downward rappel. Better to sprain his leg in a fall than get nailed on the fire ladder or gunned down while sprinting across one of the Community Center's football-field-sized parking lots. After that it was back to the hotel, and his room. The airplane sequence was virtually the same as it had been in Denver. This time, he had flown first class as Dexter Hayworth, a salesman of photographic supplies. His heavy suitcase was full of X-ray-sensitive film and plates. This precaution had been unneeded; American Airlines had checked the case through without nosing into its contents. Lucas had guessed correctly that there was no danger of anyone hijacking a flight from Oakland to Tucson International, anyway. That would take a real nut.

  'Gasm let their end note ring, and ring, and ring, building audience applause like the airwash blast of an approaching jet fighter. The crowd had been caressed into a valley, and now it was time to peak them out. Hartz sprang into the air, legs pinwheeling. Lucas thought of Wile E. Coyote, making his getaway in a Roadrunner cartoon. Hartz landed on the boards on one knee, punching a raw chord out of his white Stratocaster. Reichmann woke up and began to bludgeon his hi-hat cymbal, thankful he could resume his endless four-four "Indian Giver" beat. This pounding, chording, and tribal prep gobbled up eight full bars before the band turned the song around a comer and bent it into "Doncha Want To."

  Lucas seated the PSO sight against his eye and focused on Tim Fozzetto's bobbing white mane. As fast as he could, he tracked and targeted the four other band members in succession.

  Flame pot explosions punctuated the refrain of the song, blowing columns of flash powder and orange fire twenty feet into the air on both sides of the drum riser. Then Hartz threw out both arms in a crucifixion pose, his Strat hanging free, still humming. A hidden pot positioned directly in front of Hartz's mike stand went off, obliterating him in a sheet of blinding white fire-foom! Lucas thought of Jackson Knox, eating chunks of his own guitar. When all eyes in the house recovered from the blitz, Hartz stood there victorious. The silver mike stand and the face of the Strat had both been painted with smoke paste before the show, and now they were blackened and steaming.

  The audience berserked. Some were caught off guard. All approved, loudly, longly. Hartz was invincible.

  Neat trick, thought Lucas. It was one that had not been on the videotape. Hartz must have gotten his eyebrows singed a time or two on this tour.

  They wrapped up "Doncha Want To"-always a crowd pleaser-and bright red scoop lighting flooded the entire stage. Jackal Reichmann, laughing like a maniac, stood spread-legged atop his kit and hoisted his drum-fed machine gun. He held the trigger down and crisscrossed the front ranks of the audience, the ones crammed like lemmings against the orchestra pit barricade. The squibs, planted in triple rows along the footlight trench of the stage and salted around on the monitors and P.A. equipment, were detonated electronically. Reichmann's sham bullets blew glitter and paper shrapnel into the air. The front-huggers ducked and shrieked, and when the shooting stopped, Hartz was already filling the airspace with a freeform intro to "Loose Rivets" from Primal Scream. Reichmann kicked out and dropped back into place in the manner of an old-time cinema cowboy vaulting onto his trusty horse. The machine gun was still smoking as he began to pump and pound.

  Lucas cradled the Dragunov against one thigh and waited, crouching, high above and in front of the band. From his vantage point he could see roadies snaking corrugated hoses for the smoke machines into place behind the P.A. system.

  The crowd's initial hostility had been overwhelmed by 'Gasm's pyrotechnics. For at least two more songs, Hartz and company would have the audience palmed and wrapped.

  The latent aggression Lucas had felt seething up toward him from the Arena floor earlier had had an additional source. At four in the afternoon, a lath-and-tagboard booth had been erected in the middle of the Community Center's broad stone patio. It was the sort of booth one sees at county fairs or during election weeks. Slathered across the top of the booth in stark red tempera letters was the admonition JESUS IS THE KING, Not Elvis Presley.

  What Elvis had to do with 'Gasm, Lucas wasn't sure.

  An advance guard of sweet, primly dressed, terribly earnest young women did their best to foist folded tracts onto the kids milling about the patio, killing time before the lines formed. At about six, when people began arriving in force, an enormous ghetto blaster appeared in the booth. It was the size of a large suitcase, all black and silver with twin speakers like begrilled insect eyes. A slickly groomed pastor was dropped curbside by a wheezing Chevy Nova. He made his way to the booth, tuned the huge radio to an empty AM band, and pulled a Mister Microphone from inside his coat. Though it was suffocatingly hot, he did not ever shed the coat.

  The tirade that blatted forth from the radio had been energetic and incomprehensible, forming a surreal soundtrack for Lucas's waiting time. The pastor shoved forth the testimony that a member of the rock metal group you are paying to see has admitted to consuming human flesh! He did not waste time citing references. It was gospel. His young ladies and young men joggled their heads gravely at each apocalyptic pronunciamento. The pastor fireballed onward with that trapped but defiant look Sam Houston must have gotten when he saw his buddies dropping like mosquitoes at the Alamo. Lucas wondered whether this dude had ever wasted pulpit time on a consideration of the act of communion as symbolic cannibalism.

  Just as the waiting concertgoers began shouting epithets and making threatening motions, the police dropped by to say howdy. A contingent of Tucson Metro officers hung close enough to the booth to discourage any spontaneous trashing of the wild-eyed pastor and his zomboid charges.

  Ten minutes before the Arena doors sprang wide to admit the over seven thousand people waiting to see 'Gasm, a battered Ford pickup truck chugged and clunked into the loading zone near the booth. It had obviously come off the same lot for senile vehicles as the Chevy Nova
and was loaded down with more of the pastor's minions. Each of these clear-eyed soldiers of the Lord toted a cardboard box filled with books, posters, records, and other items any fool could recognize as sinful. The pastor continued babbling, his Mister Microphone in hand… but now a propane torch was in his other hand, and he waved it around for special emphasis. The icons of vice and corruption were dumped at his feet-'Gasm albums, EPs by the Nuclear War Babies, old Beatles discs, records by the Stones, the Who, Rude Boy, Patti Page, AC/DC, Merle Haggard and the Strangers, Jules and the Polar Bears, Jim Nabors, Leonard Bernstein, Street Pajama, even Alvin and the Chipmunks. Even an ancient copy of Harmonica Harmonies, amid a smattering of other records all picked up for 490 a shot at K-Mart to bulk out the haul. 'Gasm albums, after all, cost retail. Among the books spilling onto the heap were works by Robert Ludlum, John D. MacDonald, and Isaac Asimov. Newspaper accounts would later report that the pile also included copies of the Destroyer novels, several violence pulps by Stephen Grave, The Guitar Fake Book, Monty Python's Life of Brian, Fahrenheit 451, Jane Fonda's Workout Book, Why Bad Things Happen to Good People, and several dictionaries, including Bierce's… all of which had nothing whatsoever to do with the demon of heavy metal, but which helped make the potential pyre much more impressive, especially for the TV news cameras.

  Rock'n'roll wasn't the only thing that could distract the impressionable from America's old gods.

  The police intervened. One officer fought to remain civil as he addressed people he thought of as Nazis in religious drag. He informed the crazy pastor-civilly-that burning records inside the city limits violated ordinances against combustibles emitting noxious fumes, and polyvinyl chloride certainly classified. The pastor stowed his torch in a huff. Both the cop and the pastor had to shout at each other over the catcalls provided by the line of concertgoers.