The Music
of the
Spheres
A Countercultural Tragedy
Allister
Thompson
CONTENTS
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Epigraph
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Afterword
Songs
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Text © 2021 Allister Thompson
Cover by Laura Boyle
Cover images: shutterstock/svekloid
istock.com/grynold
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Author’s site:
thegatelessgate.bandcamp.com
For the real-life Teresa to my Simon
CONTEMPORARY MUSIC IS NOT THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE NOR THE MUSIC OF THE PAST BUT SIMPLY MUSIC PRESENT WITH US: THIS MOMENT, NOW, THIS NOW MOMENT.
—John Cage, Silence
AUTHOR'S NOTE
All of the following events in the life of Simon Hastings really did take place, no matter how fantastic they may seem. In this age of rapid technological advancement, trendsetters fast become the stuff of legend to subsequent generations. I knew Simon very well, being a friend and a journalist who has exhaustively documented his career, and I firmly believe that he will eventually be recognized as one of these quasi-mythological figures. I could have written this book as a common biography or in the breezy journalistic style with which you may be familiar from my work. But somehow, as pretentious as it may seem, the grand narrative style of fiction seems the only proper treatment of my subject.
Not since the Persians first used unpleasant musical tones so effectively to unman their foes in their ancient battles with Athens and Sparta has humankind witnessed an explosion of so many odd sounds; new musical styles that challenge the mind and soul, warring for the loyalty of the population in this so-called “information age,” in which audio technology is so widespread and available. It was the discordant tones of the Saxon hordes that helped drive William and his invading Normans away from our unfriendly shores during their first invasion in 1070, a more powerful weapon than any gun or bow. The First Great War was partially ended in 1925, not by nuclear weapons but rather by the incessant blasting of hypnotic tritones by British gliders over the spires of Berlin, Dresden, and Milan. The great Russian Gregorovich’s compositions gained him such favor in the court of Frederick III the Humpback that it was said the real power in Prussia lay in the composer’s quill. All of this, of course, is well known to the educated reader, and it is not my intent here to inflict a lengthy history lecture.
The use of electrical impulses in music-making has revolutionized the world in many ways. Now, in this newly democratic age, we follow new heroes, not only trade union leaders like Tom Mann, who whipped up rage and change with fiddle tunes and miners’ ballads, played on giant phonograms, during the Syndicalist meetings of the 1940s, but that very modern figure, the “rock star.” Their messages, be they inspiring or vacuous, have gained such a hold on the modern mind that the genre has eclipsed all others in its ability to alter the sometimes easily swayed perspectives of the masses.
Therefore, no threat to social “stability” is presently considered as serious by the repressive governments of the Western world. Hastings and his bands, The Spheres and Astronomy, must be put in their proper place at the forefront of this rebellious new sonic movement.
Most of the story told in these pages was related to me by Hastings himself, shortly before his tragic death one year ago at the age of thirty-six; his message and his music were just then beginning to be embraced as widely and enthusiastically by the music-loving public as they had been by critics and friends such as myself. I well remember the night I left a portable tape recorder running during an evening of wine and cannabis, as Hastings told me this bizarre tale at length (or ad nauseum, as I thought at the time). He told me that he was himself working on a draft of the story you are about to read, despite the terrible risks he would undertake by publishing it, but a shackling depression had descended upon him in recent months.
I was at first skeptical of many details and hoped to have the opportunity to corroborate some of the facts before publication, especially since surprisingly few of these events have ever made an appearance in the press. Sadly, due to several months of laziness on my part, his untimely death means he will never see his story in print, but I believe this book will be a fitting memorial to a great man.
You will have to do your best to forgive my occasional flights of fancy and elaboration, but I vigorously insist that the events described herein did occur. I have used Hastings’ own notes extensively to recreate the episodes as vividly as possible. Hastings participated in a series of the most dramatic events of our time and yet remained unheralded for his heroism. He was a most remarkable man — and I was there, a New Musical Tribune reporter, documenting his career. His work with The Spheres will, I believe, in time become immortal in the annals of the musical arts, a fitting complement to the icons of past ages, the Bachs, Salieris, and Wilsons. I should note that owe a great debt of gratitude to a few people, most notably my wife, Vera, who has had to put up with my obsessions for so long, but also the inimitable Martin Sharpe-Thornton and Teresa Cappadocia for inspiration and encouragement. Last but not least, my editor, Alexandra Coffey of Peregrine Books, for shepherding this book to its completion and for possessing the courage to push for the publication of a book guaranteed to cause great controversy. We have had to rush through the editorial process to counter the rumored publication of a rival version of this story by one of my colleagues who claims to have obtained many (but surely not all) of the facts through German sources.
So, without further ado, here is the story of Simon Hastings in the time of our indomitable counterculture and some of the most important circumstances of our age.
—Rodney Blair, Edinburgh, July 1973
ONE
A soft gurgling drifted through Simon Hastings’ spacious loft flat as a murky brown liquid seeped from a small bottle, through a plastic tube capped with a needle, and into a swelling vein on his right forearm. The tubing, like the drug itself, was grade-A, sterilized, and government-approved. When the bottle had drained completely, he pulled out the tube with a satisfied grunt.
The air in his flat w
as thick, weighed down with the must of days and months of cigarette smoke, a fitting complement to the ponderously slow, reverby blues playing on the stereo, the new collaboration between James Hendricks and Klaus Stockhausen, “Drones for Electric Guitar and Treated Magnetic Tape.” The monochromatic drony sounds perfectly matched the mood in the flat. Wispy clouds filtered greenish harvest moonlight through the massive uncurtained windows as Hastings picked up his jade and chromium electric guitar, manufactured to his personal tastes and specifications by the world’s most esteemed luthier, Sven Hagstrom of Sweden. Hastings proceeded to ferociously jump up and down and high-kick, running around the room with the guitar for several minutes, emitting the occasional yelp, moan, or falsetto note.
The year was 1968, now remembered as a critically important time in the culture of our age, the apex of the development of various subcultures just then starting to gain recognition by the commercial “mainstream.” It was a particularly exciting time to be playing rock and roll in New York City, the capital of the Colony of Virginia. Freed by technology and a relatively novel state of democracy from the oppressive class control of aristocrats, landowners, and lordly tycoons and their tight control over what was presented as art and entertainment, youth culture in England, Europe, and Virginia had exploded in the 1960s in waves of dissonant sound and color. The fortuitous legalization and regulation of almost every narcotic and hallucinogenic known to humankind by a new breed of lawmaker hadn’t hurt this development. The sale of recreational pharmaceuticals was now tightly monitored worldwide and was considered an excellent way to keep the population docile, tranquil, and happy, although the multinationals that manufactured such compounds could be considered to possess more actual, palpable power than the governments charged with regulating them.
The burgeoning counterculture was considered a necessary evil by the new corporate establishment, an unwitting cash cow consuming products made at the behest of straight-laced businesspeople who wouldn’t dare to touch the stuff themselves.
The colorfully named Cognitive Vibe Enhancer 3, which Hastings had been injecting, was a compound sold by KässelPharma GmbH of Augsburg, the largest producer of recreational pharmaceuticals in the world, just ahead of Colombian Cartels Inc. and United Chinese Chemical. This drug, which had been copied by several generic manufacturers with mixed results, imparted a sense of misty well-being to the user’s psyche; those familiar with its effects will recall the amplification of one’s perception of another person’s behavior. Frowns were perceived as smiles, smiles as beams, and laughter as joy beyond expression; negative feelings were almost completely blocked while the drug was in the user’s system. It was also physically nonaddictive, like most of the new pharmaceuticals placed on the market in the last decade. Addictive substances, with the exception of cigarettes and alcohol, had been officially illegal throughout the Empire since the 1940s. Despite the fact that the CEO of KässelPharma at the time of this story, Helga Schmidt, was reputed to harbor disturbingly reactionary views on how society should properly be run, extremely “square” to say the least, the company’s products were the stimulants of choice for hipsters worldwide.
Finishing his bizarre warm-up, Hastings wiped the sweat from his forehead with a hairy wrist, breathing heavily but feeling much better. He was in his early thirties and airily unashamed of his relatively advanced rock and roll/countercultural age, still with jet-black, perfectly straight hair and still remarkably thin considering his high alcohol intake. He was dressed in a clingy shirt swirling with bright colors and skin-tight black jeans. This had been his stage uniform of late. Though he was not technically the star and focus of the band, being only lead guitar and not the singer, after all, and he really didn’t spend all that much time preening in front of mirrors, Hastings sometimes fancied himself a rather Romantic character.
“Better shove off,” he declared to the walls in his precise South London accent with a sweeping gesture. “Me chariot awaits.”
Placing the Hagstrom in its case, he cursed the roadies in advance for the leads, guitar stands, vintage guitars, etc., that were sure to go missing in the course of another wild evening. Such was the price of rock and roll excess. Stepping out of the lift, he raised his coat collar against the pea-soup fog that rose in a phosphorescent haze from the polluted waters of the Hudson. Though he could only see clearly for about twenty feet in any direction, he managed to hail a garishly striped cab and gazed vacantly out at the deserted streets with their abandoned, gape-windowed storefronts, occasionally glimpsing dazed, drug-induced expressions that mirrored his own on the faces of the few pedestrians.
The C-Enhancer was really kicking in quickly this time; a good thing, since the early fall weather had him feeling a little bit more melancholy than usual. Melancholy was a good Romantic coat to wear, but not when it started to become more real than an affectation. The cabbie was driving a little too fast (he had seemed to recognize his minor celebrity fare and was presumably trying to impress), and soon the spired skyline of Holborn, home of Elysian Fields, the colonial center of the new musical underground, loomed into view.
Hastings and his band, The Spheres, were on the verge of becoming genuine rock stars, despite or perhaps because of their extremely radical, out-there psychedelic sounds, but they were still less popular than those old standbys The Beach Bums, The Lonely Hearts Club, and The Jet Set, who had helped lead the rock and roll revolution but who were now considered pretty square by those in search of a fresher high. The psych scene had only really broken through onto the pop charts in the last year or so.
Though The Spheres could probably have sold out the 2,000-seat King George VII Theatre if they chose to attempt it, they preferred to play as often as possible in the more intimate and comfortable setting of Elysian Fields, featuring up-and-coming acts as support. For instance, day one of this particular three-nighter had featured Kamshaft, a dangerous-looking biker band fronted by warty, throaty bassist Lenny Lurch, and the wild, anarchic, always impossibly stoned Pink Gremlins, whose usual gimmick was to destroy the stage as thoroughly as possible at the end of their set. It was quite a release for both band and audience. That had led to the band being blacklisted by most venues, but they had promised to tone down their act for the night so that The Spheres would have a stage to tread on when they were done. This time they had only smashed a couple of holes in the stage with their battleax and thrown a few shot putts out into the audience, with no major injuries. Their girlfriends had gone to bail them out of jail, as ebullient as ever with their creation of another local legend. The Spheres had concluded the evening with a four-hour set of their trademark space-rock as the audience freaked out in unison. Night two would no doubt be just as memorable.
The band featured Hastings on guitar, the always foppishly stylish Martin Sharpe-Thornton on the bass guitar, Ed “The Hammer” Bentham on the drums, and charismatic former astrophysics postgrad Guy Calvert on lead vocals, Mellotron, Minimoog, VCS3 synthesizer, virginal, and portative pipe organ. The lineup was rounded out by the mysterious Electron Z (no one knew his real name, and he claimed to have forgotten it himself), who created the real hallmark of their sound. He was known for his two-foot pompadour and that fact that he hardly ever seemed to sleep; and when he did, it was often on the sidewalk. Electron Z pounded and scraped blocks of wood and chunks of metal, parts of his own anatomy and other people’s, and any other objects that came to hand. The sounds were processed through a microphone and an echo unit, producing outlandish, otherworldly sounds a Musick Maker writer had described in an uncharitable moment as “like nothing this planet has ever heard — and hopefully will never have to hear again.” The liquid light show was the last touch needed to send any crowd of stoned hippies into a frenzy.
Hastings was jolted out of a reverie by a lurch and the sudden screech of the taxi’s brakes. A group of teenagers in pork-pie hats and breeches had run out in front of the car and were attacking it with cricket bats. Hastings could see the sodium glow glinting menac
ingly off their red contact lenses and designer gas masks, but their bats were having little effect on the Plexiglas hull of the cab. Another bad trip for the yobs, he thought. They never can handle their medicine. Acts of random violence were on the rise; the peace-and-love message seemed to be falling on deaf ears in the desolate inner-city neighborhoods, which were blighted to say the least. The police force tended to concentrate on keeping the suburbs as safe and isolated as possible, leaving the city to rot or thrive unchecked. In fact, the authorities in general seemed quite happy to have the lower classes exterminate themselves.
The popular theory in the media was that these acts of unaccountable savagery were encouraged by the side effects of cheap knock-off or homemade copies of drugs like the rather expensive Cognitive Vibe Enhancer series and No-Catch Cocaine, which were widely used by those with the dough to buy them for their more powerful effects. It vaguely occurred to Hastings that perhaps the drugs causing all this trouble might not be the knock-offs at all, but he lazily discarded that train of thought.
The cabbie finally lost patience with the situation and revved up, knocking over one of the attackers and leaving the rest to comically shake their fists in the exhaust cloud. They were soon left behind in the fog.
Tonight’s show, the finale of the series, featured a fascinating bill. First up would be The Asparagus Stalks, a group of white Hindu vegetarians who propounded their creed via the new hard rock genre, a style of music highlighted by an overpowering use of distortion. They chanted Hari Krishna-style over a bed of punishingly repetitive guitar riffs that slowly wore down the mind’s resistance, creating a meditative state. They would be followed by something very different, the extremely controversial and generally hostile Muttonchop Killers, whose Midwestern frontman, Ned Loogeant, vociferously spouted tirades promoting the hunting of small mammals with bow-and-arrow and condemning vegetarian “limp-wristers” and “communists.” No one could decide whether the whole act was a crude performance-art satire of the average man or whether Loogeant really was as much of a redneck as he seemed, and Loogeant wasn’t letting on. He was given the benefit of the doubt by most of his acquaintances because of the sheer peculiar magnetism of his act, but Hastings had never really cared for him.
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