The Music of the Spheres

by Allister Thompson

  Billy Prestwick’s wheelchair had come flying up a ramp built especially for his use and slammed into Guy’s backside, knocking him over. The Hammer and Loogeant both broke out into raucous laughter.

  “Sorry, chum!” Billy screamed with delight as Baba Frank lent Guy a hand up. “Let’s round up the Stalks and get going here!” He grabbed Frank by the hood of his robe. “This could be your big break tonight, Frankie! Everybody who’s anybody is here. Get out there and kick arse in the name of Shiva or whoever the hell it is you worship! They’re waiting!”

  Jerzy bustled by, wheezing under the weight of a massive metal statue of a garlanded Ganesh, the Stalks’ only stage prop. He returned a few seconds later with a jug of cold milk that would be ritually served to the god throughout the set.

  “Baba Yogi is my name, if you please,” Frank answered calmly but with ever so slight an edge of irritation, wiping ash from Billy’s cigar from his sleeve. “All will be as Brahma commands — success or failure.” He gravely motioned to his following, who had been quietly smoking spliffs in a corner and nursing their wounds and feelings, as far away from the Muttonchop Killers as possible. The other three musicians and the six hippie girls (who danced and waved sticks of incense and fed the milk to Ganesh) followed him as he strode through the beaded curtains onstage to scattered applause.

  “Bloody wet blankets, that lot,” Billy muttered.

  The Spheres

  Astronomy

  (Aureola Records)

  Starred review in NMT, June 5, 1968

  by Rodney Blair

  Well, the long-awaited sophomore effort from The Spheres lads is here, and it’s been well worth the wait. The band’s debut shocked the rock world with its innovative use of electronic sounds and synthesizers and its refusal to conform to any sort of rock and roll tradition. On this second effort, the sound is preserved, but there has been more care lavished on the vocals and lyrics, much to the benefit of lead singer Guy Calvert, who possesses one of the most distinct voices on the contemporary music scene. The stellar axework of Simon Hastings also shines, dripping with reverb and echo, buoyed by the rock-solid rhythm section. The only criticism I can offer is that there is very little rhythmic variety to be found in the songs, which are all very long and seem mainly designed to induce a trance-like state in the listener. This is a hallmark of the new psychedelic rock, and we’d better get used to it, since it doesn’t look like it’s going away any time soon. It’s certainly visceral, majestic, and exciting.

  Highlights of this record include the haunting “Judgment Day” and the ecologically themed “Barren Planet.” The songs explore lyrical territory thought to be the exclusive domain of poets, leaving the lad-meets-lass themes of conventional pop far behind. The band’s maturity on this second album is impressive and will solidify its place as one of the finest bands in the world today. A tour of the British Isles is planned for the fall.

  three

  A squeal of ear-splitting feedback exploded from Baba Yogi’s Hiwatt amplifier, and then the drummer started up a thunderous tribal pattern as the band launched into its first number, “The Elephant God Lives Within You.” The dancers whirled around the stage, tossing flower petals into the bemused audience as Frank played the same simple riff over and over on his multicolored Stratocaster. His normally reserved, tranquil demeanor had disappeared, and he jumped around like a madman in a sort of Dervish-like trance, grinning like a killer. The combination of the frantically spiritual visuals and rather gritty heavy music certainly set the audience momentarily back on its heels, but the crowd soon began to come around and was gyrating as ferociously as the hippie girl dancers, who were now waving pungent sticks of incense that filled the room with a sickly-sweet scent. The Asparagus Stalks thumped their way through a set of mostly one- to three-chord, drony numbers with a heavy bottom end, but with Baba Yogi’s high-pitched voice wailing over everything else in faintly Eastern-sounding scales. As always, they ended with their signature chant, “The Cow Is Your Friend,” all ten voices in unison like a monastic prayer:

  The cow is your friend,

  And so is the bird,

  Eat him not or you will rot,

  On the wheel of endless rebirth.

  Love all as one, one as all,

  Love the flowers and leafy trees,

  Love them well, enjoy their smell

  Heaven is in all you see.

  By this point their bizarre display had completely won over the easy-to-please punters, some of whom had taken the messages to heart and were busy attempting the full lotus position on the sticky floor.

  “The blessings of the gods be upon you! Thank you, New York! All right! Rock n’ roll! Yeaaahhhhh!” Frank screamed deafeningly into the mic, shook sweat out of his matted hair like a wet dog, and led his troops offstage to adoring cheers.

  “Bravo, Frankie! You did us proud!” Billy wheeled enthusiastically to embrace his second-most-favorite protégé.

  “Vishnu truly smiled on our performance tonight, my brother. We’ll move some units now for sure! I mean, it was a very moving evening.” Frank had yet to reconstruct his usual holy façade.

  “You’ve bloody well made your name! This evening is going to be legendary!” Billy was in a state of rapture, no doubt envisioning a glorious future for himself managing the two biggest rock bands in the world.

  The Asparagus Stalks headed toward the back of the room to receive the praise of The Spheres; much to his own surprise, Hastings had enjoyed the set immensely. But the back-slapping was rudely interrupted by the arrival of the Muttonchop Killers, who burst in backstage wearing their all-black-leather stage regalia, tough-looking jackets and army helmets. Loogeant knocked Baba Frank over as he swaggered by. “Outta my way, you mystic pussy! We’re gonna make sure these space cadets will never wanna go on after us again. C’mon, boys!”

  Leering, he brushed aside the stringy brown hair that hung over his gaunt, intense face and rushed toward the stage. Loogeant must have weighed all of a hundred pounds, but his appearance belied an energy and strength born of pure anger. He seemed to hate everything equally, but he remained to most an oddly fascinating figure. There were rumors he was a heroin addict at the age of nine, back in the early days when addictive drugs had become easy to obtain on the underground market.

  “Sometimes I wonder why we started hanging about with that fellow,” Guy said disgustedly as he helped Frank to his feet.

  “They didn’t frighten away all of the groupies, did they?” Marty peered forlornly out the back door into the alley but saw no one.

  “Everyone knows the groupies come around at the end of the show, Marty,” Hastings said, patting him on the back. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you some.” Hastings had a steady if unpredictable girlfriend who claimed she’d taken off to climb a mountain in the Andes. In addition to his generally impeccable manners, he was also a bit “old-fashioned” in his attitudes toward sex and relationships. Naturally, he kept this a secret so as not to ruin the band’s image.

  Once again, the set commenced with a deafening screech of feedback, this time from Loogeant’s head-high stack of speaker cabinets. Then the band kicked in, playing something resembling a boogie rhythm, three fuzzy guitars straining the woofers and thundering on the same riff as the players jumped up and down and aimed kicks at the astonished faces in the crowd. The effect was sloppy but powerful and chaotic; the drummer had a bad habit of speeding up and slowing down throughout the songs. This was one of the Muttonchop Killers’ first larger-venue gigs in New York since moving from the poverty-stricken former steel town of Wolfeville, a metropolis in the parish of Pontiac in the county of Michigan. No one in New York had ever heard anything like this band; the closest thing they had was Louis Freed and the Cashmere Overlords, an art-rock group that eschewed all melody in favor of sheets of noise.

  When Ned Loogeant started to yell (which he did at the top of his lungs), several people in the audience covered their ears in shock:

  I’ll kill yer
mama,

  I’ll kill yer dad,

  And if he’s lucky

  Yer best friend Chad,

  Goddamned commie scum,

  Gonna burn yer fuckin’ house down,

  Kill ya with yer own gun.

  How’d ya like that, Comrade?

  Kill, kill, kill the Reds!

  “Provocative!” Billy proclaimed. “Satirical agitprop!”

  “Rot,” Hastings mumbled.

  “Well, oi loike it,” The Hammer said. “Maybe oi’ll join up wiv them instead.”

  Guy shot him a glare.

  The Muttonchop Killers raced through a very short set of eight or nine numbers, all of which seemed to be in the same key and tempo, with titles like “Vegetarians are Stupid,” “Gonna Kill Me Some Hippie,” and “Nuke the Peaceniks Now.” By the time they finished, the audience was in full outrage, throwing bottles (some broken), many of which struck the band members in the face. Loogeant was bleeding in several places by the time he lurched to the front of the stage, exposed himself to the crowd, poured a bottle of vodka over his head, and then stumbled from the stage. He had found time on the way to throw some punches at a couple of women and display a certain finger several times with a demonic leer.

  “Fuckin’ excellent. Great crowd! Sorry, fellers,” he smirked, “your peace n’ love buddies are in a bad mood now.”

  Marty regarded him coolly as he tuned his enormous Rick Booker bass. “Don’t you worry about that. These people will forget you were ever here by time we’re done with them.”

  “Whatever you say, pretty boy. Metal’s the way of the future — no more of this astral shit.”

  “A lot of steaks, medium rare, and pointless arson by the sounds of it.” Hastings chuckled. “We’ll take our vision of the future, thanks.”

  Loogeant flashed his favorite gesture again, but in a genial sort of way, and departed to find the few groupies who might have been impressed by the masculine violence of his show, followed by his glowering, pimply bandmates, who rarely spoke. Jerzy was making some final repairs to the stage while the staff cleaned up the angry audience’s debris. A chant of “We want Guy” had gone up. Hastings started tuning his guitar. Guy was looking a bit funny. His face had a greenish tint, and he was crouching with his head in his hands.

  “What the matter? Coming down too soon?”

  “Not sure, mate — feeling a bit lightheaded and nauseous. Maybe my first case of stage fright, eh?” Guy flashed a watery smile.

  “Sure you’re all right? Need a fix?” Marty was injecting his pre-gig dose of KässelPharma Ultra-Speed, something of a superstitious ritual for him. The Hammer was chugging down a final pint or two, and Electron Z was not yet on the scene.

  “No time for nerves, old son!” Billy bellowed. “Almost time! All the magazines are here to cover the gig. After tonight, you’ll be the biggest stars in rock! You’ll go Number One back home!”

  “Is my Mellotron ready? And the organ?”

  “Everything’s a go, Guy. You’ll be like a god tonight. Ring in the new age!” With that melodramatic outburst, Billy was gone again to chat with the VIPs.

  “All right, let’s get out there and drive these people out of their minds!” Marty led the charge out onto the stage, followed by Hastings, Guy, and The Hammer, beer in hand. They had long ago stopped worrying about Electron Z; he usually appeared by the end of the first number. The Spheres had some very long numbers.

  A roar greeted the sight of handsome Marty Sharpe-Thornton, elegant Guy Calvert (female voices predominant), brooding Simon Hastings, and the hulking Hammer, who settled in behind his massive double bass drums and started whacking a fast beat in 4/4.

  “Nice to see you!” Guy yelled and was rewarded with another chorus of screams.

  “Here’s some songs for your enjoyment … I mean enlightenment!” Then the guitar and bass kicked in. Hastings could feel the power surging through his arms as the sound from his amp blasted through him. He was playing the powerful but strangely delicate progression of “Judgment Day,” filtered through Echoplex, chorus, and fuzz pedals. The chiming of his guitar and the pulsating bass line filled his head as he gazed with unseeing eyes into the seething mob. But just as Guy started to sing, as his eyes rested on the back wall, Hastings noticed the peculiar Colombian contraband dealer watching the band with that focused, hateful intensity and almost dropped his plectrum. There was something extremely disconcerting about the mysterious man’s presence that sent chills down his spine. He shook his head and put it out of his mind as best he could, focusing instead on the lyrics he had written for Guy to sing.

  I knew a man who suddenly went insane.

  He ran away, out into lonely meadows,

  To the lands beyond where the subway ends.

  He lay alone, watching the grass grow,

  In a field, near a winding river,

  Above his head, not a cloud in the sky.

  He reflected, but his mind was full of TV,

  He screamed aloud, life’s become too easy.

  I don’t want to die; I’m not even living.

  Guy still wasn’t looking healthy; his face was now dead white, and he was standing at a strange angle. Still, he was ever the trouper, and the usual mania of performance had come upon him. He was completely possessed by the words he sang, his eyes closed and his arms gesticulating wildly. He cut a magnificent figure, that was certain. Just before the end of the second verse, Hastings heard a swirling sound, like a falling bomb in an air raid, and he knew that Electron Z had finally arrived and was manipulating one of his devices to add the final cosmic layer. They launched into the first chorus, which featured an exhilarating ascending chord progression:

  Then the sky opened up,

  And rained stars down upon him.

  The flowers cried,

  In the presence of their maker.

  As he launched into his guitar solo, Hastings could see people, stoned well out of their trees by this point, whirling in free-form dance or moving slowly and rhythmically to the music, many with their eyes tightly shut but most staring with a fixed intensity at the rapidly changing patterns made by the liquid lights on the screen behind the stage. He played a series of flowing lines to end the solo; by this time, he was so high on the music that he had no thoughts in his head at all. He didn’t even notice that Guy hadn’t approached the mic to sing the last verse. He was standing nearby, doubled over, his eyes wide and unblinking like a reptile’s.

  Sensing that Guy wouldn’t be able to finish the song, Marty nervously took his place to sing the last chorus, his deep baritone a full octave below Guy’s voice. The audience didn’t seem to notice anything amiss.

  The sky opened up,

  And rained fire down upon them,

  There was nowhere to hide,

  From the passing of the judgment.

  As the last chords crashed, Guy suddenly dropped to the floor, writhing. Before rushing over to his prostrate figure, Hastings glanced instinctively to the back of the room. The dealer was watching with evident satisfaction. He pulled plugs from his ears and casually exited the club. Guy twitched one last time, relaxed, and was still. The gig was over.

  four

  An eerie silence fell over the room as the audience stood gawking for several seconds. Then a someone screamed. This set off a chain reaction of bellowing and shrieking as people rushed the stage to find out what had happened to their hero. The Spheres still stood in a circle, looking down in shock at Guy’s now-still form.

  “Out of the way, people. I’m a doctor!” a young, bespectacled longhair yelled, pushing his way through the crowd. “Well, when I pass the exams, anyway,” he added in a lower tone few heard as he clambered onto the stage, shoving several mini-skirted mourners out of the way.

  After a minute of examination, he looked sorrowfully up at Hastings. “This man’s quite dead, I’m afraid. No need for an ambulance.” He gently closed Guy’s eyes.

  “Oi don’t fuckin’ believe it!” The Hammer
moaned. At least he’s got the decency to be upset about it, Hastings thought dully. He was having trouble thinking and felt like the roof was about to collapse on them all.

  “Dead! Dead!” some girls echoed, and others took up the cry. The sound was deafening. Billy, always in control, wheeled up to the mic and reached down to pull it to his level, his face bright red and his veins popping.

  “All right, people, the show’s over! Lights on, please. Clear off, now. Away with you! We have a medical emergency up here. Keep an eye on the media for reports! No refunds! Please evacuate immediately!”

  The punters began reluctantly filing out, some weeping as their trip turned really bad, but others grumbled that this had better not be some kind of publicity stunt, because it was not funny at all. At least ten women had to be dragged out, kicking and screaming. The stage lights were suddenly switched off, leaving the room in a depressing, dingy half light.

  “Marty, go call the bloody police — now! Doctor, what happened to him?” said Billy.

  “I’ve got no idea. It could have been an aneurysm or congenital heart defect; any number of conditions can cause sudden death. Had he been to a doctor recently?”

  “Not in years, I should imagine,” Billy said, tears streaming down his cheeks. The Hammer was also sobbing lustily. “He had no regard for his personal safety — too busy trying to save the world. What will we do without him?”

  “It was poison,” Hastings said abruptly. He had with sudden clarity remembered the satisfied smirk on the face of the drug dealer as Guy collapsed — and when he had bought the stuff hours before.