The Music of the Spheres

by Allister Thompson

  “But how?” Daevid Mallorn was as relaxed as ever, lounging in a long purple robe with matching slippers.

  “Well, he’s been hired to find us, hasn’t he? It’s time to hire someone just as nasty to find him, and I don’t mean some hippie sage or mage or whatever crazy old Mallorn over there tried to hire. What happened to your pal, eh? Was he absorbed back into the ether? Did some little green teapot men come down and take him away?” He leered over at Mallorn, who showed his offense only through a slight frown.

  Hastings rubbed his chin. “Even though he’s obviously trying to pick a fight, Farren may be making a valid point. I realized a long time ago that if ever want to beat this bastard, we’ll need to beat him at his own game. I just wouldn’t admit it to myself. This means that if we have to play dirty, that’s what we’ll do. And we’ll have to leave our qualms behind.”

  “Count me out of hiring any hit men,” Mallorn said. “I won’t try to stop you, but I’d rather be killed myself than participate in something like that.”

  “Wimp,” Farren muttered under his breath.

  “Caveman,” Mallorn responded.

  Hastings shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just remember that he’s after you too, and if he can’t get you the crafty way, he may resort to direct violence.”

  “Yes, Daeve, stay out of dark alleys for a while.” Marty smiled. “We don’t want to be attending your memorial. Stay home and brew up some good vibes for us.”

  “That I can do,” said Mallorn.

  “So, Rick, I assume you have someone in mind?”

  Farren’s gaze was shifty. “I might know someone for the job. But if he completes the assignment, it might cost us a few quid.”

  “Whatever it takes, man,” Marty said. “This situation’s a real downer.” He wasn’t pleased with the limitations being a marked man was putting on his free-swinging lifestyle.

  “Well, then. I’ll report back to you when I’ve confirmed my … friend’s … participation.” Farren’s eyes swept the room darkly. “And this doesn’t leave this room. Any squealing and we could be in serious trouble.”

  Mo Wyatt, who had been quietly smoking a hash pipe, suddenly let out a bitter laugh. “This becomes more outlandish by the second. A bunch of pacifists taking out a hit on someone most of us haven’t even seen.”

  “No, it’s not funny, Mo. Not funny at all.” Hastings strode stiffly from the room, the now-familiar weight of tragedy beating down on his shoulders.

  *

  The hit man hired by Farren turned out to be no less than one of the feared Brennan Boys, Seamus to be exact. Hastings’ meeting with the burly Irishman sent chills down his spine. Seamus Brennan’s heavy, ruddy face registered no expression at all as he agreed to his assignment and his fee, but his eyes, which were a bizarre shade of purply blue that clashed with his vulgar, plain face and crew cut, lit up with unmistakable pleasure in anticipation of the chase and the kill. He calmly informed Hastings that he was familiar with seven different varieties of choke hold, a few karate moves, and was a crack shot with both pistol and throwing knife. How he came to learn those things, Hastings did not inquire. It was rumored that Seamus had once, as revenge in a dispute over a girl, beaten a neighbor to death back home in County Kerry.

  Rick explained that Brennan wasn’t exactly a pal; he had met him a few years back at Cheeky Murphy’s Pub in Clapham through a mutual acquaintance, Ronny Gallagher the blues guitarist, and though he didn’t approve of organized crime as a rule (it was, like capitalism, a parasite that fed on the weakness of the proletariat), they had occasionally been useful to one another. Hastings was forced to see his wisdom when he said, “If you want to kill a snake, you don’t enlist a bleedin’ hedgehog. You get a man with an axe.” The advance was steep, but considering that they had no idea of the current whereabouts of the Irish killer’s target, it seemed reasonable.

  But despite the hiring of Seamus Brennan, another uneventful fortnight passed. The band continued to rehearse and record. The sessions went well, with Marty and Hastings coproducing at cavernous Opiate Sound Studios in Soho. They took their time, coming up with innovative new sounds and processing techniques that they were sure no one had committed to vinyl before. The only setback was Baker’s sudden attack of nerves at facing the recording environment. The moment the “record” button was pushed, he would drop a stick, knock over a cymbal stand, or start a song wildly off rhythm. Hastings well remembered how nervous he had been when he, Guy, and Marty had made their first recordings in his parents’ basement and how thrilled he had been when he first heard his guitar played back to him over the speakers, so he tried to have patience.

  Two weeks after the meeting, the band played its second gig, this time at the more restrained venue of The Royal Edward Auditorium, across the river in Battersea near the massive new nuclear power station. This old theater was now primarily a rock and roll venue, although substance consumption was banned within its decaying walls, and music hall revues were sometimes still held there for the benefit of the older set.

  It retained something of its nineteenth-century elegance, but it had fallen into some disrepair; someone had gone right through one of the rotting floors of the former royal boxes earlier that year. They Wylde Flowers were the openers and had brought a four-piece horn section. Hastings had taken the opportunity provided by playing in a slightly more posh, seated venue to invite his father and brother, partially to get them on speaking terms again, if only through their mutual disdain for his profession, and partly because of a childish need, which he barely admitted to himself, for the approval of his family. Even Henry.

  Surprisingly, both his father and brother agreed to come. Although the sight of Seamus Brennan skulking around the hallways and through the audience in a sharp suit and a flat cap set him a bit on edge, he did his best to put his heart and soul into the performance for the benefit of the packed house. Word of the band’s prowess had spread quickly around town, aided by a live performance on Radio Catherine, the East End pirate station. After the show, his father said the music was “all right, I suppose, a bit loud,” and added that it wasn’t very ladylike for Teresa to be playing in a rock band and showing most of her shins. He had nonetheless given Hastings a pat on the back.

  Henry didn’t mention the show at all; he had just attained a new position, Head of Marketing and Promotion for KässelPharma UK. The company had been expanding with branch plants in many countries as it made a push for market dominance. Henry claimed he had never touched pharmaceuticals, saying they clouded a fellow’s decision-making abilities, but he was a man of absolutely no scruples where a fat salary was concerned. As the family members enjoyed some tea at a local late-night café, he had spent about an hour crowing about what he would do with his enormous paychecks, while his father dozed off and Teresa and Simon stared glassily at the small drifts of dirty snow gathered under the streetlamps.

  Everyone had kept their eyes peeled during the course of the evening, but there was no sign of Ramón Rosas.

  About a week later, as they were finishing the mixing of the record and were almost ready to pass the master tapes on to Groovy Melon Records, they received a report from Brennan that he had tailed a man matching Rosas’ description for several blocks the previous night. The man was himself following a very drunk Rick Farren, whom Brennan had decided to survey for the day, to his hideout from Scruffy Flaherty’s, where Farren spent the night drinking with his anarchist friends. There had been another mild snowstorm at the time, and Brennan lost sight of the man around a corner. When he reached the manhole cover, he had found Farren enjoying some sausages roasted on a stick over a small fire in the hideout, but no trace of the Colombian, not even footprints. Nonetheless, much to Farren’s dismay, Brennan had informed him that his hiding place was most likely compromised and that he had better find a new one. Farren then moved into Steve Brock’s house.

  A few days later, Brennan disappeared without a trace.

  Astronomy

  Be
yond the Sky (Groovy Melon Records)

  Starred review in New Musical Tribune, December 15, 1968

  by Rodney Blair

  After the tragic death of Guy Calvert this fall, many wondered if we had heard the last of the members of his previous band, The Spheres, and the songwriting team of Simon Hastings and Martin Sharpe-Thornton. I am pleased to announce their return with this wonderful independent release, which, with all due respect to my late friend, I was surprised to find an advancement over anything the prior band recorded. If anything, it charts the direction Calvert himself might have taken had he lived. They have recruited a powerhouse drummer whose rhythmic abilities far outstrip those of Ed “The Hammer” Bentham, now a member of reviled Virginian primitive rock combo The Muttonchop Killers. The sound effects and brilliant instrumental work for which The Spheres were justly renowned have been preserved by the magnificent find of first-time band member Teresa Cappadocia. The tragedy that members have suffered has influenced the sound as well as the tenor of the lyrics. “The Misanthrope’s Blues” is a hard-edged satire of human folly, but the new sonic toughness also carries over into the more typical Hastings mysticism on numbers such as “Further Up, Further In,” sung beautifully with Ms. Cappadocia, the lengthy Eastern stylings of “Kalpas,” “Ashoka,” and “Ring in the New Age,” an eloquent condemnation of modern materialism. All clothed in the spacious psychedelic trappings of mysterious sounds, languid chord progressions, and layered harmonies.

  This album is a stirring reaffirmation of the former Spheres’ commitment to change, now a little wiser and less naïve, but still willing to fight the intellectual battle on behalf of their generation.

  nineteen

  Time was crawling on toward the big record release. Two weeks had gone by without any further reports from the hulking Irishman. Farren warned that the Brennan family was starting to ask questions, and someone was going to pay if Seamus didn’t show up soon. He hadn’t been seen at any of his favorite watering holes and had failed to report to Fiachra, the boss of the crime family, on any of the aspects of the business with which he had been entrusted.

  Farren showed up one day at the band house, limping and with a bloody nose. He said that the Brennan Boys had taken him from a pub to the family compound somewhere in the north end for a “little chat.” They had seemed to believe him when he said he had no idea what happened to “Little Seamus,” but they’d roughed him up in case he ever got any ideas about crossing the family.

  “It’s unlike one of the Brennans not to report to the boss,” he said glumly, holding a handkerchief to his nose. “We have to assume the worst.”

  “You mean he’s dead?” Teresa said.

  Farren shrugged. “Well, I can tell you that Seamus Brennan is one of the craftiest deviants in London. There’s no way he’d just disappear like this — unless, I suppose, he’s chased after your pal somewhere. But the Brennans don’t like to leave the city under any circumstances; it’s their natural environment.”

  Hastings shivered. “If Rosas isn’t afraid to do away with one of the Brennan boys, then we’d better all go and hide somewhere quick.”

  The next day, the news they had feared appeared in the Times.

  “Bloody hell!” Marty spat, jumping up and nearly spilling tea on himself. He had been enjoying the front-page section, clucking at the international news.

  “What?”

  “Read this!”

  Hastings grabbed the paper. He already knew what to expect.

  Underworld Figure Found Dead

  Foul play ruled out in Seamus Brennan’s death

  Police report today the discovery of the body of notorious underworld crime henchman Seamus Brennan, of the infamous Brennan family. Police Commissioner Ronald Fotheringham told the Times this morning that Brennan’s body was found in his sister’s house in Clapham, where he had apparently been living. Family members detected a strange smell emanating from a locked and disused upstairs room. When they entered, they found the body upright in a state of decomposition, sitting in a chair. What Brennan was doing in that particular room will likely remain a mystery. There were no signs of trauma on the body, and the police are currently awaiting the results of the coroner’s report. Despite the family’s insistence that Brennan never touched either legal or illegal pharmaceuticals, Commissioner Fotheringham stated that foul play is currently being ruled out, as the family has long been suspected of being involved in the trafficking of illegal substances. Further investigation of this angle will be forthcoming.

  “Christ!” Marty said. “Some street thug gets examined by the coroner, but they wouldn’t touch Ed or Guy.”

  “Well, we know exactly what they’ll find in this corpse,” Hastings said. “But we also know what conclusion they’ll come to. They’ll just be glad to get one of the Brennans out of their hair for good, and it’ll end there. How the hell did Rosas get to him?” He lit a smoke with shaking hands. “What are we into here? We’ll have to go into hiding.”

  “And destroy our career?” Marty was incredulous. “Simon, you know how important this time is! We’re about to release our first record, and if we drop out now, all the momentum will be lost.”

  “I know, I know.” Hastings had gone into the kitchen to fetch himself a stiff whiskey, which he didn’t usually drink.

  “What I don’t understand,” Teresa said, “is why, if he’s so damn good at offing people and getting away with it, he hasn’t killed us all by now.”

  Hastings remembered his discussion with Ricardo Alvarez in Colombia. “It’s obvious that Rosas is very patient, and he’s probably under orders to leave no traces. If he were to be captured and he were to talk, it could be catastrophic for his employer, whoever that is. There’s big money at stake here. But rest assured, he’ll try to get us all. And he seems to be enjoying taunting me too.”

  “Well, what the fuck are we going to do?”

  “Okay, let’s use our heads.” Hastings got up and paced. “Marty here, in his wisdom, has expressed that he’d rather die than take a break and disappear to throw a ruthless assassin off our scent. Very well.” He paused. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’re going to put on a tour together, our band, The Flying Teapots, and The Wylde Flowers. This will cover all the people remaining on the hit list, although who’s to say Rosas might not kill a few extra for fun? Or he might follow us, but that’s the risk of insisting on being in the public eye. We’ll hide Farren in a packing case or something, seeing as he’s probably banned from just about every European country.

  “We’ll get Franklin to book the dates, then we’ll all go, in disguise if necessary, across to France. It’ll be difficult to get our gear across without anyone noticing, but we can rent a lot of it in Paris. About a week after we arrive, Franklin will release the details of the tour to the press. We’ll play a different town each night, with the gigs being announced only a day or two in advance. We’ll watch like hawks to see if he catches up to us. This way, we’ll still be visible, but we’ll all be together, making a little money, and we can defend ourselves. We can stay out for months if necessary. What do you think? It’s not perfect, but it will buy some time. What happens when we get back is another story.”

  Marty got up and hugged him. “You’re a genius, Si. He can’t get us if we’re all together.”

  Teresa spoke up, frowning. “Genius? Are you guys crazy? He’ll find a way to kill you if he wants to. You idiots aren’t fighters or spies. And what about after this tour? What can a bunch of crazy hippies do against someone like that?”

  Marty waved her off. “We’ll hire security, and we’ll all stay in the same place. We won’t let anything happen.”

  “We’ll see about that.” She sighed. “I guess my job will be to keep an eye on all of you.”

  *

  Since the tickets for the album release had already been sold, Marty and Hastings decided there was no alternative but to go on with the show. They kicked The Fairport Convention off the bill with apologies but no
explanation and added The Wylde Flowers. They also hired some tough Cockney security guards, products of the decrepit East End, and arranged a flight for good old Jerzy the roadie from New York. He had tried to warn them when they were first approached by Rosas at the Elysian Fields, and his surly suspiciousness would be useful on the tour. He was also pretty handy at keeping guitars in tune.

  The members of the other bands saw the sense of the tour as a stopgap measure and made arrangements to cancel their engagements in London. All except Daevid Mallorn, who naturally preferred to flee to India to stay at the ashram of his personal guru. He was talked out of this with some difficulty. Franklin Ferris was able to book three weeks’ worth of shows, starting in Paris then moving on to New Paris (formerly Brussels), Amsterdam, Düsseldorf, Bonn, Stuttgart, and Munich. This would be followed by Prague (which was somewhat dangerous due to the high levels of radiation there but had recently been declared safe by League of Nations scientists), and a swing through the Mediterranean, including a couple of cities in Italy, where psychedelic music was popular, France, Lisbon, and ending after a long flight with gigs in Dublin and Belfast.

  The would have to bypass the harsh totalitarian regime in Spain, which had banned all visits by foreigners and had just expelled or massacred its entire Moorish population. Ferris told them that news of the band had reached the continent, where The Spheres had been reasonably popular, particularly in countries where adolescents were actually allowed to buy their records, and he had been able to ask enough for each gig that the tour would break even and perhaps even make everyone a few quid on merch.

  In the meantime, they all walked cautiously through the chilly streets, glancing frequently over their shoulders. Some had even taken to carrying weapons. Maurice Wyatt had availed himself of an army pistol (supplied by Farren), which he had painted in psychedelic colors and referred to as his “love gun,” although he said that he sincerely hoped he would never have occasion to use it. They all tried to be alone as little as possible. Rehearsals for the show went forward normally.