Thanks to a little extra funding from Shorty Mackintosh of Groovy Melon Records (no one knew where the mysterious Jamaican actually got his money), they hired a state-of-the-art liquid light crew, who would work during all three sets. The Flying Teapots would be the headliners, but each band would be supplied with their own customized light show. Mallorn and his friends had never agreed with the indignities headliners commonly inflicted on the support such as denying them a color light show, turning their volume down and raising their own, giving them a smaller beer rider, and cutting their sets short. As far as Mallorn, Hastings, and Marty were concerned, competition had absolutely nothing to do with music-making. They had always tried to befriend the musicians they played with and had gained many friends and few enemies on the London and New York scenes as a result. It made their current dilemma even harder to bear as their friends saw them withdrawing from their usual social circles without much explanation.
The Wylde Flowers had chosen to use a lot of dry ice and multicolored lighting in an attempt to reflect the jazzy, rhythmic intensity of their set. Astronomy preferred appropriate projected backdrops of stars, galaxies, nebulae, etc., and a lot of cold white lighting, with a touch of dry ice for effect. For the Teapots’ set, Mallorn had instructed the lighting and effects crew to prepare nothing but to do whatever they felt, emotionally and spiritually, in reaction to the music.
Mallorn also did not believe in planning, saying that since most of the events that befall a person happen randomly, no matter how much scheming and worrying is done, it is better to accept the fate the universe has designed for you. He attempted to conduct his own life by this random principle and was, therefore, the only marked man on Rosas’ list who was walking around perfectly content, completely accepting whatever the future might bring. He refused to listen to all warnings but had agreed to bring his band on the tour because he hadn’t visited the continent in a while and said he’d enjoy meditating against a few different backdrops. In the past, he had traveled through almost every nation in the world. Mallorn was at least seven or eight years older than any of his friends and had done a great deal of soul-searching in his life, which was why he was looked up to as something of a guru, except in the subject of medicine. Too many of his friends had been subjected to the tender mercies of Ms. Moonstone.
The first run of the Astronomy record, which was to be titled Beyond the Sky, had just come back from the manufacturer: LPs, eight-tracks, and a hundred copies in the new computerized “Compact Disk” format, of which Hastings was quite skeptical, seeing as the stereo component used to play them was selling for three hundred pounds (it has not gone down much since). Nevertheless, he considered it prudent at least to make a mild effort at keeping up with technology. There was no sense in being a Luddite; that wouldn’t get you anywhere.
The artwork had been created by Acid Reflux design studios of Chelsea, which was creating some of the most remarkable sleeve designs at that time. It had a gatefold (Marty said it was shameful to release a record without a gatefold), and the cover featured a photo of a streaking comet, in keeping with the old Spheres tradition, but the inner gatefold was a psychedelic collage of images taken from the band’s first two stage shows, interspersed with seemingly random images such as a cow grazing in a meadow, a child on a roundabout, a close-up of a cat’s eyes, and the peak of Snowdon in the sun. Mallorn said was “very Zen,” which they assumed was a compliment. It would be released to record shops the day after the show, and old Shorty and his staff of two had been busily packing and shipping throughout the week. Radio stations had, however, received advance singles. There were some that had played The Spheres’ Aureola releases in heavy rotation but would not play the new one due to its independent status and low marketing profile; still, many stations had already made a much-requested hit out of “Further Up, Further In.” NMT had even requested a solo interview with Teresa, the “mystery woman” with the beautiful voice.
The musicians were still living in fear, but as December arrived with more snow and unusually chilly temperatures and the week of the show began, their excitement began to overcome the tension. They still kept together and made no journeys alone, not even to a public toilet.
If they were to die soon, and if Mallorn was right, perhaps what was meant to be would be regardless. Hastings was determined to go out with a bang. The upcoming UFO show would be his greatest moment, as well as a declaration to the employer of Rosas that the new music and the messages it carried would never go away, no matter who they silenced.
twenty
The afternoon of the big concert, Hastings, Teresa, and Marty relaxed in their front room, enjoying some stiff drinks. All were in decent spirits. Hastings was idly playing with the little hair-dryer gun in his coat pocket, a nervous habit he had acquired. Basil Baker was off buying new heavy-duty drumsticks. To promote the gig, Ferris had arranged for the band to play at a lunchtime anti-fur protest outside the Pelt Complex in Bromley, a massive shop that sold only animal skins imported from the Canadas, incidentally located in the area where all of the major record companies and PR companies had their offices. They had played a fifteen-minute set from the back of a platform truck until the police tried to shut them down. It had delighted Ferris to see some of his old corporate masters looking down in surprise from their windows. Hastings had even written a new song for the occasion, “Wearing Death,” and Marty had appeared looking dashing in a silky red faux fur coat. Teresa had shown her usual lack of humor and declined to dress up, sticking with a drab set of surplus army clothes. They had made their escape from the angry, violent mob and a line of riot-gear clad policemen that formed as they played. Rick Farren, who accompanied them disguised as a French waiter, set off a smoke bomb under the truck, which had then driven away through the clouds.
“Wonder if the police’ll show up here,” Marty said lazily, reclining on an old sofa.
Hastings shrugged. “They hate us, but not enough to bother coming all the way out here to slap us with a fine or arrest us so we can do community service sweeping out the gutters.”
“They’ve done their job by getting us out of the view of the money-makers,” Teresa said. “Now they can go back to pretending that people like us don’t exist.”
Marty smiled evilly. “Except that they might be so unlucky as to have a teenager at home who likes our records. Then we’ll be inside their heads forever!” He cackled.
Hastings had fallen into one of his studies. “They don’t notice, though, do they? I mean, maybe all of this is for nothing. Maybe their kids will grow up, forget they ever listened to us, ever were curious to pick up a book by Hunter Burlington or Mort Moorhen, and become just like their parents.”
“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try, Mr. Mopey,” Teresa said. “If the way people think isn’t changed, a tiny percentage of wealthy people like those skyscraper carnivores will continue stockpiling money while the poor and starving waste away all over the world. Not to mention the ecological destruction caused by the acts of these monsters. We have to keep speaking out.”
Hastings nodded but stayed quiet while the others continued jawing. But why? he thought miserably. History just rolled on, and the actions of all these billions of people meant nothing. Why, even the corporations themselves were merely self-perpetuating profit-making machines. The people who ran them and worked for them were expendable, but the growth of the company was paramount. Its life extended well beyond those of the people who comprised its lifeblood; they could all be replaced overnight, and the gigantic nonentities would continue on as if nothing had happened, completely indifferent to the suffering they caused. Could a few people speaking out ever affect the future of a species when no one had a clue about how to seize control of its destiny? Not a few; it would need to be tens of millions, even more. And what did it matter in the end, since everyone was destined to die anyway? Could people like Henry Hastings be right? Should everyone focus exclusively on their own well-being, since it didn’t matter one way o
r the other?
Basil Baker came loping through the front door, brandishing his new sticks. “’ello all,” he said.
“Feeling good about tonight, Bas?” Marty said.
“You bet, mate.” Basil looked calmer than usual. He always looked like he had fallen into a snowdrift. His clothes were covered in tiny, shining ice crystals.
“Well, Simie, time to stop moping!” Teresa said loudly, jolting Hastings back to reality. “Whether it means something or not, we’ve got a show to play.”
Marty stuck a fresh needle in his arm for a little No-Catch Cocaine pick-me-up. “We should have a little rehearsal before tea. That new song is great! The anti-fur one. We should play that tonight, but it wasn’t very tight earlier today.”
“All right, but not too much. We’ll screw up our voices.”
They decided on a ten-song set, including “Wearing Death,” “Further Up, Further In,” “Judgment Day,” “The Misanthrope’s Blues,” another rocker from the album, “Dualistic Stomp,” and a cover of “Brainbox Pollution” in tribute to the Sonic Assassins. The lighting crew was already at the hall setting up, and Franklin Ferris was having a meeting with Shorty about promo.
The rehearsal went well, with everyone relaxed and a couple even happy; this night would hopefully be the exorcism of Guy’s ghost, and they hoped it would be a fitting send-off. They all tried not to think about the assassin, still loose somewhere. An extra five strapping bouncers had been hired to guard the backstage. If they made it through the night, they would be leaving the country two days after the show.
The rehearsal over, the band headed over to the Mountain Grill for a quick tea with Mallorn and Shakti. Jerzy the roadie picked them up in their van, and they were on their way to sound check at UFO. The day had been unusually warm in light of the weather they had been experiencing, and even as evening fell, the snow was still melting a little. Hopefully, Hastings thought, it would melt the foreboding that was clogging his mind. There was no time for morbid philosophizing or worry. This evening was about the reason he had started playing music as a teenager, making a statement about who he was and the things he believed in. The rest of the world could go to hell if it didn’t want to listen.
*
Everyone was already at the club; many of their friends had shown up just to watch the sound checks and hang out. Steve Brock was entertaining a table by trying to roll the world’s fattest joint, which barely fit into his mouth. When he lit it up, he took one large puff and fell off his chair, coughing, to laughter and applause.
Hastings walked over to Shorty and shook his hand. “I want to thank you for what you’ve done for us. It feels much better than being with you instead of some faceless hit machine.”
Shorty beamed broadly. “Eh, no worries, mon. I’m just going Jah’s work, you know? You’re Jah’s kind of people, Simon Hastings.”
Hastings was touched. “Thanks, Shorty. That means a lot. Hopefully, the record will make up the money you’ve put into it and then some.”
Shorty waved a hand. “I don’t do this for money, my friend. Though it’s nice when it’s a-comin’ in, eh? I do a favor for some good people is all.” He wandered off, chuckling.
When The Wylde Flowers started noisily sound checking, sounding even more uncontrolled than usual, Hastings went backstage. Daevid Mallorn was leading a few people, including a blissful-looking Basil Baker, in a meditation session on the cold concrete floor. Jerzy and the other hired help looked on with disdainful amusement.
“Eh, Simon, look at this nonsense!”
Hastings patted Jerzy on the arm. “To each his own. And you have to admit that you’ve never seen anyone more at peace than our Daeve.”
One of the Cockney bouncers, who was standing in an aggressive stance with his muscles bulging, spluttered noisily. “I wouldn’t trade for all the peace in the bleedin’ world to be an unnatural fuckin’ poofter.”
The silence in the already quiet room deepened a shade. Hastings walked up to the man and into his face. “You’re sacked, mate,” was all he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jerzy uncoiling his own massive arms, preparing to dole out one of his infamous beatings.
The man shrugged. “That’s what I was fishin’ for.” He leered, grabbed his bomber jacket, and strolled casually out the back entrance, spitting on the ground near Mallorn as he went.
“My, who hired that fellow?” Mallorn opened one eye and grinned. “Oh well, takes all types to make a world, even the nasty ones! Worse things happen at sea.” He returned to his trance.
*
That incident was the only blot on the evening. The sound checks went smoothly; that was the good thing about gigging with friends. No one argued about the small things, and everyone got equal time. At about nine thirty, everyone who was playing got together backstage to enjoy The Wylde Flowers, whose set started with five minutes of lights and a seemingly endless drum beat, before the rest of the band even got on stage. That wasn’t planned; Herb Hopper and Mitchell Ratledge were so involved in a discussion about pataphysics that they never even noticed the set had begun. Mo Wyatt never even dropped a beat; he just launched into an incredibly complicated drum solo that had Basil whistling between his teeth in amazement. When the others finally joined in and the horn section kicked into a blaring fanfare, the roar of the sound was more powerful than any high. The first tune was “Why Am I So Short?” a humorous number about Wyatt’s diminutive stature, but he seemed to have forgotten that he was supposed to sing, and the piece was transformed into an instrumental.
And so the set went on, as one piece metamorphosed into another without any breaks. The musicians were tireless, and the audience matched their energy by adapting their free-form steps to suit the rapid changes in the rhythms. It could have gone on forever, which would have suited everyone in the room. Even morbid Hastings found himself grooving in a hypnotic state, his arm linked with Teresa’s. When he looked over at her, he saw that her eyes were closed and a tranquil smile had settled on her usually quizzical face. A moment of sadness as well as tenderness came over him as he thought of how few people were willing to open themselves to such simple and pure experiences as these. Only their children, for a few brief years, would enjoy such freedom, thence to pass on to the decades of dull tiredness and drudgery that succeeded the years of discovery.
The set did, of course, eventually end. The Wylde Flowers came offstage looking sated. Hopper and Ratledge resumed their former pataphysical discussion as though nothing had intervened. Marty had grown tired of his aviator’s gear and, inspired by Teresa’s army drabs, now wore a navy officer’s uniform, complete with stiff-visored cap and fake medals. Hastings had always stuck with the same ragged but stylish dark clothes, but this night he had also put on an old tweed blazer he had inherited from his grandfather so that he could keep the gun handy. After all, anything could happen.
The response as they took the stage was rapturous. Hastings felt it proper to say a few dignified words before they played. The audience listened in respectful silence. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is an important night for us. Not only are we releasing our new record, but, as you’ve probably heard, we’ve lost some friends lately. I don’t want to speak too much about that, because this evening is about the future. No matter what happens, we’ll always continue making music for you, to reflect the way you view this world, not the images forced on you by society.”
The answering cheer almost completely drowned out his first chords.
The set was flawless. The crowd, which should have been tired out by this point, seemed to recover its energy. The band responded by adding several longer improvisatory passages, during which the songs would threaten to disintegrate entirely, only to come back together magically, as if Teresa, Basil, and Marty and Hastings were bound for this time by a deep psychic connection.
The ghost of Guy Calvert, he now realized, would never fully be exorcised as long as they all lived. Even if the quest for vengeance had b
een fulfilled, the spirit of this man who had died before he could even properly bestow his gifts upon the world would continue to haunt the places and the people that had been his passion. Hastings could always take refuge in his music to feel reunited with the memories of his lost friends.
They ended with their raucous cover of “Brainbox Pollution,” and Hastings could see Brock and Turner grinning as though their faces would split at the sight of their friends finally giving their all in a metallic performance that caused the light fixtures to vibrate. Hastings did not know it, but that night he looked like the spirit of Calvert reborn, and he sang like a man possessed. Audiences have not had the privilege to hear a performance of such power and beauty since that time. The subsequent events to be described in this narrative, in my opinion, finally broke what was left of Simon Hastings’ belief in the power of change, and he never again attained quite the visionary, messianic power onstage that he achieved in those early Astronomy shows. It was a sad loss even before his death.
When the band was finally allowed to leave the stage (after several encores), they all agreed that they had never been more exhausted, but also never more content with a performance. They slumped down out of the way backstage, under the dour, unappreciative gaze of their hired guards.
“Well, we did it,” Marty said.
“It’s good to see you guys back on your feet again,” Teresa said.
“I owe it to you,” Hastings said quietly, returning her smile. It was true. Teresa’s uninhibited exuberance had lifted him out of many dark hours.
The Music of the Spheres Page 19