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SELF PROMOTION: A Tale Of Workplace Terror Page 4
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haunted melody passing through the musical generations and genres like an STD, killing those that play it, is silly, a bad Stephen King plot, late-late show tripe.
The correct answer is “more than you can imagine.”
Think of all the musicians you’ve heard of who died young. That’s a lot of names, right? Now imagine all the musicians you’ve never heard of who died too young, who gave their lives to that tune, yet remain nameless, forgotten by time, swallowed so wholly by the snake, that even their memories are erased.
Once you start to conceptualize the numbers, you get a clearer picture. You can almost see the outline of the beast.
+++++
“What do you think, Mr. Clapton? Think this tune will work for The Yardbirds?”
“I don’t know about sharing this number with the rest of the band, but I’d like to do something with it. It’s a powerful tune...”
+++++
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Zappa. I’m Scotch Black. I have something I’d like to show you.”
He sits at the piano, begins to play. Halfway through, Zappa sits next to him, watching the changes.
“Play it again,” Zappa says when the man finishes. This time Zappa sits behind his own keyboard, plays along. They work for two hours. When they’re done, there’s an entirely new synclavier sequence in the song. The section sounds like it should have been there all along. Perhaps was there all along, waiting for Zappa to unearth it.
“That’s the part,” Zappa says.
Security is called. Scotch Black is escorted out, banned from Barking Pumpkin Studios for life.
+++++
“How about sharing that tune with the new group you’re playing with, Eric. That cat Ginger could lay down a wild beat for you.”
“That song’s not what I thought it was, Whiskey. It’s...it’s making me see things.”
“That means you’re playing it right! Ever hear of hypnagogic hallucinations or auditory driving?”
+++++
He finds out what Deek did with the hearts.
After the war he’s back on the circuit, playing keys behind Jimmy Thunder. Many of the clubs are the same. The one in Monroe is virtually unchanged from when he played there with Sonny years prior. Except the piano sounds off.
“Pop the top on that upright, Whisk,” Jimmy Thunder says. “Think you got a busted string in there.”
He opens the piano lid. There is a broken string in there; two, actually.
There’s something else too. Burnt remains on a brass plate, mostly ash, but he can see the charred outline of something once meaty.
“What the hell?” Jimmy says as Whiskey lifts the plate out. “Somebody leave their dinner in there?”
The other musicians laugh. Whiskey tosses the plate and its contents into the trash. It smells faintly minty, menthol, the lingering fumes of whatever accelerant originally set it ablaze.
He finds another inside a piano at an old club in Mobile, and another in a piano at a juke joint near Nashville. Ashes and charred meat on a brass plate. Burnt offerings? Was this food or fuel? What strange engine ran on incinerated hearts? Did Sonny have any clue what he was doing?
Whiskey didn’t think so. If he did, Sonny wouldn’t have gotten his head split open.
+++++
A man approaches him after a show in New York. The man is probably in his late thirties, but his wild hair and drawn face make him look older. He’s agitated, bordering on frantic.
“Did Zann show it to you?” he asks.
“Who?”
“Erich Zann,” he says. “Did you find the sheets?”
“What sheets?”
“The ones that blew out the window.”
“Sheets flying out the window? Sounds like a wild night.”
“Not bed sheets! Sheet music! Don’t play coy.” He’s angry, but hopeful, on the verge of tears. “I need to find the Rue d’Auseil. I’ve been looking for it, for so long…decades…”
“Sorry, I can’t help you,” he says. “Been to Paris twice, but don’t know the street you’re looking for.”
“Either Zann showed you the tune, or you stole it from him,” the man says. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? Do you know what that song does?”
“It pays my room and board,” he says. “And my traveling expenses, which, if you’ll excuse me, I will be incurring directly as I get a move on. Glad you enjoyed the show.”
The man grabs his arm, grip unrelenting.
“You’re a liar! And a fool. You’re not going anywhere until you hand over the sheet music,” he says. “And swear you’ll stop playing Zann’s music.”
“See the sax player at the bar?” He leans in close, whispering like a confidant. “He showed me the song. He knew Zann. Buy him a drink, he’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Do you have Zann’s sheet music?”
“I do not.”
“Promise you’ll stop playing his song,” the man says. “You’re committing a sin each time you do. You’re tearing open time and space, the fabric of reality itself. You don’t understand.”
“True, I don’t understand,” he says. “But Benny the sax player does. Talk to him.”
“I should crush your fingers so you can’t play it again…or cut your hands off.” The man runs a hand through his hair, eyes haunted. “Might be easier to kill you.”
“You need to step back, get ahold of yourself, go to the bar, and get yourself a drink,” he says. “Drink your drink. Enjoy it. Think about life. Life’s good. It ain’t worth throwing away on some colored piano player. You might get away with killing me if we was down south, but this is New York. They put you away for killing folks here, white or black. You don’t want that. Relax, have a drink, and talk to Benny. He’s your man.”
“I’ll talk to Benny right now. But I’m not done with you yet. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Where am I going? I ain’t even had supper yet.”
He slips out the side door while the man’s at the bar with Benny. He’s glad he plays the piano; you don’t carry shit, so you can travel light.
+++++
“That’s a marvelous tune, Whiskey,” Liberace says. “I’m not sure you understand what you’ve got there…”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“You do? Well, it is a marvelous tune…simply marvelous. I wish you luck.”
“You don’t want it?”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t…no. No.”
“Your loss.”
“Oh, I don’t think so….would you care to spend the night, Whiskey?”
+++++
“Understand you showed the tune to your friend, Duane.”
“Yes.”
“What’d he think, Eric?”
“Thought it was amazing. Why don’t you go bother him about it?”
+++++
“Mr. Coltrane, this is the song for you. After Giant Steps you need a new sound, something that’s classic, yet original.”
“Take that song out of here.”
“You’re making a mistake, Mr. Coltrane.”
“I think you made a mistake,” Coltrane says. “Now you’re trying to push it off on me.”
“Funny, Miles said the same thing.”
“Take it to Ornette Coleman.”
“Man, that cat don’t got no ear for melody! ‘sides, he already turned it down.”
“Let me hear it one more time. Maybe I can work it…”
+++++
“Horse you ridin’ gonna drop you off at the boneyard if you’re not careful, Eric.”
“Fuck off, Whiskey...or whatever the hell your name is.”
“Clean up, man. Your song’s waiting.”
“Fuck you.”
+++++
“What do you think, Bob?”
“Tootsie Roll Smith, you come to me with this haunted thing, and present it as a gift? Didn’t you think I’d recognize it for what it is?”
“It is a gift. You have to know how to use it.”
“You know how to use it?”
“I’m learning…I know a lot. I know you and the Wailers could do this song justice.”
“This song isn’t about justice. It’s about extinction.”
“Do you want it or not?”
“I’ll play around with it…”
+++++
“Listen, Randy. I heard ‘Dee.’ I know you’re a good player. Why you wasting time with this noise?”
“Noise? This is rock and roll, man!”
“It’s so loud and distorted nobody appreciates what you’re doing! Let me ask …do you like getting up on stage every night and playing another man’s songs? Ain’t that like fucking another man’s wife?”
“Hey, we do ‘Paranoid,’ and “Children of the Grave,’ but the rest of the set is new. Don’t you dig ‘Crazy Train’?”
“‘Crazy Train’? Man, you dig crazy, listen to this…”
+++++
He shows it to The Rolling Stones. Brian Jones seeks satisfaction.
He shows it to The Who. Keith Moon is who’s next.
He shows it to Zeppelin. “Bonzo” Bonham is trampled underfoot.
He shows it to The Grateful Dead. Jerry Garcia calls him out straight away.
“What the hell are you trying to do, man? Kill us all?”
But one after another the keyboard players are drawn to it, moths to a flame; Ron “Pigpen” McKernan, Keith Godchaux, Brent Mydland, Vince Welnick. Garcia played it too, despite his protests. They all did. Now they’re all dead, and most likely, not very grateful.
+++++
“You can’t run forever, Eric. Sooner or later you’re gonna have to play it.”
“It took my son, you old bastard. Isn’t that enough? It took my son.”
+++++
What do you think, Mr. Cobain, Mr. Hoon, Mr. Staley, Mr. Wood?
How do you like that Mr. Vaughan, Mr. Nelson, Mr. Smith, Mr. Buckley, Mr. Hopkins, Mr. Mercury?
How about you, Ms. Holiday, Ms. Joplin, Ms. Carpenter (sweet, beautiful Karen)? Ms. Winehouse? Ms. Houston?
Is it classical enough for you Mr. Schumann, Mr. Chopin, Mr. Shubert, Mr. Purcell, Mr. Mussorgsky, Mr. Gershwin? Why so pale, Wolfgang?
What do you think? How do you like it? How do you like it now?
+++++
“Excuse me…are you Smoke Johnson?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m from Arkham Records.”
“Never heard of you.”
“Well, we’ve heard of you, Mr. Johnson. We understand you’re shopping a song, a song we believe is the intellectual property of Mr. Sonny Deacon, one of the founders of Arkham Records. Do you remember playing with Sonny Deacon?”
“Sonny Deacon didn’t have no intellectual property. Just an old woodie wagon.”
“We’re very interested in distributing your work, Mr. Johnson. Arkham wants you to record that song.”
“I ain’t Smoke Johnson. Don’t know him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be movin’ on…”
Look for HANGMAN’S JAM Fall 2012!
About the Author
Rob Errera has worked as a writer, editor, musician, and literary critic. His fiction, non-fiction, and essays have earned numerous awards. He lives in New Jersey with his wife, two kids, and a bunch of rescued dogs and cats. He blogs at roberrera.wordpress.com, and his work is available in both print and digital editions at all major online booksellers.
Also by Rob Errera
Fiction
Hangman’s Jam—A Symphony of Terror
Sex, drugs, rock ‘n roll & tentacles! The worlds of Lovecraft and rock music collide in this novel-length Palomino Tale!
Sensual Nightmares: Tales Of The Palomino, Vol. 1
Eight linked tales of terror guaranteed to give you sensual nightmares, including the full-length novella, The Porn Maid’s Tale.
Ebooks
Zombie Jesus Sex Slaves: A Tale of Blasphemous Horror
Self Promotion: A Tale Of Workplace Terror
Baby Food: A Tasty Tale Of Cannibalism
Non-Fiction
Autism Dad: Adventures In Raising An Autistic Son
15 essays about living with, raising, and loving a child with autism, told from
The correct answer is “more than you can imagine.”
Think of all the musicians you’ve heard of who died young. That’s a lot of names, right? Now imagine all the musicians you’ve never heard of who died too young, who gave their lives to that tune, yet remain nameless, forgotten by time, swallowed so wholly by the snake, that even their memories are erased.
Once you start to conceptualize the numbers, you get a clearer picture. You can almost see the outline of the beast.
+++++
“What do you think, Mr. Clapton? Think this tune will work for The Yardbirds?”
“I don’t know about sharing this number with the rest of the band, but I’d like to do something with it. It’s a powerful tune...”
+++++
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Zappa. I’m Scotch Black. I have something I’d like to show you.”
He sits at the piano, begins to play. Halfway through, Zappa sits next to him, watching the changes.
“Play it again,” Zappa says when the man finishes. This time Zappa sits behind his own keyboard, plays along. They work for two hours. When they’re done, there’s an entirely new synclavier sequence in the song. The section sounds like it should have been there all along. Perhaps was there all along, waiting for Zappa to unearth it.
“That’s the part,” Zappa says.
Security is called. Scotch Black is escorted out, banned from Barking Pumpkin Studios for life.
+++++
“How about sharing that tune with the new group you’re playing with, Eric. That cat Ginger could lay down a wild beat for you.”
“That song’s not what I thought it was, Whiskey. It’s...it’s making me see things.”
“That means you’re playing it right! Ever hear of hypnagogic hallucinations or auditory driving?”
+++++
He finds out what Deek did with the hearts.
After the war he’s back on the circuit, playing keys behind Jimmy Thunder. Many of the clubs are the same. The one in Monroe is virtually unchanged from when he played there with Sonny years prior. Except the piano sounds off.
“Pop the top on that upright, Whisk,” Jimmy Thunder says. “Think you got a busted string in there.”
He opens the piano lid. There is a broken string in there; two, actually.
There’s something else too. Burnt remains on a brass plate, mostly ash, but he can see the charred outline of something once meaty.
“What the hell?” Jimmy says as Whiskey lifts the plate out. “Somebody leave their dinner in there?”
The other musicians laugh. Whiskey tosses the plate and its contents into the trash. It smells faintly minty, menthol, the lingering fumes of whatever accelerant originally set it ablaze.
He finds another inside a piano at an old club in Mobile, and another in a piano at a juke joint near Nashville. Ashes and charred meat on a brass plate. Burnt offerings? Was this food or fuel? What strange engine ran on incinerated hearts? Did Sonny have any clue what he was doing?
Whiskey didn’t think so. If he did, Sonny wouldn’t have gotten his head split open.
+++++
A man approaches him after a show in New York. The man is probably in his late thirties, but his wild hair and drawn face make him look older. He’s agitated, bordering on frantic.
“Did Zann show it to you?” he asks.
“Who?”
“Erich Zann,” he says. “Did you find the sheets?”
“What sheets?”
“The ones that blew out the window.”
“Sheets flying out the window? Sounds like a wild night.”
“Not bed sheets! Sheet music! Don’t play coy.” He’s angry, but hopeful, on the verge of tears. “I need to find the Rue d’Auseil. I’ve been looking for it, for so long…decades…”
“Sorry, I can’t help you,” he says. “Been to Paris twice, but don’t know the street you’re looking for.”
“Either Zann showed you the tune, or you stole it from him,” the man says. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? Do you know what that song does?”
“It pays my room and board,” he says. “And my traveling expenses, which, if you’ll excuse me, I will be incurring directly as I get a move on. Glad you enjoyed the show.”
The man grabs his arm, grip unrelenting.
“You’re a liar! And a fool. You’re not going anywhere until you hand over the sheet music,” he says. “And swear you’ll stop playing Zann’s music.”
“See the sax player at the bar?” He leans in close, whispering like a confidant. “He showed me the song. He knew Zann. Buy him a drink, he’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Do you have Zann’s sheet music?”
“I do not.”
“Promise you’ll stop playing his song,” the man says. “You’re committing a sin each time you do. You’re tearing open time and space, the fabric of reality itself. You don’t understand.”
“True, I don’t understand,” he says. “But Benny the sax player does. Talk to him.”
“I should crush your fingers so you can’t play it again…or cut your hands off.” The man runs a hand through his hair, eyes haunted. “Might be easier to kill you.”
“You need to step back, get ahold of yourself, go to the bar, and get yourself a drink,” he says. “Drink your drink. Enjoy it. Think about life. Life’s good. It ain’t worth throwing away on some colored piano player. You might get away with killing me if we was down south, but this is New York. They put you away for killing folks here, white or black. You don’t want that. Relax, have a drink, and talk to Benny. He’s your man.”
“I’ll talk to Benny right now. But I’m not done with you yet. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Where am I going? I ain’t even had supper yet.”
He slips out the side door while the man’s at the bar with Benny. He’s glad he plays the piano; you don’t carry shit, so you can travel light.
+++++
“That’s a marvelous tune, Whiskey,” Liberace says. “I’m not sure you understand what you’ve got there…”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“You do? Well, it is a marvelous tune…simply marvelous. I wish you luck.”
“You don’t want it?”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t…no. No.”
“Your loss.”
“Oh, I don’t think so….would you care to spend the night, Whiskey?”
+++++
“Understand you showed the tune to your friend, Duane.”
“Yes.”
“What’d he think, Eric?”
“Thought it was amazing. Why don’t you go bother him about it?”
+++++
“Mr. Coltrane, this is the song for you. After Giant Steps you need a new sound, something that’s classic, yet original.”
“Take that song out of here.”
“You’re making a mistake, Mr. Coltrane.”
“I think you made a mistake,” Coltrane says. “Now you’re trying to push it off on me.”
“Funny, Miles said the same thing.”
“Take it to Ornette Coleman.”
“Man, that cat don’t got no ear for melody! ‘sides, he already turned it down.”
“Let me hear it one more time. Maybe I can work it…”
+++++
“Horse you ridin’ gonna drop you off at the boneyard if you’re not careful, Eric.”
“Fuck off, Whiskey...or whatever the hell your name is.”
“Clean up, man. Your song’s waiting.”
“Fuck you.”
+++++
“What do you think, Bob?”
“Tootsie Roll Smith, you come to me with this haunted thing, and present it as a gift? Didn’t you think I’d recognize it for what it is?”
“It is a gift. You have to know how to use it.”
“You know how to use it?”
“I’m learning…I know a lot. I know you and the Wailers could do this song justice.”
“This song isn’t about justice. It’s about extinction.”
“Do you want it or not?”
“I’ll play around with it…”
+++++
“Listen, Randy. I heard ‘Dee.’ I know you’re a good player. Why you wasting time with this noise?”
“Noise? This is rock and roll, man!”
“It’s so loud and distorted nobody appreciates what you’re doing! Let me ask …do you like getting up on stage every night and playing another man’s songs? Ain’t that like fucking another man’s wife?”
“Hey, we do ‘Paranoid,’ and “Children of the Grave,’ but the rest of the set is new. Don’t you dig ‘Crazy Train’?”
“‘Crazy Train’? Man, you dig crazy, listen to this…”
+++++
He shows it to The Rolling Stones. Brian Jones seeks satisfaction.
He shows it to The Who. Keith Moon is who’s next.
He shows it to Zeppelin. “Bonzo” Bonham is trampled underfoot.
He shows it to The Grateful Dead. Jerry Garcia calls him out straight away.
“What the hell are you trying to do, man? Kill us all?”
But one after another the keyboard players are drawn to it, moths to a flame; Ron “Pigpen” McKernan, Keith Godchaux, Brent Mydland, Vince Welnick. Garcia played it too, despite his protests. They all did. Now they’re all dead, and most likely, not very grateful.
+++++
“You can’t run forever, Eric. Sooner or later you’re gonna have to play it.”
“It took my son, you old bastard. Isn’t that enough? It took my son.”
+++++
What do you think, Mr. Cobain, Mr. Hoon, Mr. Staley, Mr. Wood?
How do you like that Mr. Vaughan, Mr. Nelson, Mr. Smith, Mr. Buckley, Mr. Hopkins, Mr. Mercury?
How about you, Ms. Holiday, Ms. Joplin, Ms. Carpenter (sweet, beautiful Karen)? Ms. Winehouse? Ms. Houston?
Is it classical enough for you Mr. Schumann, Mr. Chopin, Mr. Shubert, Mr. Purcell, Mr. Mussorgsky, Mr. Gershwin? Why so pale, Wolfgang?
What do you think? How do you like it? How do you like it now?
+++++
“Excuse me…are you Smoke Johnson?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m from Arkham Records.”
“Never heard of you.”
“Well, we’ve heard of you, Mr. Johnson. We understand you’re shopping a song, a song we believe is the intellectual property of Mr. Sonny Deacon, one of the founders of Arkham Records. Do you remember playing with Sonny Deacon?”
“Sonny Deacon didn’t have no intellectual property. Just an old woodie wagon.”
“We’re very interested in distributing your work, Mr. Johnson. Arkham wants you to record that song.”
“I ain’t Smoke Johnson. Don’t know him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be movin’ on…”
Look for HANGMAN’S JAM Fall 2012!
About the Author
Rob Errera has worked as a writer, editor, musician, and literary critic. His fiction, non-fiction, and essays have earned numerous awards. He lives in New Jersey with his wife, two kids, and a bunch of rescued dogs and cats. He blogs at roberrera.wordpress.com, and his work is available in both print and digital editions at all major online booksellers.
Also by Rob Errera
Fiction
Hangman’s Jam—A Symphony of Terror
Sex, drugs, rock ‘n roll & tentacles! The worlds of Lovecraft and rock music collide in this novel-length Palomino Tale!
Sensual Nightmares: Tales Of The Palomino, Vol. 1
Eight linked tales of terror guaranteed to give you sensual nightmares, including the full-length novella, The Porn Maid’s Tale.
Ebooks
Zombie Jesus Sex Slaves: A Tale of Blasphemous Horror
Self Promotion: A Tale Of Workplace Terror
Baby Food: A Tasty Tale Of Cannibalism
Non-Fiction
Autism Dad: Adventures In Raising An Autistic Son
15 essays about living with, raising, and loving a child with autism, told from
SELF PROMOTION: A Tale Of Workplace Terror