“The Fading Silence” (bits from chapter one)

From the Novel “The Fading Silence -a post-apocalyptic story of a boy and his dog“  bits of chapter one – by Rob Krabbe

. . . Burning man, Black Canyon Nevada itself, had no more of an “anarchist community” than Tinley Park and just like its mentor, was the once in a lifetime socially acceptable place for all types of artistic expression.  People were dressed in everything from three piece suites to nothing, and no one seemed to notice the difference.

Then the trumpeter’s call:  Famed lead singer of “The Elite,” a glamorous transvestite named Concertina, took the mike and winked at Garcia Garcia, who for the first time since the event started had come into the concert along the front technical ramparts with a newspaper “press pass.” He used the one ticket he had left that he could not sell.

Concertina’s voice was warmed up and fully shriek-ready, “Quake in fear, my royal dear, because we’re here, we’re queer, and we are ready… to… ROOOOOOOOOOOOCK!” The Elite slammed into their groove, and the crowd went wild as the “Balls of the Belle” the Elite’s energetic dance crew burst onto the stage with color, flashing laser enhanced rhinestones and really, really big hair, to an explosive and deafening dance groove.

The robo lights blasted into furious and blinding animated power.  The “Elite” had evolved into one of the most beloved regional novelty bands, known for having a modicum of musical talent but especially powerful dance grooves, and a great production designer. The hallmark of Elite, was glitter, glamour and glitz.  There was more showmanship and hair mousse in this one group of wonderfully coifed and clad drag queens, (although they referred to themselves as “trans-species”) than any other band in the business, straight gay or otherwise.  They were the ultimate rock and roll “fluffer.”  They were party central, and could whip up a crowd in nine seconds flat, and take them anywhere.  They were contract killers.

The Elite had played the gay bars at first, but soon found it had a following that included all the denominations; gay, straight, crossover, under-over, the musically not-so-serious, to the bi-curious, and tri-furious. The first few years, they were known as a novelty act, but later recognized even outside the region as just a really fun band, with ok music, and really nice girls, who were also incidentally men.

At that moment, the crowd was at its peak, heated up, roiled and boiled, ready to explode with fever for more, after a twelve-song set and many very well timed costume changes.  Concertina pulled her dress up over her head and as the British say, got her “kit off,” throwing her costume at the front row of rockers, who ate it up, one man literally.   Then tossed the remaining articles of clothing as fast as she could whip them off, right before God, and man, and immediately before the police came to arrest her, reached down and proved once and for all that she was indeed a he but only by a very small margin, of which she was delightfully and oddly proud.

As security guards stormed onto the stage, the now fully naked Concertina threw herself off of the stage and crowd surfed.  Hand after hand passed her, body part after body part, laughing hysterically along the heaving audience, giggling and jiggling her way along until a particularly drunk segment of the crowd dropped her, laughing hysterically, onto the grass.  The police covered her with a blanket and carried her away, to an ovation, never before seen at Tinley Park. Of course, they carried her all the way and outside the gates to her waiting car and let her go, as the plan had called for, presumably to come back into the concert to the VIP box that had been agreed on and stocked with many delightful eatable wonders and a small horde of friends and fanatic fans.

The Elite, and the effervescent Concertina, had accomplished the assigned task with their usual magnificence, grace and style. They had coalesced and lit up the crowd beyond control, for the evening’s main concert event.  A few minutes later the rest of her band was ushered into the concert box to enjoy the feast.

The band the audience had truly come to see, the Jake Collins Band was assembling in the green room, just off the main stage.  The members varied from the slightly nervous (Jake) and the not so nervous but slightly or more than slightly drunk (Drummer Dave) the nonchalant but deeply and secretly hysterical keyboardist Stevie O, all the way to the ready to vomit all of his French fries in a spray of self preservation, laughter and Coca-Cola, Guitarist Jeff “the Murph” Murphy.

Underneath the idealistic Zen of the temporary population, and after a day and a half of great rock and roll, was a dish made of moods, lives, stories, laid down stresses, fighting of illnesses, partying, insanity, teen rebellion, old angst revived, and underneath all of that was the ultimate “buzz,” which “The Elite,” had brought to a full blaze.

Finally the stage went completely dark, the crowd exploded in a cacophony of cheers and applause.  The announcer adopted his monster-truck-gravely-1990s retro-world wrestling federation rock and roll voice, and began his introduction of The Jake Collins Band, the crowd exploded over and over after each couple of words, into an earth shattering frenzy.  The announcer fired up by 2.5 million watts of glorious power, had to wait several times for the crowd to give him room to continue.

A lighting tech leaned over to one of the spot operators, and said, “man, this is going to be off the main-chain.”

“You are not kidding dude.” His partner warmed up his spotlight with the shutters closed but ready.

From the moment “JCB” snuck onto the dark stage, escorted by their crew.  Plugged in, pampered by stage techs, like astronauts being strapped into the command capsule.  The audience went insane, they could sense that the band was getting into place, even on the dark stage.  The crowd started clapping. The rhythm began slow and increased in tempo and strength, as if to encourage the band to forego any more preparation or delay and play some “damned rock and roll.”

The crowd stayed insane for the next two hours; screaming, thunderous, and deafening applause filled the amphitheater.  Almost louder than the band played, the rhythmic jumping, whistling, clapping and pounding echoed all the way across the lake from Kenosha to Kalamazoo.

The “boys” seized the stage, as a conquering army takes a hill.  Years of horrible clubs, dives, head banging, beer-bottle throwing, music at parties, and the “paying-your-dues gigs” had finally paid off.  Now they would celebrate with the orgy of appreciation their devoted fans would offer them.

The JCB was in perfect form; the energy of the crowd injecting them.  Everything went almost perfectly for the two-hour concert.  The band apparently had not been watching the clock, because the third hour now was half way over, and the crowd had only gotten more energetic as they continued to rock.  Finally, the show, before they knew it, was almost history in the books.  Jake looked over at his guitarist, who was drenched in sweat, and smiled in disbelief.  Jeff smiled back equally amazed.  They had wanted this kind of stardom all of their young lives and now here they were.  They had been announced off stage twice and now were ready for the final encore. Jake shook his head, nodding the signal to his drummer.  Drummer Dave kicked into the next and last song, settling into the opening pattern – the richest and fattest groove of the night.

As the groove was laid down, Dave whipped a drum stick high into the air, spinning, and grabbed another stick out of his stick-bag-sling, neatly slung like a quiver of arrows on the side of the floor tom.  The stick spun in the air, completed its arch and started its descent.   Then without any effort, the new stick smashed a tom run, and then was launched like a knife across the stage at lightning speed, Dave’s signature move.  He somehow snatched the spinning stick out of the air, and the flying stick sped past Jake, within an inch of his eyes, and stuck into the mesh on the side-fill-monitor to the left of Jake’s front stage position.  Jake laughed, and Drummer Dave winked at him.  Jake had known Dave since high school and there was no one better with a drumstick, whether beating out a groove or surgically throwing into a target.

One night in particular, Dave had placed a well aimed drum mallet into the forehead of a fan, who had downed several drinks too many, and was accosting a female sound crew member at a show at the Oasis in downtown Hollywood.  Dave put the guy out, in perfect meter and didn’t miss a single beat.  The Oasis, was a meat grinder.  The kind of club that started off the evening with a general low rumble brawl, and got violent from there.  The kind of place the band had cut its teeth on the first couple years.

The drums in full groove, the laser light show finale exploded into light waves dancing around the drums and drum stage.  Soon the bass, offered by Ray-Ray, rif’d in and joined the drums.  This next bit was where Jake’s band shined.  They were great showmen, but they were better at just being “kick-ass rockers,” as the last issue of Rock Magazine had said, “It is as if they have one powerful heart beat, in one deep-ass rhythm.

The boys liked to call this kind of groove, a “deep pocket” groove, or “kick ass deep pocket groove” like loose big pockets in comfortable jeans.  Their music had been called “Zen Rock,” a term originally coined by a famous music critic named David Shimmer, re-invented in the write up from the release party of the album the JCB was touring now.

“The Murph” was then unleashed to lay down the guitar back-groove “crunch”, of the century. As he did, the already massive rhythms became even fatter and deeper, drawing musical blood, like a deep arterial gash.  It was the kind of groove that pounded you on the chest like a ball peen hammer, and tore itself into you.  Even your heartbeat had no choice but to adjust to the tempo of the groove. It couldn’t have been a better hand off.  The band built the foundation to the lyric.  Jake’s job was to make love to the audience through the microphone as if each audience member was the only one in the room.

He felt the need building . . . a sexual hunger, the need to let escape, the first words.  It was no wonder that performing, when it was right, was described in sexual terms, Jake smiled, as Jake allowed the rhythms being laid down to bring him to the place he wanted to be—and to bring the audience to the place he knew they needed to be.  The crowd held its breath, waiting for the first words.  Jake’s ability to transport an audience was legendary.

Jake stepped up to the microphone, and looked at the faces in the first few rows. Then he closed his eyes and swayed a bit with the groove.

     This is the moment . . . I know

     I can see it deep . . . in you

     That’s the place . . . we’ll go

     Until I scream . . . in you

     Cry . . . in you

     Until I die . . . in you,

     FOREVER.

The audience, breathing in unison, short of breath. Jake continued,

     No choice . . . no will

     you and I . . . untill

     I lay you down . . .

     and I hold . . . my . . . breath

     . . . in you

Completely hypnotized; male, female, all joined in unity.  No tragedy and no pain.  Escape from life, fear, everything.  A moment away from struggles and stresses, jobs and problems—every man, woman, child, brought falling into the soul of the song.

The chorus next,

Take a thousand years

     Take my soul

     Take my tears

     Make me whole

     Give you all of me

     All my life

     For this moment

    

     Take a thousand years

     Take my soul

     Take my tears

     Make me whole

     Give you all of me

     All my life

     Forever

An instrumental break was coming, and a drum rif followed by a razor cut guitar solo, ripping open the wound and tearing away what was left of the defenses.  The guitar raked over the crowd, leaving them gasping.

Then a crazy tom run, down from the high can,  traveling, pushing through the cross toms to the floor, leading to the moment to end all drum rifs when suddenly, unexpected to the audience, there was an planned explosion timed by a tech-sideman, on the cross-snare hit, triggering massive pyro-techniques and lighting effects.  At that very second, when the blast charges fired, blinding, deafening explosions, Drummer Dave’s cross snare against the rim of the giant brass snare-drum, a “rim shot” like a freaking cannon stopped all the hearts in the room.  It was ear splitting loud and amplified through the sound system, almost broke eardrums.  The explosives timed to the exact same moment, the lasers flashed, the “light cannons” aimed right at the audience fired, blinding the already deaf.  It took seven computers, working twenty banks of dozens of relays relays, all on split-second time, triggered by Dave’s rim shot, and a couple of 12 dollar an hour side techs hit the final cue – a complete sound and lighting black out at the very second of the explosions.

The lights . . . out.

The band . . . silent.

The Techs holding their breath for fear their breathing could be heard.  One tech even shut off his board light, for fear he was being lit up like a Christmas Tree.   The kind of total effect, and detail oriented planning that had given the band that extra something.

That final drum crack . . . reverberated and echoed through the amphitheater, out of the park and into the streets, bouncing off buildings, street signs, bill boards and echoing and ebbing for miles. The crowds collective gasp was audible throughout the amphitheater. The sheer drama of it was incredible.

Stunned, everyone held their breath, waiting for what was next.

Then something even more stunning happened, unexpected to everyone.  The deafening silence, and wonderful darkness from that beautiful dramatic musical break, in that glorious song . . .

 

Stayed.