Night Of The Beast (2 page)

"I have the direct experience

that in my essence

I am something apart

from the mental habits

that spin out my personality

and the current soap opera

of my life."

— Ken Keyes, Jr.

"the hundredth monkey"

"Appearances are evil, but they

are everything."

— Nietzsche

"Six hundred years of pain…The devil's reign."

—Peter Rourke, "Sour Candy"

"What color is the card I'm thinking of?"

"I don't know."

"Guess then."

"Green?"

"Try harder. Use the talent. Stop fucking around."

"I'm sorry. I am trying, honest."

"What number?"

"Twelve."

"Right, very good. Now the color."

"Red?"

"Wrong."

"Blue?"

"Shit. Pay attention, will you?"

"Brown. I see it now. It's like a reddish brown."

"Yes. Perfect."

"Can we stop for dinner?"

"Three numbers."

"I don't hear them."

"Then see them."

"I can't."

"No dinner until you try."

"But when it doesn't, it just doesn't, you know?"

"No, I don't know. Three numbers."

"I get colors better."

"That's why I'm leaning on numbers, stupid."

"I know! One, two, three."

"Yeah. Now, is that simple enough for you?"

"I looked in the wrong places."

"Then don't. I'm going to play some music. Tell me something about who composed it."

"That's not fair."

"I don't have to be fair. I'm your father."

Peter Rourke eyed the musicians packed into the tiny recording studio like a prisoner peering out at a lynch mob.

"This sucks," he moaned.

"Maybe the song sucks," Bryan Friedheim replied. He straightened his beret and flicked

some imaginary lint from his puffed sleeves. Then, observing the genuine anguish in Peter's eyes, the gay engineer campily waved one wrist in the air. "But then again, so do I."

Rourke smiled wanly and said: "Turn it down, Bryan."

Friedheim's hands danced over the computer keyboard and then the master faders on the console, and the seething band members beyond the thick pane of glass became a pantomime act. Peter spun in his padded swivel chair and rubbed weary, work-reddened eyes. Rourke was a big man, with auburn hair and a penchant for guitars, torn jeans and cowboy boots. He hummed the lead riff to himself and frowned.

"What's wrong?" Friedheim asked.

"Woodley can't quite cop the hammer-off feel, damn it," Rourke said. "He sounds like

he's faking it."

"He is. Look, why don't you go in and play it yourself?"

"No way," Rourke said. "Woodley's the guitarist, not me. I realized the week I hit L.A.

that my best shot was writing and producing songs, not playing and singing them. There's more talent per square inch in this town than anywhere else in the world."

"Ah, humility."

"Brains."

Friedheim shrugged. "At least go in there with the group for a while. Help Billy Joe get

a handle on it."

"You been smoking your jogging socks again? Come on, Bryan. That would humiliate

the guy."

A musical racket ensued. The natives were growing restless. Peter held up two fingers,

signaling that he wouldn't be long. Someone took charge, and Sour Candy used the spare moments to run through a troublesome modulation leading into the final chorus. The section still felt lethargic.

The engineer dusted the impressive-looking new mother board. "One of these days, I'll

talk you into digital," Freidheim said. Rourke shook his head. "I doubt it. Music sounds better dirty than clean."

"Your public seems to agree with you."

"I'm burned," Rourke said. "Got anything?"

Friedheim raised an eyebrow. "Does the Pope shit in the woods? Is a bear Catholic? But

you should sleep, man. You've been up since the millenium celebration."

"I can't spare the time. Lend me some rainbow."

A frown. "I know you're shot, Pete," Friedheim said. "But shit, you've put half of Aspen

up your nose since noon."

"I didn't mean coke."

The engineer sighed. "I don't have to tell you that the rainbow takes you down as well as up, do I?"

Rourke, too exhausted to control himself, snapped back: "You got a better answer, Tinkerbell? I can't think straight anymore, and Sour Candy needs a hit. Like yesterday."

A long silence between old friends. The little engineer scratched his chin, then came out with it. "Look, this song just isn't a 'Devil's Reign,' Pete. Give them a rest. Hell, give yourself a rest. It's not a hit tune if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you," Rourke said. "Now, what about some help?"

"Try No-Doz."

Peter sighed. "I have. Not only are they a bitch to cut, but the chunks stick in the straw."

Friedheim collapsed with laughter. He reached into the pocket of his tight jeans and pulled out a tiny vial. "Just call me the toot fairy," he grinned. "But there's Oxycontin in here, and meth, and coke, and a fuck of a lot of other colors in the rainbow, so take it easy, dude. Okay?"

"Okay."

Rourke gratefully snorted some chemical assistance, rubbed his nostrils and leaned back to enjoy the effect. His eyes rolled back in his head and he twitched spasmodically for a moment. The engineer was busy snorting his own line, and failed to notice. But then Rourke stopped breathing.

"I thought jocks from Nevada didn't do that kind of shit."

Rourke shuddered and breathed again. Bryan hadn't noticed anything amiss. Rourke sat up, sweating. Thought:
Where the fuck did I just go?
His mind cleared, and he winked to cover his fear.

"As my Uncle Jeremy always said, jocks from Nevada shouldn't run over budget on album projects."

B.J. Woodley, Sour Candy's hyper guitarist, was staring into the booth. He seemed desperate for approval. B.J. had chosen to wear flaming yellow sweats to the session, and the studio's sound-proofing was blood red. Rourke thought Woodley looked like a pudgy canary in the cat's mouth.

Peter tapped the talk-back button and heard his voice echo through the other room. "Good one, guys," he lied. "But I'd like another take, just to be on the safe side."

Groans in harmony. Lime Pauley, the drummer, started clacking his sticks together to set the tempo. He raised his voice over the din: re-tuning, whining and squeaky butts shifting on padded stools. The down side of recording live.

"Jeez dude," Lime sputtered, "I thought that was pretty good. Besides, Dee's gonna be here soon. If she gets in there with you, we'll end up fucking around all night."

John Hubbard, piano: "You got that wrong, Lime. Rourke's gonna end up fucking around all night."

Good-natured laughter.

Peter, his head still pirouetting from somewhere over the rainbow, was tempted to join in until Gordie Easton crossed his mind. Music Work's owner, and Rourke's boss, had a bad case for Dee Jennings. He viewed their sometime affair as a meaningful relationship instead of a career-driven hook-up, but Sour Candy's sultry lead singer obviously had a mind of her own. In short, Gordie would not have been amused.

Peter Rourke liked his job. Sure, the work wore him down; nudged him towards drugs and strained his nerves. It was also starting to make him rich in his twenties. Wealthy enough to put a redneck past behind. He thought it a fair enough trade.

"Knock off the bullshit," he barked. "Let's get on it. If you clowns would play the changes right, we could all go home early for once."

"Fuck you."

Thank God dirty looks don't kill
, he thought with a grimace.
That was out of line. The guys are trying. It's just not jelling, goddamn it, and that's more my fault than theirs.

"One," Lime counted. "Two. You know what to do..."

Before Peter could apologize, a pissed-off Sour Candy had launched into another take. Ironically, their resentment translated into fire and ice.

The song began to work.

Hubbard instinctively held back a little, then altered one synthesizer's voicing to a low growl at the top of the chorus. That prompted Joe Shane to start popping his bass, rap style. B.J. Woodley reacted in kind, stomping down on the volume pedal and crashing into his solo section like a tank springing from ambush. Real, on the spot musical feedback. They were zinging, driving, locking into it. Lime Pauley found something extra, too; by the end of the take he was whacking out an impossibly hip extra back-beat on the floor tom. Live music at it's unpolished best, rock as it once was.

Bryan Friedheim shook his head. He pursed his thin lips and reached for the rainbow vial again. "Well, I'll be fucked."

Rourke glanced over at the huge, rolling reels of the 24-track recorder. What was old was new again. He had always resisted going digital, and time had finally proven him right, but tape had risks attached. "You will definitely be fucked if we run out of tape."

"Promises, promises," Bryan lisped. He checked the computer's counter. "No sweat, Pete. According to my reliable little buddy here, we'll just make it."

And make it they did. Four seconds of absolute silence, with everyone holding his breath with the last note, in anticipation of Rourke's reaction. Then the tape rolled flap/flap/flap off the reel. Nail biting: Another one of the hazards of working the old-fashioned way.

Peter grinned and flashed a thumbs-up through the glass. Cheers erupted. He tapped the talk-back button.

"Fucking awesome!" he called. "Nice going. You're all released under your own recognizance, pending trial."

"Hell you say," Hubbard barked. "We know our rights, and we want to hear this one."

Bryan adjusted the equalization slightly, then rolled back to the start of the tune, as the musicians gathered in the booth. Peter told him to play the take at killer level, max honk. Hell, they'd earned it. This was probably one of the best cuts Sour Candy had ever laid down. It was bad, it was sixties, it was as snarling and as sprightly as something by the early Beatles.

Listening, Rourke felt confident that they had their follow-up to "Devil's Reign." He knew he was lucky. This time a hit would be due more to the band's playing than to his own songwriting.

Lime palmed Friedheim's vial and they all shared some rainbow to celebrate. The drug was catching on fast. It was a mind-ripping mixture of several different uppers and downers in powdered form. B.J. Woodley almost sneezed three hundred dollars worth into the console when Johnny Hubbard stepped out into the hall and called: "Red alert! This is not a drill."

Gordie.
Christ
. Peter began to straighten his clothing and tried to clear his bleary mind. The musicians ran for cover, suddenly got busy as hell. They started packing up while Friedheim rubbed his nose vigorously to remove any trace of the precious multi-colored powder.

Gordie Easton, the dictatorial owner of Music Works, had two serious problems when it came to relating to modern rock: He didn't understand the music worth a shit, and he disapproved of drugs. Still, he fully expected his staff to keep impossibly long hours in order to complete a project on schedule.

The door creaked open and Easton strode in. Gordie was nearly as tall as Peter, easily six feet; bald as a cue ball and cultivating a long, drooping moustache. He loved Hawaiian print shirts. Peter Rourke was the only employee able to look him square in the eye without laughing.

"Gordie, you surprised me. Funny, I should have heard your clothes coming."

"You got it, cowboy?" Easton barked.

Rourke nodded. "Think so. As a matter of fact, I'd probably bet my ass it's a hit."

"You just did," Easton said. He showed his wide teeth in a thinly veiled snarl. Rourke wondered if Gordie already knew about his hooking up with Dee Jennings. If he could have, Gordie Easton would have written "screwing no one but the owner" into Dee's recording contract.

"Kiss my ass."

"What did you say?"

"I was right about 'Devil's Reign,'" Rourke said defiantly. "Close to double platinum now, aren't we?"

Gordie didn't answer. He does know, Peter thought. But for the moment pride has to take a back seat to profit. Jesus, what a strange business.

"Wanna hear it, Gordie?" Friedheim chirped, figuring it was worth a shot. Easton shook his head, then turned and left without closing the door.

Bryan reached over with one graceful hand and sealed the booth. "Charm school grad," he explained to an unseen audience. "Went to school to study manners. Pretty smooth, huh?"

"He's a prick."

Friedheim shrugged. "There's that, too. Hey Pete, answer me something. You've got a monster hit, right? Your contract's almost up. Why you still gonna work for him?"