The Boy Who Cried Freebird (7 page)

Need more “Evidence?” Just listen.

The rock critic sat in the dining room of his apartment, surrounded by stacks of press releases, DVDs, CDs, and other artifacts of popular music culture. While there were unopened packages strewn all over the place, the critic's attention was focused on just a few parcels.

It had taken some real effort to obtain the obscure Captain Beefheart material. After pleading with his editor for an actual assignment, he had to locate and then contact several small record companies before acquiring the many different Beefheart collections. Now he had them all.

Of course, the critic had been listening to Captain Beefheart for years, but he was still thrilled to have gotten so much fresh product. He had just settled down with the first disc of the five-CD retrospective,
Grow Fins
, when his lovely wife returned home after a long hard day at the office.

“Hi, honey!” he yelled while Captain Beefheart, aka Don Van Vliet, wailed through the speakers. The critic's wife walked straight into the dining room and glared at him. “What's wrong?” he asked. “Your boss giving you a hard time again?”

“You know damn well what's wrong,” she answered sharply. “We've
talked about this a million times. You know I support what you do for a living. You know that I understand how music is your life and your record collection is a vital resource that helps you with your job no matter how cluttered it makes the apartment. I even learned to appreciate jazz when you were doing that big essay on John Coltrane, but this is too much. I can't stand Captain Beefheart and will not be forced to listen to him in my own home.”

“But honey!” the rock critic pleaded.

“Don't ‘But honey!' me, you bastard!” the critic's wife screamed. “I've heard your whole spiel about how Beefheart is one of the true original musicians to emerge in the post-Elvis age. I know that you passionately believe the man was a psychedelic rock bard whose unique grasp of blues, boogie, Dadaist poetry, avant-garde jazz, and arcane field hollers informed an incredibly distinctive sonic identity both onstage and in the studio. I've heard all about the harmonica hoedowns, the distended guitar soli, and Beefheart's relationship with Frank Zappa, as well as his obtuse blues mutterings and the Magic Band's polyrhythmic group encounters. I know that you think the Beefheart universe is a consistently strange and beautiful place that captures the spirit and alchemy of an essential American artist. I don't care anymore and I won't have it! It's Beefheart or me! Now make your decision once and for all!”

The critic stared at his wife for a very long time.

Finally, he whispered, “Can we at least wait until this song is over? It's one of my favorites.”

The year was 1998. Stephen D'Angelo and Mark Spinetti were in Mark's basement apartment sitting on the couch, drinking beer and watching the Yankees on TV. It was another hot afternoon in Queens, New York, on the seventh of August, and the two had nothing better to do but get drunk and reminisce about the good old days when punks were punks.

“Hey,” said Stephen. “Remember when Johnny Thunders went out with your sister and you wanted to kick his ass?”

Mark stared blankly at the ball game—the Yanks were already clobbering the Royals and it was only the second inning. “Yeah, I remember,” he said finally. “And when I caught up with the little scumbag he promised to get us into one of those New York Dolls gigs at the Mercer Arts Center. Good show, too. That was when Billy Murcia was still alive and playing the drums for them.”

“Uh-huh,” Stephen agreed. “I really thought those guys were going to hit it big for a while there. After Jerry Nolan replaced Billy they sounded even better, but dope broke up that band pretty quick.”

Mark walked to the fridge and fished out two more beers. He could hear a soap opera blaring from his parents' home upstairs.
“That's for sure,” he sighed. “How about the time we saw Thunders at that used record store in the East Village? He was selling off a whole stack of Dolls LPs for a dollar apiece. Nowadays those things go for big bucks!”

Stephen took a beer from his friend and held the icy can against his forehead. He glanced at the tube and noticed that Darryl Strawberry had just hit his twenty-first home run of the season.

“Johnny had formed the Heartbreakers by then, hadn't he?” Stephen asked rhetorically. “It was Thunders, Nolan, and Richard Hell from Television when they started out. Man, what a bunch of fucking prima donnas. Hell didn't last too long before leaving to form the Voidoids. Hell was cool, but he couldn't put up with those other guys. Besides, the coolest thing they ever did together was to steal the song ‘Chinese Rocks' from Dee Dee Ramone.”

Mark laughed loudly, “That's true. Then Johnny got Billy Rath on bass and Walter Lure on guitar. The Heartbreakers even did that Anarchy Tour in Europe with the Sex Pistols, the Clash, and the Damned. Kicked punk ass on those little limeys, too, from what I'm told. Thunders and Nolan were just way more experienced than those British kids at that point.”

Mark's mother hollered downstairs that it was time for her son to pick up the dry cleaning from the Laundromat. “Later, Ma!” Mark yelled back. “It's a doubleheader and we're killing them—I'll go between games!”

Somewhat embarrassed, Mark resumed his nostalgic rumpus with Stephen. “The Heartbreakers were great. But it was just like they sang it, ‘Too Much Junkie Business,' know what I'm saying? They couldn't keep it together for five minutes—like when Thunders rumbled onstage with that punk John Spacely and clubbed him with his guitar. Anyway, after Jerry quit to form the Idols, the band just fell apart.”

Stephen shook his head in solemn agreement. The first game was over and the Yanks had put Kansas City away 8–2. “Yeah,” he said. “Except for those farewell gigs they did later at Max's Kansas City. Those shows might have been the best of them all.”

Mark smiled at the mention of Max's and said, “Man, I loved that place in the '70s; even
I
was getting laid back then. You would always see Lou Reed or someone from Warhol's crowd or maybe Patti Smith. But you're right—those gigs at Max's in '79 were great. It almost didn't matter that Jerry was gone because Ty Styx never missed a beat. Everything was so offhand that you forgot how hard they were rocking. Perfect rock 'n' roll like that is deceptively simple. I guess the shows were special because there was no pressure by that time, other than Thunders having to show up and not fall down.”

Mark grinned as he added, “Johnny and Walter sure had that whole wiseass junkie Bowery Boys shtick down pat, didn't they?” Then Mark became lost in a yearning reverie as he drained his seventh beer.

The Yankees began their pummeling of the Royals once again as Stephen picked up where Mark had trailed off. “They sure did. And for all of the foulmouthed, aggressive music making going on, Thunders made it sound so easy. That's why seeing live music was exciting—you never knew what was going to happen. I mean it wasn't like there were huge crowds lined up to see those guys. They just ripped through their set in such a savage way that you have to thank God someone actually recorded the show.”

Mark's eyes snapped back to reality. He turned up the sound on his TV in a vain attempt to drown out his mother's nagging voice from upstairs. He ignored the old lady's repeated requests and shouted above the sports announcer's fervid play-by-play. “I really loved Johnny's buzz-saw guitar, but why was he so into '60s girl groups like the Shangri-Las? It was such a weird mix of musical influences, but it worked so well.”

Stephen D'Angelo struggled to his feet and made his way to the door. The Yankees were well on their way toward another rout of the hapless Royals. It was almost too easy. Mark was still arguing with his mother about the stupid dry cleaning and she was telling him to get a job for Chrissakes as Stephen bid his friend good-bye.

Mark stopped his quarreling, turned toward Stephen, and said, “Shit. Billy's dead, Johnny's dead, Jerry's dead—what a sad bunch. There's no more heroes in this world, that's for sure.”

The Yankees went on to win the second game 14–2. The rest is history.

—With apologies to Legs McNeil and George Steinbrenner

The year is 2069 and Adam Coil V is celebrating his eighteenth birthday alone in his room with his computers. Adam's mother had just put one hundred and fifty bancredits into a digital dollarfund and given him his very own access code to the account.

Within fifteen minutes, Adam had transferred the entire sum over to Grateful Dead Enterprises (a wholly owned subsidiary of the one and only Record Company). He then opened his personalized Dead file and examined his new purchases, which were the three latest Grateful Dead live collections, (
Dick's Picks
) Volumes 1498, 1499, and 1500.

Adam browsed through the still images, video clips, and historical text that accompanied the postdigital sound files. Then he downloaded the information into his custom database that cross-referenced each Dead recording by date, personnel, song selection, venue, set list, and many other categories. While Adam was thrilled to bring his archive up-to-date and hear the latest
Dick's Picks
, he was already thinking about the next five hundred Dead recordings scheduled for release.

At the same time, he was restless and bored. Despite all of the data that streamed into his computer, the days held little mystery for Adam.
He rarely went outdoors since the earth's atmosphere made it impossible to breathe easily. Besides the terrible environment that kept him inside, his legs were weak from lack of exercise, and the recreational drugs provided by the WG (World Government) made him sleepy. Lately, he'd been more lethargic than usual, and he couldn't shake the sense of dull apprehension.

The Grateful Dead were Adam's main escape from a dreary reality. He came from a long line of Deadheads, and while his father's own interest in the family's Dead collection had waned when Adam was just a child, Adam Coil IV still made sure to pass down the library of hard-to-find Dead relics to his only son.

The inherited memorabilia from the twentieth century included live Dead recordings preserved on Maxell XLIIS hi-bias cassette tapes, vinyl LPs, vintage compact discs, ticket stubs, backstage laminates, and original poster art from the Fillmore West. Of course, these items were merely the foundation for Adam's current collection. He'd been immersing himself in Dead culture since he was eight and devoted every bancredit that came his way toward his passion.

His interest in the Dead began during a childhood trip with his anthropologist grandfather, Adam Coil III, to the Terrapin Museum and Grateful Dead Memorial Library. Since then Adam had taken to collecting books made of actual paper, old-time videos, and every Dead-related recording he could find. He'd amassed thousands of essays written about the band, including rare interviews and forgotten concert reviews. Adam took after his grandfather and considered himself an authority on all things Dead.

Adam's parents were gone for the season, so he had invited some friends over to watch holographic concert films of the Dead on his quantum-entertainment console. He rarely saw his peers in person; it was easier to see them on the home videophone or enjoy qua-encoun
ters on the computer. He was actually startled when the doorbell rang that afternoon. It was still too early for visitors.

It was a delivery service, and when the autobot informed him of a priority letter for Mr. Adam Coil V, he enthusiastically accepted the package. He became even more excited when he saw that the parcel was from his grandfather.

He tore open the envelope and found a handwritten letter attached to a large folder of official-looking documents. “Dear Adam,” the note read. “Here is your birthday present. Use it wisely and be sure to tell your old granddad all about your trip upon your return.”

“Trip?” Adam thought. “What kind of trip? Gramps knows that I hardly ever leave the house.” It was true; Adam had no desire to travel and like most kids his age, he did his globetrotting through the Virtual Reality Voyage Vender. It was quicker, safer, and much less strenuous.

Adam examined the contents of the folder. There he read the words: “This voucher entitles Adam Coil V (only) to one round-trip ticket anywhere in the past two hundred years. Some restrictions may apply. See pages 2 through 12 for details and international guidelines. Please bring three separate items of identification and a signed copy of the consent contract (page 13) to your local time-travel representative after reading the regulations and choosing your exact destination and itinerary.”

A journey through the past! Adam wasn't sure how his grandfather had managed to pull the strings for such a high-level excursion, but when he checked with the Bureau of Time and Space Travel, they confirmed his eligibility.

“Just make sure to read the entire contract before you plan your trip,” the department chief told him. “It's not complicated, but there are some very important rules when it comes to time travel. Basically, you can't tell anyone you meet anything about the future, you can't have sex
with anyone from the past, you can't do any drugs, and you absolutely must return to the present exactly twelve hours after your departure from our time zone. You know, the standard time-travel restrictions.”

It hadn't been difficult for Adam to choose a destination for his fantastic voyage. When he first saw the travel voucher, the thought came to him that he could go see the Grateful Dead perform at the Fillmore West on February 28, 1969. That was supposed to be a magical gig. Even the classic twentieth-century album
Live/Dead
contained performances from that psychedelic evening.

Adam couldn't say what drew him to that particular Friday, but there was something about the date that called out to him. He knew that the Fillmore West (formerly the Carousel Ballroom) began its operations under Bill Graham in the summer of 1968, and that the original Fillmore had closed in the aftermath of Martin Luther King's assassination. Adam barely recalled who Martin Luther King was, but he knew a lot about the Fillmore.

The prospect of catching the Dead on the second of four nights at the Fillmore was just too good to pass up. He would be seeing Jerry Garcia at his early peak and keyboardist Ron “Pigpen” McKernan in his boozy prime. According to Adam's archives, Mickey Hart's role as the band's second drummer was already established, and on February 28 the Dead had jammed their way through a cosmic second set including immortal renditions of “Dark Star,” “Saint Stephen,”
and
“The Eleven.”

There was no doubt about it; Adam was going to see the Dead in San Francisco!

It took him a week to finalize his travel plans. Of course, his parents were upset about Adam going back in time all by himself. They resisted the idea until he wore them down with a combination of pleading, golden promises, and black oaths.

“Fine, go ahead and time travel if that's what you really want to do,” his father said wearily on the videophone. “But I'm going to speak to your grandfather about this. Next time he'd better clear things with us before putting crazy ideas into your head. You never know what kind of people you're going to meet back there in the past. I only hope that you'll be extra careful and not talk to any strangers. It was an uncertain world back then.”

When Adam arrived at the Time Travel Agency, he was ushered into a white room with two men sitting at a long table. He was intimidated by the formality of the screening process and wondered if the men were dressed in identical suits because they were required to or because it was the current style.

“Do you understand the international rules and regulations of time travel as they have been presented to you?” one man asked. “Yes sir,” Adam answered. “Do you agree to comply with the aforementioned rules?” asked the other man. “Yes sir,” Adam replied again. “Good,” said the first man. “Now remember that you'll have to stand in the exact same spot where you materialized when it's time for your return.” “I will, sir,” answered Adam.

Then the second man leaned forward and said sternly, “You can't be at all late when the time comes to return home. Otherwise, you'll be stuck in the past and we would have a hard time ever finding you again. The consequences of reckless time travel are quite serious, young man. Your grandfather is highly respected here at the Bureau, and he personally vouched for your qualifications. If it weren't for him, you'd be on an eternal waiting list, like everyone else from the consumer sector.”

After several more reminders, they asked Adam if he was ready for his maiden voyage. “I guess so,” he said nervously. Adam had dressed for the occasion in a leather jacket with fringe hanging from the
shoulders and a skull and roses embroidered on the back. He'd taken it from a box in his father's closet. “I was going to auction it off and put the bancredits toward your educational dollarfund,” his father told him, “but we can always sell the jacket when you get back.”

Adam's father seemed sad when they exchanged good-byes on the videophone. “Don't worry, Dad,” Adam had said reassuringly. “The whole trip will only take an hour or two on this end. You won't even have time to miss me. I'll call as soon as I get home, I promise.” Still, Adam felt anxious as he walked toward the room with a floating sign that read, “Time Travel Division: Departure Department.”

Before a team of technicians began their final countdown for Adam's timelaunch, one of the men made him empty his pockets and took away his electronic wallet with all of his identification. Then he handed Adam an envelope and said, “Your grandfather asked us to give this to you. It's the only thing you're allowed to take with you that you don't have to bring back.”

Opening the envelope Adam found a twenty-dollar bill from 1964 and a note that read, “Don't spend it all in one place! Have fun, Granddad.”

The time technicians explained that they'd be transporting Adam directly inside the Fillmore, so he wouldn't have to worry about buying a ticket to the concert. “You'll be arriving at the venue a few hours early, so just try to blend in until the show starts. And please, remember the exact spot where you arrive because you have to be in that same location when it's time to come home.”

Finally, the head technician clamped a titanium timepiece on Adam's right wrist and said, “You have exactly twelve hours. Enjoy your trip.”

The time transport itself was not unpleasant, but the brief period of disembodiment left him senseless when he arrived in 1969. At first,
Adam stumbled around and couldn't see or hear a thing. Gradually, he began to acclimate to his surroundings and sensed a bright light above him. He concluded that he wasn't in the Fillmore, but outdoors. He also sensed that someone else was standing quite nearby.

As his eyes and ears slowly adjusted, Adam realized that someone was yelling at him. It was an intense, dark-haired man and he was screaming in Adam's face. “What in the hell is wrong with you, kid? Are you too stoned to understand English? I told you that you couldn't stand here; now get in line like everybody else!”

Looking around bewilderedly, Adam saw that he was just outside of the Fillmore and a number of young people were standing in a line alongside the building. Several bystanders laughed as he tried to take a step and fell right into the arms of the screaming man.

“Jesus Christ!” the man screamed. “What is your problem?” Adam tried to speak but his mouth refused to form any words. Then, the smells from Earth's rich atmosphere and the dog crap under his feet made Adam sick to his stomach. He puked violently and the screaming man got more irate.

Adam was starting to fear for his safety when a tough-looking guy dressed in motorcycle garb stalked up to his raging antagonist. “Hey, Graham,” the biker shouted. “Why don't you pick on somebody else? Don't you have anything better to do than harass your own clientele?”

The screaming man whirled around and said, “What the hell do you want, Barger—are you turning into some kind of humanitarian? Why don't you just go ride your damn Harley, man, and let me run my own business?”

Meanwhile, Adam had pulled himself together and was trying to figure out what was happening. Then it hit him: The two men arguing were none other than Fillmore impresario Bill Graham and the
infamous leader of the Hell's Angels, Sonny Barger. “Wow,” thought Adam. “I made it. I'm actually here!”

Sonny Barger and Bill Graham were nose to nose. Both men were swearing and arguing until Graham finally said, “Okay, Sonny, you win. Just get this kid the hell away from me before I bury my foot up his ass. I've got a million hassles to deal with tonight and you aren't one of them.”

“Screw you, Bill,” Barger shot back. Then Sonny grabbed Adam by the scruff of his neck and dragged him away from the Fillmore. Down the street, several men were waiting on their motorcycles.

Adam tried to squirm out of Barger's iron grip. “Hey,” he pleaded. “Let me go. I've come a real long way to see the Dead and I've got to hang around for tonight's show.”

Sonny threw Adam against a car and held him down by his throat. “Listen, punk,” he growled. “I saw you appear out of nowhere. One minute the sidewalk was empty and then you just materialized out of thin air. I don't know where you came from or how in the hell you got here, but I'm not letting you out of my goddamn sight until you tell me what's going on. Understand?”

Adam was frightened and puked again, barely avoiding Barger's boots. He tried telling Sonny that he was just another kid who'd come to San Francisco to be with the hippies. The Hell's Angels surrounded Adam as Sonny shook his head, “No, you're coming with us. I've got some important meetings tonight and we've got to get going right now.”

“But I've got to see the Grateful Dead,” Adam wailed. Sonny slapped Adam on the back of the head and said, “Quit crying or I'll give you something to cry about. Besides, the Dead won't be on for hours. Just tell me how you got here and I'll bring you back to the Fillmore. I know Garcia and I know Rock Scully. Hell, I've done business with
both of them. And, motherfucker, you
will
tell me what I want to know, one way or another.”