Free Radicals: A Novel of Utopia and Dystopia

(excerpt—Chapter 3)

by Zeke Teflon

Stairway to Free Bird

. . . or . . .

MUSIC, n. An area of universal expertise. The less formal musical training persons have, the more certain they are to know what is "good," and the more certain they are that their opinions are just as valid as the opinions of those who have spent their lives studying, playing, and composing music.
—The American Heretic's Dictionary

Kel was setting up the p.a. system, snaking cables around mike stands, frantically trying to get everything up and ready for the sound check. Somehow, two of the mike cables had disappeared since the last gig, and he had exactly enough. If any of them were bad, he was fucked. What was almost equally fucked was that the stage lights were off, and that the barkeep had told him that nothing but the brights were working. So, he was working in near darkness.

He sourly pondered the thought that he should have taken up another instrument as he held a flashlight in his teeth while trying to shine it on the back of the mixer, as he tilted it up with one hand while attempting to insert a cable with the other. Jesus. What a gig. Guitar players were a nickel a dozen. If you wanted to play, you'd better have a p.a. system, be willing to lug it around, set it up, maintain the vid presence, and more often than not do the booking, too. Kel inserted the cable, took the flashlight out of his mouth, turned it off, and grabbed another cable.

Shitty sounding, loud, canned neo-rap music assailed Kel from the club's system as he fussed and stewed. Outside, huge holos hung in a grey, drizzly sky, almost eclipsing the skyscrapers behind them, with the tracks from elevated mag-lev tracks vanishing into and jutting out of the ads.

The ads were for the usual: virtual sex (anything your sick little imagination could desire—virtual sheep? no problem, no extra charge) Maui Wowees, emigration to any of a dozen recently opened stellar systems, Black Mamba Malt Liquor ("When You Want a Deadly, Aggressive Bite"), and, of course, the omnipresent, body-builder Uncle Sam, sweeping his field glasses endlessly along the horizon.

Below, an orange neon sign reading “The Retro,” hung from rusty iron brackets on the corner of an ancient, two-storey brick building, reflecting off rain-soaked, faux-cobblestone streets in a rundown commercial district of two-and three-storey converted warehouses. Canned blues music replaced the neo-rap and drifted out the bar’s door, growing louder and softer as people walked in and out dressed in flapper clothes, zoot suits, disco outfits, punk gear, grey, severe, youth-for-truth unis, and unclassifiable outfits such as the one on the rail-thin 20-something with a sculpted, narrow black beard, shades, and black skull cap, wearing a cheap black synth suit with white vertical stripes, a good ten centimeters too short at the wrists and ankles, all set off by cheap, shiny, black patent leather shoes without socks, and with fluorescent green tattoos of barbed wire wrapping themselves around his shins just above his ankles.

As he set up, the scene facing Kel was dismal. The Retro was modeled on a twentieth-century rock club: dimly lit, tiny round tables scattered randomly around the interior; uncomfortable, high-backed, wrought iron chairs crowding the tables; grimy red shag carpeting on the floor; black velvet on the walls; a sequin-scattered ceiling with discolored strips of paint hanging down—no one ever noticed; no one ever looked up—and halter-topped, slit-skirted waitresses shivering from the frigid air conditioning, lugging around trays of overpriced, watered-down drinks.

Kel was still running cables, but glanced up as a pair of diesel dykes—at least that's what they looked like; at the Retro, you never knew—walked in and found their way to a table off to the side of the stage: sunglasses, fake piercings, fake brands, fake tattoos, motorcycle boots, leather vests over too-tight black T-shirts, with too-ample stomachs bulging beneath the shirts, black men's jeans with keys jangling down on chains, and pancake make-up heavy enough to hide the pallor of a corpse. Kel did a double take. Even beneath the disguise, Kel was pretty sure it was Mig and her best friend Melly. What the fuck were they doing here? Nothing good, no doubt of that, but what?

He stared at them, but they didn't even glance at him as they ordered drinks from the slit-skirted waitress and then turned toward each other and started talking. Kel returned to his task in an even fouler mood.

The house was half full as the band did the sound check, a verse of "Messin' with the Kid," and then launched into the first number, as the overhead lights flared on, blinding them. It was so bright on stage that it was almost impossible to see if anyone was dancing. But Kel could tell by the near-silence between songs that no one was.

Forty-five minutes in, the band was finishing "Shotgun Blues," while a drunk at one of the front tables shouted, "Play Free Bird!"

Kel and the other musicians ignored him and broke into a fast, jazzy version of the "T-Bone Shuffle," with Kel taking an extended guitar solo and Lenny, the bassist, playing inspired walking bass throughout the entire song. The false ending and reprise were killer, but no one noticed. Almost no one applauded; and, still, no one had gotten up to dance

Kel leaned into the mike and said, "Here's one for all of you who’ve ever had a close encounter of the fourth kind. It’s called 'Abductee Blues.'" Dick looked at Kel with a cocked eye, and nodded toward the near-invisible table where his girlfriend, Teena, who had always hated the song, was sitting. Kel looked at Dick and silently mouthed the words, "Come on!" After a few seconds’ hesitation, Dick shrugged and muttered, "What the fuck. Let's do it," and Kel began playing the fast, jazzy eight-bar intro, with the bass and drums joining him on the second verse. After another eight bars, Dick's vocals kicked in.

Two verses later, no one was dancing, as Dick sang the third verse:

They jabbed me, they stabbed me
They stroked and they poked
Until my mind
Was very nearly broke
I'm telling you man
You need the patience of Job
Just to survive
That rectal probe

Kel took a short solo, and they went into the bridge:

The gray said
Don't worry bro
It's no big thing
(instrumental fill)
Don't worry bro
It ain't all that big
Now just . . . bend over . . .
And squeal like a—

Kel pulled off a glissando that sounded remarkably like a squealing hog. He then launched into a prolonged solo, and came out of it into the final vocal verses:

Now I got chips in my head
And chips in my bones
This ain't about no E.T.
Tryin' to call home
They flew all the way
To our pretty little globe
Just so they could use
That rectal probe

Rectal probe
Rectal probe
Nobody wants a
Rectal probe
Don’t have to be
No homophobe
To live in dread of an
Alien rectal probe

They vamped on, with Kel taking another solo. Finally, since Dick wouldn't do it, Kel went back to comping and leaned into the mike yelling, "No! No!! Oh my god, no!!! That thing's got spines on it! Aaaagh! No! Please No!! Use some Astroglide!! 30 weight!!! WD40!!!! Tabasco!!!!! Anything!!!!!! Aaaagh!!! Aaaagh!!! Aaaaaagh!!!!!! Anything!!!!!!"

When he stopped shrieking, he played the first few bars of "Dueling Banjos." A good five seconds after the final note faded, and with all the other players silent, Kel leaned toward the mike and yelled, "sooooooooo—eee!!"

There was virtually no response, not even the usual scattered applause from the one in ten people who “got” the song, and not even the usual yells of abuse, to which Kel invariably replied, "Thank you, glad y’all liked it!" while holding his Strat by the neck in case he needed to use it as a club. Now, the only response was nonverbal: Teena was looking daggers at both him and Dick.

As the lights faded to black, an audience member shouted, "¡Una más!" Kel caught Dick's eye and mouthed the words, "Crazy Woman"? Dick nodded as the lights came halfway up. He picked up his acoustic guitar, pulled the strap over his shoulder, bent down toward his mike, and said: "Here's an old cow-punk tune called 'I Love a Crazy Woman.' We hope y'all like it."

They finished the song to dead silence. No one had laughed at all, not even at what Kel thought were its funniest lines: "She’s in deep psychosis, but I'll tell you boys she's fine. She's on a dozen medications, and I'm proud that she is mine."

And, still, no one had gotten up to dance. Dick looked at Kel, and asked, "Bad News Blues treatment?" Kel nodded. Bill and Lenny quickly fell in behind them as they broke into "This Guy's in Love," in an even slower and schmaltzier version than the original.

A young, neo-Goth couple, with so many facial studs and piercings that they reminded Kel of porcupines, got up and slow danced, rubbing their bodies against each other, but keeping their faces well apart. As Kel strummed the major 7th chords characteristic of the song, he couldn't keep his eyes off the couple, and he couldn't help but wonder how they managed oral sex.

When the song ended and the meager applause died out, Dick bent toward his microphone and opened his mouth, intending to say, "That was supposed to be punishment. Want more?" but before he got the first word out he was interrupted by a raging drunk: "Play Free Bird! This is the goddamned Retro! Play Free Bird!"

Dick stood gaping for too long, while a few other drunks took up the call, sounding as if they were mocking the first drunk, and the band.

"Yeah, Play Free Bird!" "Free Bird!"

Kel gave the traditional reply, saluting them with his middle finger while yelling, "Here's your free bird!" But the drunks were into it by then, yelling one on top of the other:

"Proud Mary!"
"Mustang Sally!"
"Black Cat Bone!"
"Free Bird!"
"Stairway to Heaven!"
"Hoodoo Love Thang!"
"Margaritaville!"
"Free Bird!"
"Love Bone Boogie!"
"Taking Care of Business!"
"Rock and Roll All Nite!"
"Brown Eyed Girl!" "Martian Mojo Man!"
"Old Time Rock and Roll!"
"Sweet Home Alabam"!"

Kel shuddered. That was it. "Sweet Home Alabama" was the last straw. An ode to the state whose official motto was "Incestum, Tentoria, Obesitas Morbidus": "Incest, Lynchings, Morbid Obesity."

Worse, while he was gritting his teeth, he noticed Dick holding up his hand to the crowd, palm out, grinning at him with a demonic gleam in his eye. The fucker had always had a perverse streak, and a few months ago had even forced him to play "Brown Eyed Girl" at a gig. That had been bad enough, but "Sweet Home Alabama"? Finally, Dick lowered his hand, looked away from Kel, bent over his mike, and said: "Thanks so much. We'll take a short break and be right back." Kel exhaled to the frenzied but pro forma cries of "Play Free Bird!" and "We want some Skynyrd!!!"

As the lights went down and the canned music came up, Dick, Bill, and Lenny walked off stage, carefully avoiding eye contact with the drunks. Kel reached to the back of his amp and flipped the switch. He put his guitar on its stand, emptied what was left of a pint of stout and, empty glass in hand, headed to the table where his band mates and their girlfriends were sitting.

Still blinking away the after-images from the brights as he came off stage, he snuck a glance at the apparent dykes three tables over. Mig looked up and waved. Kel turned away without acknowledging her. This was almost too strange. Mig had always loved frilly, ultra-feminine dresses that would have looked great on a chick twenty kilos lighter. So, diesel dyke gear? She had to be fucking with him.

As he sat down next to Dick, he motioned to a waitress, held up his empty glass, and pointed to it.

Dick turned toward Kel and said, "This is a fucking morgue. Don't these fucking people know how to dance? Are they fucking paralyzed?" He took a sip from his drink and turned back toward Kel. "What the fuck do we have to do to get them up?"

"Play Margaritaville?"
"Seriously."
"Free Bird? Mustang Sally?"
"Fuck off, Kel."
"Stairway to Free Bird? Love Bone Sally?"

Dick grunted disgustedly, not deigning to reply.

Kel wasn’t deterred: "Free Mary? Proud Margaritaville?"

Dick glared at Kel for a few seconds, pulled out the set list, and he and Kel began to pore over it. The waitress arrived with Kel's pint of Terminator Stout, and he downed half of it, in all its 7.2% glory, in a single gulp.

While they were going over the set list, three Homeworld Protectors swaggered into the club. They were typical federal bulls: steroid-, gene-mod-enhanced slabs of beef wearing black uniforms, mirror shades, ceramo-helmets, slim-kev body armor, flechette and stun pistols, gas canisters, shiny, knee-high poly-leather boots, and in a seeming tribute to cops past, black truncheons with lead tips.

Kel and Dick, absorbed in planning their next set, didn't notice them, but almost everyone else in the place did, and immediately developed an intense interest in their drinks.

One of the Protectors started walking toward Mig and Melly. They looked down at their rum and cokes, shaking, but the bull stopped well before them. He hovered over a bearded zonie, who was smoking and was so spaced out that he hadn’t even noticed the cop’s approach.

The Protector tapped his baton on the table and drew it back. The zonie looked up, startled. The cop smashed him on the temple as his head came up. The bar went silent as the sickening sound of shattering bone echoed across the room. As the man slumped to the floor, his body spasming, the cop walked away, spitting out the words, "Tobacco's illegal, asshole."

The other two Protectors walked toward the stage, searching. Their necks stopped swiveling as they neared the band's table and rushed Kel. As he began to rise, one of the cops rammed his baton into Kel's solar plexis. Kel doubled over as the other one slammed his truncheon into the back of Kel's head, splitting his scalp open and showering blood over Dick, Bill, Lenny, and Teena.

As he was being hauled out, his bleeding head hanging down, the last thing Kel registered was Mig’s loud, cackling laugh.

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