Whale Music (18 page)

“What the
what
is a Farley O’Keefe?” A cup of coffee is set
down in front of me. I empty the sugar bowl into it, anything for a little buzz.

“Well, that’s watching your diet,” says Sally. “Are you in love with her?”

“I don’t think love is an option, Sally.”

“Nonsense, child.”

“Do you want to hear the Whale Music?”

“That’s what we’re here for.”

In the music room I crank up all the knobs, I shove the faders, I pan the pods, there is horripilant zizz and cackle leaking out of the speakers as we wait for the music to begin. I have spliced the tunes together, put them in the right order, done a very rough mix, and first out into the world is the “Song of Congregation”. The Yamaha 666 howls into the abyss. I busy myself making minute adjustments, I’ve really no time to waste on simply listening to the Whale Music. I tentatively alter the sounds, shading, adding nuances, programming morsels of information into the computer. The “Song of Congregation” ends. I let the last chord ring, I extend its life electronically, I milk that baby for everything it’s worth before I slide down the fader and allow the sound to escape. The next movement begins. It is odd, I’ll admit that, Dewey Moore’s voice buried in there like an old gold watch under a pile of manure. I have added some horns, trumpets and things, and I even overdubbed a small bit of accordion music. This piece has a strange kind of beauty, fragile and doomed. If I wasn’t busy making these minute changes—pan the echo-send four degrees to the left!—I think I might weep. It ends, though, the music ends. I certainly don’t milk this last chord, though it seems like whole minutes pass by before Mooky Saunders’s dolphins start leaping through the crest of waves. The “Song of Flight” is exhilarating, even Sally Goneau feels better. The next movement starts. I cannot remember creating this. I was in radical shape. I’d seen something very bad. It is the “Song of Sadness”. Whales are capable of the most enormous grief, are
you aware of this? What do you think drives whole pods to beach themselves, to commit suicide upon our public beaches? Do you believe, as some so-called scientists do, that they simply lose their sense of direction? This does not sound very reasonable to me. If a human being suddenly turned tail and lumbered into the ocean, would you say he’d lost his sense of direction? No, whales off themselves, they do away with life in this hugely pathetic manner, their great carcasses shivering and twitching in our fouled air. That is what this song is about. It is about the sadness that breaks even the greatest of hearts.

When the music ends I brace myself. “All right, Sal,” I sigh wearily. He is head A and R man at Galaxy, how could I have forgotten that, he is the Joseph Goebbels of popular music. He will tell me how wonderful this music is, then he will evoke the name of the great god Mammon, he will speak of demographics and marketing strategems, if you don’t want to hang around to hear it I can certainly sympathize.

First of all, though, like any good record executive, he has to pull at his chin and pretend to be deep in thought.

“It’s even better than I thought it would be,” Sal announces, a novel prelude, not that I’m fooled. Beware the high praise of A and R men, it means more savage damning. A tear is rolling over Sal’s sallow face. He seems to be at a loss for words.

“But
,” I remind him.

“But?”

“But
it’s not commercial,
but
the kids won’t like it,
but
it won’t get airplay,
but
record stores wouldn’t stock it if it came with a free gram of cocaine. Don’t make me do your job for you, Sally.”

Sal nods, stand up, wanders a bit aimlessly in the gloom of the control room. I check my computer, make sure that it has glommed all the information I’ve fed it recently. It is a long while before Sal’s voice ventures hesitantly into the air. “Desmond. I’m dying.”

“I know.”

“You likewise know that I haven’t done anything particularly worthwhile in my forty-three years upon the earth.”

“I don’t know that. You were a very good drummer. Steady as a rock.”

“I’m not leaving anything behind. Nothing that says Sal Goneau was here, which is a damn good thing.”

This ploy is unnerving.

“But here’s my chance, Desmo. They’re going to try to kill this music. I won’t let them. I can press half a million units, I can package it so that it gets into the stores, I can come up with some sort of promotional gimmick that will get the radio programmers to spin the thing
once
. If it dies, it dies, Desmond, but I won’t let it be killed.”

“Half a million units? Are you crazy, Sal?”

“Maybe a million, what the hell. Do not go gentle and all that poop.”

“And you’re not going to want to add back-up vocals or strings or something? Are you sure your courage won’t desert you when the blood begins to flow?”

“Mix it. I’ll master it, no questions asked.”

“Hot dog.”

“How long will it take?”

“Mixing is an awesome task. It could be weeks. Even months.”

“I don’t have months. I don’t even have weeks. Isn’t there any way to speed things up?”

“No. Yes. But they won’t let him out.”

“Fred?”

“Freaky Fred.”

“Leave it to Aunt Sally.”

Claire comes into the living room. Sal and I are talking, and you’ll never guess what, I’m rather enjoying it. Sal is a huge gossip, and he’s telling me about some of our erstwhile cohorts. Do you know, I’m not as bad as I thought I was! Fancy that. At the very least, I’m still alive, which is more than some people can say. I don’t like to brag, but facts are facts. Claire sits beside me on the couch, puts a hand on my leg. She powers-on the television, flips through the channels, rubs my thigh with her soft fingertips.

“See if you can find,” I suggest, “ ‘The Ed Sullivan Show’.”

Claire and Sally explode into laughter.

Guess where I was when the Beatles did that historic telecast away back when, just see if you can guess where I was, who I was with. I was with Danny, I’ll tell you that much, but I was often with Danny in those days (no points for that!), so guess where I further was. At Graceland, absolutely, give the man a cigar. (Someone out there knew, a short-circuited, pimpled wormboy, one of those bespectacled geeks who would have no joy in life if not for the tiny tinny pleasures of rock’n’roll.) Yes, Graceland, visiting with Elvis Presley, the former King. You see, I believe we had tallied six number one hits in a row, we were the biggest thing that had ever hit except for a meteorite in Africa and Mr. Presley himself.

(Behind the scenes, much trouble. Danny and I—although I was responsible for none of the machinations, I held no
command over the horde of lawyers that crawled out of the woodwork—had brought a suit upon the father. The father was sequestered in the house on Whitman like a drunken Texan defending the Alamo. I was not talking to my mother, which brought daily telephone calls full of tearbursts and shrieking. The band was receiving our first little snippets of bad press. Compared to what was to come they were mere bagatelles, but enough to alarm Kenneth Sexstone. For example, Dewey Moore threw up onstage someplace in Oregon. Paternity suits flew at Danny and Monty. Sal Goneau was often spotted with beautiful blonde women hanging off his arm, but these women were so beautiful and blonde that suspicion was immediately aroused. And Fred Head, well, poor Freddy, he was arrested in Des Moines. It wasn’t a very serious thing, he was just acting suspiciously in a schoolyard. For one thing, Fred was an odd, a startling, nay, a disgusting sight. He’d bloated obscenely. He had found velour of colours never before seen on our planet, he wore sunglasses and smoked cigarettes in long ivory holders. Freddy was talking to the schoolgirls mostly because he only felt comfortable talking with people four and five years old. Who could blame a policeman for scraping that mess off the sidewalk? Kenny Sexstone flew to Des Moines and pulled his Moses act, the Red Sea of Justice opened and the Israelites walked to freedom. As for my personal life, Fay and I had consummated our relationship, it was an unsatisfactory thing, especially for Fay.)

I had written a song called “You and the Dog”, a whimsical little ditty. It had no inspiration, other than the sighting, through a hotel window, of a tall woman with an Afghan hound, both precious and regal, looking as though their brittle existences could be shattered if you informed them of beerfarts and toejam. So I wrote “You and the Dog”, it was the flip-side of “Hunger in the Moonlight” (Danny’s great angst-ridden vocal, the song he is most identified with)—and we thought nothing more of it, until word was received that Elvis Presley was interested in recording the thing. Further to this
was an invitation extended to Dan and myself to visit Graceland whenever we wanted. We happened to have two or three days off, and although I had intended to use them to visit the Ginzburgs, Dan persuaded me to board a plane and fly to Memphis, Tenn. The limousine that met us at the airport needed three or four sideburned goons to operate it. Mind you, Danny and I were packing a couple of sideburned goons ourselves, so the stretch limo was packed full as a sardine can. No one said a word for the duration of the drive.

At Graceland we were hustled inside like a couple of serial killers under guard and deposited in a large room full of fun things, televisions and pinball machines. One or two goons assumed lounging position on the sofas and tried to look inconspicuous. The rest retired to a special goon room. Then nothing happened for a long time. Danny played the pinball machines. I flicked on the television set and gazed at the dots of light. It was maybe an hour before Elvis was escorted into the room.

Presley was still in good shape back then, thankfully I don’t have to bore you with stories of his sad deterioration. (I hate such stories, they are the stock and trade of rodents like Geddy Cole, journalists apparently ignorant of the fact that deterioration is the normal course of events in this vale of tears. Besides which, it seems to me that Elvis did nothing more than grow a little plump, allowing his insides to go fatty and soft.) The Presley organism was not complete without five or six goons clustered around him. “Gemme a Fresca, please,” he’d intone to one. “Let’s go sit down over there, please.” The multi-limbed Hindu god would move across the room ceremoniously.

Elvis caught sight of Danny playing on the pinball machine. “Hey,” he said softly—all his words were soft—“hey, you’re pretty good at that there.”

Dan was a hustler at heart, he bit his tongue and said nothing, he launched a silver ball with too much force.

“I used to be good at that,” said Presley. The goons nodded
half-heartedly. “You want to go up against me?”

“Sure,” said Dan.

“You want to play for quarters?” asked Elvis.

Dan nodded, bashed at a flipper button, caught the ball off the end and sent it spinning.

“Y’all let go of me now,” Elvis advised his entourage. “Me and this gemmin gone play on the pinball machine.”

What the goons feared was any show of autonomy. They backed off reluctantly. Presley shifted like a newborn colt, unsure on his pegs after having been so long supported. Danny allowed the ball to drain through the flippers, then he turned and grinned at Elvis. He held out his hand. “Danny Howl,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Dan,” said Elvis. He pointed at me. “That your brother there?”

“Des,” acknowledged Danny.

“I don’t have no brothers nor sisters neither,” said Presley. “I was the onliest one. Tell you what, though, I had a brother, Jesse Garon. He was my twin brother but he died when he got borned. Now, lemme see if I remember how to play on this machine.” He placed his hands on the contraption. “Yes,” he said. “I believe I do. Y’all spit and go first, Dan.”

Danny launched a ball and set the machine ringing. He racked up a sizable number of points before sewering.

Presley grinned broadly. “Man oh man,” he said. “You is a humdinger.” Elvis moved forward, pulled out the plunger and let a silver ball fly. Behind him, the goons murmured uneasily. I don’t know what they were afraid of. Presley was easily a match for Dan. Before long his hips were going, he was kicking out with his legs, Presley was filled with the most natural kind of grace. “Hey, hey!” he’d sing. “Keep it going, mama, the baby needs new shoes!”

The goons settled in beside me on the sofa. They needed to be beside someone, even a slug like Desmond Howl.

“Okay, Presley,” said Danny, taking over on the machine. “Your lawn’s about to get mowed.”

“My, my,” chuckled Presley. “Now don’t be letting your mouth write no cheques your ass can’t cash.”

Danny slammed his loins against the machine, setting off the
TILT
light. Presley laughed heartily, he slapped Danny on the back. “You done premature ejaculated, sonny-jim.”

“Ed Sullivan,” muttered the goon beside me, identifying the man on the television.

“Yes, I know.”

Presley wrapped his elegant hands over the flipper buttons. “Start polishing up that quarter, Dan-boy.”

“Ed Sullivan!” said the goon a bit louder.

“You tell Eddie to put a holt on that tee-vee show,” said Elvis as he worked the machine. “I’m augmenting my personal fortune here.”