With Friends Like These... Part 18

"Hey, brother," interrupted Uccelo, "don't you want to tune up?"

Eyes of smoked ice fixed on the ba.s.s player, just above tight lips.

"I'm not your brother, Uccelo . . . and I'm always in tune."

"Sure, Willie," Sam all but begged. "Go ahead and play something, w.i.l.l.ya?"

Willie looked over at him quietly. "Sure, Sam. I'll play something."

Willie Whitehorse played.

As a boy my Father told me When the mountains and the rivers were being taken down Down taken, taken down down down Down down taken way down Tom down...

He sang and he played and he played and he sang. And Milo Uccelo and Vince Rivera and Drivin* Jack Cavanack, they just listened. Sat and they listened. Any cop who'd gotten a look at their frozen faces would have busted 'em right then, on suspicion. No question, they were high. High and wild, shootin' up on the music of Willie Whitehorse.

Rivera was the first to join in, moving like a dream man, coaxing a sweet quail-wail from his chrome harmonica, finding the blank spots few in Willie's song and filling them in with notes like crystallized honey.

Then a low giant step from the back of the studio, getting louder and louder, moving faster and quicker, the hunger cry of a dragonfly. Drivin' Jack Cavanack, his eyes glazed and distant, put his wheels under 188.

Wolfstroker Willie's guitar and Rivera's harmonica and took off down the yellow brick road at a hundred twenty per.

Uccelo fought it, swam in it, gave in to it. His hands seemed to move of their own volition, the deep heavy bell-clear sound coming right out of his fingers, to scatter like black orchid blooms about the room.

Sam felt it too, but he had nothing to bring in. Nothing except the faces at the control-room window, noses and hands of employees and pa.s.sersby squinched up tight against the coo! gla.s.s. Bodies beneath moving, heaving, twisting to the irresistible, pounding, relentless power of the music.

This time he saw it twice.

Once it was somewhere in the middle, and once again at the end. Sam saw or thought he saw the steel-silvery outline with the sulfurous sight that burned, burned, bulked in the protective arms of Willie White-horse.

They finished perfectly together, the last note dying a lingering, unwilling death. Sam blinked, looked at his watch.

They'd been playing nonstop for twenty-two minutes.

His shirt was soaked opaque under both arms, and if you'd asked him he'd have insisted he hadn't moved a muscle the whole time. Except maybe in his throat.

Willie calmly unhooked his guitar and walked over to where Sam stood.

"When you want me to play a place, call me, mis-"ter agent." He slammed the door behind him.

That seemed to shatter the spell that had settled shroudlike over the studio. The musicians crowded around Sam, but no one shook his hand, no one pounded his back. They were solemn, but it was an excited solemn. That was the way Jack Cavanack looked at Sam.

"I gotta apologize, man. Count me in but excuse me now. I gotta go cancel that Seattle gig."

"Thanks, Jack. I'm glad." Sam had a thought. "Wait, hold up, Jack. This a solo?"

189.

"Yeah. They back me with some locals, I play for awhile. It's a good club, Sam."

"Okay, tell your guy he's getting a whole group for the price of a solo and to dump the college band boys," Sam said rapidly. "Tell him you're bringing your own people."

"Okay, Sam," agreed Cavanack, hand on the studio door. "Anything you say."

Rivera remained on the low stage. He was staring at his harmonica, turning it over and over in his hands as though he didn't recognize it. Sam didn't know much Spanish, but he could identify the musician's mumbled "Madre de Dios, madre de Dios," because he said it over and over. And other things, too. Rivera blew a few simple notes on the instrument. In the now quiet studio they sounded as lost as a paper plane in the Grand Canyon.

Uccelo walked over, looking concerned.

"Hey Sam, my hands are shaking, you know that? How about that?" He held them out. It was barely a flutter to Sam, just a hint of movement in the fingertips, but it obviously meant something strong to the ba.s.s player.

"Never had that happen to me, Sam. Ever." He shook his head. "I never played that good before, either. Sam, I swear I never heard a sound like that in my life."

The agent smiled, mopped his balding dome with a dirty handkerchief. "You think he's good too, then?"

Uccelo gave him a funny look. "Good? They haven't invented a word for what that fellow is." He swallowed. "I don't think you'll understand this the way it's meant, Sam, because you're not a musician. But when we were moving .up there, really moving, it was better than making it, man." He still looked troubled as he turned away to unhook his ba.s.s.

"Fll tell you this, though," he added, working at the wires. "I'll play ba.s.s for that man anytime, anywhere. For free, if I have to. But I won't stay in a dark room with him."

190.

Wolfstroker V.

Sam smiled sleepily as the 727 dropped through the clouds toward the Tacoma-Seattle airport. In a few hours he'd have a better idea of what he had. That he had something special he'd known since he'd heard that first guitar note back in the Going Higher. But just how special he couldn't tell for sure ... yet.

Of course, he mused gently as he rolled over in the reclined seat, those people at the studio window had given in to the force of the music as completely as the kids in that club.

Just before he drifted off to sleep, it occurred to him to wonder how anyone had been able to hear the music outside the closed-off, soundproof studio. But he fell asleep then.

SEATTLE 22 JAN (UPI)-The Aquarius, one of downtown Seattle's best-known rock nightspots, was heavily damaged last night when the audience rioted during the performance of the White-horse Band, a new group from Los Angeles. Police, who were called to the scene by Aquarius owner Marshall Patrick, were unable to handle the crowd and were forced to call on the city's special tactical squad for aid. A squad of MPs from nearby Fort Lewis also aided in subduing the crowd, which included a number of young soldiers on leave from the base.

Reports vary on how the disturbance began, but the general impression given was that the crowd was overcome by the fervor of the new group's performance, though conflicting reports raise some doubt on this issue.

The actual disturbance apparently broke out during the final number of the evening, which one young listener out on bail described, somewhat dazedly, as having something to do with "slaughtered babies and howling dogs." Police Sergeant Michael 191.

Washington, a Seattle force veteran, had this to say: "In twenty years on the force I've never seen a crowd behave Hike this one. It was like a nuthouse. Kids crying, singing, spitting, and squalling like wildcats. Some of my men were scratched up pretty good. Usually it's just the girls, but this time the guys seemed to have gone berserk too. I'll tell you, it scared the -- out of me! I've seen so-called riots at rock concerts before, but nothing like this! Most of !em don't even seem to know what happened. I don't like using clubs on teenagers, but my men had to do it hi self-defense. It was like a madhouse in there."

Damage was heaviest to fixtures and breakables. Owner Patrick commented on the destruction: "This was the worst demonstration, I've ever seen, worse even than that last concert in Belgium. But I'll tell . you, I'd book that bunch in here steady if I could get 'em! I offered their agent everything short of a blank check and he turned me down. Said if I wanted to hear the group again I'd have to come to the Atheneum in Los Angeles. It didn't affect me the way it did those kids, but there's no doubt about it, that lead of theirs, Whitehorse, really has something special."

(In Los Angeles, John Nat Burns, millionaire owner and builder of the Atheneum, refused to comment on band agent Samuel Parker's statement).

Discussing the band's performance, several members of the audience remarked on the interesting optical effect achieved when lead singer WilUe Whitehorse's guitar seemed to take on the outline of a small animal. Some say it was a fox, others insist it was a wolf. All agree the technical device, probably achieved with offstage lights, was quite well done.

VI.

Sam leaned back in the chair in his Wilshire office and contentedly surveyed the list resting on the desk 192.

Wolfstroker in front of him. It was a list of U.S. cities, and it was now more than three-quarters full. Stops on their first nationwide tour, if tonight's concert came off.

Word-of-mouth is a wonderful thing. No less than six major record companies had waved contracts at him in the two weeks since Seattle. When they heard the minimum terms Sam would accept, they reacted in various ways, from mild amus.e.m.e.nt to outright dis-' gust. Sam smiled to himself. After tonight's concert they'd beg to sign on his terms.

Yes, word-of-mouth was a wonderful thing. The advertising had been minimal, but the wire-press story had piqued interest and the rock underground had taken care of the rest. All sixteen thousand seats had been sold out the day after the ticket agencies offered them. The Atheneum would be picked for the White-horse Band's first major appearance.

The intercom dinged for attention. He pacified it by depressing the proper switch.

"Yes, Janet?"

"Mr. Parker, there's a gentleman here who insists on seeing you. He says .his name is Frank Collins."

"Tell Mr. Collins that all business concerning bookings, recordings, or advertising rights is being deferred until after the concert. Give him an appointment- oh, Tuesday, if he wants, and tell him I'm not seeing anyone today."

"He knows the concert is tonight, Mr. Parker, but I think you might like to meet him. He's not after money or offering it. At least, I don't think so. He says he has a Ph.D. in psychology. He doesn't look it."

Well, Sam had heard plenty of ploys, but the inventiveness of the human mind is a wonderful thing. For a moment he was tempted to have Janet tell the joker to go peel his bananas. Then he considered that the claim was just weird enough to be legit. Besides, he'd never met a real live scientist. Closest he'd come was Morris, the bookie.

193.

"All right, Janet, send him in. I'll see him." He released the switch.

Janet was one of the few luxuries he'd permitted himself to acquire with the advance from tonight's sellout. She could type 90 words a minute, had a degree from UCLA, an IQ of 130, and a forty-one-incb bust.

Frank Collins wore a dark gray suit and tie, was about Sam's age, had blue eyes, plump cheeks, no chin, a brown briefcase, and much more hair than Sam. For the latter Sam disliked him on sight.

"Sit down, Collins, but don't make yourself at home." The psychologist settled into the chair opposite the desk.

"You're Sam Parker?"

"Unless my mother lied to me. You really a Ph.D?"

Collins had an ingratiating smile. "I like to think of myself as somewhat more than three letters and two periods." He steepled his fingers, grew serious. "I'm very interested in a young man you represent named Willie Whitehorse."

"Who isn't?" Sam acknowledged. He caressed a box. "Cigar?"

"No, thank you. I don't smoke."

"Too bad for you." Sam lit his own, puffed contentedly. From Havana by way of London. Another little luxury. "You're not endearing yourself to me, Collins. What's your angle? Why are you interested in Willie?"

"For the past ten years I have been especially interested in all the parapsychological aspects of rock music, Mr. Parker."

"That's certainly very interesting," nodded Sam. "Suppose you tell me what that is in English, so I can get interested too."

"Perhaps if I explain exactly what it is about rock that has intrigued me-"

"Sure," Sam said, glancing pointedly at the clock on his desk. "Only don't take too long, huh?"

Collins smiled again in a faintly superior way and 194.

Wolfstroker began earnestly, "Have you ever noticed the power certain rock performers have over their audiences?"

Sam wasn't impressed. "Naturally. Only the top people have it. Though I don't know exactly as I'd call it 'power,'"

"Oh, but what else could one call it, Mr. Parker? Surely you've had occasion to observe the audience as well as the players. A few musicians, and usually one lead performer, exercising what amounts to total emotional control over thousands and thousands of rapt spectators. Playing with their feelings, juggling their thoughts, all but directing their bodily movements with their music."

Sam chuckled. "You make it sound like witchcraft."

Collins did not chuckle back. Instead, he nodded. "In old times it would be called exactly that. In fact, music sometimes often was called a power of the devil. But it's all far from supernatural. Psychic powers have long been postulated, Mr. Parker. The ability to control others through the power of one mind. Somehow music seems to increase the projection of the performer and the receptivity of his audience. All music does this to a certain extent, but rock music seems to do so to a far greater extent than any believe possible. And my counterparts are still playing with Rhine cards!" The last was uttered almost contemptuously.

"Tell me, what do you suppose a youth at one of these performances is thinking about? Someone who is totally 'with' the music, as they try to be?"

"Beats me. I'm not one of these kids. Whatever the singer is singing about, I suppose."

"Correct, Mr. Parker. And he is thinking that to the exclusion of everything else. Except for the music, his or her mind is a complete blank. 'Becoming one with the music,' it's called. When the music 'moves' them, it really moves them.

"Usually this oneness is expressed in actions of joy and happiness. Occasionally, if the music is outrageous or strong enough, it engenders violent, antisocial action on the part of the listener. Emotional telepathy, 195.

Mr. Parker, on a grand scale, and right under our very noses! No wonder their parents don't understand their actions."

- Parker didn't completely understand this spiel, but he wasn't buying any of it. "Baloney! All kids don't react that way. h.e.l.l, some of 'em don't even b'ke rock music!"

"Perhaps the minds of some are immune to the effect," Collins shrugged. "Others have raised conditioned barriers in their minds to the music. But in those who are receptive, the reactions are universal. A top group will produce the same effects in an audience of young people in Rome, New York, or Rome, Italy; in Moscow, Idaho or Moscow, Russia." His voice got low and excited.

"In some way, Mr. Parker, I believe that today*s music releases the blocks against intermind communication that normally exist in the human mind. Today's environment may have something to do with it. So may the use of electronics. Consider! Some of the most popular, idolized figures in rock have what are by professional musical standards no voice at all, and are technically weak instrumentalists to boot. They come from every conceivable cultural background, having nothing in common except this uncanny ability to submerge themselves and their audiences in the music." He relaxed slightly, grew a little less fanatical.

"You see, then, with what interest I would read the report of your concert in Seattle."

"And you think Willie exercises some kind of mind control on his audience when he's performing?" Parker shook his head. "At least you're not a boring nut, Collins."

The psychologist looked grim. "Insults and skepticism do not bother me, Mr. Parker. My statistics prove my contentions. Your Mr. Whitehorse will strengthen that proof. I have seen too many blank, empty, mindless faces swaying to the rhythm of today's bands for me to believe otherwise."

196.

Wolfstroker "Why'd you come to see me?" Sam asked abruptly "What do you want?"

The scientist looked sheepish. "I must go to this concert," he explained desperately, "and I ... I couldn't get a ticket. They were all sold."

Sam hesitated. What he ought to do was throw this idiot out on his ear. This learned idiot. On the other hand, he reflected, there might be some terrific pr copy in this, yes.

"Tell you what, Collins. I'll get you in. But if Willie starts singing about how all nasty mad scientists ought to be strung up, don't blame me for supplying the rope."

It was intended as a joke. Collins did not smile.

vn.

Sam had munched his way through two cigars and was hi the process of mutilating a third. Outside, beyond the curtain, was a stamping, screeching mob of what the press euphemistically cla.s.sified as "young adults." Sometimes their chanting grew typically obscene, sometimes merely impatient. Most often it thundered "WE WANT WILLIE! WE WANT WILLIE, WE WANT WILLIE!"

Well, Sam couldn't argue with them. He wanted Willie too.