by Gafford, Sam
The group collectively shook their heads.
“Just another white man making money off our music,” said one of the other men.
Easton stepped closer. “Now that’s not true. We’re not selling these recordings. We’re making them in order to preserve this music before it dies out. A hundred years from now most of this music will be gone. Certainly the men and women who make it will be.”
“What you want us for then?” said another, younger man. “Heard tell you already got most of the bluesmen in Mississippi.”
As he got closer, Easton could tell that this was a strange mixture of men. There were about seven in all. Three were younger men, while four were obviously farmhands of some kind. They all deferred to the older man, who had not spoken since asking his first question.
Easton paused to wipe his forehead. The Louisiana heat was getting to him and the air seemed to waver between him and the men, like a smudge. On the far side of the building, the trees moved as if they were suffering a breeze, but there was no wind to be found that afternoon.
“About six years or so ago, Alan Lomax talked to Willie Brown outside of a juke in Mississippi. Robert Nighthawk was playing that night. Mr. Brown told Mr. Lomax that if he wanted to hear some ‘real’ music, then he was to come here, to Reed’s Feed, and ask for Willie Brown.”
The men stopped talking, and only the older man continued to look at Easton. Finally, he smiled again and laughed in a way that would have made Lomax very uneasy if he had heard it.
“Shit, yeah,” the old man said, “I remember him. He was afraid to go inside the juke. Thought he was a smart man for that.”
Easton walked up and held out his hand in greeting. “So you’re Willie Brown? It’s good to meet you, Mr. Brown.”
Brown looked at the hand as if it might be hiding a gun or knife but finally shook it firmly. Easton knew that few white men in the South would willingly shake a black man’s hand and that this gesture often helped to smooth over tensions.
“He came here looking for you about a month after you talked, but you weren’t here.”
The other men laughed at this.
“Yeah, that’s one way of saying it. I was doing time up on the Farm. Went up about a week after we talked. So what you here for anyway?”
“Well, Mr. Lomax said that you sang him a bit of a tune that was like nothing he’d heard before. I came to hear more and record it if you’re agreeable.”
As one, the other men got up and moved away. A few drifted back into the store while others just walked off and disappeared into the trees off the road.
“What you wanna do that for? That music ain’t for you.”
Easton was nonplussed. Although he had faced such opposition before, generally playing to someone’s sense of importance by placing them in the Library of Congress tended to overcome it.
“Mr. Brown, from what Mr. Lomax told me, this is a completely different form of music than we’ve ever heard before. Now, I know that this music is a part of your heritage and your people, but do you really want to see it disappear?”
“This music will never disappear. It has been made since man first crawled out of the ocean and will be made until such time as the earth is wiped clean. There’s no need to ‘preserve’ it on a piece of vinyl. We preserve it ourselves. Now, mebbe what you need to do is get back in your nice car there and go back to recording drunk guitarists at jukes. This music we don’t share.”
Brown turned around and made to go back inside the feed store when Easton impulsively cried out, “I’ll pay you $100!”
He regretted it the second he said it. Lomax would be furious, for one thing. The LoC was not in the habit of paying for recordings, and it would take up most of what money Easton had left. He’d have to wire Lomax for an advance just to get home.
But something told him that the music would be worth it.
Brown stopped and eyed Easton. Over the years, Easton had gotten used to having his measure taken by suspicious folk, but this was more intense. After a few seconds, Brown spoke.
“Be here at one a.m. tomorrow morning. Mebbe I be here, mebbe I won’t. If I am, I’ll take you to the music, but only one time and not in a hotel room. This’ll be out in the woods. So you come on by, little white boy, if’n you got the balls.”
* * *
The drive back to New Orleans was uneventful, but Easton felt that there was something wrong about himself. As if there were a bug or smell clinging to him that he could not see or reach.
For the rest of the night, Easton debated what to do.
He could call Lomax, of course, but was sure that Lomax would tell him to go no matter what. Lomax was like one of those people who run toward a disaster like a hurricane or a tornado just to take a picture. He could deny the whole thing ever happened. Just tell Lomax that he couldn’t find Brown and no one else would talk to him. Given the flimsy leads that Lomax had given him, it’d be an easy sell.
And it wasn’t as if Easton was any kind of crusader or anything. This wasn’t his cause, it was Lomax’s. It was more of a job than anything else. Still, there was something to be said for being the one to capture a recording of something entirely ‘new.’ This might even be something that trailed back to roots of African music and that, possibly, would mean Easton would be remembered for doing something with his life.
Was it worth it then? $100 and risking his life? By midnight, Easton was packing the portable unit and checking the battery. He slipped a steak knife into his pocket. He was surprised to find out just how vain and ambitious he truly was.
* * *
It was close to 1 a.m. when Easton pulled the Packard into the parking lot outside of Reed’s Feed. There were about ten other cars already there; that surprised him, so he ended up parking almost on the side of the road, which would be something he would be very grateful for later.
Easton got out of his car and took out the portable recorder. He looked around, but all the cars were empty. The feed store was closed and dark. The more he looked at it in the dark, the more it appeared to be some sort of child’s toy, constructed out of oddly sized toothpicks.
“Mr. Brown?” Easton whispered. “Are you here?”
A darker shadow detached itself from the porch and moved forward.
“Well, well, well,” Brown said, “I would’ve bet my teeth that you wouldn’t show, boy. Guess you really want that music after all.”
It surprised Easton how much he wanted that music now.
He walked up to Brown on the porch. The man was dressed in worn work clothes that seemed as dark as his skin.
“Is it going to be inside then?”
Brown chuckled. “Shit, no. This ain’t ‘inside’ music. You gots to make it outside, under the stars. Listen. Can’t you hear it?”
Easton stood still and strained. He could barely hear something, but he couldn’t tell what it was. It didn’t have notes or instruments. It was like a primal pulse. As if the stars were beating out a rhythm nearby.
“You got the money?” Brown asked.
Easton pulled out an envelope and shoved it into Brown’s hand. “I expect a good recording for my money.”
Brown smiled. “Oh, you’ll get your recording, all right. Come on.”
Without another word, Brown turned and walked off the porch into the forest. For a second, Easton thought that he was running off, leaving Easton with an empty wallet and no recording; but Brown was standing at the edge of the trees, waiting.
“Now you stay close to me, you hear? No sound, no movement.”
“I don’t understand. Aren’t we going to a festival or something?”
Brown laughed again. “Oh, hell, yes. Yes, we are.”
They plunged into the forest.
* * *
Two days later, Easton was in his hotel room, furiously scribbling in his ledger.
The previous pages had contained nothing but entries for expenses and dates and receipts. Easton had always been particularly precise with h
is expense reports, but now his writing was crazed and frenzied. He continually looked back over his shoulder, as if expecting something to be there watching him.
In the corner of the room sat the portable recorder. Two aluminum discs lay nearby.
Easton was sweating profusely but not from the oppressive Louisiana heat.
“I’ve tried to destroy them,” he wrote feverishly, “but I can’t. They won’t let me. I can’t bear the thought of their being ruined. When I am done here, I will mail them to my sister in Springfield. She is of old Yankee stock, and that may save her. But I hope that she will never listen to them.
“I think I killed Brown, but I don’t know. My knife is missing and I have blood on me, but I’m not sure whose blood it is.
“I am losing myself. The music is overtaking me, but it’s not really music. Not in the way we know music. It fills me up, leaving nothing of myself inside.
“I hope I did kill Brown. He deserved it, as he would have surely killed me. I know he meant to give me to that thing that danced in the circle. The sound keeps filling my mind, pushing all other thoughts out. I can barely hold onto myself.
“Brown had brought me into the forest to hear the music. After about a half-mile, we entered swampland and the ground became wet and squishy. I could hear the pulse of the rhythm calling and, as we grew closer, I began to pick out voices and instruments in the mix.
“Lomax was right. It is like nothing on this planet and nothing made by man. It is older than this universe and passed down like some unholy heritage. It came from outside. Lomax only heard the barest minimum of it but could sense its energy. That’s why he could never forget it.
“I tried to turn back then, but Brown refused to let me. This was what I had come for, he said, and he was going to make sure I got my money’s worth. I could see flames flickering in the distance, in the deep of the swamp.
“As we got closer, I could see shapes leaping about around the fires while the music grew louder and louder. Brown cautioned me to go no further, and I set the portable recorder on the most stable ground I could find. I put a cylinder in the recorder and hooked up the portable microphone and, finally, for the first time, focused on the music.
“It was like a chant and a hymn and a song of supplication all at once. The lyrics were incomprehensible and the cadences followed an odd rhythm that seemed vaguely familiar. With a jolt of fear, I realized that it followed the ‘call, response’ form of old blues songs but was stronger, rougher, as if the blues music had spawned from it. The instruments were primitive drums made with what looked uncomfortably like leather skin and long white flutes of an odd shape which I now realize were human thigh and arm bones.
“A throng of naked men and women danced back and forth in an orgiastic spasm. As they moved, their features became less and less defined until they were nothing but blurs vibrating to the music. Some type of four-legged animals darted between them, and they looked as if they were hounds made out of angles that overlapped one another as they ran with an impossible speed and purpose.
“But it was the things that were playing the flutes that were the worst. They were some sort of amorphous creatures that undulated to the beat of the music. The sounds they made could not be made by any musician alive. They had no eyes or faces.
“I have to choose my words carefully now.
“Something began to rise in the center of the circle. It was large and grew fuller with each second. Its wings spread up to the sky, and the chorus screamed one word over and over again which I could not decipher. Something reached over the tops of the trees and called back in response.
“The music grew louder and louder, and suddenly I realized that it was being echoed by Brown beside me. Before I could stop him, Brown screamed out to the group. Most did not stop, but a few things did. Brown grabbed me and tried to pull me forward.
“I think that was when I stabbed him . . . I don’t remember how many times.
“He finally loosened his grip and I tore myself away. I could hear other things coming through the wet ground of the marsh. Something moved in front of the moon, blocking the light. I looked back and screamed.
“I think I went a little mad then.
“Next thing I knew I was in my car and driving away as fast as possible. I was afraid to look in the mirror. I didn’t even realize that the recorder was in the back seat until I got back here in the hotel.
“I ran inside and locked the door and sat against it in the dark, waiting for something to come.
“I’ve been waiting all day. I know that they won’t be coming for me because they know I’ll return to them. I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I hear the music again. I told myself that I was only checking the discs for quality, but I knew that I really had to hear them again. The sound enveloped me. My sight changed and I was flying through the cosmos on strange wings or swimming through the deepest depths of the ocean amidst millions of others of horribly limbed creatures and I was terrified and thrilled at the same time.
“Just as I shut the disc off quickly, I saw a motion from the upper corner of the room’s walls. It was as if something was peeking through the angle and evaluating me. Part of me wanted to rip out the corners while another part wanted to create more angles to look through.
“I can’t stop hearing it. The sound pushes everything else out of my mind. I feel it pulling me back and I want to go hear them again. I want to dance among them and become one with the blur and feel the hellhounds dart between my feet.
“I’m packing everything up and sending it to my sister with instructions not to open, play, or admit any of this exists. If I cannot destroy it, I will bury it. I will silence the song.”
“There is no quiet anymore. Only the music exists.”
* * *
Excerpt of an article from The Huffington Post, posted on the internet on August 18th, 2008:
“Library of Congress celebrates unexpected discovery!
“A recent auction of the estate of the late Mrs. Florence Covington of Springfield, Massachusetts, yielded an unexpected treasure. A collection of mint-condition aluminum discs and a portable recording device circa 1938 was purchased by the noted antiquarian Timothy M. Goebel, who donated the material to the Library of Congress. It is believed that the recorder was used by Mrs. Covington’s brother, Robert Easton, who worked with Alan Lomax during the 1930s in recording the ‘root’ and ‘folk’ music of the South. Easton disappeared in 1941, and these are believed to be his final recordings. Plans are being made to release the material to the public as well as to digitize the recordings, which will be distributed free over the Internet.”
The Land of Lonesomeness
April 16, 1918
It had rained for most of the night before and, when the sun finally rose, the clouds were still heavy with impending downpours. Slowly, a hole opened in the clouds and a single shaft of golden sunlight broke through and brought the battlefield into sharper relief. No one moved. It was possible, from my position, to see the dead lying between the lines. Most lay where they had fallen, with limbs and heads and bodies making a grim seascape along the fields. I could see in their hills and valleys the oceans of my youth, turning dull and grey before a coming storm or hurricane. If you looked long enough, you could swear that they made waves that peaked and dived with the wind.
I sat in the mud and tried vainly to get some sleep. The German artillery had increased in ferocity and there was not a man among us who did not feel that he was bracing for an onslaught on our lines. No one said it, but we all felt it coming. We had held Mont Kemmel on the French line for weeks now, but I had long ago given up trying to understand why the British Army felt this mound of earth was so important. The Great War, begun among cheers and vainglorious boasting, had become a massacre over inches of useless, blood-engorged dirt.
The men of the 84th Battery of the Royal Field Artillery all wore the same look of hopeless resignation. We could keep going until we were told to stop or else just
fall over dead at our posts. Whether death came by way of sniper bullet, artillery shell, or sheer hopelessness made little difference.
Only one face showed any type of life, and that was Lt. Arthur Worth. For that reason alone, no one else ever even spoke to Worth. His spirit was more than any of us could bear. It seemed unlikely, but I was probably the same as Worth four years ago when my wife, Bessie, and I made the mad escape from France back to England at the outbreak of war. I sent her to live with my mother and sister in Borth even though I knew that there was no affection between them. My decision had been made and, even at my advanced age of thirty-six, I was determined to join the British Army and do my part.
With my second mate’s certificate, I could have joined the Navy, but I had vowed never again to serve upon a ship in any capacity. Even the channel crossings put me in a foul mood as I watched the crew run back and forth on deck. Every second at sea brought back the memories of that decade of my life, and I would call no man “captain” again so long as I lived.
I had no idea where Worth had come from. He vaguely mentioned a youth in Cornwall and a childhood around ships but, when seeing that I would not hear a word about the sea, he never spoke about it again. Worth had joined the 84th a little over a week ago while I was briefly laid up in the hospital unit. An enemy shell had exploded near me and, while I was not seriously injured, it had knocked me briefly unconscious and delirious. When I awoke, I was told that, in my stupor, I had begun shouting that the Great Redoubt was being attacked by the Watchers and that I had to get back to my observation post in the upper levels or else humanity was doomed.
It took some time to convince the doctors that my remarks were nothing more than a brief memory of my old novel, The Night Land, and that I was in full possession of my faculties. They showed nearly as much interest in the plot of the novel as readers had back in 1912 when it was published. Its commercial failure had essentially ended my serious imaginative writing. Although unsatisfying to write, bland adventure tales sold far more easily, and I had a new wife and hopefully a family to provide for in the future.
