Rock and Roll Voodoo

by Mark Paul Smith

  Jesse gave Butch the evil eye for divulging his secret voice. “It said, ‘Welcome to my world.’”

  Dale thought about the statement. “Welcome to my world? What does that mean? Is it a good thing or a bad thing? I wonder if the skull is talking about us finally getting our drummer? Did you make a deal with the Devil?”

  “Apparently I have,” Jesse said as Tim and Rene joined the group meeting.

  “You have what?” Tim asked.

  “Made a deal with the devil to get Rene as our drummer,” Jesse said.

  “Hey, man,” Rene protested. “We don’t need no devil for this deal. I think we sounded great. What about you guys? Come on, now, how’d I do?”

  Dale threw his arms around Rene. “You make us sound like a big time band.”

  Butch joined in on the hug. “I’ll second that emotion.”

  The congratulations and backslapping went around as each member of the new and improved Divebomberz made toast after toast. Nobody seemed at all concerned about the voice inside Jesse’s head. Eventually, even Jesse stopped thinking about it.

  The conversation evolved into a group embrace that ended with the band in a huddle, humming a long, Buddhist “Om.” Jesse started it as low as his voice would go. Everybody joined hands and slowly raised the pitch. As the pitch elevated, they raised their hands and threw them in the air as they shouted in celebration.

  After the chant, they looked at each other in solemn silence as if to acknowledge the significance of the moment. There would be no turning back. It was time to fasten the safety belts.

  Less than three weeks after their first rehearsal as a full band at Rene’s parents’ home, the five members of The Divebomberz were getting ready to take the stage in front of five thousand screaming fans at the Sauce Piquante Festival in Raceland, Louisiana. They had only rehearsed five times since the party at Rene’s house. It was tough finding a place to rehearse as a full band. Five rehearsals wasn’t much time to work in a drummer. Jesse was more than nervous. He was coming to grips with his first real bout of stage fright. He couldn’t believe the huge crowd. It made his intestinal tract queasy. His underarms smelled like panic.

  Butch scanned the sea of sweaty bodies glistening in the August, afternoon sun. “These people don’t know how to pace themselves. It’s not even five o’clock. They’re so loaded they won’t make it to sunset.”

  Dale was pacing around the back of the stage. “Look at that crowd. That’s a lot of people. They’re sweating as much as we are, and I’ll bet they’re not close to being nervous. I’ll get us a round of beer. We need to stay hydrated. We need to jack up our levels. Tim, you better roll us a rock-concert joint.”

  Tim put down his fiddle next to his slide guitar and got out some papers and pot. “I always wanted to play to a crowd like this, but I never felt this sick to my stomach in my dreams. I’m actually freaking out. I just hope the sound guys get our levels right.”

  The Divebomberz was the third of four bands scheduled for the day. Rene’s father had secured the late booking when one of the previously scheduled bands had to cancel. He had also taken over keeping the band’s financial records, saying they needed a more business-like approach.

  Three soundmen were scurrying onstage to set up Rene’s drums and adjust amps and microphones for the rest of the band. Adjusting sound from one band to the next is always a hit and miss process.

  Jesse grabbed a cold beer from Dale. “Thanks, man. It’s good to be with you on this momentous occasion.”

  Dale stopped pacing. “We’ve come a long way from our little singing trio in the basement of Mother’s Tavern in Fort Wayne, Indiana.”

  “A long way, indeed,” Jesse said as he threw his arms around Dale. “You know I love you, my brother.”

  “And I love you. None of this would have happened without you.”

  “And you,” Jesse backed out of the hug. “Looks like there won’t be time for a sound check. They’ll have to get our levels on the fly. What about the crowd? You think we’re going to go over? We’re not exactly the Zydeco they’re used to.”

  Rene joined them for a little encouragement. “Relax. These are my people. They’re going to love us. We’ll give them something different, something that rocks a little harder than they’re used to. Look at them. They’re ready for us. They won’t even know what hit them.”

  Jesse and Dale laughed with Rene as Tim and Butch joined in to fire up a joint. The band was standing behind a wall of speakers. Tim fired up the number he had just rolled. “Hit it fast. No one will notice. This whole festival’s going up in smoke.”

  A haze hovered above the crowd. Beyond the sea of people, Jesse could see carnival rides rising above the craft booth flags and colorful, animal signs of the food vendors. The smell of spicy Cajun recipes for gumbo, red beans and rice, wild game, chicken, sausage, alligator, and turtle wafted through the air. Layers of flavor combined with the wood smoke and bacon aroma coming from the hog boucherie. The pungent smell of marijuana smoke mixed into the atmosphere like one more pepper in the gumbo pot.

  Jesse pointed to the side of the stage. “Look down there. Amy’s selling Divebomberz t-shirts as fast as she can count the money.”

  Amy was Jesse’s girlfriend who’d recently come down from Indiana to live with him. She had arrived in a TR6 sport car, which she and Jesse traded in for what became the band van. Amy had become somewhat of a patron saint for the band. She even designed and silk-screened the band t-shirts.

  Amy looked up at the band and waved happily and held up fistfuls of cash when she saw them looking down at her. She was a long-legged girl with thin ankles and an ass that would not quit under any circumstances. She was small breasted and square shouldered with an aristocratic neck and a face that looked like a cross between Cher and Katherine Hepburn.

  Jesse held his hands out to her. “That woman is a marvel.”

  Butch waved. “That woman is wanting you to put a ring on her finger.”

  “That might not be such a terrible thing,” Dale said.

  Jesse turned back to the band. “No need to be in such a rush, boys.”

  The crowd was getting restless. They started chanting, “We want The Divebomberz. We want The Divebomberz.”

  “How do they even know who we are?” Tim asked. “We’re not on any of the promotional material.”

  Butch pointed at the crowd. “It’s the t-shirts. Look, I see at least a dozen people wearing them already.”

  Jesse shielded his eyes to assess the crowd. “I’m beginning to see how this business works.”

  “It’s all about the merchandise,” Dale said.

  Rene clapped his hands. “Time to go, boys. Right now, we are the merchandise. Let’s start this show off with a group ‘Om’ at the lead microphone. That’ll show them we mean business.” Jesse didn’t like Rene taking such a leadership role, but he had to admit it was a great idea. The band walked out, single file, and formed a huddle around the lead microphone as the crowd roared its approval. Once the “Om” began, the audience immediately fell into a curious silence.

  The “Om” grew louder and higher pitched, erupting into a shouting cheer from the band that was quickly buried by thunderous applause from the delighted audience. By the time the cheering began to subside, the band was on their instruments and blasting off with “Sweet Home Alabama” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. A wave of energy from the crowd nearly swept the five musicians off their feet. It was inspirational. Jesse had never felt the physical and emotional rush of such a large crowd. It took his breath away.

  On one hand, the crowd was an intimidating life force. It was a huge, growling beast, ready and able to devour the stage and everybody on it.

  On the other hand, Jesse realized the mass of humanity in front of him was that same beast, begging to be fed. He felt like a lion tamer performing in the circus. The music was both his whip and red meat treat. His bass sounded massive through the arena sound system. It felt like he was moving the entire crowd with his
own heartbeat.

  Rene’s kick drum was in perfect sync with the bass. Powerful enough to thump the audience in the chest and let them know this band meant business. Playing for a crowd this big had been a dream for Jesse and the rest of the band. Now that the moment was upon them, it almost didn’t feel real. It was like being washed over by a tidal wave. People were waving their arms in the air like they were witnessing the second coming of the Messiah.

  These people aren’t being judgmental, Jesse realized. They’re cheering us on. All they want to do is party. He wished his father could see him now. He’d see that practicing law wasn’t the only way for a lawyer’s son to make a living.

  Tim was playing slide on a steel guitar for the opening song. The man was a natural born musician. At twenty years old, he was the youngest member of the band. He could play anything. And he did it with no fingers on his left hand. He had been a promising guitar player until the age of eighteen when he cut off all four fingers on his left hand in a power saw accident. At first, everybody thought his musical career was over. But the horrible injury didn’t stop him. It didn’t even slow him down.

  He started playing steel guitar with a slide doing all the work for his missing fingers. Then, he took up the fiddle. He had to play it backwards, bowing with his damaged left hand and fingering the strings with his right.

  Today, his face was filled with triumph as he felt his musical rebirth coming of age. He and Butch were weaving rhythms and leads with their electric guitars like they were tying the crowd to the whipping post. Jesse watched Dale singing and dancing like he’d been a rock star his entire life. He took to the big crowd like a pro surfer to a wave. At one point, Dale leaped into the air and landed into a double spin move with athleticism Jesse didn’t know he had. When he got to the famous line in the “Sweet Home Alabama” song, “A southern man don’t need him around, anyhow,” the Cajun cheers were louder than the music. Dale took a solo bow. The band was rocking so steady by the end of the song that they kept playing it straight through for a second time. The crowd cheered them on and went wild as they finally ended with a crunching, full-band stop.

  By the third song of the set, people started scrambling onto the stage in their excitement. There was no security to stop them. One woman in a long skirt and tank top wrapped her arms and legs around Dale, who couldn’t shake her. Two skinny boys with no shirts tried to take Butch’s guitar out of his hands. The band was being overwhelmed.

  That’s when The Divebomberz met The Wheelers, the toughest motorcycle gang on Bayou Lafourche. They were so tough they were the only biker gang on the bayou, ruling hundreds of miles of two-lane highway.

  Five Wheelers, with flaming-wheel “colors” on their black leather vests, took it upon themselves to restore order to the event. Overzealous fans went flying off the stage like they’d been shot out of cannons. The Wheelers were tossing people like dwarves. There were a few bruises and a little bloodshed but, all in all, it was an effective sweep of the stage. The crowd cheered every time somebody went airborne, and they groaned in appreciation each time they caught a flying person on their outstretched arms, then bounced them up and down like they’d landed on a human trampoline.

  One of the biggest Wheelers grabbed the girl off Dale by her ankles and swung her offstage. Her skirt came over her head, revealing polka dot panties. She could only guess why the men were cheering. She was flying blind.

  The stage was four feet above the ground. It looked like she would be seriously injured until the crowd caught her on a cushion of outstretched arms. Amazed at their collective capacity, people passed the girl around like she was a boat on the water. Many others who were forcibly flung were also caught in the safety net of hands over heads. Except for one poor guy, who got thrown hard and low. He bowled over several rows of people like pins at a bowling alley.

  Once the crowd realized it could support human bodies and pass them around overhead, the games began. People started climbing onstage just to get tossed onto the crowd. The Wheelers were only too happy to oblige.

  Minor injuries notwithstanding, it was a great moment, a historic moment, although no one appreciated it at the time. The Divebomberz, The Wheelers, and the Raceland crowd had brought the mosh pits of New York punk rock to the outdoor concerts of the bayou.

  The band played on behind the protective screen of the motorcycle gang. For the next few songs, the crowd seemed as interested in passing bodies as in cheering on the band. Even so, the energy level continued to increase, particularly when Tim pulled out his fiddle and the band kicked into its electric bluegrass numbers.

  By the ninth song of a fourteen-song set, The Divebomberz needed a water break. The afternoon sun and intense energy of the big crowd had dehydrated them. They were soaked through their jeans in sweat.

  Dale had his hands on his knees. “Man, I thought we were in better shape than this. Since when do we have to take a break in the middle of a set?”

  Butch took a breath from guzzling water out of a half-gallon jug. “Since our first show on a big stage in ninety degree heat and ninety percent humidity.”

  Tim pointed to the audience. “Look out there. Even the crowd is beat. Nobody’s getting passed around anymore.”

  The muscleman longhair in charge of The Wheelers came over to join the band. “I’m Dupre, You guys are great; best band we’ve heard in a long time. Hope you don’t mind the protection.”

  Jesse stepped up to introduce himself and the members of the band. “You saved our show, Dupre. We can’t thank you enough.”

  “Mind if me and the boys get some of that good water?”

  Dale handed him a jug of water. “Come on, step right up. We’ve got water and beer and some outrageous smoke.”

  The Wheelers were happy to be invited into the band’s inner sanctum. The combination of sweat, booze, and marijuana smoke smelled like a Rastafarian recording studio after an all night session in Kingston with no air conditioning. They were brothers in arms, temporary survivors of a life and death struggle against the outdated rules of the world. Their unspoken bond was strong. As musicians and bikers, they were swashbuckling rebels who made a lot of noise, broke more laws than they obeyed and looked as much like pirates as possible.

  The crowd cheered restlessly as they watched the band and the bikers taking a water and smoke break together onstage.

  Dupre handed back the water jug. “Okay, time to get back to work. It’s show time.”

  “Let’s kick some ass,” Rene said as he bounced onto the stool behind his drum kit.

  Jesse was taking a last guzzle on a pitcher of ice water when he heard the Voodoo voice speak to him for the second time.

  “Drink deep, boy. You got to keep running.”

  The band was kicking off the next song before Jesse could fully comprehend what had been said to him. It sounded like the voice was being beamed into his head by the sweltering rays of the fading August sun. It had been weeks since he first heard it. This time it wasn’t sarcastic. It was stern. Hearing the voice a second time assured him he really had heard it the first time. He had begun to think he only imagined it. In a way, he was relieved to hear the voice again, although it still filled him with foreboding.

  Jesse associated the voice with the bayou cow skull. He and his girlfriend, Amy, had tried to get the skull to talk on many occasions. It was hanging on a brick wall in their third floor apartment on Tchoupitoulas Street. It wouldn’t talk, no matter what they did. Jesse could tell that Amy was beginning to worry about his mental health.

  Jesse knew the entire band was as skeptical about the voice as Amy. Except for Dale, the lead singer, who said on more than one occasion that he believed the voice was real. He was certain the cow skull was a Voodoo spirit sent to guide the band through the perilous waters of the music business. “This thing has come back from the dead. Spirits don’t come back from the dead for no good reason. They’ve always got a purpose.”

  As the band rocked hard through the rest of its set at t
he Raceland festival, Jesse couldn’t wait to tell everybody he’d heard the rock and roll Voodoo voice speak again. Now, they would have to believe him.

  Or would they? He was still the only one hearing the voice. The band might think he was crazier than ever. Why would they believe him the second time if they hadn’t believed him the first time? He decided to keep the second episode of the voice to himself.

  The crowd screamed for an encore at the end of the set. The band was ready to give them one but the promoter hustled them offstage to make way for the headline act, a legendary but still regional Zydeco band.

  In what seemed like an instant, The Divebomberz went from being stars of the show to being part of the audience. It was an ego-crushing experience; like watching a good-looking stranger stealing your woman.

  Jesse learned that it takes an accordion to bring out the best in a Cajun crowd. A fiddle is fine, but Cajun music is Zydeco. And Zydeco is all about the accordion.

  Jesse thought about the mystery man from the bayou telling him to come to the bayou to get an accordion player. Then he wondered if Gabriel was somehow connected to the Voodoo voice.

  Jesse looked over both his shoulders, scanning the crowd, half expecting to see Gabriel hovering over the crowd like a Voodoo angel.

  The man was nowhere to be seen.

  Once the show was over, The Divebomberz packed their gear into Rene’s pickup truck and Jesse’s van. Amy threw six empty boxes into the van.

  Dale held the van door open for her. “What’s with the empty boxes?”

  Amy was out of breath. “We sold out of t-shirts. All we’ve got left is empty boxes. That’s a hundred and three shirts sold and two given away to Rene’s parents for setting up the gig. At ten bucks a shirt, we took in more than a thousand dollars.”

  Butch was surprised by the sales. “That’s more than the seven hundred fifty we made for the gig.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” Amy said. “It was the band that sold the shirts, not me. All it means is you made $1,750 for the gig, minus about two fifty in costs for the shirts. So, the band made fifteen hundred in one day.”