Rock and Roll Voodoo

by Mark Paul Smith

  Rene couldn’t resist the opportunity to play with him. “It’s pretty good on snakes. But it doesn’t work at all on the alligators.”

  Tim looked at Pete with the paranoia all northern boys feel when they get close to the swamp.

  Pete laughed at the look on Tim’s face. “Don’t worry about the gators. They’re down here all right. But they don’t bother humans. The only time you’ll see one is when they’re trying to get away and hide.”

  “I’d rather not see one at all,” Butch said.

  The road turned into a path that wound its way to a sand bank on the edge of a brownish green stream running through large rocks and fallen trees.

  Pete pointed out the sights. “This is the swimming hole. See that round place down there? It’s almost five feet deep. You guys can take a quick dip if you’re so inclined.”

  Butch couldn’t stop looking at the water. “Is this the Tchefuncte?”

  Pete was only too happy to continue his tour guide duties. “No, this is a branch of the main river. The main river’s that way to the west. It’s big enough we can waterski on it. I’ve got a boat docked in Covington. That’s a town about three miles from here. There’s a couple big clubs you guys could play.”

  Dale took off his shirt and headed for the swimming spot. “I don’t know about you guys. But I’m going for a dip. This is too good to pass up.”

  Darlene made her exit. “I’ll let you boys have fun. I’m going back to the house to make us snacks.”

  “I’ll be along in a minute,” Pete said as she left. He seemed a little uneasy as he described the acreage of his ranch. He became even more nervous as the band began stripping down to take a dip.

  He made his exit. “I’m not swimming for now. You guys go ahead. I’ll go back to the house and help Darlene. You can find your way back, right?”

  “Are you sure it’s okay if we take a swim?” Jesse asked.

  Pete waved as he was leaving. “You are more than fine. That’s what it’s there for.”

  The band said goodbye and eased their way into the deep part of the stream. The cool current was soothing as they formed a circle facing each other.

  Jesse looked at Tim. “Tell them what you heard.”

  Tim looked at each member of the band. “I heard the voice.”

  “Bullshit,” Butch said.

  Dale slapped the water. “Jesse put you up to this.”

  “What did it say?” Rene asked.

  They all spoke at once as they splashed water Tim’s way. It didn’t take long to see he wasn’t joking around. Tim wasn’t laughing. He was serious.

  “What did it say?” Rene repeated.

  Tim paused to formulate his thoughts. “It spoke to me as we were driving up to Pete’s house.”

  Rene moved in closer to Tim. “Wait a minute. I was right in the truck with you. I didn’t hear anything.”

  Tim started getting more confident in his description. “It’s not like that. It’s not out loud. It’s inside your head and it sounds exactly like Jesse said it sounds.”

  “How’s that?” Dale asked.

  Tim answered him. “You know. It’s a deep, loud, black man’s voice.”

  “What did it say?” Rene persisted.

  Tim looked around again and then over his shoulder as if to make sure no one could be listening. “It said, ‘This man is a slave owner.’”

  Nobody spoke as Tim’s words sank in.

  Dale sank down to his neck in the water. “I don’t like the sounds of that at all. I’m not saying I don’t believe you, Tim. Hell, I believed Jesse all along. But now, this whole thing is feeling a little spooky. Like this whole swimming hole thing could be some kind of a trap. Don’t you think it’s strange they would walk us down here and leave right away?”

  “They’re just getting ready for company, Dale,” Butch said, beginning to sink into the water himself. “Besides, they could see we don’t have bathing suits. I’m sure they didn’t feel like getting naked with us right off the bat. So listen. We don’t know what this voice is or what it means by the things it says. It’s not an evil thing is it, Jesse?”

  “Not at all. Like I told you, it saved our lives at the Safari Club.”

  “What’s this about the Safari Club?” Rene asked.

  “That’s right,” Butch said. “You weren’t in the van on the way here when Jesse told us about the voice at the Safari Club.”

  Now Tim was curious as well. “What are you talking about?”

  Jesse repeated his story to Rene and Tim. “The voice told me to kick the walls down. That’s how I got the idea that saved us. It was the voice. And the voice is definitely on our side. Now that Tim has heard it too, maybe you’ll all stop giving me so much shit about it.”

  Rene was incredulous. “So is it telling us to stay away from Pete?”

  Jesse thought about it for a minute. “I don’t know for sure. But it tells me we’d better be careful about him.”

  The band walked back to Pete’s house and set up for what turned out to be a productive, three-hour rehearsal. Jesse’s senses were tingling from the drive and the swim and the new development with the voice. The song to learn for the day was “Big Old Jet Airliner,” by Steve Miller. It was a song Rene wanted to add to the set list. Jesse opposed the tune on the grounds it was too “pop” but agreed to see how it sounded in rehearsal. By the third time through the song, it was obviously going to be part of the show. Tim started out playing on the slide guitar, but the song kicked into overdrive when he switched to fiddle.

  Pete applauded wildly. “Wish you could play fiddle and slide guitar at the same time. You guys are playing that song better than Steve Miller’s band ever did.”

  Pete turned out to be a great cheerleader as the band rocked on for two sets without a break. He clapped his hands and stomped his feet at the end of every song, and made comments to each member of the band about how great he sounded.

  It seemed to Jesse as if Pete was auditioning to be band manager.

  Darlene kept the cold beer coming. Tim kept rolling joints. As the band was passing around a joint before the third set, Pete brought out a mirror tray filled with long, thick lines of cocaine. “Here’s a special treat for y’all. I was going to wait until after dinner but now seems like the perfect time.”

  Jesse was pleased to see the expensive drugs come out. “My man. I knew we liked you right from the start.”

  “Tim took the straw from Pete and started in on the first line. He had to pull up, choking. Each line was thick enough and long enough to be four lines.

  Pete patted Tim on the back. “Just don’t cough on the tray. Now, go on. Finish your line. There are sober people in Japan.”

  Tim had to gather himself before hunkering down to finish what was left of the six-inch line. Jesse snorted his line with as little fanfare as possible. Cocaine was something he did when somebody else was paying for it. He didn’t want to let on like it was any big deal.

  Once they were good and cranked up, the band was more than primed to roar through a thunderous and glorious third set. The cocaine took Jesse to new levels of emotional euphoria and lightning-quick creativity. He had not yet learned that the rosy glow of early cocaine use would eventually turn into paranoid impotence and soul-sucking addiction.

  Pete and Darlene were more than enough of an audience. Jesse was having big fun being high and playing with the band. Everything sounded tight and massive. Jesse felt like they were rocking the planet itself. The sun set through the trees and turned the rehearsal space golden as the angular rays flooded through the windows. The music sounded as brilliant as the light appeared.

  Jesse had forgotten, for the moment, the ominous comment Tim had heard from the Voodoo voice.

  Darlene was happy to be part of the moment. “Pete told me y’all were good but I wasn’t ready for this. Y’all sound like a big time band.”

  Pete was quick to correct her. “They are a big time band. Come on, gentlemen, let’s do one more l
ine and take a little stroll to the pasture before dinner. If we leave Darlene alone, she’ll have a masterpiece meal ready by the time we get back. Isn’t that right, Darlene?”

  Darlene flashed a runway pose with one hand on her hip and one hand waving. “That’s right dahlin’. Don’t get lost now, you hear?”

  Walking in the darkening evening, Pete talked a mile a minute about a strategy for the recording studio. “I think we need two original songs and two cover songs. I’ve got a studio and a producer picked out. I’ll pay for it with no strings attached. I don’t need you to sign any contracts. Let’s just see where this goes. What do you say?”

  His plans aroused Butch’s curiosity. “Why would we want to record covers of other people’s songs?”

  “I’d like them to hear you on songs they’re familiar with,” Pete said.

  “Who we talking about?” Rene asked.

  Pete slowed down his sales pitch. “Record companies. The goal is to get you a recording contract.”

  “What about Allen Toussaint right here in New Orleans?” Tim asked.

  Pete put his hand on Tim’s shoulder. “He’s a producer, not a record company. But it’s odd you should mention Toussaint. I’ve got an amazing opportunity for you guys that involves him in a round about way.”

  “We’re all ears,” Dale said.

  “Okay. Here it is. You can be the opening act for the hottest night Tipitina’s Nightclub has ever had. It’s on December twenty-third and guess who else is playing?”

  “Allen Toussaint?” Jesse guessed.

  Pete smiled at the obvious guess. “No. It’s three of his best songwriters and piano players ever; Professor Longhair, Dr. John, and Aaron Neville.”

  Rene got so excited he got in front of Pete and stopped him in his tracks. “Are you shittin’ me? All three of them on one stage? That’s incredible.”

  Dale joined Rene to block Pete’s forward progress. “How did you pull it off?”

  Pete began his explanation as he gently pushed his way between Dale and Rene. “It’s not exactly my gig. Toussaint’s doing it because Dr. John is coming home from L.A. for Christmas. I’ve been talking to Allen a lot lately, mainly about this Jazz Festival idea for New Orleans. He got to telling me about this gig he was setting up at Tipitina’s.”

  Jesse knew Tipitinas as the hottest club in town. So far, he had been unable to get a booking there. It was a New Orleans insiders’ joint.

  Pete walked on with the entire band now in tow. “I told him I had the perfect band to get the crowd going for his big show. Your rehearsal this evening convinced me I was right.”

  Butch caught up to walk next to Pete. “Are we talking about the Dr. John, the guy who wrote ‘Right Place Wrong Time’?”

  “Yes sir, the man himself,” Pete said. “He’s as big as it gets and he’s native New Orleans. He’s bringing the Voodoo to rock and roll.”

  Dale was a huge fan of Dr. John. “Holy shit. Will we get to play with him?”

  “Right now, you’re the warm up band. But who knows what might happen? There’s talk about a jam at the end of the night.”

  “Sign us up,” Butch said.

  “What’s this about Dr. John bringing Voodoo to rock and roll?” Tim asked.

  Pete stopped to gather the band around him in a huddle. “Dr. John is all about Voodoo rhythms and chants. He hangs out with some priestess named Carmen in The French Quarter. Professor Longhair taught him to play at a very young age. The boy was a natural born musician but he was wild and running with the wrong people. By nineteen sixty-eight, he had his first record out and titled the album, Gris Gris.

  “Gris Gris is a Voodoo amulet that protects you from evil,” Rene explained.

  Jesse was shocked at the mention of his friend, Carmen, but he tried to hide it. “How much does the Tipitina’s gig pay?”

  Pete clearly enjoyed having the band hanging on his every word. He paused before answering. “Well, that’s the thing. It only pays four hundred but this gig is a tremendous opportunity for the band.”

  “Do you guys know who Professor Longhair is?” Rene asked.

  “Not really,” Butch answered for the four Indiana boys in the band.

  Rene quickly explained. “Professor Longhair put the funk in New Orleans music. He put the rumba and the mambo and the calypso and the African-Cuban beats into jazz and rhythm and blues.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of him,” Tim said. “He wrote that song everybody sings, ‘Go to the Mardi Gras.’”

  Pete clapped his hands. “I’m happy to hear somebody knows about Professor Longhair.”

  “How old is this professor guy?” Dale asked.

  Pete continued his impromptu seminar on New Orleans music. “He’s in his sixties. His career stalled in the fifties. He was a janitor and a big gambler for most of the sixties, but he’s back now, bigger than ever. He had a huge influence on The Meters.”

  “We’ve heard The Meters around town,” Butch said. “Great, great band.”

  “The Meters brought second line grooves to New Orleans music,” Pete said.

  “What does second line mean?” Tim asked.

  “It comes from the Mardi Gras parades,” Pete said. “The people with the main parade are the first line. Behind them are all the second liners, dancing and singing in off beat styles. Second line drumming plays off the marching beat. It’s syncopated. The strong beats get weak and vice versa.”

  Rene jumped in. “Think about the song, ‘Iko Iko.’ It’s that bump, da bump, da bump, bump bump thing. I throw it in all the time.”

  Pete shot Rene a look of admiration. “By the way, you guys should add ‘Iko Iko’ to your show before the Tipitina’s gig.”

  “What about this Aaron Neville?” Butch asked. “I know he’s part of the Neville Brothers, but what else?”

  Pete broke the band out of its huddle and began walking back to the house as he continued talking like a guest lecturer at a college class. He went from how Neville has Indian blood in him to how Native American culture is a big part of the crazy New Orleans mix. “You’ve seen Wild Tchoupitoulas, the guys with the big, feathered headdresses and all the dancers?”

  Dale began bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Oh yeah. We love those guys. And I remember Neville’s hit song, ‘Tell It Like It Is.’ I can’t believe we’ll be on the stage with New Orleans musical royalty. Count us in, right guys?”

  Everybody agreed to do the show. It was a no brainer. More importantly, Jesse came away from the conversation realizing Pete knew a thing or two about New Orleans music.

  They returned to Pete’s house for a jambalaya feast prepared by Darlene. The food was spicy-hot and filled with seafood and sausage. The wine was red and expensive and from all around the world. They drank many bottles. Pete talked about New Orleans politics and organized crime. “It’s like all the riverboat gamblers and musicians and hustlers rolled down the Mississippi River and ended up here. That’s what the city is, the end of the line for all the dreamers and schemers of North America.”

  “Some people call it the asshole of the Mississippi,” Dale said.

  “We don’t appreciate that reference,” Pete said.

  The band peppered him with questions. He managed to be the center of the show while still keeping his guests involved in the conversation. He was the perfect host. He and Darlene were a good team at making their guests feel right at home.

  By the end of the meal, Jesse and the band felt like they had found their manager.

  It was going on 11 p.m. by the time they retired from the dinner table and settled into comfortable chairs in the den by the fireplace. Darlene brought out a tray of cigars and Port wine. Pete brought out the mirror tray with a half-ounce pile of Peruvian marching powder.

  “The hits just keep on coming,” Dale said as the band hunkered down to put a serious edge on the night.

  “That’s a lot of cocaine,” Tim said.

  Pete did the first line himself without missing a beat. “There’s
more where that came from. And I do need to talk to you about your connection with The Wheelers. My guy gets his stuff from them, I’m pretty sure. I was thinking we could cut out the middle man.”

  “We can make that happen,” Jesse said as he snorted his line.

  Butch seemed distracted as he took the straw from Jesse. “We can’t afford this stuff.”

  Pete began pouring glasses of Port. “That’s going to change with any luck at all.”

  Darlene breezed in to do a line. “You boys want a fire in here?”

  Rene looked at her like she was the last woman on Earth. “No thanks. We’re lit up enough already.”

  The party raged on until the cocaine ran out. Jesse was surprised to find himself seriously wanting more. He had snorted his share of cocaine, but it had never done much for him before. He used to say the best thing about cocaine was playing with the mirrors and rolled up bills and chopping up the product with razor blades. But something clicked in his mind that first night at Pete’s. Some cocaine switch inside his head turned on. He began to see what all the fuss was about. He wanted more in a way he had never wanted more before.

  The party broke up about 4 a.m. Jesse and Tim were sharing a room. Jesse told Tim about wanting more cocaine. Tim seemed to understand Jesse’s dilemma. The two of them were lying in twin beds. Sleep was clearly not going to happen for some time. The cocaine was still coursing through their veins and keeping them awake. They ended up talking about the voice and Voodoo.

  “You know. I’ve always felt like a spiritual guy, but I never felt like I do now,” Tim said.

  “What do you mean?” Jesse asked.

  “I mean I almost feel like someone’s watching me.”

  Jesse thought about that for a minute. “I know. I do think it’s watching over us. I just don’t understand why it won’t answer questions.”

  “What questions have you been asking?”

  Jesse sighed deeply. “Oh, you know, the usual ones. Like where should the band be going and what should we be doing to get there.”

  “We’re never going to know,” Tim said. “Probably the voice doesn’t even know.”

  Jesse sat up on the edge of his bed and looked at Tim. “I’ll tell you what. It makes me feel a whole lot better that you heard it too. At least you know I’m not crazy now.”