Rock and Roll Voodoo

by Mark Paul Smith

  “Why are we hiding?” Rick asked.

  Butch peeked around the corner of the shed as lookout. “There’s no point letting the engineer know we’re going to jump his train.”

  Jesse watched the engine and the first few cars roll by. “This is perfect. Nice and slow, just how we like it.”

  Rick was shivering. “I don’t like it nice and slow. I don’t like it at all.”

  Jesse led Rick out of the shadows as the band ran for the train. “Follow my lead. Run along next to a ladder, grab it up a few rungs with both hands and then jump onto the lowest rung of the ladder.”

  Rick ran reluctantly behind Jesse. “What if I fall?”

  “Don’t let go of the ladder,” Dale said as he ran ahead to the next car and swung himself up the side ladder. He made it look easy. Rick ran alongside the train for about twenty yards before he finally got the nerve to grab the ladder of a car that was three cars behind the one Dale was now riding. Rick had trouble finding his footing on the ladder but he was soon sailing along on the side of a moving train.

  “What do I do now?” he yelled at Jesse, who was still jogging alongside him.

  “Climb the ladder so I can jump on,” Jesse said. “And make it quick. There’s a bridge up ahead.”

  “I cannot believe I’m doing this,” Rick said as he climbed up the ladder. Jesse jumped on. He urged Rick onward and upward. “Keep going all the way to the top of the car.”

  The train whistle blew as Rick reached the top of the ladder and threw himself, spread eagled, on top of the train car. He was holding on for dear life as the train rumbled through the French Quarter. Jesse was laughing so hard he could barely stand up. Rick looked like Charlie Chaplin doing slapstick. The train wasn’t going more than ten miles an hour. Rick was hanging on like he was on the wing of an airplane in flight.

  The city lights were shining bright on the right. The Mississippi River was in her full glory on the left, shimmering reflections from the lights on bridges, docks, warehouses and the Dixie Beer Brewery. The train rumbled west toward Baton Rouge.

  Jesse bent down to Rick. “Try to stand up. We’re not going that fast. You won’t get much of a view hugging the roof of the car. This is a perfect night. You don’t want to miss it.”

  Rick rolled over slowly and sat up carefully, keeping his hands widespread and on the roof. “Where are the other guys?”

  “Look,” Jesse said as Dale leaped from one car to another in the moonlight. “Here comes Dale.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Rick said. “I am not doing this.”

  Jesse pointed over Rick’s head. “Look behind you. That’s Tim, one car behind, and Rene, behind him.”

  “Where’s Butch?” Rick asked, fearing the worst.

  Butch popped up on top of the same ladder Rick and Jesse had climbed. “Hey guys,” he said as he stood up to take in the shimmering scenery. Looking down at an obviously terrified Rick, he asked, “How’s it hanging, hobo?”

  Dale jumped onto the car. “This is how we initiate new members. How are you doing?”

  Tim and Rene joined them in a minute and, before he knew what was happening, Rick was being helped to his feet by the entire band. Once he stood up and realized he could keep his balance, Rick got his train legs together fairly quickly.

  Rene helped Rick steady himself. “I remember when they took me on my first ride. I thought they were crazy. Now, it’s one of my most favorite things to do. You’ll see. You get used to it.”

  “Did anybody bring a train ride joint?” Dale asked.

  “Way ahead of you, bro,” Tim said as he fired up a number.

  Rick took a hit and looked like he might be about to smile. “Is this thing going to speed up once we get out of the city?”

  Dale took the joint from Rick. “Yeah. But don’t worry. It slows down again in Baton Rouge.”

  Rick looked warily at the faces surrounding him until he saw Butch crack a smile and say, “That’s a joke. We’ll be getting off in a couple miles, the same way we got on. Then, we’ll hit the bars on Magazine Street and bum a ride back to the Quarter. We’ve done this before. We know the way.”

  Jesse relaxed as the train took them through the city. His entire life was beginning to feel like one inevitable train ride. Events were coming at him like they had a mind of their own. Rene showed up with all his sound gear, more or less on cue. Rick came out of nowhere as soon as the band realized it needed a keyboard man. Gigs mysteriously materialized in the north when the band needed to get out of town. The Voodoo voice seemed to be guiding and protecting him wherever he went.

  Even so, Jesse remained plagued by one of his pet theories: the little things of today foretell the big things of tomorrow. A girlfriend who forgets a birthday won’t be around much longer. Or a dead bird on the porch foreshadows the death of a close friend.

  When he first came to New Orleans with Butch and Dale, they were auditioning as a singing trio at a bar on Decatur Street. Back in the corner, an old drunk kept feeding coins into a jukebox. He couldn’t get it to play no matter how hard he tried. He’d put a coin in, slam the side of the box with an open hand and curse the machine when it rejected his coin and wouldn’t play music. When he started kicking the box, the bartender threw him out of the club. Ever since that sad bit of street theater, Jesse worried that he was the wino and the jukebox was the music business.

  The band sounded better than ever with Rick onboard. But there was one thing becoming increasingly wrong. Dale’s lead vocal was getting lower and lower as the band grew louder. Butch and Jesse had originally recruited him because he could sing the high notes in a three-part harmony. Now, his falsetto voice couldn’t hold up to the full band sound. He had to fall back on his natural, bass-baritone voice. Butch and Tim started singing more lead, which left Dale playing tambourine and other rhythm instruments. The band needed a new lead singer, or no lead singer at all.

  Dale was the most flamboyant member of the band, but his costumes and dance moves were starting to stick out like a sore thumb. The band was evolving into a hard-driving force. Nobody was dancing, just bearing down on his instrument. Sure, the Rolling Stones had Mick Jagger with all his prancing and parading, but Dale couldn’t sing like Mick. Jesse knew better than to consider a female singer. When a band with a female lead singer makes it, only the female lead singer makes it. His mind was rolling down the tracks between the Mississippi River and the crescent city. Where was the Voodoo voice when he needed it?

  Jesse looked around and saw each member of the band drifting into his own reflections. Everyone seemed to snap out of it when it came time to get off the train. Jumping off is always the hardest part.

  Rick had even more trouble going down than getting up. The train was picking up speed. He balked at the end of the ladder. “I’m not doing this. I know I’m going to die.”

  Butch yelled down from the top of the train car. “Come on, Rick. We can’t get off until you do.”

  Dale was just above Rick on the ladder. “Don’t just jump. Hang on to the ladder and get your feet under you. Run alongside the train before you let go.”

  Rick did as he was told, but it took him at least twenty yards before he finally let go of the ladder. He ran a few steps after letting go and then fell down on the rocks and rolled himself away from the train. He cut his right shoulder and bruised his head but he wasn’t seriously hurt. The roll was quite athletic. He was standing in no time.

  Dale swung down shortly after Rick and gave him a triumphant hug. “Way to go, Ricky. You did it. Nice roll. See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Rick was still dusting himself off and checking for injury. “I can’t believe I just did that. I can’t believe I’m in this crazy-ass band. I can’t believe I’m headed for Shreveport to stay in some hotel called The Royal Royce.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  JOHNNY’S CIMARRON CLUB

  Johnny ran his Cimarron Club in Shreveport like the captain of a ship. He was a walk-the-plank kind of owner, but he w
orked harder than anyone. He greeted The Divebomberz on the wide sidewalk in front of his club and helped the band unload their gear from the truck, trailer, and van.

  Johnny tugged on the brim of his cowboy hat. “I never hired a band without hearing them first. You guys better be good. I spent a ton on promotion for tonight. I got you billed as the hottest band on the bayou.”

  After the load-in was complete, Johnny said, “Your keyboard player better be extra special good. I think I threw my back getting that beast of an organ out of the trailer.”

  Rene put his arm around Rick. “He is extra good. We’ll do a sound check in a few minutes here that will blow your mind.”

  Jesse sidled up to Johnny. “The posters look great. How did you get a photo of all six of us? We’ve only had Rick for two weeks.”

  Johnny took a good long look at Jesse’s wild, frizzy hair. “Your manager or promoter or whatever he is got me the shot. That guy is one hell of a salesman.”

  Rene stepped forward. “That’s my dad. And you’re right. He’s one great salesman. He’s sold everything from car parts to life insurance.”

  Johnny got down to business quickly. “Okay. Gather round guys, and let me explain the rules of the house.”

  The band made a tight circle around the club owner. Johnny was pushing fifty years old. His beat up hat looked like it never left his head. He wore faded blue jeans and boots with silver pointed toes. He was five-foot-seven in his boots. He had the build and look of a boxer who lost too many fights. His nose was slightly flattened and crooked. He wore a wide, leather belt with a state of Louisiana buckle. He kept a can of mace in a special holster on each hip. “See these bad boys on my gun belt? This is the way I enforce the first rule of the club. Can you guess what that rule might be?”

  Dale was in his usual, let’s get acquainted mode. “No naked dancing?”

  “That’s absolutely correct,” Johnny said. “No fighting.”

  The band laughed. Johnny obviously had a sense of humor underneath his gruff exterior.

  “Rule number two is band breaks can never, and I mean never, ever, exceed fifteen minutes. You start at nine, play until ten. Sets are always an hour long. Second set starts at ten fifteen and so on, four sets a night. So, let’s see how good your math is. When do you finish playing?”

  “One thirty,” Butch guessed.

  “One forty-five,” Johnny corrected. “Last call’s at two. If you’ve got a good crowd going, I expect you to work it until then. I’m a fair guy. If we do great at the door and at the bar, the band gets a bonus.”

  “What about drinks?” Jesse asked.

  Johnny raised his hands like he was being held up by a robber. “Oh, I see I’m dealing with professionals. So, I tell you what. Drinks are on the house until the first one of you falls down or pukes on my stage.”

  “Fair enough,” Jesse said as the band laughed in agreement.

  They set up and sound checked in less than an hour. The only soundman they had was Tim, who had the mixing board on the stage next to his fiddle and slide guitar amp. Each member had a set up assignment. Jesse placed the main and monitor speakers and ran the cables. Butch set the amps and instrument cables. Rene set up his drums. Dale set the microphones and ran the cables to the board. Rick set up his Hammond B-3 and the Leslie amplifier, as well as a Fender Rhodes electric piano.

  Tim tried to make all the sound levels balance onstage and throughout the dance hall. Not an easy job when you’re standing on the stage.

  Johnny noticed the band’s efficiency and division of labor. “Looks like you guys have done this before.”

  “Once or twice,” Butch said as the band counted in to its traditional opening song, “Jambalaya.”

  The sheer force of the musical explosion almost blew the cowboy hat off Johnny’s head. Tim had the levels cranked way up. It was loud but well balanced. By the middle of the song, Johnny grabbed a waitress and started two-stepping her around the large, empty dance floor. At the end of the song, the band paused and bowed in unison for their small but special audience. Johnny and the waitress clapped and hooted, as did every employee in the place.

  “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a big-time band from New Orleans,” Johnny shouted as he came up to shake each member of the band’s hand. “I do believe that’s the best version of ‘Jambalaya’ I’ve ever heard. You do Hank Williams proud.”

  The band played a couple more songs as Johnny went from corner to corner in the huge room to help Tim get the main speakers dialed into the space. Once the sound check was done, Johnny invited the band to join him for a round of Heinekens.

  “I hear you like good German beer. Am I right?”

  Rene grabbed his icy mug from the waitress’ tray. “Absolutely. It’s nice to know my father got the details right.”

  Johnny waited for everyone to be served. “Okay, gentlemen. Let me tell you about the history of where you are. You might not know it but Shreveport was one of the nation’s musical capitals in the nineteen-fifties. There was a radio and television program called Louisiana Hayride. It was huge all over the country. It brought the stars of the day to the world. Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Bob Wills, and even Elvis Presley, the king himself, got their start right here in Shreveport. I saw it all because I worked there. We broadcast right out of the municipal auditorium here in town. I started out bussing tables and ended up running sound and booking major musical acts. It’s how I got my start in show business. And look at me now. I’m about to showcase The Divebomberz.”

  Johnny knew how to sweet-talk the talent. The band ate it up, peppering him with questions about the old days. Johnny told stories about drinking with Hank Williams and doing pills with a young Elvis Presley.

  Johnny’s voice became reverently soft. “Hank was the biggest inspiration and the biggest disappointment at the same time. He was always down to earth and friendly. You’d never meet a nicer guy. But one minute he could be singing the sweetest songs in the world, and the very next minute he’d be too drunk to talk to you. I will say I never saw him get too mean. It was a shame the way he went out. Elvis too.”

  Dale was hanging on Johnny’s every word. “Why do so many of the great ones die from booze and drugs?”

  Johnny swigged down half a beer. “First of all. It’s not just the great ones. Most of my friends are gone already, all because of booze and drugs. As for the great ones, as you call them, you just read about them more because they’re famous. In reality, they’re just like the rest of us. So watch out, boys, or the boogeyman will get you too.”

  Johnny sounded like he was telling ghost stories around the campfire. He knew how to spin a yarn. Jesse ate it up. To think he had finally arrived at the same spot Hank and Elvis played.

  “I can’t believe Elvis just died,” Johnny said. “Last August sixteenth to be exact. Man, that was a shocker. I knew Elvis before he got so big he had to go make all those bad movies in Hawaii. He was a good, hard-working kid. None of us figured he’d get into drugs so heavy. I mean we saw him get fat and take up martial arts when he got older, but, hell, that kind of shit happens to all of us.”

  “Do you think fame turns people to drugs?” Dale asked.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Johnny said, tipping his cowboy hat back slightly. “Fame messes everybody up. Nobody I ever met could handle it. And I saw most of them on the way up and half of them on the way back down. You better hope it doesn’t happen to you, fame that is.

  “But as for what gets people on drugs, it’s the drugs that does it, not the fame or the money. The more drugs you do, the more drugs you do, until it kills you. It’s as simple as that. It doesn’t matter if you’re famous or not.”

  Tim looked at Johnny like he was the guru from the mountaintop. “Isn’t fame what the music business is all about? Getting a big name so you can sell a million records?”

  Johnny relished his role as preacher of rock and roll gospel. “It’s not about the money. It’s about the music. Make music for the people wh
o need to hear it and don’t worry about selling records or getting your picture in the magazines.”

  Jesse was surprised to realize that Johnny and Dr. John and Carmen were all delivering the same message.

  After a couple rounds of beer, Johnny decided it was time to show the band its quarters at the Royal Royce Hotel. They walked the two blocks to the hotel in high spirits.

  Johnny turned around to make sure everybody was with him as they passed beneath the granite archway of the old, five-story hotel. “So, listen up. Some of her glory has faded but The Royal Royce Hotel has seen the best of the best. Hell, I remember walking Dolly Parton into this same hotel back before she was big. Well, she was always big, but you know what I mean.”

  The band walked through the worn-out furniture and beat-down carpeting of the large and deserted lobby. The place smelled musty as a library on a rainy night.

  Nobody was at the front desk. Johnny tapped on the counter bell until an older woman came through a squeaky, wooden door to see what was the matter. She looked around at nothing in particular because she was mostly blind. “What can I do for you?”

  Johnny was kind. “Hello, Henrietta. It’s me. I’ve got three rooms on the top floor for the band.”

  She looked ten years younger when she smiled at Johnny. “Oh, hi, Johnny. Yes, of course. We’ve been expecting you.”

  The band didn’t find out until later that rooms on the top floor were much cheaper. The roof had a tendency to leak in a hard rain.

  The elevator did not inspire confidence. It had a sliding door that had to be shut from the inside. Once the door creaked to its close, Jesse got a distinct feeling he might not be getting out. Terrible noises filled the shaft when it lurched to a start. The clangs and screeches sounded like a medieval drawbridge being raised.

  Dale looked at Butch with real fear in his eyes. “Is this thing going to make it?”