Rock and Roll Voodoo

by Mark Paul Smith

  Sheila paid them in cash for two nights out of four and said she had to get going to help make funeral arrangements. The band hugged her goodbye. After one day, Jesse felt like he’d known her forever.

  They packed up their gear and said goodbye to the day bartender, who was putting up a sign outside the front door that read, “Closed for Jennifer’s Funeral.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  MAD DOGS

  Jesse arrived home two days early from the cancelled gig. Amy threw her arms around him and hugged with all her might. She had been worrying herself into a nauseous state since Jesse told her on the phone about the murder at the club.

  She pulled out of the hug and looked him in the eye … “Who kills a woman on ladies’ night?”

  Jesse took her hands into his own. “A jealous, drunk man with a gun.”

  Amy took a step backward. “These bars you’re playing up north don’t sound like classy establishments.”

  Jesse teased her. “How could you say that about a place named the Barmuda Triangle?”

  “No, seriously, Jesse, I’m worried about you. Who’s to say it won’t be you getting shot next time?”

  “You know me. I’m invincible.”

  Her face turned into a pout. “That is exactly the attitude that has me concerned.”

  Jesse kissed her to show he could be serious. “To be honest, the whole thing pretty much freaked out the band. We didn’t see or hear the shooting. It happened in the parking lot. All we knew was our gig was going great until the cops shut us down. I don’t think Sheila is ever going to get over losing Jennifer.”

  “Who’s Sheila and who’s Jennifer?”

  “Sheila owns the club and Jennifer’s the one who got killed. She was Sheila’s assistant manager.”

  “Sounds like you got to know these women pretty well in such a short time.”

  “Amy, don’t be like that.”

  “Be like what? Be a little jealous when you tell me women are throwing underwear at you?”

  “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that on the phone.”

  “Maybe not,” Amy said as she gave him a playful shove.

  Jesse went to grab a beer out of the refrigerator. Before he shut the door, Amy was hugging him from behind. “I don’t mean to be grumpy. I am so happy to have you home with me. That’s all I really want to say.”

  She led him into the bedroom and pounced on him with all the pent-up energy of a woman who really did miss her man.

  “I am the luckiest man on the planet,” Jesse said once they collapsed into each other’s sweaty embrace after an intense round of premarital bliss.

  Amy kissed his chest. “Have you been having any more Voodoo dreams?”

  Jesse told her about the incident with Rene.

  She slapped him on the shoulder, playfully. “That’s what you get for sleeping with another man.”

  “You should stay at the Dixie Inn. If you think the clubs are tacky, you should see the hotels.”

  “So, how is playing this circuit ever going to get you anywhere?”

  Jesse tried to answer her question. “Bands have to hit the road to keep playing and find their sound. That’s why the Beatles had to go to Hamburg. They played every night for a long time and sounded like a great band when they returned to Liverpool.”

  Amy held his head with both hands so she could get close enough to make her point. “Just because one band out of a million got lucky, doesn’t mean it’s going to happen for you.”

  “Are you saying I should give up?”

  “No. What I’m saying is playing these roadhouses doesn’t seem like it’s ever going to pay your bills. How much did you bring home this week?”

  “You know we each only took home seventy-five. We didn’t get paid for Friday and Saturday because the club was closed. I told you that on the phone. The band has too many bills. We’ve got two loans to pay on top of everything else.”

  Amy changed tactics. “All right. I get it. It’s not about the money. It’s about the music.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  She sat down in an old wooden chair that creaked like it might fall apart. “So what happened to that tape Pete paid for? I haven’t even heard it.”

  Jesse took a seat on the swing that hung from the rafters. “You don’t want to hear it. It sounded muddy. They got too much reverb on the drum tracks and they can’t fix it. They would have to re-record it and Pete has totally dropped out of the picture.”

  “So, what about the Voodoo voice? Won’t it tell you what to do? Maybe we should have another talk with the skull on the wall.”

  Jesse had not told her about drinking Madame Carmen’s potion and going back in dreamtime to a Voodoo slave revolt. And he definitely did not tell her about the incident with Rose and the voice. Amy didn’t like violence and she wasn’t too crazy about Carmen. The thing about Rose would have been more than a problem.

  Jesse decided to go with the “everything’s going to be all right” angle. “The voice, if you remember, saved our lives from the fire at the Safari club. It’s been telling me all along that everything’s going to turn out fine. Look how we found a drummer with a P.A. system. And Rick came along to play keyboard right after the gig at Tipitina’s. I’m telling you, everything is happening right on time.”

  “You always say that.”

  “That’s because it’s true. And you know what else is happening right on time?”

  “No, what?” Amy pretended to not know what he was going to say.

  Jesse got off the swing and went across the room to kiss her softly. “We’re going to get married June 16, 1978. It’s March 4 right now. When are we going to start making plans?”

  March, April and May of 1978 saw The Divebomberz playing so steadily that they were able to pay off one of the two equipment loans and have nearly two grand in the bank for emergencies. Rene’s father was running the band checking account. Rene was trying to run the band.

  The band’s set list became Rene’s main bone of contention. He wanted more pop-rock songs and less original songs and country material. Butch and Jesse wanted original material. Tim favored the country and bluegrass numbers. The band had to have a voting system for the set list. It took four of the six members of the band voting for a song to keep it on the list. Rene and Rick got outvoted a lot. The boys from Indiana stuck together. The band’s musical identity and direction was in a constant state of flux, yet, somehow, evolving. The sound became tighter and more polished. Original songs like “Going Crazy” and “I Want to Believe” were going over well with the crowds.

  Rene’s father, Burt, purchased a large home in the woods near Shreveport with enough porches and gazebos and garages to house the band between gigs. He also hired a welder in the middle of April to help the band build its own trailer. He pulled rank as the band’s financial advisor. “We can’t keep paying the U-Haul bills. It doesn’t make good business sense.”

  “We’ll build it out of steel so nobody will ever be able to steal our gear again,” Rene said, looking at Jesse like the previous theft in New Orleans had been his fault.

  Tim responded before Jesse could get too pissed off. “We don’t need a tank that’s too heavy to haul.”

  Burt was quick to defend his plan. “Don’t worry. My guy knows what he’s doing. It’ll be a great band project.”

  Three days later, the band had a trailer that looked like an ironclad battleship from the Civil War. Rene and Tim were the only two band members who really helped with the assemblage. Rick refused to participate. Dale did a little spray painting. Butch and Jesse helped carry materials.

  Dale offered to paint “The Divebomberz” on the side of the trailer.

  Rene shot the idea down. “We don’t want anybody to know what’s in the trailer.”

  Jesse was fed up with Rene being bossy. “Nobody could get in this thing if they wanted to.”

  Tim stepped between Rene and Jesse. “If they see it’s a band, they’ll break into t
he truck and the van.”

  So they painted the trailer olive green like it was property of the U.S. Army. But that wasn’t the worst part. Despite having four wheels and good balance, the beast had no aerodynamics. Whenever Rene towed it behind his truck, the trailer seemed to not want to follow.

  Rene remained defensive. “It’s okay. I can handle it if we put some weight in back of the truck to help the rear wheels keep the trailer in line.”

  Rick was on Jesse’s side regarding the trailer. “We should have bought one from U-Haul.”

  Rene wheeled around and pointed his finger at Rick. “Easy for you to say. You were no help at all and it was your organ that made us need the damn trailer in the first place.”

  Butch tried to mediate what was becoming a full-band quarrel. “Now, boys. Look at the bright side. We’ve got our own trailer and we don’t have to rent one anymore.”

  The trailer’s real test came while trying to reach a club near Hot Springs, Arkansas, in a freak spring snowstorm. With two inches of snow and hail on the road, the band had the only vehicles on the highway. Southern drivers don’t do snow. The road was slick enough to let the trailer have its way with Rene’s truck. It jackknifed him off the road on three occasions. Each time, the band had to muscle the truck and trailer back onto the highway.

  Everybody was exhausted by the time they arrived, late afternoon, at the Mad Dog Saloon. The bartender was a thirty-five year old man who looked a little like the posters of Joe Cocker that hung around the huge club. It looked to Jesse like the owner was a big fan of Cocker’s tour and record album, “Mad Dogs and Englishmen.”

  The place smelled clean, not the usual odor of cigarette butts and stale beer. It looked ready for a convention of doctors. There were several levels of seating beneath a tall, timber-frame ceiling. The main room was all wood and brass. The well-stocked bar stretched from one end of the club to the other. On the other side of seating for at least three hundred people, was a theater stage that was four feet above the dance floor. It was the largest and most modern club Jesse had ever seen.

  The bartender barely acknowledged the band’s entrance. “You guys can go ahead and set up. I doubt if we’re going to have any kind of a crowd tonight. Folks won’t go out in this storm. We haven’t seen anything like it, long as I remember.”

  Jesse tried to get him to look up from washing glasses in the sink. “Are you the owner?”

  The bartender looked up like it was a chore to do so. “Do I look like the owner? No, I am not the owner. I wish. But I talked to her about an hour ago. She said to have you go ahead and set up. Oh yeah, and there’s a suite of rooms for you guys, upstairs behind the stage. I’m supposed to show you. So, come on. Follow me.”

  The accommodations were modern, well kept, and spacious. There was a large common area with a kitchen, three bedrooms with two beds each and two, full baths.

  “This is where all the bands stay?” Rene asked.

  “That’s right,” the bartender said. “You’re wondering why it’s not all trashed out?”

  “We weren’t going to mention it,” Dale said.

  The bartender looked straight at Dale. “We stay on top of the cleaning and maintenance. And we charge bands for any damage they do.”

  Butch jumped in. “You won’t have to worry about us. We’re nice, respectful Indiana boys.”

  “That’s what Donna says. She’s the owner. She’s real hands-on. She’ll be here soon. Says ya’ll come highly recommended from Johnny in Shreveport.”

  Tim slapped his hands on the kitchen counter. “Man, Johnny does get around.”

  “Yes, he does,” a woman who looked like a slender Dolly Parton said as she burst into the room. “Hello gentlemen, I’m Donna. Welcome to the Mad Dog Saloon. We’re pleased to have you here. Sorry about the weather. Don’t worry, I’m not a cancelling kind of girl. We’ll see what happens. Johnny says I’m going to love you guys. I can’t wait.”

  “How do you know Johnny?” Jesse asked.

  “We used to work together at the Louisiana Hayride, the radio and television production company. I’m sure he told you all about it. Sheila at the Barmuda Triangle worked there too. Terrible what happened at her bar. I heard you were playing there when it all went down.”

  Dale stepped up as the band’s main greeter. “We didn’t see anything. It happened in the parking lot. We didn’t know anything was wrong until we saw the police and ambulance lights through the windows. It was so hard on Sheila. It was her first ladies’ night. We know it almost killed her to lose Jennifer. Has she reopened yet?”

  Donna hung her head briefly but raised up with no tears in her eyes. “She will. She’s a tough girl. You’ve got to be tough to run a bar in this man’s world. She and I are close. I think we’re the only two women running clubs in the entire southern United States.”

  “There’s lots of men who say they’re running bars when it’s actually the women doing all the work,” Dale said.

  Donna smiled beautifully. “I like you boys already. Okay, let’s not be too chit-chatty. Get settled in and set up and we’ll see what happens tonight. Anybody on the road when you came in?”

  “Not many,” Rene said. “Is it still coming down?”

  Donna shook her head. “Yes, it is. I was the only car on the highway.”

  By 8 p.m. the club was still empty, except for one bartender, three waitresses and Donna. She had told most of the staff to stay home. The band was onstage and getting ready to start playing when they realized they were completely out of marijuana.

  Tim felt himself in a major crisis. “What are we going to do? I haven’t played straight in I don’t know how long. Maybe never.”

  Rick decided to save the day. “I’ve got half of a pretty good joint up in the room. I’ve been saving it, but I’ll donate it to the cause.”

  Dale began heading up to the room. “Let’s go get it and fire it up.”

  They went back to the band apartment and huddled around the last joint like cavemen at a cooking fire. It was good stuff. They smoked it up quickly, went downstairs, and started playing pretty close to on time. They sounded wonderful from start to finish of the first set. Not one customer was in the club. Donna listened to the performance like she was auditioning the band for a record company. She applauded and hollered after every song and even danced with her bartender. After the set she invited the band to join her for a drink at a large round table in the center of the room.

  “Johnny wasn’t wrong about you boys,” she said as she hoisted her whiskey and soda for a toast. “Here’s to making a record that sells a million copies.”

  The band joined her toast with their beer mugs. Jesse wondered what kind of an offer she was making. She must have noticed the curiosity and suspicion in his eyes.

  She set her mug down carefully “No, I’m not just another drunk going to make you stars. I’m not even in the record business. But I know people who are and those people need to hear this band.”

  “We’ll all drink to that,” Dale said as the band joined her in another clinking of glasses.

  They played another set and only two tables of people arrived, looking like refugees coming in from the blizzard. Donna agreed to shut it down for the night.

  So Thursday was snowed out. Friday got a little better and, by Saturday, Donna had a full house. She also had a longhaired visitor from Los Angeles, who wore tea shades and a coat that looked like a cape.

  Donna seemed thrilled to introduce him. “I’d like you to meet Tony. He flew in for the weekend. He’s with Capitol Records and he likes what he hears.”

  Tony shook hands all around. “You guys sound tremendous. Donna was right. Best band I’ve heard in a long while. Do you have a demo tape I can take back with me? I’m in the A & R department.”

  “What’s A & R?” Dale asked, unafraid to show his ignorance.

  “A & R stands for artist and repertoire,” Tony said as he gave Donna a hug to bring her close. “In the old days, A & R guys br
ought artists together with their material, or repertoire. Artists and repertoire, A & R, get it? Now, what we mainly do is bring songwriters and performers into the fold. Most artists write their own material these days.”

  Jesse was mesmerized to be hearing the language of show business he was so eager to understand.

  Tony clearly relished the role of big-time record label guy. “So what about that recording, the demo tape?”

  “We’re working on that,” Jesse said. “In fact, we’re looking for someone to help us get that done.”

  “Have you done any recording?” Tony asked.

  “We were in the studio a few months ago but what they recorded pretty much sounded like shit,” Rene said. “They messed up when they set levels on the drums and they couldn’t fix it.”

  “You guys need to get to L.A. and into a decent studio,” Tony said.

  The notion excited Butch. “Tell us when and where and we’ll be there.”

  Rene wasn’t so sure. “Wait a minute. We don’t have the money to relocate to Los Angeles. We just spent most of our reserve building the trailer.”

  Tony had the solution. “There’s always Muscle Shoals. You’re not that far west of Memphis, and Muscle Shoals is not that far east of Memphis.”

  The very mention of the legendary studio in Muscle Shoals, Alabama, had Jesse feeling weak in the knees. It had never crossed his mind that his band could record there. Everybody from the Rolling Stones to Aretha Franklin to Lynyrd Skynyrd had made hit records there.

  “Have you ever been there?” Rick asked.

  “I was there in 1976 when Bob Seger recorded his ‘Night Moves’ album. That was one ass-kicking session.”

  Dale was swooning. “Oh, come on. That is too cool to be true.”

  Rick was more particular. “How was it? I mean, I know Capitol did that record. But what was it like to work with Seger?”

  Tony slammed down a shot of whiskey. “It was completely out of sight. That place has a sound like no other, as you know. I was in the control room for the first mixes. We all knew it was going gold. Seger’s got such a voice and, oh my, can that boy write a tune. You guys have original material, right?”