Rock and Roll Voodoo

by Mark Paul Smith

  Jesse wasn’t about to take the credit. “No, that was all about you. Way to go, shaking their hands. That gave me all the time I needed.”

  Butch breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Man, nothing beats waking up with guns pointed at your head.”

  Jesse pounded on the steering wheel in triumph. “I can’t wait to tell Alice about her little brother, Bobby the cop, letting us go in Dallas.”

  “I don’t think we should mention the marijuana to her,” Butch said.

  “No, absolutely not,” Jesse agreed. “But can you believe we left it out in plain view like that?”

  Butch reached under the driver’s seat to retrieve the marijuana. “Why do you think they call it dope?”

  It was May 22, 1978. The band had been playing, non-stop for months. Jesse was keenly aware of the date because he and Amy were getting married on top of a sand dune in Pentwater, Michigan, on June 16, less than a month away.

  The band would be driving much too far to play the wedding. The only gigs they had for the Michigan trip were a “Lunch in the Park” show in Indianapolis on June 7 and a private party in Fort Wayne, Indiana, on June 10. Jesse knew that two bookings for a two-thousand-mile road trip was a recipe for rock and roll disaster.

  But on this fine, Dallas morning, Jesse was feeling euphoric. “I can’t believe that cop is Alice’s brother. Butch, I do believe we’re two of the luckiest cats on the planet. In fact, I predict we’re going to get in to see Steven Mory today and he’s going to sign us to a management contract and put us in a fantastic recording studio.”

  Butch was used to Jesse waxing expansive. “You might be going too far out on a limb with all that. This attorney doesn’t know who we are and we don’t even have an appointment with him.”

  Jesse had heard about Atty. Steven Mory from the musicians in Loose Boots, a band they’d met in Shreveport. The bass player made the recommendation to Jesse one night on the roof of the Royal Royce Hotel. “If you want management and a chance to get in the studio and go for a recording contract, Steve Mory is your man. He put us in the studio, a good one, right outside Dallas. He’s big and getting bigger. He’s about to manage Bob Dylan’s next touring band.”

  That was enough to start Jesse booking the band in a series of cowboy bars on the way to Dallas. He knew the bit about Bob Dylan was probably bullshit. But Loose Boots was a damn good band. If Steve Mory was good enough for them, The Divebomberz would give him a shot.

  Five hours after being held at gunpoint by the police, Jesse and Butch were walking into the well-appointed personal office of Atty. Steven Mory.

  “You guys look like rock stars,” the attorney said as he shook their hands warmly. He was a charmer, in his mid-thirties, wearing an expensive, three-piece suit with a wide tie. His black hair was straight and fell over his collar. He looked like Prince Valiant from the adventure comic strip. Butch and Jesse had enough hair on their heads and faces for five guys. Jesse’s hair was frizzy and wide and three feet long. Butch’s blonde hair was halfway down his back. The two of them were beginning to look as wild as their life style. They had managed to shower and change clothes at the home of a musician friend in Dallas. They knew Atty. Mory’s telephone number. One miraculous call later, they were invited to his office.

  Jesse looked around the wood-paneled room and tried not to seem too impressed. “Thanks for seeing us on such short notice. The guys in Loose Boots say you’re really helping them a lot.”

  “You caught me at a perfect time. I had a court hearing cancel this morning. I’ve got some time. Sit down, gentlemen. Take a load off. And, yes, I represent Loose Boots. Great band, don’t you think?”

  Butch sat down carefully in a leather chair. “We love their sound. They’re playing a lot of the same clubs we are.”

  “The important thing is you’re working steady,” Atty. Mory said. “That says it all. If you can get work in this age of disco, you’ve got to have what it takes. In fact, I’ve been following The Divebomberz for a couple months now. My people tell me you’ve got it going on. Something about a fiddle player and an organ maestro and some great original songs?”

  Jesse leaned forward in his chair. “That’s us. Psychedelic, bluegrass, rock and roll.”

  The attorney laughed out loud at the zany description, then buzzed his secretary for three cups of black coffee without asking Butch and Jesse if they wanted any or how they liked it. “Country rock is where it’s at. I’d say your band is right in the pocket from what I’ve heard. By the way, how old are you, Jesse?”

  “I’m twenty-eight.”

  “How about you, Butch?” He was good with names.

  “Twenty-five.”

  The attorney winced. “Man, you guys better get a move on. It’s getting late. This is a young man’s game. You’re already getting a little long in the tooth.”

  “But we still look good,” Butch said.

  Atty. Mory laughed. “Yes, you do. Like I said, you look the part. Having the look is a good start. Having the songs and the performance skills is much more important.”

  Jesse was feeling confident as the secretary arrived and served the coffee. “We’ve got the original tunes. In fact, we’ll prove it to you if you give us a shot in the studio.”

  Atty. Mory leaned back in his high-backed chair. “I like your attitude.”

  They talked for quite a while about where the band was playing and how big the crowds were. Atty. Mory was interested in the latest reports from the road. Of course, Johnny’s name came up.

  “So I hear you’ve been going over quite well at Johnny’s Cimarron Club in Shreveport.”

  Butch answered. “Between us and the motorcycle gangs, that place is rockin’ every night.”

  “I know it’s a rough joint,” Atty. Mory said. “Johnny’s a character, isn’t he? I heard he maced the place down one night and had it open for business the next night.”

  “We were playing the night of the great macing episode,” Jesse said as he wondered how the attorney knew so much about the club. “Do you talk to Johnny?”

  The attorney took a sip of coffee. “No, I talk to his main gal, Alice. She’s one of my scouts.”

  Butch and Jesse looked at each other in disbelief. Alice, a woman they barely knew, suddenly seemed at the center of their world. Could it be the same Alice whose brother was a Dallas cop? It had to be.

  “What did she say about us?” Butch asked.

  “You know it was good. You wouldn’t be sitting here if it wasn’t pretty damn good.”

  Jesse wanted details. “But what did she say? Inquiring minds need to know.”

  Atty. Mory began slowly. “Okay, I don’t want to violate any confidences here, and I don’t want to make your heads get too big. But she said you’re the best band she’s ever seen at Johnny’s.”

  Butch nearly spilled his coffee. “Wow. That’s quite a compliment, coming from her. She treats us like we’re just another band.”

  “No offense, but you are just another band to her. She’s been at Johnny’s too long. Don’t tell anybody, but I’m thinking of bringing her to Dallas to be part of my organization.”

  “Then she’ll be Dallas Alice,” Jesse said.

  Butch and Jesse were pleased to see Atty. Mory laugh and recognize the Dallas Alice reference from the song “Willin” by Lowell George of the eclectic rock band, Little Feat. The rock and roll lawyer knew his music.

  It was hard for Jesse and Butch to keep from telling Atty. Mory that Alice’s younger brother, the Dallas cop, had briefly held them at gunpoint earlier in the day. It wouldn’t do to let on they were still sleeping in the band van.

  The attorney suddenly had a question. “Who writes the songs?”

  “We do,” Jesse and Butch said in unison.

  He toasted them with his coffee cup. “Good. Looks like I’m talking to the right people. It’s all about the copyright.”

  He leaned forward in his chair and put his elbows on the desk with his fingers interlocked to make a resti
ng shelf for his chin. He looked at Jesse, then at Butch. Then he took a deep breath and let out a long, thoughtful sigh.

  “Tell you what. I’m going to take a flyer on you guys and put you in the studio. Let’s see how you sound on tape. If it works out, we’ll sign a deal. You’ll both be key men on the contract, it will be exclusive, all advances will be recoupable and my organization will own the tape. How does that sound?”

  Jesse looked at Butch with raised eyebrows, scarcely able to believe what he had just heard. The fact that he didn’t understand much of what the attorney had said bothered Jesse, but he liked the part about going to the studio to record.

  “It sounds great,” Jesse said, trying to hide his excitement and confusion.

  “Count me in,” Butch said.

  Atty. Mory rose from his chair to escort them out of his office. “Perfect. You’ll fill out an information form with my assistant so I can get in touch with you to make arrangements for the recording session. Don’t worry. We’re not signing any contracts at this point. We’ll get to know each other a little better before we sign up. So, good … any questions?”

  Jesse thought about mentioning the wedding tour to Michigan for the sake of scheduling, then thought better of it. No point complicating matters unduly.

  He shook the attorney’s hand. “No questions. We’re looking forward to working with you.”

  Atty. Mory led them into his assistant’s office. “Maurice, these are new clients of ours. Could you please open up a file under the name, The Divebomberz?”

  Maurice took over as Atty. Mory left to return to his office.

  “Wow,” she said as Jesse filled out the client data form. “That was fast. You were in there less an hour. I’ve never seen a file get opened so fast. He must really like you.”

  Jesse and Butch rode back to Shreveport on a pink cloud.

  Butch was the first to speak. “All these tie-ins with Alice are downright spooky. It’s like the Voodoo is connecting the dots for us.”

  “Alice in Wonderland,” Jesse mused aloud.

  “What does the Voodoo voice have to say about all this?” Butch asked. “You said this morning that we’d meet with the attorney and he’d put us in the studio. I thought you were crazy. Now, it all happened, just like you said it would. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Jesse kept his eyes on the road. “No, I haven’t heard the voice in quite a while. But I do know this. There’s no such thing as coincidence. I need to get with Carmen about this Alice thing. It’s weird, but it does go along with my two favorite theories.”

  “Let’s see,” Butch said. “The little things of today foretell the big things of tomorrow.”

  “That’s one,” Jesse said.

  “And we find people to teach us what we need to learn.”

  “Amazing,” Jesse said.

  “Not so amazing,” Butch said. “I’ve only heard you say them a thousand times.”

  Jesse didn’t respond. It felt like Butch was telling him he repeated himself too much.

  Butch realized why Jesse got quiet. “No, no, don’t get offended. I love your theories. I don’t see how they apply here. But I love your theories.”

  Jesse decided to expound. “Think of the cops this morning as all the trouble we’ve had trying to get a tape made. Then think of Alice as the Voodoo voice, guiding us. Atty. Mory is the guy who will teach us what we need to know. I’m telling you, today is telling us we’re going to land a contract with a record company in the very near future.”

  Butch thought about Jesse’s prediction for a good ten miles. “I hope you’re right. So, Atty. Mory is the guy we created to teach us what we need to know about the music business?”

  “Exactly,” Jesse said.

  Butch began rolling a joint. “I’ll tell you one thing. He’s the first guy who ever made me feel old.”

  “He’s the first guy to make me feel like I need to be a lawyer,” Jesse said.

  “What do you mean by that?” Butch asked.

  “I mean I didn’t understand anything he said once he started talking about contracts. I did hear the word ‘exclusive’ and I’m not sure I like that. I also heard the word ‘recoupable,’ and that sounds like we’ve got to pay him back for putting us in the studio.”

  Butch shared Jesse’s concerns. “What about his company owning the tapes? Does that mean he owns the songs?”

  “I think ownership of a production, or the tapes, is different than ownership of the songs. But again, I don’t understand it. These are things we need to know. Every band we read about has signed a bad deal, early on, that took them years to escape. I’d call my father for legal help, but he would just say go to law school. That’s what he always says.”

  Butch saw the irony in the situation. “So, what? We need to hire a lawyer to make a deal with our lawyer?”

  “Let’s see how it goes,” Jesse said. “For now, we’ve got three nights in Natchitoches and then we leave for Michigan. I don’t think we can even pay for the gas to get there.”

  Butch moaned at the thought. “You’re the one getting married on top of a sand dune in … what’s the name of the town?”

  Jesse turned to look at him. “Pentwater. It’s going to be fun. The band will set up on a sand dune overlooking Lake Michigan and we’ll have a great party.”

  “How much are we getting paid for the wedding?” Butch asked.

  “A golden memory for the rest of your life.”

  Butch squirmed in his seat. “Why couldn’t you guys get married in New Orleans, like normal people?”

  Jesse turned to look at him. “You know why. All our family and most of our friends are up north.”

  Butch tried to put a positive spin on things. “You know the band will follow you anywhere. If we survive this so-called wedding tour, maybe Atty. Mory will put us on a fast track to a recording contract.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  JAIL HOUSE ROCK

  Jesse was alone and driving the band van to the gig in Natchitoches. The rest of the band was traveling in other vehicles. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw he was being stopped by the Louisiana State Police. A quick glance to the speedometer showed he was doing 75 mph in a 55 mph zone. He slowed down quickly and pulled over to stop.

  He was glad he’d gotten his Louisiana driver’s license when he handed it over to the trooper with the vehicle registration. An out-of-state license would have gotten him thrown in jail until the ticket was paid. He’d learned that lesson the hard way in New Orleans.

  The trooper went back to his car but returned in short order to the van. Jesse could tell from the stern expression behind the reflector sunglasses that things were not going well.

  “Out of the car, now,” the trooper barked.

  “What’s the problem, officer?” Jesse asked as he began exiting the van.

  The trooper had his hands on his hips. “No problem. You’re going to jail. I don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

  The officer spun Jesse around and slammed him face first into the side of the van. Jesse knew better than to fight back. “I thought I was getting a ticket.”

  The cop frisked Jesse roughly.“ You got a ticket for running a red light in New Orleans. You didn’t bother to pay it. You’re what we call a scofflaw.” He punctuated the word with two fists into Jesse’s armpits as he continued the frisk. “You don’t think the rules apply to you. There’s a warrant out for your arrest, son. It’s for failure to appear in court. Judges don’t take kindly to people thumbing their noses at the court.” He finished the search by yanking Jesse’s hair up to check his neck. “Put your hands behind your back. I’m taking you into custody.”

  The trooper put the cuffs around Jesse’s wrists.

  “But I’m a musician and my band’s got a gig in Natchitoches in three hours,” Jesse pleaded.

  “I guess I should have known that from all the hair you’re throwing around. Maybe they’ll give you a free haircut at the jail.”


  “What about the van?” Jesse asked. “All our equipment is in there.”

  “We’ll have it towed to the jail at your expense,” the trooper said as he escorted Jesse to the back seat of his car.

  The handcuffs were cutting into Jesse’s wrists. “Can you loosen these things? They’re killing me.”

  “It’s a short ride,” the trooper said.

  Jesse didn’t say another word as he was driven to the Parrish jail. The trooper turned out to be a downright gentleman compared to the two jailors who pushed Jesse into a solitary cell like he was public enemy number one.

  The fat jailor was missing lots of teeth. “Looks like we’ll have to cut that hair for your own safety.”

  “How do you spell head lice?” The skinny jailor slammed the cell door much harder than necessary.

  “You must be in one of those hard rock bands,” the fat jailor said.

  Jesse tried hard to be nice. “No, we play country music. You’d like the band.”

  Both jailors got a good laugh out of that.

  “Nobody’s going to like your band tonight,” the fat jailor said. “You got a no bond warrant.”

  Jesse thought they were going to hang around to torment him, but they left without saying anything more. He looked around, through the bars, and didn’t see any other prisoners. The silence was deafening. It was worse being alone than being harassed. He felt like a complete fool for forgetting to pay the red light ticket in New Orleans. The words to his song, “Red Light,” echoed in his head. “It’s so much fun running red lights. Specially in the dark without no headlights.”

  How could he be so stupid as to end up in jail twice on traffic tickets? Spending the day in the New Orleans jail should have taught him a lesson. He could end up forcing the band to cancel gigs for who knew how long. No way they could continue without him or the equipment. Most of the sound system was in the van, which was probably being hooked up to a tow truck at that very moment.