Spotswood shook his head in delighted disbelief, knowing exactly what was coming next.
“Her lips are sparkling pink
Her coat a charcoal mink
Her eyes are pretty blue
Her hair a trendy hue
Her skirt is short and black
Black heels are spiked in fact
Her cheeks are softly blushed
She isn’t in a rush.”
Just as the chorus began, the mink slipped away from her arms revealing a snug white blouse along with a number of other accessories she was about to list.
“Who’s this colored girl runnin’ ’round my place?
Who’s this colored girl, don’t recognize her face.”
By the third verse the crowd was on its feet and clapping along with the signature tom tom pounding Walsh began to add.
“Choker charm ivory
Calling out all to see
Trampy chick barrettes, too
Calling out all to view
I hate this colored girl
Despise her colored world
Why can’t she stop and see
That colored girl is me!”
For the second time, the PO Stop hit the mark and the audience exploded.
“So much for game, set, match,” Scanlan chuckled. “At least in favor of CCBBA.”
“We’ve just been informed that the computers have been overwhelmed by the late torrent of votes arriving from all over the world so the next tally we see, scheduled for ten minutes after the Battle concludes but who knows now when we’ll actually have a winner declared… ”
“Sounds like a 50 amp fuse may have blown. Michael Phillip Jagger? Where are you when we need you most?”
Spotswood laughed. “For all we know, he might be downstairs. But let’s remind everybody that votes will continue to be accepted for sixty seconds after the final note is played.”
“Speaking of final notes, The Alliance is lining up for its last number, and by line I mean just that.”
As Lera stepped to a single keyboard at the front of the stage, Polanski strapped on his Strat and moved up beside him, Hansen and Wingrove bookending the pair. Just behind the four, Stanton’s riser lowered into place with Blair and Cramer positioning themselves to either side, then after a count from the drummer, Lera took the lead vocal of I’ve Got A 45. For years it’d been the band’s go-to encore number, a happy-go-lucky rave-up celebrating the title vinyl record, young love and his devotion to the British Invasion bands.
“I’ve got a .45.
Not a Smith, Not a Wesson
I’ve got a .45.
Not a Glock but don’t go messin’.”
As they romped into the first bridge, the girls and Polanski added a new, gorgeous three-part backing that only Paul McCartney could have improve upon.
“Found it at a record store many years ago
Searching for something new
Found it at a record store, Lads from Liverpool
Tune they called She Loves You
Harmonies like that make you wanna pray
Sweet dream like that? I saw her yesterday.”
When the song ended the spectators let go with a deafening salvo, joined by the members of Pandora’s Obsession who trotted to the edge of their side of the stage, all clapping with hands raised over their heads, shouting appreciation. CCBBA, individually bowing as Polanski pointed to them one by one then finally making a deep one himself. But as they left the stage Lera paused, returned to his microphone and added, “Thanks very much. I hope we passed the audition.”
After Loveland returned to her riser and tapped at her synth a few times, she glanced away then straightened her mic. “Folks? No matter who votes for who and no matter how that ends up, the set you just heard by The Alliance… well, it just doesn’t get any better than that.” Then following a deep breath, she nodded to Walsh and four clicks later the group burst into a pressure-cooked take of the former ballad Waiting For Bluebirds.
“The clouds’re still gray, as gray as the ground
That twister comes, hope I’m not around
This isn’t the place that I want to be
Isn’t the place for a girl like me.”
The first version of the chorus was as sharp as a freshly strapped razor.
“I’m waiting for bluebirds inside this fence
Waiting for bluebirds to end the suspense
I’m waiting for bluebirds high in the sky
Waiting for bluebirds to teach me to fly.”
The rest of the song unfolded with more intensity including virtuoso split lead break by Jon Cox and Tommy Norman that seemed about to blow the ceiling off the theater. Then Loveland, eyes closed as if searching for the solution, finished
“Not waiting for bluebirds, not waiting for bluebirds
Not waiting for bluebirds, I’m busting this jail
Not waiting for bluebirds.”
beat beat beat beat
“Just like Dorothy Gale!”
The Stop was sublime, every one of the musicians hitting it within milliseconds of each other.
All of the house lights came up for the first time as the Oasis shook from the ovation, the CCBBA crew enthusiastically joining in; perhaps in appreciation, perhaps in relief that the Battle had finally concluded. The members of both bands charged toward each other, sharing hugs, kisses, back pats and high fives which incited the throng to escalate the fanfare. Quickly forming a makeshift line and grasping hands, the fourteen musicians bowed deeply, then again, then again, and finally waved their goodbyes and made their exits.
“Jip, I’d say that all of our viewers, both here and across the planet, must be thinking, to paraphrase Laura Loveland, it’s never going to get better than this.”
“I am… I don’t know what I am. They could turn off all the lights right now, send everybody home, lock the doors and… but we’ve got two more sets coming up, one featuring this pair of phenomenal bands and a second that’s going to… I think I’ve just thought of a new word to describe everything, and that would be… extraordinariliness.”
“We should add Merriam-Webster-Oxford to our speed dials.”
They both laughed then Scanlan continued, “Coming up, on Fox, after these messages, we’ll hopefully learn the final vote totals then ramble toward midnight here in Las Vegas with a show that I’m thinking will include Yul Brynner. Stay tuned.”
***
The showgirl stopped in her tracks as she turned the corner of the hallway and stepped into the elevator bank landing. “I was told I was supposed to have an escort but wasn’t expecting one this big.”
Joey smiled as he motioned to the seven men behind him. “Your name and room number, Ma’am?”
Instead of answering she removed her AAA ID and moved to hand it over. Joey accepted it gave it a cursory glance then passed it back. “Thank you. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
She eyed the heavily armored members of the team. “Something wrong? I’ve got to get upstairs to… ”
“Nothing to be concerned about,” he replied as he moved into the open lift. “Thirty-three by way of the lobby?”
“That would be fine,” she said as she walked to it, then turned to add, “Have a nice night, guys.”
After the door closed, Joey motioned to the rolling champagne bucket then asked the room service attendant, “Understand the drill?”
“Let’s rock.”
They moved swiftly down the hallway, stopping outside of 1936. The attendant stripped a piece of black electrical tape from the bucket then nodded. As one of the enforcers stood pat and another crouched his way to 1940, Joey motioned with his head to the others to take positions in front of 1939, the biggest man lowering his battering ram horizontally while another removed a flash grenade from his utility belt. The attendant stepped to 1938, placed the tape over the peephole, knocked twice and called, “Room service.”
A woman’s voice inside the suite shouted back, “Wrong room. We didn’t or
der anything.”
“Mrs. Wicks?”
“Yes, but we didn’t order anything.”
“Mrs. Wicks? We’re very sorry we couldn’t fulfill your request for the Dom Ruinart so our Guest Services Manager requested I deliver a complimentary bottle of Krug Clos Du Mesnil for your enjoyment.”
“No thank you.”
“Out of the way,” Joey whispered.
Then a few seconds later the ram slammed most of the door into the room.
***
As the spectators continued resuming their seats with fresh drinks and eats, having had a twenty rather that ten minute window because of the tallying lag, the musicians were already on the stage in anticipation of the announcement and as craftsmen often do were interacting with those of like skills—Stanton and Walsh having an animated conversation near the drum risers, Cox, Norman and Hansen chatting while checking out Cox’s newest guitar, Lera and Watts no doubt discussing logistics regarding the night’s second and third sets. Wingrove and Brodnan leaned against a riser as Magnuson pointed to the upper level of the theater apparently explaining something as Polanski and Loveland sat side by side at his Steinway picking out notes while examining two pages of a score. Then the house voice called, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome back Franklin Potcheck and Stacey King!”
They made their way to the microphone at center stage, acknowledging the applause, the bands gathering on either side.
“Just a few housekeeping details before the winner is announced,” King began. “While both bands have been paid appearance fees for their participation in… I don’t know ’bout y’all, but next time they appear on a double bill, I’m there!”
The crowd yelled its agreement.
“In addition to those itsy-bitsy payments,” she continued, rolling her eyes, “I’m delighted to say that the Mr. Potcheck will be donating twenty million dollars to a single charitable institution or shared among up to five as chosen by the winners with ten million split the same way at the direction of our runner-ups.”
Everybody, including the players, clapped enthusiastically.
“But wait! There’s more! Mr. Potcheck?”
“Thank you, Stacey. And thank you, our performers, for putting on a battle of the bands for the ages.”
The audience agreed.
“Now as you know, a considerable… we were expecting a large number of votes for these wonderful competitors, both here at the Oasis and all over the world, with each of the votes adding one dollar to our charitable efforts on behalf of children with sight or hearing challenges.” He paused a moment to keep his composure. “But I never, ever… Stacey, if you would.”
“Certainly. Folks, I am absolutely delighted to inform you that the Franklin Potcheck Charitable Foundation has benefited by your generosity to the tune of… how about if we just bring it up on the screens.”
The crowd collectively gasped then burst into applause.
$1,816,315,323.00
“One billion, eight hundred sixteen million, three hundred and fifteen thousand and three hundred twenty-three dollars!”
Potcheck, clearly overcome with emotion, turned away but was quickly comforted by Loveland, Watts, Cramer and Blair. Turning back to the audience, he smiled as he wiped away his joyful tears with one wrist, then the other. “Thank you all, again, so very very much,” he said, his voice cracking as he folded his hands and bowed. He then began to make his exit, hesitated, returned to the microphone and added, “Oh, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the show.”
The crowd rose to its feet and gave him a tremendous round as he made his way off the stage.
“And now,” King grinned, nodding to the musicians, “let’s see who takes home the trophy.” After waiting for silence, she reached behind her back, withdrew a small envelope then removed a small card. “Oh… my… God,” she breathed, shaking her head slowly. “I… ,” She paused. “I… this is gonna rock all y’alls worlds.” She paused again. “By a margin of just over five million votes the winner is… Pandora’s Obsession!”
The screens showed
CCBBA 905,488,128
Pandora’s Obsession 910,827,195
in red with the victor’s numbers blinking.
The runners-up immediately went to the winners, exchanging high-fives and hugs. Loveland, after cuddling Watts, turned to Polanski who stood away from the fray, nodding his head with a smile. Stepping across, she extended her hand which he accepted then pulled her in, planting his hands-on her waist while she wrapped her arms about his neck, the two of them rocking back and forth in a tight embrace.
“Jip? Shall we call it a tie?”
“Too close to call,” Spotswood chuckled.
“This… lemme see here, fractions were never my forte… wait, the answer just popped up on my monitor… we are looking at about one five hundredth of one percent of a difference between them. Astonishing.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Could have been a thousandth of one percent. Could have been a ten thousandth of one percent and I wouldn’t have been surprised, not with the performances these… what a concert. With a capital C.”
As the ovation continued to flood toward the stage, the musicians formed a haphazard line which straightened out as they again grasped hands then all bowed deeply once, then again, and finally a third time. After waving goodbyes, they stepped off in three groups of four apiece, Loveland and Polanski following behind, she with an arm around his waist, he draping one over her shoulders.
“We’re going into a 15 minute break here to let our sponsors share a few words with you, and then we’ll be back with part two,” Spotswood advised.
“Coming up, the members of CCBBA and Pandora’s Obsession will return to entertain us with, I’m told, some numbers most of us have never heard them perform, not to mention an act three that promises to be just this side of spectacular, here exclusively on Fox, home of the $1,00,000 World Standoff! Tournament. Stay tuned.”
***
The showgirl stepped out of the elevator on 33, greeted the security personnel, flashed her AAA credential then eased past the two metal detectors into the huge open area which for tonight, at least, had been transfigured into perhaps the most spectacular party room Las Vegas had ever experienced.
At the far end of the expansive floor space flashed what appeared to be a retro neon sign blinking on and off and announcing to the patrons in fifteen foot high script that they were now in The Wisconsin Bar. More than a dozen flat screens ranging from three to twelve yards on the diagonal were scattered about the walls broadcasting live feeds from the concert underway at the neighboring Oasis Theater. Six self-contained triangular adult beverage watering holes manner by four bartenders or barmaids each were strategically placed to form a larger pair of triangles, the mixologists dressed in identical uniforms except for the tints which were divided equally among those of the Standoff! bidding colors. Bracketing each of the bars were food service stations manned by two chefs apiece.
Tables with seating for from two to 16 guests, along with separate booths that could accommodate six, occupied much of the space along the windows on one side and the interior wall on the other. Beneath the neon sign was a rectangular riser fronted by a pair of microphoned podiums. At the dead center of the room was a triangular throwback disco dance floor including both subterranean and overhead lighting controlled by the three disc jockeys already perched in the adjacent, suspended control kiosk.
“What a beautiful setting to even things up,” she murmured.
***
“Welcome back to The Oasis Theater here at the Prism Resort and Casino in Las Vegas USA where we’re just past nine o’clock local time and waiting for the competitors in the just-completed Battle of the Bands, Christie Cramer, Billi Blair and The Alliance along with Pandora’s Obsession to return to the stage. I’m Connie Scanlan.”
“And I’m Jip Spotswood, wishing those of you who’ve already counted down to the New Year a happy and prosperous one.”
“I�
�ll second that, from everyone here at Fox.”
“Connie, we were watching some of the commercials and I’d have to say one of them really stood out. I don’t recall ever seeing a sixty second spot in which the product or service being pitched was, in fact, not pitched nor even identified, but nonetheless left me wanting more.”
“I presume you’re referring to that playful conversation between our percussionists Jimbeau Walsh and Mick Stanton?”
“Do you have any idea what they were up to?”
“As I was watching… an old problem in the advert trade is making a commercial so entertaining that you forget what the product is and in this instance it’s easy not to remember what’s being sold because, as you said, it wasn’t mentioned.”
“What am I missing here?”
“Nothing. Hard to miss something if you don’t know what that something is that you’re missing… or something like that.”
They both laughed.
“Any idea?”
“When Mick insisted that his was bigger than Jimbeau’s, who then replied it wasn’t the size of the wands it was the magic you do with them, well that could take us down a few roads that lend themselves to uncomfortable metaphors.”
Weekend at Prism Page 25
