Painted Black

by Greg Kihn

  “A jugless jug band! Brilliant!”

  Cricket said, “That’s about as far away from the Beatles as you can get.”

  Bobby said, “Well, no, not actually. The Beatles started as the Quarrymen, a skiffle group in the tradition of Lonnie Donegan. Skiffle is very much like American jug band music except, like your friends, it has no jug. That’s a southern-fried American thing. They both use homemade instrumentation—washboard, washtub bass, stuff like that.”

  “You’ve got to meet Tom Naylor,” Bonnie said, “He’s the lead guitarist.”

  “Sounds like an interesting fellow.”

  “You’ll love him.”

  The party was crowded. The tiny rooms of those pre–Civil War stone and mortar houses on Mill Race Road seemed to burst. Bloody Mary and Her Black Plague Trolley Car Museum were playing in the backyard. People crowded the makeshift stage and danced. The air was redolent of skunky pot smoke and barbecue. Bobby studied the jugless jug band. Bloody Mary, the supposed leader of the group, was either the bearded guy wearing a WWII leather flight helmet complete with goggles or the flashy kid with a painter’s cap and granny glasses playing guitar.

  All the bands these days seemed to have long weird names like Country Joe and the Fish or Big Brother and the Holding Company.

  The guys in Bloody Mary were excellent musicians. The lead guitarist played a jazzy cowboy blend that sounded part Les Paul and part Bob Wills. The fiddle player played that same gypsy jazz style as the guitarist, and it cooked. The banjo player was the guy in the leather flight helmet. A washboard player with metal thimbles on his fingers scratched out a crazy beat.

  A “gut-bucket bass” completed the ensemble, consisting of a washtub turned upside down with a hole in the middle of it through which a bass string was threaded and held by a washer. The bass string was attached to a broom pole at the other end. Ingeniously, the broom pole had a groove notched in its base, and it fit against rim of the washtub. When you pulled back on the pole, the string became taut and the notes went up, and when you let it go slack, the notes went down. The washtub bass was amazingly loud and sounded like a real bass.

  They played a song Bobby vaguely knew called “I’m Satisfied with My Gal.”

  It bounced along with an infectious ragtime beat. The fiddle player did a jazzy solo, and they finished with a flurry of showy riffs. Bobby studied the washtub bass player.

  The band put down their instruments and picked up beers.

  “Break time,” shouted Tom Naylor, a good-looking man a few years younger than Bobby.

  Bonnie introduced Bobby to Tom. They shook hands.

  “Watch out, he’s English.”

  “Can you show me how to play that washtub bass?”

  “Sure. It’s real easy. You’re basically playing by ear. There are no frets, no actual notes; you approximate the notes by pulling back on the pole. See?”

  Tom showed him.

  “I noticed the guy was wearing leather work gloves when he played.”

  “Yeah, those bass strings can rip up your fingers something fierce. You have to wear the gloves to protect your hands. Spider John uses a real bass string, but to tell you the truth, a clothesline works just as well. Here. Why don’t you give it a try?”

  He handed the pole to Bobby and showed him how to position himself. Bobby pulled back on the pole and thumped some notes. It sounded surprisingly good.

  “Try walking the bass.”

  Bobby knew that phrase meant a group of notes that climbed up the scale then walked back down during a single phrase. It was widely used in jump blues and uptown R&B.

  He tried it and it worked. Bobby was thrilled.

  “Hey, I can do this.”

  “It’s not rocket science.”

  Bobby continued to fiddle around with the washtub bass. It was truly a homemade treasure. In no time, he was thumping out riffs to Beatles songs.

  “Bonnie tells me you own an antique store.”

  “Yes, Dingles of Read.”

  “I know that place. I’m a bit of a collector myself.”

  Bobby perked up.

  “Really? What do you collect?”

  “I collect old stereographic viewers. I’ve got a bunch of them.”

  “Stereographic viewers? Would you consider selling some?”

  “Actually, yes. I would actually like to make a trade. I also collect antique instruments for the band.”

  “Would you be interested in an antique harmonium?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  Bobby handed Tom a business card. “Come by the shop.”

  “Will do.”

  “You’re from Liverpool, aren’t you? You sound like the Beatles.”

  “Yes, I can’t deny it. It’s the Scouse in me.”

  Just then they heard a scream and somebody fell down the steep, narrow stairs. Tom and Bobby went to check and saw Spider John lying at the bottom of the stairs, legs akimbo, yelping in pain. Spider John was as thin as a rail and seemed to be all elbows and knees. When he fell down the stairs, it sounded like a loose cannon in rough seas.

  “My wrist! I think I broke my wrist!” Spider John whined. “Shit! It hurts!”

  Tom went down the steps and examined John’s wrist.

  “It’s already swelling up. We’ve got to get this man to the hospital.”

  Several partygoers offered to take Spider John to the emergency room. They helped him out the door.

  “That’s what you get from excessive drinking.”

  “Was he drunk?”

  “Well, let me put it this way, he wasn’t sober.”

  “There goes my bass player,” Tom said.

  The rest of the group gathered around Tom. He introduced them to Bobby.

  “This is Donald Slick, fiddle player extraordinaire; Jo Jo Snuggs, washboard, kazoo, and harp; Buck Armacost, banjo.” They all shook hands.

  Donald said, “What are we going to do for a bass player? We got a gig next Saturday night at the Foghorn.”

  “Shit!” said Buck. “We need a replacement. Does anybody know any washtub bass players?”

  “Are you kidding me? Spider John was the only one in the greater Baltimore area. We’re screwed.”

  Tom looked at Bobby.

  “How about you? You were sounding good just now.”

  “I’ve only been playing for five minutes!”

  “Let’s do a song and see how it sounds.”

  “What do you know?”

  Bobby said the first song that popped into his mind.

  “‘Rock Island Line,’ by Lonnie Donegan. It’s a skiffle classic.”

  “We know it. Let’s jazz it up.”

  They picked up their instruments and played the song. Bobby didn’t know what he was thinking. He was obviously out of his league, so he just dove in. It took Bobby a few minutes to find his groove. Thumping the washtub bass with the thick leather gloves was awkward, but Bobby eventually got the hang of it. He held his own.

  After that they played several more hopped-up blues standards like “Big Boss Man” by Jimmy Reed, “Can’t Judge a Book By Lookin’ at the Cover” by Bo Diddley, and “That’s All Right, Mama” by Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup. Bobby enjoyed every moment of it.

  Suddenly, he realized what being in a band was all about. He caught a little of the magic his friends made. For a split second, he felt it. This must be what it’s like for the Beatles, he thought.

  At the end of the jam session, all the members of the group gathered around Bobby.

  “Would you fill in for John?”

  Bobby grinned. “Sure. I’d be glad to. Sounds like an adventure.”

  “The gig is at the Foghorn Folklore Center next Saturday night. Can you be there?”

  “Don’t you think we should rehearse more before the gig?”
>
  “Good idea. Let’s shoot for Wednesday night. Right here on Mill Race Road.”

  Cricket and Bonnie found Bobby playing the washtub bass, thumping out rhythms behind Tom’s guitar work. He wore the biggest grin Cricket could remember seeing on him.

  “Guess what, honey?” Bobby said. “I’m in a jugless jug band.”

  “Don’t you need a license for that?”

  Chapter Eight

  Under My Thumb

  Clovis answered on the first ring. The local time in London was 8:00 p.m., and Clovis happened to be standing next to the phone.

  “Who is it?” Clovis snapped.

  “It’s me. Bobby. What the hell are you doing picking up on the first ring? You never do that.”

  Bobby heard Clovis cough.

  “You won’t believe it if I told you.”

  “What’s going on, Clovis?”

  “I just got a call from Brian. He’s in a panic. Anita ran off with Keith, and the whole band just flew the scene without telling him. They just abandoned him in Morocco.”

  “Keith? Holy shit! That’s bad.”

  Clovis cleared his throat.

  “Yeah, and Brian’s damn near suicidal. To him, it was the ultimate betrayal. His friend, his band mate, his musical brother, stealing Anita and running away like a schoolboy. He’s a mess.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m packin’. I’m going to Morocco to collect Brian and bring the pieces back to London. According to Brian, they took the money, credit cards, the stash, and most of his records. Just left him high and dry. He’s crushed.”

  “Why didn’t he just call the Stones office?”

  “He didn’t want to. He’s embarrassed. The Anita thing damn near destroyed him.”

  “It’s hard to believe that Keith would do that to him.”

  “He’s absolutely devastated about it.”

  Bobby whistled. “I’m lucky I’m not there or he’d make me go to Morocco, too.”

  “Ha! He wants you to come. He told me to track you down and insist that you come with me.”

  Bobby’s voice was firm.

  “I can’t leave right now. It’s out of the question.”

  “Well … That’s what he wants.”

  “Tell him you couldn’t find me. Tell him you don’t have my address in Baltimore. Tell him anything.”

  “Hey, man. I really don’t care. All I know is that I, Clovis Hicks, have to fly to North Africa and bring back the world’s most famous basket case. I don’t know what Brian was up to the night before Anita flew the coop, but it must have been some nasty business for her to run off with Keith like that. She can take a lot. She’s tough. But he must have pushed her over the edge. When he gets physical with her, she fights back. They fight like cats and dogs.”

  “You think this will break up the Stones?”

  Bobby had genuine concerns. “I remember Brian telling me, ‘If the Stones have woman problems, the Stones get new women.’ Little did he know …”

  “I thought Keith said that.”

  “Who knows? It’s ironic either way, no matter who said it.”

  Clovis paused. “I think that goes for guitar players, too. If the Stones have guitar player problems, the Stones get new guitar players.”

  “You think so? It’s hard to imagine the Rolling Stones without Brian Jones.”

  “Somehow, the Stones will survive. I wouldn’t give you two shits for Brian’s future with the band, though. He’s not going to be able to stand up there every night and act like nothing’s wrong with the guy who betrayed him and stole his woman. I know Brian. It will kill him. Mark my words. He’s going to let this thing eat away at him until he winds up dead, crazy, fired, or all three.”

  Bobby sighed.

  “So, you’re going to Morocco?”

  “Yep. Check this out. I’m taking the Marrakech Express down from Tangier to Casablanca to Marrakech.”

  “Those names sound so romantic and adventurous. I’ve never been to any of them.”

  Clovis snorted. “Well, it’s a pain in the ass as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Is Brian so fucked up he can’t even make a plane reservation?”

  “That’s about the size of it, pardner.”

  “How did we get here?” Bobby said.

  Clovis chuckled.

  “You promised John Lennon you’d take care of Brian Jones, that’s how we got here. Don’t you remember? Then you left town and told John good ole Clovis would babysit.”

  “You’re the one who promised John, not me.”

  “I should’ve never opened my mouth.”

  The transatlantic phone call crackled with static for a moment. It reminded Bobby how far away he was from London, Clovis, and the rest of his friends. He honestly wondered if he could make the transition to an uneventful life in Baltimore running an antique store.

  Bobby sighed. He felt guilty leaving Clovis alone to carry the load.

  “We can’t let John down.”

  “Yeah, that’s easy for you to say. You’re over there. I’m the one who’s going to North Africa.”

  “When I said we’d help Brian, I meant in the most general way. We didn’t sign on for a twenty-four-hour personal care.”

  “I think what John meant was that if something super bad comes down, you’ll know. It will be spontaneous.”

  Spontaneous. That was the word. Bobby’s mind flashed back to the moment in 1966 when he flipped his brother, Clive, over the edge of the roof at Manila Airport. He’d done it spontaneously. There was no thought, no decision making; it was pure gut reaction. He acted to save the lives of his friends, the Beatles. He’d relived that moment a thousand times, and each time it turned out the same with Bobby looking over the roof at his brother’s broken body fifteen stories below. He was still alive, but he’d never walk or talk again.

  Bobby suddenly remembered the reason he’d called.

  “Hey, I just joined a jug band. Actually, we’re a jugless jug band. I’m playing washtub bass. Our first gig is Saturday night.”

  “Well, whoop-dee-do! I’m going to Morocco and you’re playing in a fuckin’ jug band? What’s wrong with this picture?”

  “I saw Bruce Spangler in the news the other day. You were right. They sent him over to work with the London police as a consultant, and according to the Baltimore Sun, he says he’s going to bust more rock stars.”

  “Another great moment in law enforcement history,” Clovis deadpanned.

  Bobby paused.

  “I wish I knew what was going on with that asshole.”

  “Seek the wisdom of Preston Washington. He knows everything.”

  “Preston Washington? You mean at the Hi-Dee-Ho Soul Shack?”

  Clovis said. “He knows more about what’s going on in Baltimore than anybody.”

  Bobby hadn’t thought about Preston in over a year. The large black man ran one of the greatest record stores in the known universe. Bobby never left Baltimore for London without a buying trip to the Hi-Dee-Ho Soul Shack. Preston was an affable shopkeeper with an encyclopedic knowledge of R&B music. He knew everybody. Bobby had taken the Beatles there after their concert at the Baltimore Civic Center. Preston had opened the store for a private shopping adventure for the Fabs. The Beatles loved it.

  “What can Preston tell me?” Bobby asked.

  Clovis chuckled. “He can probably tell you everything you want to know about Bruce Spangler.”

  “You mean they know each other?”

  “He busted Preston once. Cost him a lot of money. He almost lost the store. You could say that Preston Washington has more than a passing interest in Bruce Spangler. Once you’ve been busted by a guy, you follow his law enforcement career forever.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Well, now
you do. Go talk to Preston. And while you’re at it, drop in on Manny Brillstein at Livingston’s Loans on Baltimore Street where we first met.”

  “The pawnbroker?”

  “Manny’s got connections. He has to trust you first, but if he likes you, he’ll fill your ear. If you mention my name, he might even remember you were a customer.”

  “He would know about Spangler?”

  “Manny’s an old-timer. You can’t run a pawnshop on The Block without having underworld ties. The mob owns half the real estate down there. As the top narc in town, Spangler made all kinds of deals. He’s in it up to his eyeballs. Then he went to Washington where the shit is really deep.”

  Bobby said, “Why would they bring in a guy like that to Scotland Yard? He’s a thug.”

  “There are mobs on both sides of the Atlantic. Maybe they figured busting rock stars takes the heat off of them and they made a deal with the Americans. Who knows?”

  There was a pause in the conversation while both parties considered what had been said.

  Bobby said, “You realize the cops will be on Brian like flies on fecal matter the minute he steps off the plane from Morocco.”

  “I know, man. I know. I’m not looking forward to this. I need a place to hide him.”

  “Hide him at your place.”

  “Erlene would bust my balls for that. Hey, how about your place? It’s empty.”

  Bobby waited a beat. He didn’t want to volunteer his apartment. The thought of Brian Jones in his apartment where he wife and son lived made his nervous.

  “Come on, man! ’Fess up. Your place is perfect.”

  “I don’t want Brian in my place. God knows what kind of damage he could do, not just to me and my stuff, but to my reputation. I don’t need to get evicted.”

  “Think about it.”

  “I did, and the answer is no.”

  Clovis’s voice changed. “You forget I’ve got a key, and you’re on the other side of the world.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “I would.”

  “Clovis! Goddammit!”

  “I’ll call you when I get to Morocco. I gotta go.”

  Clovis perspired profusely in the hot shade of the midday Moroccan sun. He’d been traveling alone for two days and had just arrived at Brian’s hotel.