Painted Black

by Greg Kihn

  Preston did the introductions. “This is Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones.”

  Julius looked Brian up and down. “You don’t say.”

  Brian shook his hand manfully. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cheeks.”

  “That’s Reverend Cheeks, son.”

  “Yes, of course. Reverend Cheeks.”

  “They tell me you’re a famous rock star. That’s the devil’s music. Are you ready to accept the Gospel of Jesus?”

  “I am.”

  “Have you ever been to a Gospel program like this?”

  “No, never.”

  “Get ready to be sanctified in the eyes of the Lord.”

  Preston said, “We don’t get too many white Englishmen here. In fact, you’re the first. I hope you dig it.”

  Julius went backstage and the band warmed up the crowd with some instrumentals. Every seat was packed. The anticipation mounted. Reverend Julius Cheeks was a holy man, and he was bringing his gift from God into this place.

  When Reverend Julius Cheeks entered the church this time, it was as the one true voice of God. His background group, the Sensational Nightingales, struck up an a capella call-and-response chorus. Everyone clapped on the beat.

  “Welllllll, you know I’m all right now, I said I’m all right now …” they sang. “I’m all right now, I said I’m all right now!”

  Julius Cheeks’s voice exploded behind them.

  “Since I fixed it up with Jesus … I’m all right now!”

  The very foundation of that old church began to rumble. Julius Cheeks’s voice was beyond anything Bobby, Clovis, and Brian had ever heard. It was a revelation. And the band hadn’t even come in yet!

  Julius Cheeks was in his own personal Gospel tent, talking and shouting at his own God. His gravelly voice pushed past James Brown, Wilson Picket, Ray Charles, and every other singer in the world. He made those R&B shouters sound as smooth as Mel Tormé. His voice was like forty miles of bad road. He shouted the lyrics until they ceased to be musical tones. They became pure energy. He screamed, but he screamed on key. Julius’s raised his voice by increments. Each phrase a little higher, a little more insistent, a little more intense then the last.

  Julius sang with astonishing conviction.

  “He taught me how to walk, and he taught me how to talk …” Julius voice rose again. “SINCE I FIXED IT UP WITH JESUS, I SAID I’M ALL RIGHT NOW!”

  The three white men, two of whom were English, had trouble making out the words, but the overall message was solid as a rock. They were transfixed. Julius never let it fade. Reverend Julius Cheeks was the master.

  “Since I … since I … since I … since I … SINCE I FIXED IT UP WITH JESUS, I’M ALL RIGHT NOW!”

  As Brian and Bobby watched, Julius came down the aisle and into the audience. People were singing and wailing and crying out “Amens!”

  Julius Cheeks touched people on their heads and on their shoulders as he went. He looked into their eyes and shouted the words of the Lord directly into their faces.

  After Reverend Julius Cheeks worked his way down to the first and second aisles of seats, he stopped and looked into Brian’s incredulous white face and cupped his hands around Brian’s jaw.

  “Do you feel it, son?”

  “Y-yes,” Brian sputtered.

  “Do you FEEL IT?”

  “Yes!”

  “Can I get a witness?”

  “Yes! I’ll be your witness!”

  Julius had started the a capella song “All Right Now,” strong and compelling, and then moved effortlessly into his sermon as part of the song, which he sang with incredible fervor.

  Then, suddenly, he dropped down on his knees and balled his hand into a fist and pretended to pound the music home. The room reacted as if they’d been shocked in their seats. It reminded Clovis of when he saw The Tingler at the Boulevard Theater in Baltimore and everyone jumped when William Castle’s seat buzzers went off. They jumped up as one, raising their hands in the air, and started singing along.

  Brian looked around him. He couldn’t believe it. Here he was in a storefront church in East Baltimore singing along with the great Julius Cheeks. Nothing else mattered anymore. Brian had been transported to another world, one that few Englishmen would ever see.

  He looked over at Preston Washington who had his eyes closed and was shouting out vocals like Solomon Burke.

  Several female members of the congregation were singing professional harmony, adding more layers of soul to the already heady gumbo Julius cooked up.

  Reverend Julius Cheeks had some athletic moves. He jumped to his feet and began to wave his hands above his head.

  Julius belted his sermon between the background vocals.

  “When I was in trouble, I didn’t have no God on my side, Jesus came unto me, said I am the truth and the light!”

  Brian was mesmerized. Julius Cheeks was a giant, and he couldn’t believe he’d never even heard of the guy.

  “I been to the water, been baptized, soul been converted, I feel all right, I said FATHER! FATHER!” Julius’s voice was on the verge of a super nova.

  “Father, Oh Father!”

  Brian felt the hair on the back of neck stand up. Julius cheeks took it even higher with an octave jump that made time stand still.

  “Yeeeeeaah!”

  The energy level had doubled. The song ended and everyone fell back, exhausted. The old ladies fanned themselves with the printed program, and Julius Cheeks took his place behind the podium.

  Julius was breathing heavily, having given the opening song all he had. Rivulets of sweat traced down the sides of his face.

  Brian and Bobby exchanged glances. Where did this guy come from? They were astonished. This was better than James Brown at the Apollo!

  Preston Washington patted Brian’s knee.

  “See? What did I tell you? This man is the greatest singer of all time.”

  Julius wiped his face with a white handkerchief. He paused and smiled at the congregation.

  “Praise Jesus!”

  “Praise Jesus,” they replied.

  The piano started playing.

  “You know, I went home the other day … and a ooooold lady was a-sittin’ on the porch. She had a son … he and I were raised together … and she asked me if I’d seen him … and I said no … I COULD SEE THE TEARS IN HER EYES!”

  Julius second sermon had already begun in the guise if another song. The band vamped behind Julius, shouts of “Amen!” and “Praise the Lord!” erupted spontaneously from the people in the pews. His backup singers sang a chorus of “Ahhs” behind him, reminiscent of doo-wop harmonies.

  Bobby got a good look at the patrons as the program unfolded. The congregation was made up of families, couples, old ladies, and well-dressed and polite children. Julius went out and laid hands on his flock. He sang and shouted and hugged and whispered and prayed. Every single moment of it was riveting in a way Brian Jones had never imagined. He’d seen greatness, he’d been part of greatness, and he’d found greatness thrown out with the trash, but he never dreamed of finding greatness here in East Baltimore. God bless Preston Washington.

  Reverend Julius Cheeks worked his way through a program of Gospel music and sermons, mixing the message just right. His charisma was tremendous. He dominated the room preaching and pontificating from the ceiling to the floor. When he rocked, it was with such force that the whole building shook. These people had come to receive the word! To them, Julius Cheeks was as close to the voice of God as they were going to get in their lifetime.

  Julius fell on his knees, cried out to the Lord, and beseeched the crowd to join him. He crawled around on the floor. Bobby could see the root elements of R&B; going from a whisper to a scream, getting down on the stage, even the famous cape routine. Julius invented it all and was content to do it for small groups
of people in churches for a fraction of the money a guy like James Brown would get. In fact, if Julius Cheeks ever decided to go secular and leave the Gospel scene, he could be the one of the greatest entertainers of all time. All this was going through Bobby’s head as he watched the master create his magic. It was a whole new world. It was the world where the R&B that he loved was born. Little by little, Bobby heard the staples of R&B plucked directly from what Julius Cheeks was doing.

  Julius was the missing link.

  According to Preston, Julius did all his big hits, “Waiting for My Child to Come Home,” “How Far Is Heaven?” and finished with a rousing version of “Morning Train.”

  During his encore, “Almost Persuaded to Turn My Back on God,” he told a rambling story about how they were trying to get to California back in the 1950s where they would be “backgroundin’” Sister Rosetta Thorpe. They ran out of money in Tucson, and a man with a nightclub offered to give them enough money to get all the way to California if the group would just sing for the crowd.

  Julius’s voice was ravaged from singing his heart out. He shouted out the message.

  “You mean sing the devil’s music? I was almost persuaded! I thought about it! But, what a mistake I would’ve made!” According to Julius, God led them to California. The program was timeless. Bobby had no idea how long they had been in the church. When Julius Cheeks opened his mouth, the most amazing sounds came out. Nobody wanted it to end.

  Walking out of the church, Dust Bin Bob, Clovis, and Brian Jones were in a daze. The galvanizing performance by Julius Cheeks had blown their minds. Now that Brian had felt the presence of the Holy Ghost, he wondered what other ghosts were out there. Something in Julius Cheeks’s sermon had struck a chord with him. A spiritual seed had germinated somewhere in his heart. He felt as though he were walking a foot off the ground.

  “That was amazing,” Brian said.

  “Amen,” Clovis muttered.

  “I told you you’d get sanctified, didn’t I?” Preston said. “Now, who’s got the spirit of the Lord in them?”

  They all replied at once.

  “I had no idea places like this existed,” Brian said. “That was life-changing. We’ve gone beyond blues, beyond R&B, beyond everything …”

  “Now you know where the music comes from.”

  Preston took them back to the Hi-Dee-Ho Soul Shack and reached behind his desk. He pulled out a quart jar full of clear liquid and poured four shots.

  “Here’s to your health,” Preston said, and threw it back in his throat.

  The others did the same.

  “Who-eee! What is that shit?” Clovis howled.

  “That’s genuine White Lightning. Here, have another slash.”

  Preston poured another four shots and threw it back even quicker than the first set.

  Dust Bin Bob’s eyes watered.

  “That’s some strong hooch.”

  “Damn right it is. Now, are you ready to hear old Preston’s story?”

  “Yes,” said Bobby. “I really want to know.”

  Preston nodded slowly.

  “Well, now that you been sanctified, I can tell you.”

  He took his time, making himself comfortable in his office chair and loosening his tie.

  “Bruce Spangler has a thing for young black women. It’s gotten him into trouble more than once. As Baltimore’s number-one narc, he had a chance to make many deals with the city’s biggest players. Believe me, these aren’t the kinds of guys you fuck with.”

  Preston paused and sent the quart jar of White Lightning around the room again.

  “Are you with me so far?”

  They all nodded. Preston’s voice lowered to a very un-Preston-like whisper. “Listen up.”

  They all moved in a little closer.

  “The Gambino family runs this town from New York, and they’ve been affiliated with Angelo Arnello for many years.

  “Doing business in Baltimore requires a certain … shall we say … relationship with Angelo, which I have. I knew his father.”

  Preston swallowed another sip of the powerful fluid and cleared his throat.

  “Bruce Spangler became involved with a sixteen-year-old street pusher named Anita. He got her an apartment, gave her money, jewelry, dope, kept her hidden from his wife and family, and for a while everything was all right.”

  “What happened?”

  “Driving home about three in the morning, he rolled his car into the black waters of the inner harbor with Anita in it. He got out; she didn’t. It looked like his career was over. It was a huge scandal. Do you know what Anita’s last name was? It was Washington. She was my niece. Now she’s my dead niece.”

  Brian’s eyes got big.

  “So when he swept it under the carpet, I kept quiet. I knew the score. Later on when he busted me, I called Angelo. He told Spangler to back off. When he didn’t do it fast enough, Angelo sent him a message. He threatened to expose the whole thing. Then he kidnapped one of his kids and sent him one of the boy’s fingers.”

  “Holy shit …”

  “He threatened to blow the lid off the whole thing.”

  Preston paused, letting the story sink in.

  “Needless to say, Bruce Spangler got right in line before further surgery was required.”

  Brian, Bobby, and Clovis were spellbound by the story. They hung on every word.

  “So, if you have any problems with Bruce Spangler, I can always give Angelo another call. He knows where all the bodies are buried. Believe me, Spangler’s got no friends among those guys. Now that he’s a fed, they hate him even more.”

  Brian said, “Can we get him to leave me alone?”

  Preston looked at Brian long and hard.

  “Yes, I believe we can.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Monterey Pop

  Baltimore’s Friendship Airport was sparsely populated as Dust Bin Bob, Clovis, and Brian Jones made their way to the gate. Erlene, Cricket, and Winston were there to wish them bon voyage. They hugged in the jetway.

  “Take care of yourself, hon,” Erlene said. “And watch out for Brian.”

  “We will,” Clovis said.

  Brian’s clothes always drew stares. He never wore anything normal anymore. His wardrobe was as colorful and exotic as a Moroccan prince. He walked through the airport like an emissary from outer space.

  They flew from Baltimore to San Francisco, rented a station wagon and drove south to Monterey with Clovis behind the wheel. Bobby rode shotgun, and Brian sat in the back. As they neared the fairgrounds, they began to see groups of long-haired rock fans streaming into the venue.

  “I’ve never seen so many freaks in one place,” Clovis said.

  “This is going to be great,” Brian said.

  They drove slowly through the crowd to the VIP parking area. Californian sunshine poured down from the sky. The smell of food cooking drifted through the air. Marijuana smoke wafted freely across the grounds.

  It was a glorious afternoon in every sense of the word. Clovis had believed the trip would be good for Brian, and so far they had already witnessed a life-changing performance by the Reverend Julius Cheeks thanks to Preston Washington. They couldn’t wait to see Ravi Shankar, Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, the Who, Hendrix, and of course, the great Otis Redding.

  As soon as Brian got out of the car, he was inundated with fans. Most of the musicians at the festival admired and respected Brian. Here, at Monterey, he was a conquering hero. His problems were behind him here.

  Brian wasted no time. He wanted to walk through the crowd and soak up the atmosphere. Bobby realized he’d left his camera in the car. And while he and Clovis went to fetch it, Brian wandered away.

  Bobby retrieved the camera. As he did so, Clovis grabbed his arm.

  “Look!” he whispered, and pointed across th
e parking lot to a white van. Getting out of the van were none other than Bruce Spangler and Acid King Leon Silverman. Leon had his brown leather briefcase, the same one the cops didn’t search at Redlands. It was generally believed by Mick and Keith that Silverman was the snitch and had been working for News of the World.

  His disappearance after the Redlands bust was suspicious enough, as was the fact the cops had not charged him with anything. To see him here at Monterey was a shock.

  Bobby raised his camera and took half a dozen pictures of the group.

  “Holy shit! What are those two doing here?”

  Fascination turned to consternation when Renee got out of the van behind them. Bobby took a few more pictures of her alone and with the group.

  Clovis gasped.

  “It’s that chick that Brian had in Morocco. Something’s going on here.”

  “I know who she is. I’ve met her. She’s obsessed with Brian.”

  She walked briskly away from the van and the three men.

  “They’re working together. We better warn Brian.”

  They had only been gone five minutes, but when they returned, Brian had already left the backstage area to wander free among the hippies.

  Clovis and Bobby searched for Brian. What they didn’t know was that Brian had his own agenda, and her name was Nico, the exotic blond German chanteuse of The Velvet Underground, one of the hippest New York bands. Nico was part of Andy Warhol’s Factory scene and Brian had met her briefly the last time he was in New York. She was just his type; tall, blond, German, and bitchy. Her high cheekbones and aristocratic German accent more than reminded him of Anita. They made plans to get together at the festival. Nico hadn’t forgotten.

  Nico found Brian before he could find her. Brian had been on her radar screen since they first met. To be seen and photographed with Brian Jones at Monterey would only make her a bigger star. Brian was only too happy to oblige. He couldn’t wait to get her naked back in the hotel at night’s end.

  A small crowd of people gathered around Brian. They moved through the fairgrounds as one. People offered Brian joints, hash pipes, and pills of every type, and he accepted them all without reservation.