Lightbringer 013

Chapter Eleven

Take Off

After playing together for the first time things changed. Before they had spent the day alone or in small groups working on their pet projects, playing for each other only in the evenings after their dinner. Afterwards they concentrated mainly on their music, trying to make it work in all variations that they had brought with them. When they got that down they explored the possibilities that had opened up through their efforts.

Nearly two weeks had past in which everyone was looking for the signature sound of the band. They never could quite put a finger on it though. It was then that D.C. had proclaimed that the defining quality of their sound was that it was forever changing always switching paths. While this soon devolved into a heated debate about the usefulness of genres one side arguing that it gave an framework to work with while the other side insisted that it led to a slow death of over specialisation. Both camps brought examples of iconic bands some which had survived for decades following their signature style without ever stopping to move forward, while the others brought examples of bands equally immortal who had danced all over the genres never stopping on one place ever pushing forward.

It was Cray who calmed everyone down in the end. Despite him having developed into the group’s clown, calling his style deadpan silliness, it had turned out that he was very skilled at artful diplomacy. He entered the fray as King Cray in his complete regalia which now consisted of his red towel, a crown made out of burnt out electrical components constantly growing and a sceptre of shining polished wood. Walking around he asked every one for their favourite genre, their influences, the way they’d like to go with the band. After everyone had voiced their opinion he had stopped in front of Kim who was the most high strung at that moment and gave her the sceptre.

“For now you are the Queen and everyone else will follow you.” Cray said. “Once you’ve done your song you give the sceptre to the next one, who will then decide where to go.” He looked at all of them one at a time. “The sceptre will be handed down until everyone had a go. Then we will start the cycle anew. Should the day come when we run out of ideas, the sceptre will stay in the middle of the camp so that anyone with a good idea can take it and lead us forward. That way everyone will get to play what they like.” he nodded sagely. “Agreed?”

What followed was some murmuring, shoulder shrugging and nodding. It looked like everyone agreed.

“If I am king…” Kim said after a while, “does that make you the Queen?”

* * *

The plan worked. Turner was quite happy that there had not been any need for him to intervene. The doubts that had been eating at him were by now mostly gone, only ever appearing deep in the night when he was haunted by half lost memories trying to return to his consciousness. He always felt that he was forgetting something vitally important, something that needed his attention. A feeling that quickly shifted into the impression that he was missing important things that he should have taken care of a long time ago.

These moments were now few and far between. What ever was missing from his past faded into the background because so much was happening in the present. So much still had to be done to move into a future that was not fraught with failure.

Still. Building up his confidence did not increase his motivation to turn into some kind of leader figure. While it was important to have someone as a nucleating point at the centre of things, to Turner the most crucial aspect of his project was that it became self-propagating. The idea was that music would again move forward. Not in a crawl but in an explosion. Young people should want to rebel. Parents should descend into increasingly ridiculous levels of paranoia, taking away their authoritarian dignity thus giving the younger generation space in which to develop. The state should become worried because it was confronted with something new, something it did not understand. The establishment should be scared.

The security of the old had to be challenged by the magic chaos of the possible.

He could not be a leader, much less The Leader, of such a thing. If it was all about him it was not about growth, instead it became about the ambitions and dreams of one person imposed on everyone else. Even if he did well and his action remained righteous, something Adrian very much doubted, once he was gone everything would fall apart. Hell, it would probably start to fall apart much earlier when his own fans would start to tell him how his revolution was supposed to run. The high priests below his prophetic throne would start to furhter their own agendas in his name.

No.

It had to become a movement. An ideal. It had to move on its own. The idea itself had to touch the soul of the people, convincing them that it was a good thing. All those individuals should feel its power and rise with it. This was not about a single person, it was about everyone being swept away in a surge of sound.

The plan worked. Turner was quite happy that there had not been any need for him to intervene. The doubts that had been eating at him were by now mostly gone, only ever appearing deep in the night when he was haunted by half lost memories trying to return to his consciousness. He always felt that he was forgetting something vitally important, something that needed his attention. A feeling that quickly shifted into the impression that he was missing important things that he should have taken care of a long time ago.

These moments were now few and far between. What ever was missing from his past faded into the background because so much was happening in the present. So much still had to be done to move into a future that was not fraught with failure.

Still. Building up his confidence did not increase his motivation to turn into some kind of leader figure. While it was important to have someone as a nucleating point at the centre of things, to Turner the most crucial aspect of his project was that it became self-propagating. The idea was that music would again move forward. Not in a crawl but in an explosion. Young people should want to rebel. Parents should descend into increasingly ridiculous levels of paranoia, taking away their authoritarian dignity thus giving the younger generation space in which to develop. The state should become worried because it was confronted with something new, something it did not understand. The establishment should be scared.

The security of the old had to be challenged by the magic chaos of the possible.

He could not be a leader, much less The Leader, of such a thing. If it was all about him it was not about growth, instead it became about the ambitions and dreams of one person imposed on everyone else. Even if he did well and his action remained righteous, something Adrian very much doubted, once he was gone everything would fall apart. Hell, it would probably start to fall apart much earlier when his own fans would start to tell him how his revolution was supposed to run. The high priests below his prophetic throne would start to furhter their own agendas in his name.

No.

It had to become a movement. An ideal. It had to move on its own. The idea itself had to touch the soul of the people, convincing them that it was a good thing. All those individuals should feel its power and rise with it. This was not about a single person, it was about everyone being swept away in a surge of sound.

Cray’s idea was perfect. He had united the group with an idea that granted them all the right to remain individuals yet at the same time working in harmony with the group. In essence that thought had already existed within the group. They had been playing at it since they had arrived at the beach. Cray had only put it into words, turned it from vague into defined.

“Let’s just hope that works.” said Turner to the night.

* * *

The plan worked. Turner was quite happy that there had not been any need for him to intervene. The doubts that had been eating at him were by now mostly gone, only ever appearing deep in the night when he was haunted by half lost memories trying to return to his consciousness. He always felt that he was forgetting something vitally important, something that needed his attention. A feeling that quickly shifted into the impression that he was missing important things that he should have taken care of a long time ago.

These moments were now few and far between. What ever was missing from his past faded into the background because so much was happening in the present. So much still had to be done to move into a future that was not fraught with failure.

Still. Building up his confidence did not increase his motivation to turn into some kind of leader figure. While it was important to have someone as a nucleating point at the centre of things, to Turner the most crucial aspect of his project was that it became self-propagating. The idea was that music would again move forward. Not in a crawl but in an explosion. Young people should want to rebel. Parents should descend into increasingly ridiculous levels of paranoia, taking away their authoritarian dignity thus giving the younger generation space in which to develop. The state should become worried because it was confronted with something new, something it did not understand. The establishment should be scared.

The security of the old had to be challenged by the magic chaos of the possible.

He could not be a leader, much less The Leader, of such a thing. If it was all about him it was not about growth, instead it became about the ambitions and dreams of one person imposed on everyone else. Even if he did well and his action remained righteous, something Adrian very much doubted, once he was gone everything would fall apart. Hell, it would probably start to fall apart much earlier when his own fans would start to tell him how his revolution was supposed to run. The high priests below his prophetic throne would start to furhter their own agendas in his name.

No.

It had to become a movement. An ideal. It had to move on its own. The idea itself had to touch the soul of the people, convincing them that it was a good thing. All those individuals should feel its power and rise with it. This was not about a single person, it was about everyone being swept away in a surge of sound.

Despite having settled south it became apparent that autumn was drawing closer. The nights were getting chilly, while during the days Kim stopped complaining about her hands and or feet being warm.

“I think it’s time to go back into the world.” said Sam one evening during dinner. Surprising everyone by voicing such a straight forward opinion. While she had become much more open since the day she joined the band, she still preferred being a neutral force standing one step removed from everyone else, usually only voicing her opinion when directly asked for it.

“When we arrived here we were a band only in principle. Now though, now we can play a concert at the drop of a hat.”

“We are also losing our edge.” said D.C. monopolising all the looks. Despite being in the centre of of a flurry of assassin looks he remained calm, cutting thick chunks out of the apple he was eating. “Sam is right by now we can grab our instruments and go. Which means that we have stopped growing.”

“Fuck that shit, D.C. We are still constantly evolving. We never sound the same. Ever.” Said Kim who was entertaining the thought of adding some real daggers to the ones she was furiously looking into D.C.

“Sure. But it’s slow. Remember the first two three weeks were we started playing together?”

Kim nodded, still ready to administer some murdering on her friend if he was not careful about his choice of words.

“Back then revolutionary shit was happening every single day. Now? Now we sound much smoother, but the revolutions don’t happen anymore.” D.C. looked at Kim still perfectly calm. He popped a piece of apple into his mouth, munching on it slowly. “Right?”

“O.K. granted.” Kim admitted.

“Ah, so the prophecy was right!” Cray said.

“Huh?” Kim asked, not quite in the mood for Cray’s theatrics.

“Once upon a time it was said people moved into this bay that we call home. They had come here to do the strange ritual of rehearsal to turn noise into music. But that was a long, long time ago. No one knows what happened to them. No one. But me…”

Despite her self Kim said, “OK. Go ahead. What happened to those people?”

“It took them ages upon ages but in the end they turned into a band a band that would go out into the world and rock it to its very molten core!”

“The core of the Earth is actually solid…” said D.C. deflating Cray for a moment. But the keyboarder quickly regained his composure.

“That is just a metaphor your dimwit. The important thing is, that this ancient people survived.” Cray’s voice was slowly turning into a whisper, “Through all those eons they worked on their music turning into The Band.” he was now leaning forward, depsite themselves the others were now also leaning closer, “And here comes the scary part…” Cray suddenly raised his voice again shining into his face from below with a torch “These people are uuuuuuussss!”

“You’re so full of shit Cray.” said Kim chuckling.

“Yeah. But I also happen to be right.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I was getting worried that you were going native on me.” said Darius. “I knew that this whole thing you are doing here is important to you. I was starting to wonder though if you were not starting to vanish down your assholes lately, I have to admit.”

“When were you going to tell us about that?” asked Turner who had to admit that he had been having to much fun to notice anything.

“Well.” said Darius stroking his beard. “It was not serious yet. As you all know I’ve been doing the rounds for a few years now. Thing is in time you learn to respect that artists will at times go a bit… strange? There was this one guy I once worked for. Was one of these big world tour things. You now the type 50 countries in 40 days type thing. Dude had hired me to take care of his guitars who were the like his holy relics so he wanted to have an expert he could trust to look after them…”

“So how comes he chose you? Of all people?” asked Cray with in his curious child voice.

“…because I had killed all the other roadies that could have done the job by stuffing their noses and mouths with leeches. So that as they bled to death they also suffocated. In their sleep.”

“Oh.”

“Can I come to the point of my story now?”

“Please be my guest.” said Cray with thin cracking voice.

“Right. So where was I? World tour… guitar dude… Right. So I was to look after his guitars, see that nothing happened to them. Get them through fucking customs. The whole nine yards. That way I got to know him quite a bit. Really vain fucker that one. But also generous and driven by a deep love of music and a deeper seated hardwired need to impress people. So. This guy he had this tendency to vanish so deep down his own ass that he practically disappeared from this plane of reality. I’ve seen my share of of asstrologers but that guy was something else. Thin is when ever he returned from his spelunking adventures he usually did so loaded with creative gold. It was really, really impressive. So when I see good people do the colon dive I give them the benefit of doubt.”

“I’m still not sure whether to be offended or not.” mused D.C.

“No need to be offended son. Looks like you get to stay in the light.”

“Time to book some gigs.” said Sam obviously out to set a new personal record in taking the initiative.

Turner was happily listening to the conversation, curious to see where it was going. It took him a while until he noticed the thick silence. He looked up from the spot where he was doodling in the sand with a stick discovering that everyone was now staring at him.

“What?” Turner asked.

“Gig?” said Kim. As this got now reaction out of Turner she added, “Booking?”

“Me?” asked Turner.

“Who else?” asked Sam.

“What about…” Turner stopped right there. They were right. In the band they were all musicians together. King Cray was a bit of a shadow king, but that was done in good humour. Once Turner had witnessed a conversation between Cray and Kim were Cray was telling her that he was worried that one day he could use his talent for manipulation for something sinister. Kim had patted him on the shoulder and told him not to worry. She would warn him before that happened, should that fail she would personally kick his arse so hard that the sheer force of impact would turn Cray into plasma. That was the band. A well balanced unit internally. But to the outside?

“No. I can’t be…” Turner said blanching. “… I can’t be the manager of the band! That’s ridiculous!”

“While I won’t disagree with the latter,” said Darius “right now you are the defacto manager. You brought us together. You did all the organising. You have that list of yours, the mission, the quest and all that crap. Which for all means an purposes makes you the manager.” Darius smile was now wide, his teeth shining in the flickering light of the campfire. He patted Turner on the back to make him feel better. It didn’t it was like being smacked on the back with a whale.

* * *

Once Turner had accepted his fate, he had left the camp with Darius trying to get them booked. Turner had been entertaining the thought of using his infernal powers to open up some sweet venues. Playing there would instantly put them in the spotlight allowing them to practically explode into the scene out of nowhere. He was about to call an agent he knew to make things happen when he recived a text message:

Remember the price you will have to pay.

Morning Star

He decided that it would be best if they did it the hard way. So he spent a week going from one place to the next trying to land the band a gig. He started ambitious and realistic, ending in the realistic but depressing territory. The sprawling monster of a city on the west coast with crawling with bands looking for their big break. There were small clubs that would shift a dozen bands over their tiny filthy stages in one night with the strange result at at least eighty percent of the audience was the bands that would play that night.

After the first depressing week Turner decided to ‘fuck that shit’ and got creative. He and Darius worked on a flier, pasted it on hundreds of strategic locations, leaving them in the right clubs and bars to be casually found and paying a some students to go spread them among the people.

If no decent venue would have them, they would become their own venue. Jörmungandr had been a great stage for them in their secret bay, it would be their stage when they played their first concerts.

Darius pointed out that the police would probably have trouble with recognising their artistic vision being distracted by the band playing open air concerts without permission. Turner thought about this for a moment deciding that that was the only way to go. Darius was proud of him.

It worked. Soon they were the band that suddenly appeared, bring their own bus-stage, rock the shit out of the place and leave without a trace. Hunted by the police, but never caught. It took them a month and they were legends.