Nine Hundred Nights Page 2

  I glance over at Kenny and notice that his amp is cracked so wide open that when he plays the lowest notes on his bass, you can see the amplifier rattling around on top of his lower speaker cabinet; it's kind of moving sideways when he's playing those really low notes down the neck.

  So there we are, playing our hearts out and really enjoying our mini-revolt against Scott. Though inebriated, the crowd sensed something was going on. They didn't know what or why, but they heard and they saw and they picked up the vibe…and they were enjoying it. They pressed up against the stage and most of the heavy metal intense expressions had turned to smiles of recognition that we were all having a good time and sharing some private joke.

  In the midst of all of the sound, the bodies, the booze and the tattooed cleavage, there came a sudden and cataclysmic BOOM-WHRAAaaaanngggggg! It sounded like the god Thor smacked his enormous hammer on the roof of the club. It was so shocking that everything stopped and for a moment; the club went from bedlam to complete and total silence. In that instant, the only thing moving was Kenny and so everyone's gaze followed him as he turned and looked at the top half of his stack which had rattled off the bottom half, dropped a full two vertical feet and hit the stage face down at full volume. No one said a word. The moment of silence seemed to stretch into an eternity. The blinding PAR stage lights were kind of pinkish at that moment and Bobby-the-light-guy was just as stunned as everyone else; we were frozen in time, trapped in a brilliant pinkish-white light as an insect in amber. But the moment had to end, and end it did. At something approaching full volume, over the humongously powerful PA system we heard Scott's voice from his throne in front of the mixing board somewhere in the darkness; it cleaved the silence like a crack of thunder.

  "AND THAT…..IS WHY WE PLAY WITH A LOW STAGE VOLUME."

  Our mutiny had lasted a total of one minute and twelve seconds before it was put down; later we would look back upon it with nostalgia, referring to it as "The Great Unrest of '83."

  Track 2

  Where It All Started

  Two Years Earlier… June, 1981

  It's an unusually warm day as Ingy hurries across the student parking lot of Fordham University in the Bronx and hops into his maroon Cutlass Salon; in rapid succession he starts the car and hits the power button on his cassette player. Instantly the ominous chords of 'The Zoo' fill the interior of the car at ear splitting level as the vertical bars of his equalizer dance from green to yellow to red. As he pulls out of the parking space, Ingy lowers the windows and does a respectable job of flooding the parking lot with the Scorpion's tune. In the time it takes to turn onto Webster Avenue his head is bopping and he's singing along, oblivious to everything but red traffic lights. He tries for but misses the yellow light at the on-ramp to the Cross Bronx Expressway, unhappily coming to a stop. Two sixteen year old boys, one in a Judas Priest T-shirt and the other in an Iron Maiden tank top and sporting a blue and white bandana wrapped around his wrist, cross the street in front of his car and give him the signature devil horn salute accompanied by big smiles; Ingy returns the gesture with intensity.

  The light changes and he turns onto the Cross-Bronx and then takes the upper level of the George Washington Bridge over the Hudson River and into New Jersey. After speeding a few miles west on Route 4, he cuts north on 17 and eventually pulls into the Paramus Mall. As he weaves his way through the pedestrian traffic, past the movie marquee displaying "Raiders of the Lost Ark" and "Superman II", he finally locates a parking space close to the Mall's food court entrance.

  Entering the mall, he walks the short distance to Tower Records. Wendy Smith spies him from across the floor and behind the checkout counter…needle thin physique and black 'Ernie Ball Super Slinky' T-shirt with the pack of cigarettes rolled into the left sleeve. A display stand with vinyl LP's blocks everything above his chest so she ducks down to see his face.

  "Ingy!"

  He smiles and heads for her as she comes from around the counter to greet him; a quick glance to make sure the manager is not looking, and a kiss and a hug later, she's back on the far side of the counter.

  "Coming over tonight?" she asks sharing an enigmatic smile.

  "I can't." and before she can start her protest "I told ya."

  "Still?"

  "Tell me about it…" Ingy says with an exhausted expression "…it's not fun."

  "Well I get out of class early tomorrow, noon, and my mom won't be home until three."

  Ingy looks as if he's considering the ramifications of vaccinating her right there on the countertop "One o'clock?"

  A big smile instantly spreads across her face "OK."

  "Did my import come in?"

  Wendy disappears into the back room of the store and quickly reappears with the imported album that he'd ordered weeks before. She lays the LP on the counter in front of him; adorning the front side of the cover is a strange mystical drawing with large blood-red Japanese characters above. The back cover shows the song titles, in English, and a few shots of the band live. There is a white paper band around the LP with the word 'IMPORT' spelled vertically in thick red letters.

  "These guys are from Japan. All the singing is in Japanese."

  "Japanese heavy metal?" Wendy asked, mildly surprised.

  Ingy nodded "The guitar player is like a Japanese Steve Vai…" his eyes taking in every detail of each photo "…these guys are unreal. How much do I owe?"

  Wendy places the album in a plastic bag and hands it to Ingy with an adoring smile "It seems to have gone missing."

  "Ya sure it's ok?"

  On her tip toes, she leans over the counter top and delivers a peck on the lips.

  "Thanks. One o'clock?"

  Wendy nods and watches as he leaves the store. After he'd turned the corner she scanned a bar code on the back of her plastic ID badge, entered in a few keystrokes on the cash register and the drawer popped open; she fished around inside of her purse and removed the price of the album, depositing it in the drawer and smiling as she closed it.

  Back in his car, Ingy drives for fifteen minutes in crowded traffic, barely making it five miles from the mall. Now near his destination he slows, driving down a wide four lane street flanked on each side by an unbroken series of small businesses and restaurants. He parks in front of a construction site; what will be two stories of office space is now only a concrete foundation with two-by-four framing. There is a group of tradesmen sitting on over turned spackle buckets and eating sandwiches while listening to a radio tuned to the local top-forty station.

  As Ingy gets out of his car and approaches the group, one of the carpenters rises and meets him halfway; he's a tall and athletic, and wears a backwards 'New York Mets' hat over his shoulder length blond hair.

  Ingy growls "GET OFF YOUR FAT ASS JIMMY, WE'RE NOT PAYING YOU TO SIT AROUND!"

  Jimmy laughs "Shut up. I'm on break."

  They meet at the midpoint and shake hands.

  "Union jobs." Ingy spreads his arms expansively "It's like a vacation. I coulda' built the fuckin' Eiffel Tower by now!"

  Jimmy thumb's over his shoulder and says "You don't stop bustin' my balls, I'm gonna show you the inside of the cement mixer."

  Ingy takes a cigarette out of his pack, and offers one to Jimmy, who accepts. After they light up Ingy asks "How many ya got for tonight?"

  "Two confirmed; first one's coming at seven thirty. Hey I don't have the car tonight, can you swing by and pick me up?"

  "Yeah. I gotta pick up Kenny anyway. Seven?"

  "Yeah. Thanks man."

  "No problem."

  "Cool. I gotta get back." Jimmy says, patting Ingy's shoulder and returning to work, as Ingy backs out of his space and heads for home.

  It's more than an hour before sunset. The sky is unusually red and the heat of the day is being swept away by a quickly moving cooler mass of air from the north, giving the impression that it is later than it is. On Main Street in Passaic, New Jersey, and in an area zoned for Industrial use, stands a two story brick buildi
ng with a large light-up yellow, red and white plastic sign that reads "Ray's Lounge" and beneath that 'Dancing Girls!'. The sign is attached to the building just above and adjacent to the street level door leading to the stripper bar. Just to the left of this door is another, unmarked and with a small window set into it that reveals stairs leading upward to the second floor, above the bar. The owner of Ray's Lounge, whose given name on his birth certificate is Ray, not Raymond, is also the owner of the building; two weeks ago Ray rented the space above his bar to three kids as a practice studio for a band they're putting together. He had reservations, they're being so young, but they seemed serious minded and perhaps more significant, they paid three months in advance plus a security deposit of an additional month. The windows of that upper level space had been painted over by the previous tenants and he'd saved some money since these aspiring musicians asked him to leave the windows as is, not wanting to attract the attention of the crazies who roamed the streets in this part of town in the dead of night.

  The practice studio space is considerable, twice as long from the doorway as it wide. Centered along the long left wall is an old metal table with several mismatched folding chairs and a boom box; centered along the right wall across from the table is a platform (in band vernacular a 'drum riser') that holds Jimmy's drum set two feet above the floor. The bass and rhythm guitar amplifiers stand on the far side of the drum platform; the near side is reserved for the lead guitar player's amplifier, a position that they are in fact auditioning candidates for tonight.

  Ingy, Jimmy and Kenny are playing a song with a guy who drove in from Manhattan; the guitarist is auditioning in stage clothes, which is to say, the full leather and stud regalia. He plays a black with white-polka-dot Jackson 'Flying V' through a Marshall amp…and he's playing it with enough gusto, but not enough discipline. He sounds sloppy. The four finish the song and then congregate around the table.

  Jimmy says half-heartedly "Cool. That sounded good."

  "You guys sound pretty good too." the guitarist says, and then adds with a sly look "'Course, every band needs a gunslinger."

  Jimmy glances at Ingy for an instant "A gunslinger. Yeah, 'course."

  The 'gunslinger' continues, obviously feeling very confident in his performance "I just had my frets done by the same guy who does Joe Perry's...ya know, from Aerosmith."

  Ingy pipes in "Yeah?"

  "Yep."

  "Nice guitar."

  "Thanks." the gunslinger says proudly "People tell me I sound like Randy Rhodes from Ozzy's band, so it seemed like the right choice."

  Kenny observes "Shit man, it looks exactly like Randy's."

  'Gunslinger' sits back in his chair and props a foot on the table "So...what do you think?"

  "It was really good, but ya know, we have more guys already scheduled that we have to hear." Jimmy replies "But I'll definitely call you when we're all done."

  The guitarist looks a bit resentful but manages to retain a semi-dignified look of indifference "OK...Can you give me a hand loading my stuff up?"

  The three proceed to help move his equipment down the long flight of stairs and pack it into his car. Ingy closes the car's hatchback and pats the rear quarter panel twice. The three wave as the guitarist drives off, then turn and head back inside.

  "The Gunslinger." Ingy says ominously, and whistles the melody from 'The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.'

  "What the hell was he smokin'..." Kenny wonders aloud, an apt interrogative by Kenny who owns thirty seven distinct pieces of jewelry and/or clothing that display the marijuana leaf.

  "I dunno'…but the only thing he's slingin' is bullshit." says Ingy.

  Jimmy, Ingy and Kenny take their seats again around the table and wait for the next guitar player to show up.

  "Obviously not the guy." Jimmy remarks.

  Kenny, smoking a joint, inhales and holds in the smoke as he speaks "Nice fucking guitar man."

  Ingy perks up "Know how much that thing must cost? It looked exact."

  Jimmy adds annoyed "Yeah, too bad he can't play it."

  "What's-a-matter Jim, was he out of time?" Ingy taunts as Kenny laughs and exhales a cloud of pot smoke.

  "You couldn't hear how off he was?"

  "I heard it, I heard it; I'm just bustin' chops."

  "This sucks. Thirteen guys and we're exactly where we were. They suck and they all think they're Richie Blackmore."

  "Randy Rhodes."

  "Whatever." Jimmy's resignation is plain.

  After a thoughtful pause, Ingy adds "Honestly, I think it's kinda funny."

  "It's a goof to hear 'em talk about themselves and who they know." Kenny says "Hey, the guy who buffs Joe Perry's balls buffs mine. We have the same ball-buffer!"

  Jimmy is trying hard to keep his sour mood, and only betrays a smirk "Shut up."

  Kenny presses on "Seriously, and my dentist's cousin cuts Jimmy Page's lawn."

  This time Jimmy can't resist and briefly chuckles "Keep making jokes, we're getting nowhere."

  To break Jimmy's funk, Ingy says "Let's do a beer run to Ray's."

  "No! No beer man. I don't wanna have people who suck sit around for an hour drinking our beer when all I want is to get rid of 'em."

  "What about a trap door." a voice says from the doorway to the studio. The three turn toward the doorway to see a guy with shoulder length brown hair, wide shoulders, about six feet tall and holding a guitar case. Each of the others trying out did so in stage clothes; they notice that this guy is wearing jeans, sneakers and a black baseball-style jersey that reads "HIWATT AMPLIFICATION" across the chest.

  The stranger continues "You know...like in the old spy movies...you hit a button underneath the desk and the floor falls away beneath the guy and his amp...they fall through some kind of metal ductwork and end up on their freakin' asses in the alley..."

  Ingy seizes the moment "Let me stop you right there...don't you think you're being a bit naive?"

  "How so?" the newcomer asks.

  "How so?" Ingy asks in a sarcastic tone "It's a nice idea in theory sure, but metal ductwork is expensive. We MIGHT be able to scrape together enough for the trap door, maybe the button, but where the fuck are we gonna get the funds for the metal ductwork?"

  The stranger exhales "Shit. You're right." he sighs "Well, you got me...I was tying to impress you."

  Ingy, stifling a smile says "I thought so....but you do have pluck! I like pluck."

  "Thanks! You know how it is…it's an audition, and I was trying to look good and the trap door thing seemed like a good way to break the ice…"

  "Hey will you two shut the hell up! You Nick?" Jimmy interrupts.

  "Yeah. Jimmy?" Nick asks, and receives a nod.

  "You're from New York right?"

  "Yeah."

  "Need help with your stuff?"

  "I can do it, give me a few minutes..."

  "No it's cool, we better give you a hand. Jack LaLanne died coming up those friggin' stairs."

  Ten minutes later Nick's large HIWATT amplifier is assembled, warmed up and in standby mode. Before plugging in, Jimmy, looking tired and a bit bored, beckons Nick to join them at the table in order to have some preliminary conversation.

  "So...what do you play?" Jimmy asks.

  Nick leans forward, his eyes apparently searching the floor between his feet "Neil Diamond, BeeGee's, The Weather Girls, Donna Summer. Ummmm...some older stuff...ya know, Monkey's, early Partridge Family."

  Jimmy looks at Nick in disbelief, to Ingy, then back to Nick.

  Nick continues, now a bit more enthusiastically "TV show theme songs too! Don't know if you're into that. Gilligan's Island, Let's Make a Deal, The Brady Bunch...just the lead part, ummmm oh! Chips! Charlie's Angels! Ya know, the classics."

  Jimmy furrows his brow, looking completely confused.

  "Jesus Christ, I'm joking! Priest, Maiden, Accept, Sabbath, Leopard, Zep. Like that…Scorpions, Ozzy, Riot."

  "You fuckin' had me dude, you don't know what's been coming thro
ugh that door lately. Been in other bands?"

  "Nope."

  "Been playing guitar for long?"

  "Played drums for ten years, just picked up the guitar a year ago."

  Jimmy glanced at Ingy with some concern, then back to Nick "You know what we're looking for right?"

  Nick smiles "I think so, but ya know, we'll find out pretty soon right? So who plays what?"

  Kenny finally joins the conversation "Jimmy plays drums, I play bass and Ingy plays guitar."

  Nick nods to Ingy "Hey."

  Ingy returns the nod "Hey. Nice stack. Don't see too many HIWATT amps. Pete Townsend, that guy from Rat Race Choir I think...Donnie from Wild Prophet too I think."

  "Yeah Donnie plays a HIWATT." Nick confirms.

  "Seen them? What do you think?"

  "I think they're really good. I'm not as good as Donnie...don't mean to burst your bubble. I dated his sister for a while, if that counts for anything."

  Ingy chuckles "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. Rhonda. She's cool."

  "Question..." Nick said "Ingy?"

  Ingy laughs "My name's Mark England."

  "So it's short for your last name?"

  "You got it."

  "Who came up with that?"

  "Don't ask." Ingy replies smiling.

  "I did." Kenny says matter-of-factly.

  "Take a walk...I started calling him that in sixth grade." Jimmy says waving his hand at Kenny.

  "That's bullshit." Kenny returns.

  "Alright, shut up, who gives a shit!" Ingy says in exasperation.

  Kenny says "Well he asked…"

  "ALRIGHT." Ingy pleads.

  Jimmy looks to Nick "Ya ready?"

  Nick stands up first and says "That's what we're here to find out."

  They each take up their instruments and when everyone seems to be ready, Ingy asks "Priest? Exciter?"

  In way of reply Nick looks immediately to Jimmy for the count. Jimmy clicks a four count with his sticks and silence turns into a flood of sound. The song starts with a powerful riff and Nick jumps in with both feet; the sound is awesome and rich, his timing precise and his expression focused as he concentrates on the fret board and bops slightly in time with the song. The rest of the band comes in and the sound is tight; there is a feeling of raw power. They work their way through the verse and reach the break for the guitar solo; Nick's playing is fast and precise, the sound is ballsy, and despite the furious speed of the solo, each note is distinctly heard.