Saturday's Storyteller: "He roared ferociously into the microphone..."

by Belinda Roddie

He roared ferociously into the microphone, and as he strummed on his vintage Gibson guitar, I could see the blue veins bulging out of his tree stump of a neck. In fact, they were everywhere. Spindly veins and capillaries could be seen through his nearly transparent skin - up and down his biceps, across his forehead, even in the exposed flesh of his shins where his jeans were torn like streamers across the flanks of his legs. He was practically half man, half spider web as he played, but that never perturbed the howling audience, who sang along to his guttural growling, more coherently forming the words than he was.

This was Harold Shaw, considered one of the greatest lead guitarists of his time, and people still loved him. He was fifty-two years old now, over a decade younger than his former bandmate, Martin Gordon. Of course, Martin Gordon was nowhere to be seen. Even if he were alive, he would not have dared dream of joining the Anderson Council line-up again after so many years of bad blood. It didn't matter. Gordon may have written the lyrics and a good chunk of the songs, but Shaw, along with the keyboardist Zachary Wembley, had created the sound. And the sound was what fans listened to, not necessarily the words.

I stood in the mezzanine area - if it could be called that - of the Coastline Amphitheatre, surrounded by wonderstruck and booze-addled Councilmen (the fan name that stuck) who were only inches away from sloshing the contents of their red cups onto my crisp blue polo shirt. To this day, I still wasn't sure why I dressed up so nicely, especially after my front row seat ticket hadn't processed and I was stuck a good half-mile back from the chairs. Still, the backstage pass remained valid, so that was something. If I had my way, I'd be in the backroom with Shaw only a good hour and a half after the concert was done.

The remaining shrapnel of the Council line-up was playing the classics; that was about it. Shaw's latest solo album had been modestly successful, but no one here wanted to hear, "Velvet Shores," or, "I Saw The Light," or other tunes that had great melodies but hackneyed language. Shaw had never been a good lyricist or verbal storyteller - he told his tales through his guitar. The wordsmithing had been Gordon's job. Gordon, with his wispy red hair and a gap between his teeth large enough to drive the Lusitania through. Gordon with his watery green eyes and that awkward lilt in his voice that had been forced upon us in every track of his most highly regarded album with Anderson Council, The Pit. Gordon, who had nothing but spittle and sardonic jokes when more mainstream interviewers grilled him on Council's latest regurgitation of old tracks onto a brand new compilation album (but with a twist!), as if he were just playing along to a very old game that he was very familiar with. If Shaw was the sound of Anderson Council, then Gordon had been the soul.

In my warped state through the second half of the concert, as Wembley warbled through, "Not My Home," on his decades-old synthesizer, I had to remind myself that I liked Anderson Council, a lot. I had been introduced to The Pit at the age of twelve, when my brother, before his hip-hop stage that later became permanent, couldn't stop listening to Council. After that, it was The Core of the Sun, the album that had launched the band into the heart of stardom. My favorite album, though, was Can't Wait To Meet You Again, if only because it was the last time the band sounded truly unified before Gordon started taking control of everything. Once you've heard his semi-musical rant about the Korean War in the battered album, Smokestacks, you've heard it all.

By the time the encore was over, and Shaw had picked enough scale lines to surely make even the calluses on his fingers begin to peel, I found myself wading through a hornet-like swarm of fans as they crowded around the concession booth, buzzing loudly to get the last swaths of flickering souvenir flashlights, or the extra large T-shirts because all the other sizes had been sold out. I finally managed to get to the backstage entrance, showing  my backstage pass from beneath my gray blazer as the security guard sized me up.

"VIP?"

I nodded. "Here for the interview. Can I go in yet?"

He snorted. "I didn't see you with the other press people."

I was used to this scrutiny by now. Some people still didn't realize that magazines and newspapers were a slowly dying art. "Well, that's because I'm not quite like the others."

The security guard seemed to get it. He unclipped the rope and shuffled me in just before a rabid-looking fan tried shoving his way past me, howling about axes and swords. Probably an homage to Gordon's first musical contribution to the band, back in the seventies - "I Wish I Were a Barbarian."

***

The backroom they stuffed me in must have been some sort of storage space or equipment room back in the day. There were no windows, no counters. Some plastic tables had been arranged with boxes of cold pizza and a pitcher of most likely lukewarm water. Some bugs had already settled at the lip of the jug, quietly drowning.

Sitting down on a hard chair provided to me, I scratched the warm nape of my neck with my free hand, the other holding my phone. The bag beside me had already been checked and scanned and rechecked again - nothing but a tablet and a notebook and pen, just in case my trusty technology decided to give me the finger. I was half-tempted to take off my jacket, but without it, I looked a bit like a grungy intern trying to make friends in the newest start-up company. I had to look at least somewhat cool. That, and my wallet was tucked away in the inner pocket, and I didn't want to lose it.

Anything could have made this tiny space more inviting - a poster, a signed guitar, anything. Most likely, Shaw was wrapping up with journalists and media moguls and scoffing under his breath when they weren't listening. The fact that he was giving me the time of day - or night, in this case - was definitely nothing to sneeze at. Partially because I was the only interviewer ballsy enough to ask about Gordon.

Of course, I was no Alice Channing. And that woman had heavier cajones than Iron Man.

It was a good two hours after the concert when Shaw finally graced me with his presence. He seemed preoccupied already, mopping his face with a limp white towel and grabbing a slice of pepperoni from one of the boxes and eating it before even paying attention to me. When his mouth was full of coagulated "cheese," he finally managed a, "Hey," to me, before pulling up another metal chair and sitting across from me.

I smiled. "Good to meet you, Mister Shaw."

"Harold's fine," he said, still chewing. "Or Harry."

"Sure. Harry it is."

He grinned. "I'm sure you know this already, but the fans call me, 'Dirty Harry,' these days." Chuckling, he ran a grubby hand across his balding head, then over his graying stubble. "Can't blame 'em. Maybe I don't shower enough."

He was looking a little grungy, from his tattered black shirt to his dilapidated jeans. But his face still shone through the wrinkles and poor excuse for a goatee. Shaw, apart from his appearance, was always charismatic and good with PR - another point he had against Gordon. Wembley was a quieter man, not much for talking unless the questions were interesting. I wasn't quite sure if he'd show up for this. Shaw had been more than willing.

"Um...right." I reached for my tablet. "Anyway, I'm here for...well, for myself, really. I run a blog."

"I've read it," Shaw replied, which surprised me. "I did my research. Not half bad. You're from San Ignacio."

I blinked. "My home city."

"Not a bad place. Don't know many people who like to leave it." He took another large bite of his pizza, tearing away part of the crust with his yellow teeth. "Ignacio's got energy. And then you meander your way to dry old Plebes Valley to see me. That's flattering."

"I've always been a fan of Anderson Council."

"Charming." Shaw raised an eyebrow at me. "But I believe you want to hear more about me."

"I wanted to get your feedback about Gordon's last interview. Before...well..."

I stopped myself before I got too far ahead. Shaw was already staring. He had dealt with the typical questions from the big columnists - about his guitars, his newest projects, his current relationship with his fifth wife. Again, no one else wanted to bring up the ghost of Gordon, perhaps literally. He had been in the ground for a good six months now, and maybe everyone thought it was too soon to talk about it or, ironically, too late to poke at it. I was different. I cared too much for my own good.

Shaw had stopped gazing at me like a hungry vulture and gnawed at his pizza instead of my face. I still felt a bit like roadkill. "What about it?"

My thumbs felt clumsy against the tablet keypad. Typos popped up everywhere. Autocorrect wasn't helping. "I understand you've never been interviewed by Alice Channing."

"That's correct."

"May I ask why?"

He laughed. "Maybe because I never had it in me," he said. "Her magazine - The Cut? Always felt a bit like harassment to me. Grilling people, making them cry, putting their emotions in single-line parentheses on a page. The only way to make it worse is to actually put it on TV instead of type."

"Channing did hit some sore spots with Gordon."

"Martin," Shaw corrected me. "Or Marty. For God's sake, Gordon was his father's surname. You know what happened. Artillery got him in the chest. MacArthur's voice in his ear."

"The Korean War."

"Marty would never fucking shut up about it," continued the guitarist, finally finishing off his pizza and licking the grease off his fingers. "He always wrote about it. Smokestacks? The Pit? The Last Shot? Full of that sentiment. I got tired of it. I wanted it to be about the fucking music. But Marty, he was always a storyteller. And the story he liked to tell most was his own."

I was aware of that. About ten years ago, I had attended one of Gordon's solo concerts in another state, where the air was hot and people were restless. His latest album, Stereo Decay, had flopped, and badly. Yet he was still croaking out the songs because they were his work. His music had never been the same since he left Anderson Council, and the audience let him know it. He was halfway through, "Father's Lullaby," when the heckling started.

"No one gives a fuck about your dad anymore!" one particular asshole next to me had screamed. My seventeen-year-old self had resisted the urge to punch him. My girlfriend at the time had held me back.

"Don't," she had whispered. "Not worth it."

But it had felt worth it. I hadn't known Gordon, but he had felt like more than a frontman to me. He felt like one of those relatives you had with emotional issues, whom you just wanted to hug and remind that everything was going to be okay.

"Anyway," Shaw said, snapping me out of my flashback, "I guess Channing got to him. Would I blame her for what happened next? No. But damn, she can be vicious when she wants to be. I guess it's partially because she's so young, getting so many gigs. She's a firecracker. Keeps going off like the Fourth of July."

"Would you say Channing was tactless, though?'

"Look, kid, I only scanned the interview myself before Marty died. It was heavy. I mean, I get it. I make music. Marty made drama." Shaw leaned back in his chair, and I imagined he was heavily debating getting another slice of pizza. "It was hard working for him after a while, you know? Our sound used to blend. His lyrics fit the mood of my melodies. After that, it was all about him. He harangued every album my band made after that. Tried to shut us down, and when that didn't work, he whined. Do I think he had problems? Sure. Fuck, the guy was my friend for thirty years."

I knew the story. Schoolmates, forming a band together, starting with blues and jazz and ending with glam rock. It always seemed to go that way in the seventies. When everyone else was going disco and Motown, Anderson Council stayed bloated and pretentious, and people still loved it. And Shaw always sounded good; so did Wembley. I put down my tablet and grabbed my notebook. Somehow, I felt like this interview would be easier to write than type.

"Was there anything you wanted to say to Gordon..." I corrected myself. "Sorry, Marty, before he died? Any last thoughts you regretted keeping to yourself?"

Shaw laughed, a wheezy sound. "Nothing I can think of," he finally responded, after some pause. "I reamed him in the past few interviews before his last album. He was going to invite me to play at his Pit tour, but then changed his mind when he saw how much better I was doing than him. It felt juvenile. Still, though, I guess I wish I could've said, 'I miss you,' or something appropriately cheesy. Take your pick."

"Channing asked him the same question about you. Did you read that part?"

Now the guitarist was looking annoyed. "Listen, kid...your name. Did you ever tell me your name?"

I had in an email, but I was sure only his rep had seen it. "Markey. Jessi Markey."

"Well, Markey Mark, my answer to you would be to make your next stop Channing's house," Shaw said. "I can't give you much else. Marty was a good guy, all right? Always was. Sure, he was a priss, a diva, a bit too much of an activist. Definitely kind of anti-Semitic, and maybe Islamophobic, too, but he was anti-religious everything. Apart from that shit, he was an okay guy. He never hurt anyone, never hurt any of his ex-wives. Fuck, his widow still runs his old charity for veterans. Bottom line, anything you want to know about his own personal darkness, you talk to other people besides me. I'd rather be an egotist and talk about myself."

I stopped scribbling and lowered my pen. Fair enough, I thought to myself. Maybe it was selfish to go on about Gordon. The moment Shaw had finished his miniature rant, the door to the room opened, and Wembley limped in. He looked even meeker and scrawnier than he did onstage, his wild tuft of white hair poking out of his head like a disturbed cockatoo.

"Sorry I'm late," he slurred in his Southern drawl, before looking at the table. "I'll be damned. We still got pizza?"

***

By the time I finished interviewing both Shaw and Wembley, it was past one AM, and I was struggling to untie my own shoes, I was so exhausted. After the pizza had run out, Shaw had asked the remaining roadies for beers, and the three of us had kicked back in that tiny room, slurping down suds and shooting the breeze. I even remembered Wembley interviewing me at one point, and frankly, I had been flattered. It had felt more like an outing with friends than an interrogation.

The hotel room I was staying in felt luxurious compared to the room the musicians and I had been in, and the bed felt so damn inviting. I checked my phone and found two missed calls from my ex-girlfriend. Not a chance. I deleted the evidence and flopped down on the mattress.

On the nightstand next to me was a glossy magazine: The Cut in all its glory. I saved this copy. This was the one that had Martin Gordon's interview in it. Alice Channing's pixie cut and clean, smiling face in the little portrait they placed of her above her article almost taunted me. But seeing Gordon's black and white mug from the seventies - him smoking a cigarette with a half-destroyed crucifix tattooed on his bare elbow - was even worse.

I grabbed the magazine and flipped to the page where the really tough questions started. The Cut had made this a special issue for Gordon and a few other musicians from a half-century or less ago. No one had seemed to want to talk to Gordon anymore except for Channing. But that was because, as Shaw mentioned, Gordon made drama, and Channing liked drama. She probably mixed it like powder into her glass of wine and chugged it with an exhalation of euphoria. Had she actually been a fan of Anderson Council? I was skeptical, and she had never made it clear, either.

My fingers trembled slightly as I perused the cramped, black text - something so rigid and uniform compared to Gordon's outpouring of honesty tinged with at least a bit of angst. I couldn't help feeling a slight bit of hostility toward Channing. It was like she had intruded on something very personal to me. Anderson Council had been a huge part of my life when I was a teenager. Its lyrics, somehow, had inspired me to be a lot truer to myself, despite the threats and the anger. Despite the fact that my father had tried to kick me out of the house, even though my mother had kicked him out first.

The section of the interview that had gotten to me the most was glaring at me now. They had just stopped talking about Arthur Briggs, the recently deceased drummer of Anderson Council, and the friendship that he and Gordon had had. I let my hands settle against the corners of the magazine. To my left, my tablet was waiting for me to post the interview I had just finished with Shaw and Wembley. Not yet. I would take care of that after some sleep.

CHANNING: The last original album Council released together, back in 1997 - that was Separation at Death, correct?

GORDON: Yes, that's the one.

CHANNING: It received relatively high praise for its concept and Harold's guitar playing. But in an interview with Rolling Stones, which was about your solo project at the time, you weren't impressed.

GORDON: I might have said that.

CHANNING: I have an excerpt here. "Load of garbage," you said. "Who needs three people to write lyrics? Honestly. It's just plodding." When you said plodding, did you mean the music or the concept?

GORDON: It was lazy lyric writing. You need good lyrics.

CHANNING: Do you? Is that a requisite?

GORDON: I'm sorry?

CHANNING: Are good lyrics a requisite for a good album?

GORDON: I find them to be a benefit, if that's what you mean.

CHANNING: Let me clarify. You were inspired by jazz and blues. A lot of that kind of music doesn't have lyrics. Would you think it would be better if it did?

GORDON: I'm not one to tell the masters how to write their music.

CHANNING: But you figured it was in your place to critique Harold Shaw's ability to write lyrics. Yet would you say he could be a master of melody?

GORDON: Harry has a gift.

CHANNING: Yes. With instruments. With sound. You said so yourself, back in the day: "I can't imagine Council without Harry." Would you say he is the sound of Anderson Council?

GORDON: It's a bit more complicated than that. A band is more than just its guitarist.

CHANNING: His concerts sell out. Yours do not. Zachary Wembley gets a lot of credit, too, for Council's success. For contributing to its overall musical prowess.

GORDON: You have to remember, Alice, that I, too, was credited with much of Council's success. I was called the Architect. I came up with the album concepts, I wrote a good chunk of the music. The Pit was almost entirely me.

CHANNING: But you understand that The Pit's most highly regarded songs were co-written with Harold Shaw, right?

GORDON: That's correct.

CHANNING: You owe much of your success to him, am I wrong in saying so?

GORDON: No, I suppose not.

CHANNING: Your latest albums, according to reviews, try to have meaning but fall flat. They are rants, critics say, of a man who cannot get over his father's death. But The Pit was all about that, and it was number one on the charts. Because of Harold.

GORDON: I would not say that.

CHANNING: Harold and Zachary provided you with your sound. You owe them very much for that. Yet here you are, bashing them for their latest album, because the lyrics aren't up to snuff. I think you'll agree that if the music doesn't mix with the lyrics, the words have no meaning and float away. And like your own lyrics say, "The oars have been ripped away from you, and your boat bobs, and you are stranded in the sea, with no one to hear you sob."

GORDON: Those are indeed my words.

CHANNING: Harold Shaw and Zachary Wembley were your oars. Without them, you're stranded. No one cared about you, or your daddy issues. Would you find that assumption to have merit?

***

I knew where Channing lived. Kind of. She was two states away right now, in a large house with a fence guarded by whatever dog or cat she had. I had connections. Some people I was connected with say they knew her personally. My next plan was already falling into place.

Martin Gordon had committed suicide a week after the interview with Channing. They had found his gun next to him, accompanied a note that simply read, "Sorry, folks. I'm outta here." A photo of his father, in uniform, lay bloodstained in his hand. To this day, I can't get that image out of my mind.

I would make it clear when I posted Shaw's interview on my blog: I was going to interview Alice Channing.

This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.