The Cellar had a reputation for loud bands, brutal fights and good beer.  Sid had the reputation of being a maker of legends.  He knew the sounds of a tight group.  When they were in the groove going up, and when they were shattering, coming down.  Tables were cleared when he showed up.  He had showed up only a few times before at the Cellar.

     It was a basement room that had never been anything but a roach haven.  It still was, although the roaches had changed a bit with the times.  Hard brick and old wood beams mottled the walls. The lights were bare bulb cage fixtures hanging on orange cords.

     Sid settled in the back corner where the dreadlocked waitress took her time to get to him.  Their communication was mimed to the pounding drums of Slave to Seduction.  She wiped his table off and presented her straight slim back as she swung back to the bar through the crowd. She had long legs and longer dreads.  He wondered idely how she could get the beer smell out of her hair in the morning. She passed back through the crowd dropping off bottles and glasses at other tables on her way back toward him.

     He laid the sticker he had peeled off the wall of the bus station on the table.  When she arrived with his Guiness he pointed to it then his watch.  She spread her palm twice, then two.  Midnight.  He gave her a fiver and waved her off as she dug for his change.

     Sid studied the clock by the stage, 20 minutes to midnight.  The audience under the stage looked a little too old to be the usual crowd.  The way the waitresses ignored them spoke loads.  Bad tippers and wanting service with a capital S.  Working stiffs.  The dread waitress told the bar now.  A gorgouse Marilyn copy in violet vinyl hot-pants bussed the tables. One of the yuppie clones slid up behind her with a tipsy sneer.   She took one step backwards, her spike heel driving hard into the top of his loafer.  His whimper was audible across the room as he crumbled to the floor.  The blonde made sorry motions and succeeded in spilling a stale beer over him as she rushed to help him up.  His friend was calming and quickly hustled him off with a passed closed hand to the waitress left mopping the worse of the beer off the floor with her towel.  Dreads behind the bar, held her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

     The S to S closed up their set.  Sid drew out his leather agenda.  The band was good, give them a few months they would be better.  Timing was the thing. Time and practice.  He copied their info off their flyer on the wall while the two girls sorted glasses behind the bar, giggling.

     The house tape stared up as the band broke their kit down. "Rock the Casbah" thru the house speakers sounded pale after the full power of the amps, followed by "I don't like Mondays."  The yuppie crowd began to leave. Good timing, Sid thought, as a biker with barrel sized hands pushed his way through the door.

     Three men began to unload the new equipment as soon as the other band had cleared. Tambour cymbals, matte black double bass kit, painted with bones.  A stand made up of milk crates on which were stacked a string performer, a moog, a korg and two smaller keyboards.  Two guitar stands cradled a glittering white and gold gibson copy and by the looks of it, an original Fender Strat.   Peddles and wiring were fastened down quickly with duct tape. they were fast, and they were good,  A shadow appeared over the table.  Dreads had stopped by him.

     "I know you," she gestured to the book laying open on the scarred wood table, "Whipcord Willy's Man. When he had Ganga Blue"

     "You remember Willy?"  He looked closer to see if her face would strike a memory.

     "I used to come sit with the bass-man."  Her accent was clear Jamaica honey.

     "I remember," he nodded, "Alex"

     "Don't fool your self 'bout Willy.  The monkey had him before you did." she laid a hand on his shoulder. "Just thank your God you weren't there the night it all came down."  He remembered the police photos ruins of the room and shuddered.

     "You here for Lizzie's Band?  Couldn't be here for those pretty boys.." she smiled.

      "They've gotten themselves quite a rep" he returned her smile.

     "They should, They good" She nodded.

     "Who are they?" his pen poised.

     "Waaall," She balled the towel up "wont hurt none."  She leaned over, "just you don' say where you got it from."

     "Never fear, the man is here." He gave her a gallant stance, flourishing his fishermans cap.

     "Youse a trip" she laughs, "Well there on the keyboards, that's Opus, he writes a lot of the music, most of the original stuff." She shook her dreads back over her shoulders. "The drummer, that's my brother,"  he raised an eyebrow. "They here because they good, not cause they family.  Call him Papa Voodon."

     The lead mans' Bondo, like the stuff you put on your car.  Got the personality of a snail but, well, you got to see him in action to believe him. Lizzie now, you cant touch her voice.  She got it all  together."  The blonde girl waved franticly to her as a horde of leather-clad backs crowded up to the bar. She stretched "nother beer?" He passed her a twenty "Guiness again" she smiled at and moved away.

     The club was rapidly filling up.  A hippie woman in ty-dy propped herself in a corner with knitting chatting to another long-hair who sat down beside her on the floor.  A thin intense man wearing loose oriental style clothing balanced himself on a bar stool in a full lotus position.

     Sid winced, yoga was not his thing. A biker in colours snatched the chair from the other side of his table. and slammed it down with a glare at the next one.  Back turned to give optimum offence.

     A sudden cold blast of air brushed past him with the scent of roses and leather.  A tiny woman with a mass of black hair, glided up to the bar. Dreads, popped up and quickly placed a brandy snifter of a dark red cordial on the bar.   She climbed gracefully on to the stool and reached out a hand.  One of the yuppie crew left over from the last set pushed in front of her.  As she turned you could see her eyes were covered by a mylar mirror glasses reflecting the darkness.  He postured in front of her as she raised her glass and in one movement downed the whole.  She then placed the glass back on the counter, slid off the stool and glided away leaving him still talking, blinking.

     As she passed the man in lotus she placed her palms together and saluted him.  He replied with a similar bow from his perch. she vanished into the crowd.

     More people thronged the club, it was clear that this band has a wide range of followers.  A kid with a Mettalica T-shirt was ejected noisily by the doorman for not having an ID.  More people were pushing in then should have been able to fit.

     Three loud peals sounded, more felt than anything, like that of a church bell. The vibrations set glasses rattling like an earthquake, another, the stage darkened, and another as two shadows took their places at drums and keyboards.  As the fifth peal sounded, the string performer sounded out chords reminiscent of a Bach fugue.  Drums began on the seventh, a low rumble of bass thunder.

     An eerie green/purple lite was shone on the center point of the stage where a kneeling hooded figure rested, A long axe in its hands. At the 12th peal, the full force of the spotlights exploded on and the hood came away to revel what must be Lizzie.

     Tall and somewhat skinny the battle axe which was her guitar fit with her grey leather midaevil garb, The only colour she wore was the green of her gentle falling mohawk behind her sharp featured face. Her voice was strong and powerful, "untrained and fresh" Sid noted.  She sang of a man on the trail of a dream, a dream that was turning real. The light rose, making the stage seem like it was burning. all yellow and white. Now he was able to see the band clearly.

     Opus, looked to be no more than 14 years old.  A small bespecticald boy with long washedout brown hair and a hunched spine.  His playing was classical based, chordings forming a runoff of solid, liquid sound.  You could only catch quick glimpses of him behind the bank of keyboards.

     The drummer was a huge man, who hunched over his kit He wore a ancient navel jacket open across his wide chest, which had been ripped off at the sleeves to fit his massive biceps.  The epaulets on what had been the cuffs were wrapped around his wrists, glittering as he moved.  The great dusty stovepipe hat was bent askew to the center over short dreadlocks, his eyes were the colour of a sun and shone out of his face as bright as new pennies,

     The lead guitarist was a wailer.  He must have taken lessons from old Hendricks or Page.  He wore a white suit that had been loosly copied from Elvis', Las Vegas gold lame' and sequins.  "Attitude" Sid wrote in his little book, But Lizzie held his attention throughout the song.  Her clear voice had full bell like tones that the music backed to perfection.

     The song ended suddenly as he scribbled.  He blinked as Bondo's sequined guitar flashed him.

     "Alriiight" Bondo was in the spot light, leaning precariousely over the edge. He spread his arms wide.  "I am the man you wish to see."  The crowd hooted with derision. A punker splashed him with beer "I am," his voice changed, "the King." he turned and strutted about the stage.  He raised the mike, "and I want you to LISTEN!" His voice changed, it was familier now.

     "Can you find me sanctuary?"

     Amazed sid dropped his pen. Morrison?  Bondo was mimic, an excellent mimic. The tones, quality, the moves, were all there as he sang on.

     Song after song flew by.  Some Sid knew.  Old classics that everyone played; Beatles, Buddy Holly, Hendricks, Skynnard, but changed.  Mixed in between these were fantastic pieces which could only be originals.   He decided. They were good. They were more then that.  He had to sign them.  None of the hesitancy or quipping cues, they were tight, and powerful.

     The clock read 2:15,.and the number they were playing was original with Eno or Vangiles overtones, then Lizzie's bass began to arch in a familiar plinking riff.  Zepplins "Battle of Evermore"  segwayed into a dimly familiar space warp.  Keyboard doubling with maniacal piping while the drummer wailed away.  The mix of the whole sounded like a banshee going into battle.  The kettledrums were heavy artillery.   Suddenly the keyboard swung off into a riff of Yes's "Starship Trooper.  Bondo's axe was wailing in a glissando of sound, Lizzie kept the words going, her language changing from english to something else with a sibilant hiss.  Papa was backing the whole thing with a 4/6 by 3 beat that was shaking the ground.

     Bondo arched in a high E that split the music down the middle, Lizzie followed with a pulsing note 6 beats later, the moogs caught and rolled it back on itself like the strobe-lights that were now adding to the din. The synthisized strings were climbing to reach and melt the point. Then drums exploded into silence and the lights went out leaving only the lingering screech of feedback.

     The stage was empty when the lights came on, and the crowd began pounding.  Sid saw the yogi still balanced on his stool. Eyes shut, smiling.  Dreadlocks was clapping and howling like the rest behind her place at the bar.

     Opus climbed up to the stage.  He still looked like a undersized fourteen-year-old, he stretched to pull the lead mike down to him.

     "One for the road." His low voice barely heard. The crowd began to stamp wildly.  Lizzie took her place on the right of the stage without her cloak.  Sweat covered her slight body under the leather tunic and tights.  She wiped down the guitar neck and her own, then tossed the towel to the crowd. A horde of hands reached out and snatched it in midair.

     "This is for those of you who know-"a light chording as she stretched her self in the spotlight,  she chorded through the  intro.

      What the words were Sid couldn't tell, defineatly not English, they flowed around like a lazy breeze, more like memories of words.  Sid found himself thinking about the people he had met, the bands he had promoted.  The words meant nothing.  It was only the trigger for the mind,  Bondo took up his Fender. He met her melody with a sharp descant that dispersed the haze of memory.

    She sang of now.  What is, is, can there be anymore?  Her arms lifted straight from her body as the spotlight faded.  A greenish glow covered her.  Papa Voodon, took up his place behind his kit.  Over and over the single drum beat.  A heartbeat.  The ticking of the clock of man. Dum, Dadum, deep enough to fall into like a pool of ice water with no bottom. With each impact the light grew stronger and stronger.

     Then spinning off like threads unwinding from a jade cocoon, waving in the air of the stage solifying, forming curls and arabesques of neon flouresesces.  Stretching across the front of the band, the shadows began to change, brighten and take form..

     Her voice sang on. The waves danced and shaped to her words.  They were the nodes of the future, she sang, Rooted in the past, given life by our present lives and creating our futures.

     The glowing threads slowly wound down into the audience.  As they touched each person they changed shape, solifiding.  A woman on the floor was eveloped in the curls held a glowing child in her arms. A punker sat smiling broadly, caressing a large machince gun.  The biker in front of Sid's table reached out tenatively touching the glow, and the green mist colested, becoming a enormous Harley with finns and chrome green shimmer.  A girl shape, volupuous and long-haired formed on the jump seat. Sid, pressed himself hard against the wall, thought about it then timidly stretched out his hand as a filmy thread waved near him.

     It felt cold as it wrapped around his hand, it seemed to draw the heat out of him into itself.  Then retreated, reformed.

    A single greeny-gold record hovered in front of him in the label were the words "Swandive Productions" with the silloette of a diver arching over the words.  His dream, the one thing that would have made him on top of the world.

    Tears formed in his eyes.  That was it. Your dreams made real.

     Up on the stage Lizzie was  wrapped in veils of the green light. But she had not stopped singing.  Now her song changed again, and the glow turned ropy and pulled apart. Pooling onto the floor, it shivered into silvery grey dust and blew throughout the club.  Behind her Papa was a hulking dark shadow, misty skeletons dancing in the air around him.  They too turned to dust and blew away.

     "Dust to dust-ashes to ashes," Bondo intoned in a spectral voice, sounding once again for all the world like Jim Morrison. "we all fall to pieces in the darkness of our graves."

     "Dust," Lizzie was on one knee at the front of the stage.  She opened her hand to let grey dust trickle out, "barely seen, always there."  Her arm pointed out, "forever must."

     "Ashes," Papa's voice was a bass rumble, "all burned to ashes."  He glisendos the cymbals. "blow away"

     "Windstorm, sandstorm, rainstorm, maelstrom, gone." Opus voice was young, for such old words.

     The whole club fell into darkness.  A chill wind blew through the club like the opening of a tomb.

     When the lights came on the band was once again gone.  But this time there was no cheering or encore requests.  Some people lay on the floor weeping, others stared in personal trances.  Sid was motionless.   Somebody coughed. Someone began to sob. The crowd began to move sluggishly.  He downed the rest of his drink as a bracer and headed for the rear exit. He had to know. Pushing through the crowd he felt muffled in cotton wool.  The crowd was still stunned by the dreaming.  Hands pulled at him. The redheaded roadie held him by the elbows.  Gold eyes met his like a harsh electric current, giving him pause.

     "So ye have to know," his English accent was harsh and low. He pushed Sid sideways against,  the steel door loomed up beside him and he grabbed for the handle under his elbow, pushed it outward, and dove through.

     Under the awning covered alley were the band. Bondo looked worse for wear, he was on his knees sounding as if he were being sick.

     "You guys"  Sid announced in his best agent voice, "are something else!"

     Papa Voodon moved catlike to stand between him and the rest of the band

     "What you doing following us"  Copper coloured eyes shot sparks.  The hands that held the tiny drumsticks now held a good sized saber.

     "I'm a promoter, I hear about you all over, I want to make you big-bigger than the Beatles. You've got the talent.  I've got the connections. We can do it. just ask anyone, I'm Sid the maker"

     Lizzie's laughter was like glass.  She pushed the huge drummer out of the way and stepped in front of him.  "You are the maker?" she asked her public school Brittish lilting."You are just the info man.  Whether a band makes or breaks is their own choice, their own skills, wills, and you know it. What do you want?"

     "I can get you the world, contracts, halls, stadiums even.  I've been there and I can help."

     She ruffled her short hair back, "We have the world already. We have your dreams, and the fans. We don't need the stadiums or the tours."  Her thin body was sweating in the chill alley, "how can you give us what we already have?"

     Sid wasn't use to this, "I just mean to make you stars-give you the chance of a lifetime! "

    She laughed her head thrown back streaching, "Every man and woman is a star" her body exploded with green light, glowing, twisting.  Threads reaching out phosperesent tenticals.  He reeled backward to be safe from it.

     "It's called ectoplasm."  She spoke gently, as if to a child, "It is the creation of matter using the mind and will." She faded back into a dim glow, "It is how we give your wishes life"

     "Why?  How?" Sid fumbled at his back and realized his retreat into the relative safety of the bar was locked from the inside.

     "Why is the sky blue?"  The glow relaxes folded around her and faded. "Why do you spend your life guiding others to a fragile dream?" Lizzie crossed her arms and leaned against the brick. "It's a gift. A matter of doing what comes naturally.  I can give you your dreams for a moment.  You can give stardom for a moment."

     Bondo rolled onto the pavement behind her, his breathing ragged.

     "Is he ok?" She knelt down beside him,

     "He is a channeler.  It drains him."

     "You mean-that was Elvis?"

     "And Morrison and Buddy and Sid and John".  Papa gently picked him up and slug him over one massive shoulder. " I call them, they just can't resist the stage." he nodded to the end of the alley, "check."  The boy crept down to the corner and peered out.

     "We aren't your regular band, Sid, we play the venues that can deal with us-not the top pop."  She moved next to him.  He could smell her sweat, she was so close. And a sharp bitter ozone odor. "all you need is more of the "moron" minority saying rock is the music of the devil, and all that bull.  Good publicity, true, but I don't much feel like being burned again.  Go find a band you can bedazzle with material illusions.  We just happen to be real."  She turned away from him.

     "Lets go." The huge drummer withdrew into a shadow which wasn't there and vanished. Opus took a leap forward and changed.  Hitting the ground began to run-a gangly canine. Lizzie again glowed briefly green as ectoplasm angelwings spread up her spine, down her arms, she turned framed in the square of the alley and blew Sid a kiss, and flew away.
 

Damian Alexander 1992