Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

Hangman's Jam - A Symphony Of Terror: Franz Rock Terror
Hangman's Jam - A Symphony Of Terror: Franz Rock Terror
Hangman's Jam - A Symphony Of Terror: Franz Rock Terror
Ebook310 pages4 hours

Hangman's Jam - A Symphony Of Terror: Franz Rock Terror

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

()

Read preview

About this ebook

Some songs stick in your head. 

Others consume your soul. 

A song called “Hangman’s Jam” opens the doorway between dimensions. But what nightmarish monstrosities lurk beyond the threshold, waiting to break on through? 

Bar band bassist Bobby Marks rides this strange tune to super stardom, but finds his newfound responsibilities as a husband and father clash with a surreal world of addiction and overdoses, Internet sex scandals, disappearing band members, on-stage deaths, studio poltergeists, and cosmic monsters.

Some songs demand sacrifice, and Hangman’s Jam is a symphony of murder and madness. 

Hangman’s Jam is a novel of Franz Rock Terror from Rob Errera, author of Sensual Nightmares: Tales From The Palomino, Vol. 1.

Hangman’s Jam blends the fiction of H.P. Lovecraft with the equally colorful mythos of rock music. The novel falls into a similar genre as Joe Hill’s Heart Shaped Box and Gary Braunbeck’s musical fiction, a combination of James Blish’s Black Easter and Nikki Sixx’s autobiography. Fans of music, mystery, and classic horror will find the unearthly melody of Hangman’s Jam hauntingly familiar.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherRob Errera
Release dateOct 9, 2012
ISBN9781548122829
Hangman's Jam - A Symphony Of Terror: Franz Rock Terror
Author

Rob Errera

Rob Errera is a writer, editor, musician, and literary critic. His fiction, non-fiction, and essays have earned numerous awards. He lives in New Jersey with his wife, two kids, and a bunch of rescued dogs and cats. He blogs at roberrera.com, tweets @haikubob, and his work is available in both print and digital editions at all major online booksellers.

Read more from Rob Errera

Related to Hangman's Jam - A Symphony Of Terror

Titles in the series (6)

View More

Related ebooks

Occult & Supernatural For You

View More

Related articles

Related categories

Reviews for Hangman's Jam - A Symphony Of Terror

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars
0 ratings

0 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    Hangman's Jam - A Symphony Of Terror - Rob Errera

    VERSE ONE

    RAIN RAN OFF THE NOSE of the carousal horse mounted atop The Palomino. A red spotlight illuminated a chalkboard sign in the club's window.

    The Palomino Presents...

    Open Mike Night

    w/ Dick & The Sticks featuring Smoke Johnson

    $1 Drafts 8-10 pm

    Yeah, we took an endless amount of crap about the name. But after hosting Open Mike Night at The Palomino for a year, we were getting used to cat calls of, Hey, smoke my Johnson! or the more erudite, Smoke Dick! We didn't mind. It was a badge of honor, an insider's chant, the way true Primus fans shouted Primus sucks! at shows. At least that's how we tried to see it.

    Who came first, Dick and The Sticks, or Smoke Johnson? It's not much of a chicken-and-egg question. Obviously, Smoke came first. He played The Palomino Monday nights--blues, standards and soft jazz banged out on an old upright. We weren't fresh out of high school but fresh enough. Mick was still under twenty-one when we approached old Doc Baker, who owned The Palomino, about hosting an Open Mike Night. Mick had to sign an Alcohol Beverage Consent form before Dr. B would let us play.

    We convinced Dr. B Open Mike Night would be a bigger draw than karaoke. Dr. Baker didn't give a damn about music. He never listened to the bands, relying instead on the opinion of his daughter, Trudy, and her husband, Lloyd, who ran the place. Dr. B only cared about his investments. He told Ritchie and I we could have Open Mike Tuesday. If it worked out, he'd move us to Thursday.

    We'd played four Tuesday nights before Dr. B bumped us to Thursday. We played a bunch of those and were feeling good about Dick and The Sticks when Ritchie and I dropped into The Palomino on a Monday to catch Smoke Johnson's act.

    Is Smoke Johnson a live gay sex show? I asked Ritchie as we stepped inside. Leather boy shit?

    You wish, he said. Trudy told me he's an old dude but he's good.

    Smoke Johnson wasn't old, he was ancient. His brown skin looked as hard and dry as petrified wood, his eyes and teeth a matching shade of yellow. When he stood, everything in his body popped and creaked. When he played piano, everybody listened.

    Blues and jazz were his specialty, but he knew an endless array of old show tunes too. That Monday night, he sat down at his piano with a snap and a crackle and lit a cigarette. (That was another draw of The Palomino...Doc Baker openly defied the state ban on smoking in bars and restaurants and The Pal always had a built-in crowd of smokers as a result.) Smoke Johnson took two drags off his cigarette and let it smolder in an ashtray atop his piano while he played a fourteen-minute Franz Liszt concerto.

    He drifted into another song out of the Liszt piece. It started with an explosive flurry of notes that left me dizzy. I'd only had two beers but the room started to spin. The tune was so strange I had to put my head down on the bar for a few minutes while Smoke filled the air with notes that felt like fingers on my skin. It wasn't a good feeling. It felt like something was trying to work its way inside me. I was grateful when Smoke morphed that wicked melody into a harmless Cole Porter cover.

    Ritchie and I were speechless, floored by his casual virtuosity. We approached Smoke after his set.

    Uh...Mr. Johnson, Ritchie said. That was an amazing set. Really incredible. We host Open Mike Night here on Thursday Nights. We'd love if you'd come play with us some time.

    How much it pay? Smoke asked. He was sitting at the bar, cigarette burning nearby. He waved Trudy over, ordered a shot and a beer.

    We didn't have a prepared answer. Ritchie looked at me and I decided there was no point lying to the old guy.

    Dr. B pays us two hundred for the night, I said. We usually toss fifty into the band kitty and take fifty each. We'll split it equal and cut you in for fifty too.

    Smoke shook his head. Need at least a hundred to play. Baker's paying me a buck fifty and I don't gotta split it with nobody.

    A hundred bucks is half our night's pay, Ritchie said. And it's Open Mike Night...it's an easy gig.

    Smoke shrugged. Easy or hard, I can't play for free.

    Trudy came back, put some cash and another shot down in front of Smoke. He fingered through the bills.

    Where's the rest of my money? he said.

    I took out for your bar tab and a pack of smokes, Trudy said. And another five for your dinner.

    Damn, woman! You're bleeding me dry!

    Trudy didn't look sympathetic. She was Dr. Baker's daughter and had the same cold gleam in her eye when it came to business.

    Daddy's rules, Trudy said. Sorry, Smoke.

    Yeah, well, hell, what am I supposed to do? Drink less? Smoke less? Smoke presented these as impossible options, ridiculous to even consider. He turned to Ritchie and I.

    You drink? he asked.

    Hell, yeah.

    Smoke?

    Sure.

    Then spot me a butt and buy the next round here, he said. You pick up my bar tab, dinner and a pack of smokes Thursday night and I'll do your gig for fifty.

    From the looks of him it'd probably be cheaper to pay Smoke the hundred up front but Ritchie gave me a nod.

    Done, Ritchie said. He offered Smoke his hand. I'm Ritchie Smith. I sing and play guitar.

    The old man shook his hand and then turned and shook mine. His fingers were long, cold and powerful.

    Bobby Marks. Bass.

    What's your group called? Smoke asked.

    Dick and The Sticks.

    Lord. Dick and The Sticks and Smoke Johnson. Sounds like some kinda faggot band, Smoke said. Why do you want to go and make me look like an old, nigger faggot?

    Ritchie didn't miss a beat.

    People like silly names. My name is Richard and our drummer is Mick The Stick, Ritchie explained, though he was talking to Smoke Johnson, so he really didn't need to explain anything. Besides, once we play, we'll let the music do the talking.

    VERSE TWO

    RALPH WALDO EMERSON IS CREDITED with the phrase, every ending is a beginning, but he ripped it off from somebody else. Everything is a rip-off, variations on a theme, derivative shit. Such is the nature of creativity--it always looks to fall back on the comfortable, the familiar, the already known.

    That first Open Mike with Smoke Johnson was an ending/beginning for us. It was the end of Dick and The Sticks as a power trio, and the beginning of our first stint as a quartet. It wouldn't last long, only a couple of weeks, before Wendell weaseled his way into the band and we became an unexpected quintet and then an unexpected quartet again.

    It was the beginning/ending of something else, too. It was our graduation from one level of musicianship to another. Smoke was a real musician, probably the first we'd played with. We were lily-white suburban kids but when we entered the pub that night there was an underlying sense we were going to school, getting an education we needed to measure up to, prove worthy of. It was the beginning of the end...the end of everything.

    Mick made a snide remark to me after we introduced him to Smoke.

    NAACP, AARP Night? he quipped. I shut him up with a scowl and he fiddled with his hi-hat while I tuned up.

    I launched into Ramble On Rose, and Mick found the groove easily. I took the lead vocal but we all sang back-ups. Two open mikes were positioned center stage for anyone who wanted to join us. Before we started playing, Ritchie asked Smoke if he wanted a microphone.

    It's an extra fifty if you want me to sing, he said.

    We couldn't tell if he was kidding or not. Either way, Ritchie didn't set up a mike for him other than the old SM57 on the piano.

    Ramble On was creaky for two verses, tight by the third. I heard too much bass, not enough guitar. We tweaked the mix, did a quick Love Me Two Times, and things sounded better. We played  Long Train Running and The Clash's Should I Stay Or Should I Go and things gelled nicely. Smoke had no problem keeping pace. The bar started to fill.

    A trio of desperate housewives near the stage were on their third round when one of them approached the band and asked if we knew any Patsy Cline. Smoke broke into the opening chords of Crazy, playing the intro twice until the woman was up in front of the mike, smiling drunkenly at her friends. Her Crazy was a little tinny, but she pulled it off okay and everybody golf-clapped. She was about to dash off stage when Smoke stopped her.

    Come on, honey, give us a little more, he said, strolling into Walking After Midnight, which the woman delivered with more confidence than Crazy, and kept it going right into Nancy Sinatra's These Boots Were Made For Walkin'. Desperate Housewife Number One was sweaty and smiling from ear to ear. Desperate Housewives Two and Three joined her when Smoke rolled into Helen Reddy's I Am Woman. By the time the closing chorus came around, every girl in the bar (and half of the drunken guys) sang along ("I am woe-maaaaaaan!"), and the place burst into thunderous applause as we hit the final chord.

    The girls arrived during the first set and were waiting at the bar during our break. Trish wore a pair of jeans and a flannel, tails knotted up to show off her flat stomach, gaping at the top so I could see her black lace bra. She looked hot. We were high school sweethearts and though there had been other women (two, to be exact: Sue Miller during a six-month stint when Trish and I broke up and a drunken one-night stand with a girl named Molly or Milly at a frat party last year ...Trish didn't know about that one) Trish was the girl for me. I couldn't do better.

    Ritchie's girl Amanda was there, dressed in a mini-skirt and a white wife-beater with a hot-pink bra underneath. Amanda was a pretty girl with an ugly personality. I never knew what Ritchie saw in her and half the time I don't think he knew either. They were forever breaking up and making up. I was cordial with Amanda but secretly hoped they would fall out and stay that way. Trish did too. Ritchie deserved better.

    Somebody clapped me on the back and told me we sounded great. Somebody else said hurry up and get on with the next set. These were the same barflies that saw us last week but tonight was different. We were fuller and tighter with Smoke's piano. The old dude brought good mojo.

    We introduced Smoke to the girls. He took their hands daintily, a true Southern gentleman, but his jaundiced eyes roamed all over them.

    You didn't tell me Dick and The Sticks had such a lovely fan base, Smoke said, tossing the girls a wink. Amanda rolled her eyes. The only thing she hated worse than being called a fan was being called a groupie. But Trish blushed like a schoolgirl. I'd have to keep an eye on the old, dirty bastard. Maybe I'll pitch in some vocals next set...no charge, Smoke said.

    What do you have in mind? Ritchie asked and we started hashing out tunes. There were already a few names and requests up on the chalkboard by the stage. (Randy, White Wedding. Cynthia, anything Bob Marley.)

    A nerdy guy stared at us from across the room. This wasn't unusual. Many people came to Open Mike Night and never worked up the nerve to approach the band. But something about this guy bothered me.

    Mick bellied up to the bar next to us.

    Let's do some heavy shit next set. There's a guy at the end of the bar who wants to sing Ozzy or Crue. Mick always lobbied for heavy stuff, a metalhead at heart.

    Hey, the band's all here, Trish said. Let's have a toast. Trudy! A round of shots!

    Trudy looked in our direction, but didn't pour the drinks until Trish waved a twenty at her. Trudy could be a bitch. She set a tray of shots on the bar. We grabbed for them, and Trish handed one to Smoke.

    A toast. To the newest band member, she said.

    Smoke shook his head.

    I'm just sittin' in, he said. But I hope you won't take this shot back.

    Bull, Trish said. You guys sound great. To Smoke Johnson and Dick and The Sticks.

    That's a shit name, Smoke said. But I'll drink to it.

    How about Dick and The Sticks featuring Smoke Johnson? Ritchie said. That sounds more contemporary.

    Whatever, Smoke replied. Let's drink.

    We did. Then it was time to play.

    +++++

    Smoke didn't sing during the second set. Maybe he was put off having to pound through Enter Sandman, and Live Wire. We did another round of shots during the next break and he waved me over during a lull in the third set.

    Grab that mike, Bobby and get it down low for me so I ain't craning my neck, Smoke said. You and the boys give me some mid-tempo blues in E.

    We did and he blew through The Blues Had A Baby and Hoochie Coochie Man with such accuracy, you would have thought Muddy himself was behind the mike. It sent a chill down my spine and judging from the way the dance floor swayed, the crowd dug it too.

    We wrapped around one-thirty, an old hippie dude and his crunchy wife leading what was left of the crowd in a hearty rendition of Country Roads. It was a good night.

    Smoke watched us break down our equipment, coiling up cables, and crating up Mick's drum kit. He gestured to the upright piano.

    That's why I play a piece of furniture, fellas. If it's here, I'll play. But I ain't movin' shit, he said. Tonight was fun. You boys are good players.

    Smoke, tonight was awesome, I said. I hope you'll join us next week.

    I'll do that, he said. You keep bringing those pretty groupies around.

    Smoke was true to his word. He showed up again the following Thursday. So did the creepy dude.

    VERSE THREE

    HIS NAME WAS WENDELL ALLEN Carver, and he announced it in a mumbled, three-word rush. Smoke asked him to repeat it three times.

    Slow yourself down, kid, he told him. Wendell was nervous and jerky. He came off like a computer geek, all serious and awkward (and seriously awkward) or a coffeehouse poet, black turtleneck stretched over a little pot-belly.

    He watched all three sets from a table in the back but didn't approach the band until we were packing up. Clearly he was enamored with Smoke and I couldn't blame him--the old dog had a certain magnetism. But after introducing himself, Wendell spoke to the four of us. He seemed to respect Thursday nights as Dick and The Sticks' turf.

    You guys are really great, he said. I-I'm...I'd really like to play with you guys next Thursday.

    What do you play? Ritchie asked.

    Keyboards, he said. And I can sing some.

    Already got a keyboard, I said, gesturing to Smoke and the upright.

    I've got a rack unit with a couple of keyboards. It'll fit in the corner by the piano.

    If it were up for a band vote, I would have gone thumbs down. Dick and The Sticks had been a power trio since the beginning. Then we recruited Smoke Johnson. He was our find. We didn't need some synthesizer dweeb coming in, fucking shit up.

    But Smoke pointed out the obvious.

    It's Open Mike Night, he said. Anyone can play.

    +++++

    Wendell Allen Carver showed up the following Thursday about twenty minutes before our first set and quietly assembled his keyboard rig in the corner by the piano. As predicted, it fit just fine. He laid low for most of the first set, watching Ritchie and I for the changes but mostly watching Smoke's hands float over the piano keys.

    By the second set it was obvious the guy could play. He had two M-Audio workstations synched up to a Macbook Pro, and could create almost any sound you could imagine, from honky-tonk piano, to church organ, to Keith Emerson-style synths, all of which he'd call up effortlessly and apply tastefully. He and Smoke did a wild duet on Angry Young Man, and when Smoke broke out a couple of blues standards later on that night, Wendell switched over to a swirly Hammond B-3 which filled out the sound. The band was full and dynamic. There were a lot of new sounds competing for attention but so far everything blended nicely.

    Wendell's vocal skills were on par with his keyboard talents, maybe better. He didn't work up the nerve to sing until our fifth Open Mike Night, but when he did, he blew the room away. He had a thin, reedy voice, like Neil Young or Thom Yorke, but it was also powerful. He could nail anything by Radiohead or REM, and he had a great ear for harmony. We played Everybody Hurts one night, and afterward Trish told me, That guy's voice...it almost made me cry. I sneered at her but I couldn't disagree. Wendell Allen Carver had a beautiful voice.

    Our Thursday Night jams grew popular. We pressed Dr. B for a hundred dollar raise, arguing we had two more guys in the band to pay. Dr. B gave it to us without an argument, so we were doing something right. Everybody had fun, everybody wang-chunged, especially Smoke.

    The guy was amazing. He showed up each Thursday looking like a stiff wind could knock him over but he'd go on stage and tear up the keyboards for four hours straight.  We couldn't trip him up, no matter how we tried. We'd roll an Elton John cover into Black Sabbath's Paranoid into a Chili Peppers' tune. Smoke always found a part, at most laying back a few bars until he got the groove. Then he'd hop in, playing the song to the finish, usually closing with a big, gap-toothed yellow smile and raspy, smoked-out laugh. Sometimes he'd comment on the new tunes after the set. (That one where you keep singing, 'Give it away, give it away, give it away' ....man, that shit was tight! or  that rambling one that goes 'Crash into me, crash into me' ... that song's a dog, man, we should hot potato it.)

    Any song written prior to 1980 Smoke knew by heart. One night Tom the bartender joined us for a round of obscure Sinatra and Louis Armstrong tunes, followed by a string of Irish folk ballads. He lost us after the Sinatra numbers, but Smoke kept up with him all the way through The Streets Of Dublin. There wasn't a tune written the guy couldn't fake his way through.

    Wendell more than held up his end. Once or twice a night he took the mike, usually singing a soulful number that brought the crowd to its feet. The guy could cut loose a ripping solo too. He watched Smoke like an obedient student, sucking up every move the guy made.

    Playing with Smoke was an education for all of us. One night during a break, Smoke pontificated on the virtues of the blues, how it was a dying art form and more young musicians should take to it.

    Isn't blues the retarded cousin of jazz? Mick asked with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. You know, blues is like, jazz for dummies.

    I disagreed with Mick's delivery but I saw his point, especially as a fellow member of the rhythm section. The drum and bass lines for blues were very rudimentary--anyone with basic musical aptitude could learn them in short order. The blues were a dish you could flavor a million different ways--make it spicy, hot, mild, or syrupy sweet. But the base ingredients were quite bland.

    Ain't like that at all, Smoke said. "Jazz is the cousin who goes to college, reads a bunch of books and is able to match up the stuff he learns in history class with current events he sees on the news. That makes him seem worldly and wise.

    The blues is the cousin who drops out of school and goes to work in Daddy's machine shop, maybe lands a swing shift down at the mill, gets married too young, has a couple of kids and spends a good chunk of time afterward wondering 'what if' and thinking about that smart-ass cousin of his. Both guys are working the same road. The jazz man does it by the book, knows where he's going and how he's gonna get there. The bluesman does it by gut instinct, raw emotion and experience. That's the big difference. The blues lives life. Jazz studies it.

    We pondered this for a moment but Wendell, ever the geek, took it literally and pressed for more.

    So you're saying jazz is more cerebral, and the blues is more...physical, Wendell said. Jazz is philosophy, and blues is chemistry...or alchemy.

    Mick and I looked at Wendell like he'd dropped a turd on the floor but Smoke bailed him out.

    Exactly, son. The blues is chemistry. That's why if you play the blues right, it makes women want to fuck, Smoke said. If you play jazz right, it makes women want to...I dunno...go to church or something. Stick with the blues, son.

    Wendell blushed redder than a baboon's ass and Mick and I shared one of the longest, richest laughs of our lives.

    Smoke would spin tales about the early days of rock and roll, playing in the Deep South during the 1950s and '60s. He claimed to know every musician of note in the past half century. It was around this time I realized Smoke Johnson was one of the most skilled liars I had ever met.

    We'd shout out musical acts and Smoke gave us a related tale. Some were anecdotes, others lengthy and detailed. If these were lies, they were elaborate and well practiced.

    Elvis Presley!

    "Played with him at the Fort Hood Army Pavilion in 1957. Nice kid, with a great set of pipes. Good dancer too. People didn't know that about him, watching those goofy movies but the boy could really move. Shame he got

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1