CHAPTER ONE
October 31, 1959—a date which would live in infamy. I know, I should come up with something more original, but it fits. And it’s what I would come to think of that day in the days and weeks ahead. At the moment I was gazing out the Voice’s rain-smeared windows onto the urban quagmire that was Cooper Square. It was early evening and the street was crowded with bobbing umbrellas carried by men and women dashing off to their evening destinations. I was envious of those umbrellas, as I imagined their owners living lives far more exciting than mine.
Halloween…
When I was younger, that was the one day I could be anything but the little snot-nosed kid I used to be. I relished that feeling of getting dressed up as a cowboy or a robot or Frankenstein’s monster, hiding in plain sight from the bullies who made my childhood a living hell. Nowadays, friends tell me that with my pomaded hair and Wayfarer glasses, I could go as Buddy Holly, no costume required. Halloween was a day of power for me. That date also marked the end of my first year at the Village Voice, a year that had started with such promise. I wanted to cover crime and politics as an investigative reporter, but my lack of experience straight out of Columbia’s School of Journalism meant I would be writing fillers and obituaries, something my editor, John Wilcock, said would put hair on my chest. I was still hairless, and the half-written obit now rolled around the platen in my battered Remington portable marked number three hundred.
Yes, I was counting. I had to feel some sense of accomplishment, no matter how fleeting.
It all changed in a heartbeat.
“Joshua?”
I turned from the window to see Wilcock staring at me over his Ben Franklin glasses, his shock of iron-gray hair looking as if it were caught in a whirlpool.
“Daydreaming?” the older man asked, the hint of an avuncular smile on his lined patrician face.
I liked Wilcock. He was what people called a straight shooter, something at odds with his proper British demeanor.
“Yes, of a life not yet lived,” I replied
“You’re too cynical for one so young, my boy.”
I leaned back in my chair, which screeched like fingers on a chalkboard. Wilcock winced. “We’ll have to get that oiled.”
I pointed to the can of 3-in-1 oil in permanent residence at the corner of my desk. “I tried that, John.”
The older man waved it off and pulled up a chair. I felt a rush of apprehension, and I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like what was coming next.
“As you know, Linda’s on vacation,” Wilcock said, puffing on his ever-present Pall Mall.
I frowned, and Wilcock held up his hand.
“Don’t look so distraught. This is good.”
I waited and let him continue.
“Something’s popped up. There’s a show—one night only—at the Village Theatre, something I think you’d be a good match for a review.”
My expression must have been priceless, as Wilcock cracked a gap-toothed grin.
“You thought I was going to fire you, didn’t you?”
“It did cross my mind…”
Wilcock took another drag off his cigarette and blew the smoke over my head.
“You do great work, Joshua, and the best thing is you don’t complain.”
I smiled in spite of my mood and shrugged. “Guess I’m just a glutton for punishment.”
“Quite. But as I said, this is good. You’ll stand in for Linda and you’ll get a byline.”
That made me sit up straighter. Bylines were guarded like Fort Knox.
“Won’t Linda have a problem with that?”
Linda Solomon covered the club scene, and a mention in her “Riffs” column could make or break a new group’s career.
“Not at all. She’s already given me her blessing.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out two tickets. “As I said, it’s tonight only, and it starts at seven. Why don’t you take Audrey and have her bring her camera along?”
Audrey Whitman, my girlfriend, worked in classifieds. We’d met the week I started at the paper and had been inseparable ever since. It was no secret she yearned to be a staff photographer. She’d be thrilled at the chance.
I glanced at the clock and saw it was five minutes after five. I just had time to grab Audrey, wolf down something to eat, and get over to the theatre.
“You said the Village Theatre, right?”
“On Second Avenue and Sixth.”
“I thought that place was closed down?”
Wilcock shrugged. “Apparently, not for tonight.” He tapped the tickets lying on the desk. I looked closer and spotted the name of the show.
“The Back to the Future Rock and Roll Revue. What is it, Elvis and Chuck Berry running around with silver jumpsuits and ray guns?”
Wilcock laughed at the silly image the title provoked. “I don’t have the foggiest, but you’ll find out. Your deadline is two a.m., by the way. Have fun.”
He rose from the chair and strolled back into his glassed-in office.
I placed the tickets in my shirt pocket and picked up the phone.
“Classifieds.”
“So, how’s my favorite ad girl?”
Audrey’s throaty chuckle tickled my ear. “I’m the only ad girl. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Me? Never.”
“So, what’s up?” she asked.
“Wilcock just gave me an assignment.”
I had to pull the phone away from my ear, her scream was so loud.
“My God, that’s fantastic!” she said, breathless. “What is it?”
“There’s a show tonight he wants me to review. And I get a byline!”
There was silence for a moment. “Linda’s okay with that?”
“Apparently so,” I said. “You want to go? I’ve got two tickets.”
“You’re on!”
“Oh, and one more thing: Wilcock said for you to bring your camera.”
There was another momentary silence and then the rush of exhaled breath.
“Are you kidding me…?”
“Would I ever kid about that?”
“No, you wouldn’t,” she said, followed by a squeal of delight. “Oh, crap, I’ve got to buy some film.”
I laughed at her excitement. “Okay, you grab some film at the Rexall. I’ve got to finish this obit. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes and we’ll grab a bite at Rinaldi’s.”
* * *
Rinaldi’s sat on the corner of Avenue A and 2nd Street, a stone’s throw from the theatre. With its soft indirect lighting, checkered tablecloths, and hanging salamis, it was the quintessential Italian trattoria. The food was cheap and good, which was why Audrey and I ate there so much. She was studying the menu, which gave me the chance to study her. I never grew tired of that. She was five feet five to my six feet, had curly blonde hair she often put up in a bun on the top of her head, and she wore owlish glasses that made her big blue eyes even bigger. In a word, she was adorable, and she’d stolen my heart the instant we met.
“See anything good?”
She pursed her lips, and that simple unconscious gesture made me want to kiss her right then.
“I think I’m going to do the spaghetti and meatballs. What about you?”
“Veal parm.”
“You always do that.”
I was about to offer a rejoinder when a group of tough-looking men walked into the restaurant, passing our table and heading for the private room in the back. Audrey noticed my expression.
“What is it?”
“You’ll never guess who just walked by.”
She gave me a look. “Just tell me.”
“Frank Costello.”
Audrey’s eyes widened in that way that made my heart leap.
“Oh my God, just now?”
“Yeah, and I think I’ll go ask him for his autograph.”
I started to rise, and Audrey’s hand clamped down on my arm like a vise.
“Don’t you dare!”
I sank back into my chair, laughing. “I’m just kidding.”
“No, you weren’t, you were serious,” she said, her eyes blazing.
“Well… maybe a little bit,” I said, pinching my thumb and index finger together.
The waiter arrived, and we ordered our meals. When he left, Audrey sipped her water. “So, what’s the show we’re seeing?”
“Something called The Back to the Future Rock and Roll Revue.”
She frowned. “Back to the future?”
I sighed. “I know, it’s a silly name, but it might be fun. Even if it’s not, I still have to review it. Probably some record company showcasing their new acts.”
“You nervous?”
“About the review?”
Audrey nodded as she chewed on a breadstick.
I had to think about my answer for a moment. “Yes and no.”
“You’re going to do great. You’re a terrific writer.”
“Says the girlfriend.”
She stuck out a crumb-studded tongue. “You make that sound as if my opinion doesn’t count.”
“Of course it counts—to me, but—”
“No buts. I’ve read your stuff.” She leaned forward, and I could see her pulse throbbing in her neck. “This is your break, Josh, I know it. And you’ll do great.”
I toasted her with my glass of chianti. I was glad she had confidence in me. It was more than I had in myself. Still, I would do my best. I had no choice.
The meal came, and as we ate we spoke about other things, mostly about how the LA Dodgers had trounced the White Sox in the World Series earlier that month. The fact that Audrey was a baseball fan endeared her to me even more.
We left the restaurant at six-thirty and walked to the theatre, which occupied the northwest corner of 2nd Avenue and Sixth Streets, right next to Ratner’s Deli. As we neared the theatre, I spotted posters in the glass display cases along the wall just under the marquee, and it took a moment for my eyes to decipher what they were seeing. The central image was a raised arm, the hand curled into a fist with both the index and pinky fingers extended, like devil horns. The words themselves proved harder to gauge, as they melted around the image like a surrealist painting. The colors were vibrant, almost seeming to glow in the dark. Along the top edge, in block letters, were the words: BILL GRAHAM & THE ORION COMPANY PRESENT IN NEW YORK.
“Hey, come on,” Audrey said, tugging my sleeve, “it’s cold out here.”
We entered the crowded lobby and presented our tickets to a young man wearing a skin-tight Kelly-green soccer-style shirt with FILLMORE EAST silkscreened on the chest.
Turns out Wilcock had given us front-row seats. The young usher handed us two programs, and I grabbed Audrey’s hand as we entered the auditorium, marveling at all the Greek Revival embellishments from a time gone by—a true palace. The stage was another matter.
There was a large screen at the back, presumably the movie screen, and projected upon it were the words: WELCOME TO FILLMORE EAST. THE JOSHUA LIGHT SHOW.
It was what rested on the stage that took us aback. Flanking the drum kit were what appeared to be a wall of amplifiers on either side. Each of the six stacks consisted of two speaker cabinets piled atop of one another, capped by the amplifier head, their red indicator lights glowing in the semidarkness. Squinting, I could just make out the name emblazoned on the cabinets and head in gold script: MARSHALL.
We found our seats, which like all the others around them had a single red rose pinned to the seatback.
“This is so nice,” Audrey cooed, bringing the rose to her nose.
I handed mine to her and we sat down. The seats were front and center, and the view to the stage was unrivaled. Audrey tapped my shoulder. “Look at this.”
I turned and saw her program open on her lap. I opened mine. It was a simple eight-page pamphlet printed in black and white on glossy paper, folded and stapled. The first page had what amounted to a mission statement.
The Orion Company is dedicated to bringing you the finest in rock performance, straight from the world of tomorrow. No expense was spared to bring you Back to the Future!
I turned the page and spotted the photo and bio for the first group.
Straight from their American debut at the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival, we are proud to present The Jimi Hendrix Experience.
I turned the page at the same time as Audrey and heard her gasp.
“Oh my God, they’re girls with beards!”
I looked at the photo of the second group, something called Black Sabbath, and laughed. The four “men” had shoulder-length hair, along with their beards and mustaches. Curiously, they all wore large silver crosses around their necks. The bio stated:
In honor of Halloween, Bill Graham and the Orion Company are proud to present Black Sabbath. Known as the grandfathers of Heavy Metal Rock, they are guaranteed to send sonic chills up your spines.
The last group, a three-piece named Green Day, were apparently fresh off a tour for their hit 2004 album American Idiot.
Cute.
I turned to Audrey, who was now staring at the stage.
“Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to give us the impression we’re seeing bands that don’t really exist yet.”
“You ever see amplifiers like these?” she said.
I had to admit that I hadn’t. In the few rock and roll shows I’d attended, one of them headlining Eddie Cochran, the amps on stage looked like toys compared to these.
“I just hope it’s not too loud,” Audrey added.
Just then the house lights dimmed, and the crowd roared. A spotlight hit the center of the stage, illuminating a tall thin man with tousled dark-brown hair and a heavy five o’clock shadow. Behind him, in the shadows, I saw what I assumed were members of the group taking up their positions.
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
