TRACK 1
“You Shook Me All Night Long”
August 1977
The Nullarbor Plain, Australia
The feeble lights of Mitch Klaxon’s Toyota van illuminated a stretch of Nullarbor highway that was more red dust than asphalt. They’d not passed a single dwelling since sunset, and the next township was at least sixty kilometers away.
Mitch didn’t scare easily. At the Perth gig, even as he dodged beer cans—some empty, some half full—he’d kept on singing. Didn’t miss a single note. That was one reason why he was a great front man for the band he and his brother Les had started in their mum’s garage six months ago.
But one thing that did scare the leather trousers off of him was flying. Too many musicians had fallen out of the sky already. Patsy Cline. Buddy Holly. Otis Redding. He didn’t want to be another statistic. Which was why he was taking the band on a thirty-six-hour road trip from the sleepy western end of Australia to the glittering lights of Melbourne.
If they weren’t so broke, the rest of the band would have hated him for it. Didn’t stop them from grumbling about the lack of air-conditioning or suspension. Despite the bumps from potholes and cracks, the guys snoozed in the back, their heads resting on guitar cases and amps.
Jangly strains of The Rolling Stones leaked quietly from the radio. Mitch frowned as static began to buzz.
“Bugger,” he said, twiddling the knob in search of a station. Finding none, he flipped the radio off and squinted at the horizon.
Bright headlights glimmered far ahead.
Without warning, the van shook to a halt. The dash lights and headlights blinked once, twice, then extinguished.
“Shit,” Mitch muttered, and turned the ignition key. Nothing. Decrepit as the van was on the outside, he knew there was enough petrol in the tank. And the engine was a die-hard block of Japanese iron. It’d take a meteor to demolish it. “Guys, we have a problem.”
When none of his band mates replied, he faced them. All were fast asleep.
“Hey,” he said, shaking his brother. “Les, wake up. Help me push-start this thing.”
But Les remained dead to the world.
Mitch peered out of the windscreen, shielding his eyes as the approaching car’s headlights grew brighter.
“Jeez, turn off your high beams, mate,” he said, opening the driver’s door so he could get out and flag the motorist down for help.
As Mitch’s booted right foot touched the dusty tarmac, a vibration rumbled all the way up his body. His gaze was stuck on the oncoming car, which seemed to be rushing toward him at breakneck speed.
Immediately, the silence struck him. It was like he’d stepped into a vacuum. No crickets chirping. Nothing from his band mates in the van.
Most troubling of all, the approaching car was completely silent, too. Not even the rattle of a fender on the bumpy highway. And it was heading straight for Mitch’s van. Growing bigger and bigger.
It was wider than the roadway, Mitch realized. As it came closer, more lights fanned out horizontally, and he glimpsed the shape of something smooth and elongated. This was no car. Not even semitrailers hooked together in the road trains that were common in these parts.
Mitch stood frozen in place. He couldn’t turn away from those blinding halogen-blue lights. They burned his skin, pierced his eyeballs. Helpless, he tried to yell, but his throat felt like it was being squeezed by a giant invisible hand.
Now less than a hundred meters away, the lights pitched upward, lifting higher and higher.
It’s a plane, Mitch reasoned with himself. Yes, a completely silent, propeller-free, massive plane flying just off the ground.
The craft slowed. The atmosphere around Mitch seemed to throb. He felt encapsulated by it, separate from the cool desert air. His eyes followed the craft as it hovered in place above him. Silver-white, blue, purple, and red lights pulsated in a peculiar rhythm, mesmerizing him. Soon he felt weightless. Like a feather being lifted to the clouds.
He saw figures moving toward him. Surrounding him. Judging by their small statures, he thought they were children. But then one poked him with something that seared his arm, bringing pain so intense he blacked out.
The next minute, Mitch was back in the van, radio blaring, engine idling. His limbs ached. Mitch touched his throbbing temples and felt warm blood oozing from a small wound. He checked on his band mates. All were present and accounted for. And breathing, thank Christ. They were in the same positions as before—legs, arms, and torsos twisted, trying to conform to the cramped interior.
“H-hey, are you guys okay?” Mitch called out, his voice unnaturally high.
Eyes closed, Rocky, the drummer, mumbled an unintelligible reply. Jimbo made a grunting sound and flipped him the bird.
“What did you stop for, mate?” Les mumbled sleepily, his head still leaning against an amp.
White-knuckling the hard steering wheel, Mitch peered at the sky. Finding nothing but stars and scattered clouds, he shook his head. “A UFO. I think I saw a UFO.”
He paused, waited for Les to fully wake up and tell him to stop being such a dickhead. But his brother had already fallen back into a deep sleep.
“I know I saw a UFO,” Mitch whispered.
He put the car in gear and stamped his foot to the floor.
Mitch Klaxon would never mention the incident again. Not even to Oprah, when she would interview him many years later after he won ten Grammys. Nor would he ever again drive across any desert at night.
But that didn’t mean he’d stop having nightmares about being probed by aliens until the day he died.
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