<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 15 Mythic Character The tour finally over, Anton was back in Portland. Walking home one afternoon, he came across a kid doing skateboard tricks on a loading ramp near his studio. The kid lost control of the board just as Anton was passing by, and it skidded to the sidewalk. He stopped it with his foot, handing it back as the kid ran up. "Thanks, dude." The kid was a punk with a flannel shirt and black boots. "No problem." "Hey wait a minute, you're Anton Dupree!" Anton's eyes narrowed. "You're wrong." "Naw, you look the same. The clothes, the face. I seen it enough times to know." "You saw me on stage, right?" "Sure, at Lizard Lounge, New Jerusalem—" "Am I there now?" "Naww...." "Then I'm not the same guy, right? I'm just a kid on the street, like you." "Man, you're—" "What you don't realize is, we're not supposed to meet. There's so many guys like you, and for all of you, there's only one Anton Dupree. For us to meet face to face like this, what do you think are the odds? It can't happen, so it's not happening." "What's happening then?" "Hell if I know. Do I look like a philosopher?" "Listen—" "No, you listen. I've got a life of my own. I get paid to deal with folks like you. That's my job. And right now, I'm not working." He started to walk away. The kid waited until he was halfway down the block, and began to unleash a steady stream of abuse. "So you're Mr. Big, are you? Mr. Bigshot Rock Star. Yeah, well fuck you, Anton Dupree. Fuck you, glamour boy. Your music sucks! You've sold out, you can't even play no more...." Anton reached his door and climbed the steps. There was a leather briefcase on the landing. He picked it up. Across the street, two of Reinhold's men were sitting in a dark sedan. They watched him lift the briefcase and open it. One of the men spoke into a radio handset. "He's received the payment." Anton was surprised, even shocked, by what was inside. He looked up and down the street, but didn't notice the car in which the two men were sitting. He took the keys from his pocket and went inside, taking the briefcase with him. "He's taking it inside," said the man with the radio. The other man started the car and they drove away. He opened the briefcase on the kitchen counter. It was full of stacks of hundred-dollar bills. He counted the bills in one stack, then the number of stacks, to arrive at a total of half a million dollars. He pushed himself away from the money and surveyed the pile from a distance. "What kind of crazy stunt is this?" The vibe that came from the briefcase was unsettling, like a noxious odor with no obvious source, or a tone so shrill it could hardly be detected. He started thinking of all the things he could do with the money, but he stifled these thoughts. He wanted to put the money back where he'd found it, but he was reluctant even to touch it. Looking for a way out of his dilemma, he picked up the phone and dialed. "Square Peg Foundation," came a female voice. "Can you get me Reinhold on the line? Colonel Reinhold." "Colonel Reinhold?" The lady at the other end seemed troubled. "I'm sorry, you must be looking for someone else. Mr. Reinhold doesn't go by—" "I've been to your office before. It's where I met him." He was getting agitated. "This is Anton Dupree. Just tell him I'm calling, please." "He isn't in today, Mr. Dupree. May I take a message?" "This is urgent! There must be a way for you to put me through to him, wherever he is." The lady made sounds indicating that she was being asked to do more than was appropriate. Nevertheless, after a long pause and a series of clicks she said, "Hold on, please," and the call went through. "Reinhold," said the Colonel. "Colonel Reinhold! It's Anton. Anton Dupree from the Psychic Rangers. Listen, I just found a briefcase full of cash on my front porch. Half a million dollars, it looks like. You wouldn't happen to know anything about this?" Reinhold chuckled. "As a matter of fact, I do." He was pleased that Anton had called him right away. Not many people would do that. Most would spend the money, some would report it to the police, and all of them would find ways to persuade themselves that they had no idea where it came from. Anton, on the other hand, had gone right to the source. No lack of confidence in that boy, reflected the Colonel. "I thought I should check with you," Anton was saying, "before I went and spent it on anything. After all, who knows where it's been, or what strings are attached." Reinhold was seated in his inner sanctum, in a high-backed leather chair facing a curved bank of twenty video screens. The screens swarmed with diverse images: the floor of the Tokyo Stock Exchange, a construction site on the Moon, a video for a popular rock band, a violent and degrading sex rite, a live report from a battleground in Africa, and a static shot of a private bathroom, currently empty. As they spoke he switched channels on the screens in front of him, surveying his infinite realm. "There's no strings attached, Anton. It's yours to spend as you like. You've already earned every penny." "What do you mean by that?" "Some of the projects you've done with us have been extremely lucrative. You're an amazing talent, much in demand right now in certain quarters, I don't mind saying." "You mean you're paying me for work I've already done?" "Exactly." "But what work? I haven't worked for you since—that film I made with Kliff." He was glad that Reinhold couldn't see him blush. "You've been of service to us on numerous occasions, whether you're aware of it or not. And believe me, we're extremely grateful. What you need to remember is, we never pay in advance. For one thing, it's too complicated to enforce a contract if someone wants to back out. And it saves us from explaining to people like you what we want them to do. It's better to let you improvise, and take it from there. We pay once the job is finished, and we're scrupulous about sharing the rewards. That's to your advantage, because you owe us nothing. The money you've received is your royalty, your share of the profit." "That's impossible! I produce my own projects. What have you got to do with it?" "Your record label is independent, but that's only a fraction of your output. Your noncommercial projects are just as interesting to me." "Did I do something for you I don't remember, or—what did I do?" Reinhold sighed. He hated longwinded explanations. "My specialty is to connect people, to serve as a bridge. There are people who collect unusual things, and there are people who produce those things. Sad to say, those two groups are often far apart. So I'm the bridge. If you're a collector, you can go through commercial channels, in which case you'll get a version that's dumbed down for the masses, or you can go through me. What good is brilliant material like Child of Violence if it's never released to the public? Let's say a gentleman in Berlin or Singapore wants it for himself and a few friends. Let's say I know the album exists. Perhaps I even commissioned it, whether you know it or not. I also know the collector and his tastes. Should I refuse to put two and two together to make a profit?" On his screens, a man fell screaming from a helicopter, a box of cereal danced and sang. "So that's what happens, more or less. The details aren't important. In fact, the details are sometimes dangerous. All you need to know is that a large sum of money shows up on your doorstep one day, and that you've earned it." He underlined that point. "You've earned it, Anton. You're a gold mine, in fact. There are many, many people in the world who would pay dearly for a piece of you. Those photographs you did with Périne are years ahead of their time. The Trashtown videos, the music you didn't release...." "I did those things for fun! I didn't expect to get paid for them. A photo shoot, a few jams, even that film with Kliff, back when I needed to eat—why not do it, if the moment's right? It costs me nothing. I'd do it anyway." "That's the beauty of it, isn't it? You'd do it anyway. Only we make sure those moments that cost you nothing keep on coming, and that the results reach people who appreciate them. What good does it do you to record a perfect ballad that never gets released, because it doesn't fit your public style? I understand the strategic choices people make in their careers as well as anyone. You never want to show the world everything at once. It saturates the market, and it gives your competition valuable clues. So you learn to be selective, but why not use the extra material? You can be sure there's an eccentric lady somewhere who would love that ballad and pay dearly for it, only she's a shut-in who has no idea you exist. So that's my work, making the connections in order for everyone to get what they want." "You're doing this out of kindness? I can't help thinking you want something in return." "The money is yours, take it. You've earned it already, like I said. You can run off to Indonesia for all I care, and never write a song again. But why stop now? I hope you're in it for the long haul. I hope you won't throw away this windfall on cheap toys, like a Jaguar with a glove compartment full of coke. We've had that happen. Maybe you'll invest some of it back into your career, and do something creative to guarantee your future. You could diversify, start a magazine. If you like, Kliff will find you a reliable financial adviser who's attuned to the interests of a young musician like yourself. One who'll look out for your interests better than you can. I repeat, though, there's no strings attached. It's yours to blow however you want. Only I hope you realize that if you invest it wisely, more will follow. That's how it works. Think of this as the first in a long line of payments, all equally painless, all equally well earned. How do you like that?" "I'm not sure." "Well, think about it. I've got work to do. The Colonel is a busy man." Their conversation over, Reinhold turned his full attention to the console. He was no longer surfing, but investigating a specific issue with intent. Rapid commands typed into the keyboard brought up screens of market data, video facsimiles of documents, a couple of foreign news broadcasts, a Lebanese cabinet meeting, the interrogation of a balding political prisoner, the execution of the same by firing squad, the lobby of a Middle Eastern bank, the back seat of a financier's limousine. He flipped a switch, opening his private intercom line. "Get me Johnny on the line. Code Red." Anton hung up the phone and stared at the unwieldy pile of cash. He lifted one of the stacks to see how it felt, ruffled it under his nose, and stood there pondering. "This is a test," he told himself. "An initiation, a baited hook." He tossed the stack back in the briefcase. He added the remaining money and shut the case. He watched the threatening object for a moment, as if to make sure it wouldn't spring open on its own, then stashed it under the sink. He understood that this was his opportunity to freelance with money that wasn't really his own. If he handled himself responsibly, investing in smart career moves rather than blowing it all at once on expensive pleasures, if he followed the advice that Kliff would give him and plowed his cash back into the Reinhold empire from which it came, he would earn the Colonel's respect and be trusted with ever larger amounts. His standard of living would increase, along with the range of action permitted him. There would be the occasional gift of designer clothes for his wardrobe, works of art for his collection, or technology for his stage show, all because he was a fashion leader and people wanted a piece of his name. His name had prestige value, which was bizarre because it was the name he was born with, but now he felt pretentious even using it. Anyway, he would be well taken care of. On the other hand, if he proved himself unwise, if he foolishly went his own way and fell flat on his face, this would be the last large sum of cash he would see. He called Kliff and left a message. "Dude, it's me. I just talked to the Colonel. I need your opinion on something. Stop by and see me, I'm at home." He walked to the opposite end of the room, hands stuffed in his pockets. He stared up at the band of windows, restless as he waited for Kliff. He remembered when Kliff had first brought him to this place. It had been raining, and they'd gone to the roof. He realized that he hadn't been on the roof in a long time. He climbed the ladder and slid back the hatch, leaving it open so he could hear the buzzer when Kliff came. Outside, it was a perfect summer day. He picked a spot and slumped on the tarry gravel, back against the wall. He took a little pipe from his pocket and packed it with sticky green bud, holding the smoke in his lungs for a while before letting it curl from his mouth and nose. He had to get a grip on things. He had to decide what to do. Sabrina had made a play for him without Reinhold's knowledge, and now he had Reinhold's countermove. He was smart enough to see the connection. It was what Sabrina had predicted would happen. "He'll try to win you over with more information, more access. By playing us off against each other, you can learn a lot." What a bunch of cynical operators he'd fallen in with. He wished he could be rid of both of them, but it was too late. He was in too deep, and he'd said yes at every step of the way. The temptations of fame, of having a voice people would listen to, had been too great for him. Now he'd achieved his ambitions, and if he didn't seize the moment, the compromises he'd made along the way would be wasted. "Look around you for clues to the pattern," Sabrina had said. "Take advantage of the opportunity to inform yourself." If he lost his nerve now, he deserved to be called a sellout, as the skater in the street had said. If Reinhold was grooming him as Sabrina had claimed, he could use that to work his way into the Colonel's confidence. Once he understood the master plan, he would expose it, bringing the whole rotten mess into the open. He would be the snake in the grass, the virus in the blood. It was a dangerous game, and he needed a way out if things went bad. More than ever, he saw the wisdom of keeping Timmins away from his life in Portland. People thought of Timmins as weak or helpless, but in fact he was untouchable because he lived in a world of his own. If things ever got ugly, he could flee to Timmins and be safe. Once he bought Timmins his farmhouse by the river, they both would have a refuge in time of need. He thought of buying the house with the money Reinhold had given him, but he was sure that every penny would be traced. It would be better to dip into the proceeds from Extreme Liberties, but even that was dangerous, because Kliff handled his finances and would surely report any irregularities to Reinhold. Suddenly he had to laugh, because he remembered the Colonel's saying, "Art is the best cover." He would collect paintings! He would claim that each painting cost more than it actually did, and pocket the difference. After a few purchases like that, he would have enough money to help Timmins. He took another hit from his pipe, and began to relax. He hadn't solved his problems, but he'd made progress. Being young, rich, and stoned on a summer day softened his mood. He pulled out a voice recorder and said the first thing that came into his head. I'm an exemplar, a role model, what they all want to become! I want to live my life as a kind of ceremony. An initiation into practices unknown to many, a progress toward barbarism, a tribal rite. He'd bought the recorder in New York City, during the Extreme Liberties tour. He'd imagined it might come in handy for something, but he hadn't used it much until now. I want the world to be my mirror. I'm obsessed with that. I want to hear my voice on the radio. I want to see my face in the magazines. I want my name on cigarettes and bars of soap, manufactured by a religious cult. I want to blow up the world! He arched his back and stretched. He repacked the pipe and lit it, watching the flame dance over the pale green buds. I don't want to be entertaining, I want to be dangerous. A shining example, a righteous sword. Telling the truth to kings is rarely pretty. They don't want to hear it. They want to sit around on their thrones and get fat, like you or me. I want to live in extreme misery, boredom I can't comprehend, until my soul, thirsty for joy, is forced into a blind and extravagant rebellion. If I wanted rebellion for its own sake, that would be easy, because there's plenty to rebel against. But I'm looking for people and situations I can honor. I know there is beauty out there. I can feel it, can't you? Feeling restless, he put away the recorder. Where was Kliff? No doubt tending to his network of dealers and spies. He didn't want to go back inside, but there was nowhere else to go. He stood, brushed off his pants, and slipped through the hatch. He was just heading down the ladder when the buzzer sounded. When he opened the door, it struck him. There was an elegance about Kliff that showed in his clothes, his mannerisms. Kliff was no longer a hungry kid looking to get out of the rain. He was a ruffian like he'd always been, but his style had evolved. They had the same reaction upon seeing each other, happiness that the other was looking good. They embraced, and there was complicity in their glances. "Look at us," they seemed to be saying. "Who would have thought?" "So you talked to Reinhold?" Kliff said once the door closed. "He left me a present. It was anonymous, but I figured it was him." Kliff knotted his brow. "You have Reinhold's phone number?" "I called the Square Peg Foundation." "And they put you through?" "I insisted." "What was the present?" "A briefcase full of cash." Kliff whistled. "So he made his move." He didn't try to act surprised, as he once would have done. "Join me in the kitchen," Anton said. "I'll pour you a drink." "Did he give you a reason?" Kliff said as they crossed the room. Anton peered into a kitchen cabinet. "What would you like? Gin and tonic? Vodka and cranberry? Whiskey and soda?" "Cognac," Kliff said, seeing the bottle there. Anton got down two glasses and poured the drinks. "He made it sound like a thank you gesture. For services rendered, that sort of thing. I'm still not sure what he's really after. He just wants to give me some money, I guess." "And your reaction?" Anton handed him the glass. "He said I should talk to you about getting a financial advisor. He wants me to invest it in a magazine, or something." "How much money is it, anyway?" "Half a million. Want to see it? It's under the sink." He pulled out the briefcase, tossed it on the counter and opened it, bringing the stacks of money into view. Kliff whistled again. "It's rare to see so much money in one place." "Kind of scary when you think about it. Incriminating. Like I did something wrong." He latched the case and put it away. Taking his glass from the counter, he guided Kliff back to the main room. They settled on some sofas, setting their glasses on the table in front of them. Bowls of nuts and pretzels were already laid out. "Is there a quid pro quo?" Kliff couldn't help asking. "I'm sure there is. But what he actually said is, it's for work I've already done. Side projects, hidden albums. Things he sold to private collectors behind my back. He said that if I invest it wisely, there'll be more to come." "Gotta love the Colonel." Kliff reached for an almond and studied it for a moment before popping it into his mouth. "What's your take on this? What do you want to do?" Anton shrugged. "Play along and see what happens." Kliff couldn't help noticing how Anton had changed. Where was the righteous anger he would have shown in the old days? "Do you want to start a magazine, like he said? Or a film project? What?" "A magazine sounds cool. We could call it Rebel Youth, Voice of the Midwest." Kliff pulled out a book of names and phone numbers. "I know a few people with the right experience and the right attitude. Fans of yours who know what you're after. Do you want someone who's really from the Midwest?" "That would be nice. But I'm beginning to get bored with authenticity." They tossed around ideas for the magazine, but before long they were back on the subject of money. "I'm not sure I like the idea of putting my stuff up for sale with Reinhold," Anton said. "It seems he wants to find a buyer for everything I do. Doodles on scraps of paper. Songs I sang in the shower. Bus tickets and chewing gum." "Don't worry. If there's something you want to keep off the market, he'll respect that. And he won't step on arrangements you've made with other collaborators. He's just trying to pick up the loose pieces, which has advantages for you both. There's bound to be cases where he sees opportunities you're not aware of." Anton frowned. "To him, I'm a product. Or a line of products." "Look at the advantages. Nine times out of ten, when someone approaches you with an idea for a project, it's total bullshit. With us, you know that if we promise you a job, the job will happen. The photo shoot will take place, the radio show will come to pass. If not, we would never make the promise. That's how we work. We don't want to waste your time." Anton figured he would wait and see how it played out. He'd been sucked into a relationship with the Colonel, and time would tell how compromising it would be. The possibilities looked endless, but what was the price? The money under the sink, with its eerie vibe, felt like it would contaminate everything. Perhaps he would never be independent again. • • • A groupie came into the bar and sat down breathlessly beside Anton. "I never come to places like this, but I just had to see you!" He didn't react, so she slid closer on the bench. "I'd like to get close to you. Would you like that?" He showed his disgust. "Some people like fucking. I find that hard to imagine." She reached out to touch his arm. "Do you know who keeps me company at night when I can't sleep? Do you know who's always there with me when I close my eyes? It's you, and you, and YOU that I think about, night after night in the dark!" Her self-control gone, she pressed against him in a swoon. "Anton...." He recoiled. "You feel sticky." "Anton..." she said, desperately this time. "Your flesh is moist!" He pulled away violently, and she burst into tears. He stood up, smoothing his sleeve. "Talk to my manager. He'll throw you a few crumbs. An autographed album, a T-shirt I never washed." He looked her in the eyes. "Now will you get out of here! Scoot!" He pointed to the door. She slunk off. He returned to his work, scribbling lyrics on a paper napkin. • • • Rebel Youth, Voice of the Midwest was published in Portland, but its cut-and-paste, comic-book style reflected the Heartland sensibilities of its editor, Farnham T. Sparks. He'd been tossed out of his Wisconsin hometown at the age of nineteen, when the 'zine he'd put out there, Clown Killer, caused a stir. Like so many other young people exiled from their roots, he'd been drawn to Portland by the techno-primitive scene. In the early days of techno-primitivism, the musicians of Portland had felt a sense of community, rooting for each other and showing up at one another's shows. Now it was all about marketing, and some of the pioneers of the movement felt left behind. Others were swept along on a tidal wave of hype who would have preferred not to be. Rebel Youth was one of the main sources of knowledge about the evolving scene, salvaging its early history in photos and interviews, tracking the actions of its key figures, and giving people a place to debate the pros and cons of success. There were people who hated Anton for what he'd done, because they thought he'd taken a good thing and twisted it for personal gain. It amused him to let these voices speak out in the pages of his own magazine. As Kliff told him, "Making you controversial is the sincerest flattery people can offer you." It was inevitable that much of the coverage in Rebel Youth centered around the Psychic Rangers, their personal lives as well as their music. In one of the issues, a groupie who had been Anton's lover recalled her experience. He carried a notebook in his shirt pocket. He didn't wash. He thought he was God, I mean literally. And maybe he is. He was great in bed, lousy in bed, who cares? He told me, "I won't wash my dick for a week now. I want the smell of you to turn sour." Instead of making love to me, he read Rimbaud. I loved him, and I still do. He's the most beautiful creature I ever met. He's a shaft of golden light, a shadow over deep, swift-moving water. His eyes are the depths of the sky. It was the purest, most eloquent, exalted love. It wasn't physical. Oh, sure, it was physical, but it was more than that. Everything he said or did was brilliant. He wasn't trying, he was completely unpretentious. He couldn't help it, it just spilled out of him. Only sometimes, I wouldn't realize until later how brilliant he was, because it would just zip by as a loudmouth thing to say, something obnoxious. Or it would take me so long to get it that I wouldn't remember what it was all about, only that he was being brilliant and an asshole at the same time. The Psychic Rangers weren't the only ones to benefit from all the publicity. Their notoriety spilled over onto other artists who were part of the techno-primitive scene. Cynthia returned to being a chanteuse with her single, "Cannibalism in America," which was supposed to be about the paternalistic violence at the roots of the American soul. To Anton it was just a bunch of pop fluff, theatrical moans and posturings. Still, he had to envy her densely layered sound, the "processed textures" that garnered her so much space in the music press. He was sure that he could have come up with the same idea himself, only his brainwaves had been interfered with by some kind of subliminal plot. With all the attention he was getting, Anton was distressed at how few people cared about what he was actually trying to say. Rather than asking him about his lyrics, or the evolution of his music, interviewers focused on his fame as if that were an end in itself. "How does it feel to be a mythic character?" one of them asked. "It means a lot of people notice me," he laughed. "Not always in the right way, but it does help me to get out the issues I feel are important." "Like what, for example?" "Like the sex lives of prisoners, that's always intrigued me. Or whether the moon landings were done in a Hollywood studio, to prove we could win the special effects race with the Russians." The interviewer looked baffled, and Anton seized the advantage. "There is one thing I want to say about being a mythic character. It's about how everything from the time before, when I was just an ordinary guy, gets mythologized after the fact. My childhood in Iowa becomes a mythical childhood in a mythical small town, where I rode a mythical bicycle to a mythical school. My job as a short-order cook in a diner becomes a mythical job, where I busted my ass symbolically in anticipation of my future fame. That bothers me, frankly—the way everything is rearranged so it points to an inevitable future on the world stage. I may sound like I'm being overly modest to say this, but it wasn't that way at all." "So you didn't expect to get famous?" "Of course not. Who can expect that? I do think, though, that to some extent I'm being called upon to do this. So I'd better have my act together and know what I want to say. I'd better not be blinded by all the attention, because it's not about me, it's about the message. Other people have gone before me who carried this torch a lot further than I could hope to. The best I can do is to say my piece simply and clearly, and step down. It's not about holding a position of influence, or showing how cool I am. It's about saying what has to be said." "And what has to be said?" Anton grinned. "I'd like to advise all the teenagers and twenty-somethings out there to make it happen while you've got the chance, because in a few years it's gonna get ugly. These are the days of legend, people, the times of sweetness and light you thought you'd never know. No doubt from where you're sitting, it looks like it could get a lot better. But before long all those crises in far corners of the world, like the collapse of national economies or nuclear war among religious zealots, are gonna land on you with the force of the inevitable. It'll feel inevitable when it happens, and you'll wonder what you were thinking, letting a moment like this slip by like it was nothing special." "So party now, because the future is grim?" "No way, just the opposite! We need to change reality while we have time." • • • Anton hadn't seen his bandmates for several weeks, because the Psychic Rangers had gone their separate ways on their return to Portland. Blake spent his time riding his motorcycle and visiting old girlfriends. Vince took his wife and daughter to a Buddhist retreat in the mountains, then moved into a Victorian townhouse that was renovated for them while they were away. The guest house in the garden was now his studio. When he finally got back to work, Vince discovered that he was full of new ideas. He experimented with polyrhythms using the xylophone, vibraphone, and bells. He reworked a number of their old compositions, and asked Blake to help him create new ones. Neither of them was very good with lyrics, so they hoped that Anton would fill in the words. Meanwhile Anton was preparing for a European tour, without ever discussing the plan with his bandmates. He left that to Kliff, along with all the other details. Thanks to the band's success, Kliff had come in contact with young promoters like himself from Amsterdam, Barcelona, and Prague. It was easy for him to find venues in Europe where they could play, and people there to publicize the tour. Vince and Blake tried to get Anton to attend their jam sessions, but he rarely picked up the phone. When they did get through, he seemed annoyed that they were bothering him. They began to feel they were better off working on their own. Whenever Anton was around, he wanted to control everything. Without him, they communicated with a freedom they hadn't felt since the early days of the band. With the tour just a month away, Anton went to see Vince. Vince was eager to show him the results of his experiments, and he invited Anton to his garden studio. Diane brought them tea and biscuits, the baby strapped to her back. Once she was gone, Vince ran through the changes he'd made as Anton paced impatiently. After a few minutes, Anton grimaced and signaled for Vince to stop. "Why are you bothering with that? Those are last year's songs." "We thought we'd experiment, try some new ideas." "You mean the xylophones and stuff? It sounds—how can I say this politely?—like crap." "Blake likes it. We worked on it together." "Those songs are supposed to be raw and angry. What you've done is decorate them." "We wrote some new songs, too." "We don't have time for that now. We've got a tour coming up in less than a month." "Aren't we supposed to make these decisions together? I thought we were a band, not a one-man show." "Didn't Kliff talk to you about the tour?" "Of course, but—" "If you didn't like the idea, you could've said something before now." "We tried calling you a few times, but you never wanted to talk." "That's because I was planning the tour, dude! Where were you?" "Here rehearsing. Where were you?" They were at an impasse. "You weren't rehearsing, you were drifting. Now it's time to get to work. I need you and Blake at my place tomorrow. We've got four weeks to pull this together before we head out." Vince stared at him in silence. He was calm on the surface, but he was quietly fuming. For more than two years, he'd contributed everything he had to the Psychic Rangers, and this was what he got in return? In the past, Anton had applied all his charisma to making his bandmates feel appreciated. Now, he seemed to think that he could get whatever he wanted without effort. It was almost as if he were daring Vince to break up the band. Vince toyed with the idea. What would he lose? Even without the Psychic Rangers, he would still be the best drummer on the West Coast. He could play music or not, as he liked. He could spend more time with his daughter. He could tend to the garden, or catch up on his reading. He could open a bookstore, and sell Diane's doilies and tea cozies. He decided to try one last time. "Those new songs I mentioned? We were hoping you'd help with the lyrics." Anton laughed. "What do you expect me to write? 'Find your inner light, harness the rainbow'? You're going all New Age on me, Vince. That Buddhist shit's gone to your head. I've been writing new songs too, you know. Real ones. That's why we need to rehearse." "Do you think you're the only one with ideas in this band?" "From what I can tell, absolutely." Vince felt like he was being goaded, but he said it anyway. "Then I guess you don't need us anymore. Maybe we should rethink this, whether we're still a band." More than Vince's words, it was the look in his eyes that made Anton realize what was happening. He thought he could still fix things, but he didn't try. He held out his hand, and they shook in farewell. "Quitter," he thought as he walked down the garden path. Blake wasn't surprised when Vince told him what had happened. He'd been aware for some time that Anton had changed. The attention Anton got as their front man had gone to his head. He'd always had a high opinion of himself, but his belief in group effort had kept it in check. Now he no longer believed in that. Blake was ready to quit too. He was loyal by nature, but there was no longer a band to be loyal to. He would be loyal to Vince instead, since they'd been friends before the Psychic Rangers even existed. He didn't bother to tell Anton he was leaving, he just moved on in his own mind. Now Anton had a problem, because he would be touring in a month and he needed musicians. He decided to hire a couple of pretty boys who knew enough to play a few notes. He didn't want to involve them in the creative part of what he was doing, he just needed a gutsy, mind-numbing groove to lay his music over. As long as they looked good on stage, his fans wouldn't mind if they weren't musical geniuses. "I need a blond one and a dark-haired one," he told Kliff. "Meatheads, nineteen to twenty years old. Recruited by me, dedicated to me!" His eyes threw off silver sparks. Kliff recruited Matt from Oregon and Andy from Tennessee, a tag team act of bass and drums. Matt had grown up half wild on a remote river, catching badgers for food. Andy was from a religious community that had avoided mixing the blood for generations. His people considered him a mutant, but he had adaptations that allowed him to travel outside his clan. He was sociable and well suited to life in the cities. Both of them were wounded by their background and upbringing, and Anton liked that. Since Matt was a bass player, Anton switched to guitar, which he'd been wanting to do anyway. Rehearsals went smoothly, because his pretty boys had practiced to the Psychic Rangers albums so often, they knew their parts by heart. The downside was that their playing sounded exactly like the recorded version. The inspired variations he was used to from Blake and Vince just weren't there. Kliff wanted to keep the name Psychic Rangers, but Anton said it wasn't the same group, or even the same idea. The Psychic Rangers had been born in the spirit of Trashtown, and were a testimony to the ideals of that era. To present Matt and Andy as the inheritors of that legacy would be a lie. Besides, he was convinced that he didn't need the name Psychic Rangers to draw a crowd. His own name would be enough. He let the argument rage for a few days, then stepped in to end the debate. "The name of our band is Hermaphrodite Goat." Their flight to London was the first time Anton had been in an airport, and he decided he didn't like airports. They were a dead zone, a limbo where time was suspended. After passing through the inquisitive fingers of security, travelers found themselves in a perfect world, an international crossroads more familiar than their own living rooms. In such an environment they were on the same level no matter where they were from, and romances blossomed. A Pakistani engineer met a German biologist, an Israeli exchange student met a Japanese painter. Smiles led to kisses, and kisses to children who one day would come to the airport to meet their mates. Anton had no patience for any of this. Some European critics compared Anton to Andy Warhol for his decision to tour with no-talent pretty boys. They assumed it was an ironic statement, and praised him for his piercing critique of the shallowness of pop culture. Others took things more at face value, and jeered him as a poser and a prima donna. None of this hurt the tour's popularity, but something was missing, the passionate connection with his fans that he took for granted back home. He felt out of place on stage, as if an invisible wall separated him from the audience. At first he thought it was because Blake and Vince weren't with him, but he decided it wasn't that. It was because they knew him as a star, not as the hungry outsider he'd been. On his return, he felt adrift. He missed playing with musicians who were talented in their own right, but begging Vince and Blake to come back was out of the question. For the first time since leaving Iowa, he was unsure what to do next. Because of his success, he could no longer stand with the downtrodden and demand the keys to the castle. It made more sense to work with people who were already powerful, like Colonel Reinhold. Injecting himself into the popular consciousness would be easier that way. He was obsessed with surpassing himself, but it was getting harder each time. His new goal was to be more than a musician. He wanted his name and image to have a transformative effect. "I want to sweep the world along with my passion," he told Kliff. "Only when it's caught up in passion will the world change." He imagined himself as a global superhero, a cartoon character that appeared on cereal boxes in Japan, Lithuania, and Brazil. Kids around the world would eat Anton Flakes and dream of revolution. He decided to multiply his influence by having many bands, like a fashion designer has many different lines of clothing. With each new album, he would introduce a band with an entirely new sound, each dedicated to a weird subgenre of its own. He would create endless mutations of style and attitude, all of them Anton. In this way, he would transcend Anton the person and become an idea, like his heroes Che, Warhol, and Rimbaud. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>