Resurrection Blues by Joel Bryant

After the break-up of Dystopian Dentist, I immediately decided to form a new band. Screw those other guys, holding me back, crushing my artistic vision.

I was looking to move to a more blues sound, which made me immediately think of bringing in Croydon Dan. He was the only string slinger I coveted. Cat played like he’d been born in the Deep South, not South London. We’d lost touch over the years, so imagine my major dismay when I found out that Dan was pushing up the daisies. I never did discover how, but the dude did have issues. Still losing him was a massive bummer. He’d have been perfect; music was in his bones. Weird to think that would soon be the only thing left of him.

I was preparing to continue my noble quest, when Merlin Mike suggested he might know a guy who could be my salvation. Now I’ve found out the hard way to be necessarily wary of Merlin Mike’s utterings, but man, I was desperate. He did warn me his contact was a heavy type of dude who dabbled in the dark arts, real creepy Crowley sort of stuff. He still coughed-up his name and number. Cat called himself the Warlock, lived with his mum in Watford. Dealt a little devil’s lettuce and sundry pharmaceuticals on the side.

After some serious sleuthing and too little forethought, I discovered where the recently departed Croydon Dan had been laid to rest. Then I gave the Warlock a bell. The cat was up for a challenge. In a somewhat confused state, I unexpectedly found myself breaking into a graveyard with the Warlock and my new drummer, Psycho Rob. The bass player was busy that night, or so he claimed. Shifty bunch of cats, bass players.

The Warlock seemed an edgy sort of geezer, into Dr John and early Sabbath, even wore a funky cloak. Gent could have been a keyboard player in a Prog band. Me and Rob ended up doing the spade work, the Warlock supplied the necessary Voodoo mumbo jumbo. Then we waited. After several hours of awkwardness and lurking around in the dark, Croydon Dan finally rose from the grave. Poor old chap looked rough, literally like death warmed up. Cat made Johnny Winter look tanned and athletic. As he shuffled towards our ride, we tried to ignore the strong whiff of compost heaps and neglected pub urinals. To be honest, I’ve worked with several bashed-up gents in worse shape.

Although the Warlock had delivered his magic fix as promised, I must confess to being a little disappointed. It had not been the joyful reunion I was aiming for. Dan didn’t recognise me or seem particularly stoked to be brought back from the dead. The cat was proper surly and manifested his displeasure through the means of furious growling and frenzied teeth gnashing. Not cool. But it was too late to quit now, and I was sure he’d snap out of it once he had a chance to play. Get those pasty dead man’s fingers back on the fretboard and all would be well.

I hadn’t considered Dan’s digs, so I had to let the cat crash with me. It seemed the least I could do, and besides no-one else was volunteering their pads. I was hoping we could do a little bonding, run through some old tunes, write some new songs together. But Dan had changed, no longer the sweet, diamond geezer of yesteryear. New, undead Dan wouldn’t co-operate with my requests to practice, and was default angry, a serious bad vibe merchant. He would only mellow out when supplied with certain mystic powders provided to me at a premium by the Warlock. Curiously the Warlock had neglected to mention this particular monkey squatting on Dan’s back.

Suitably invigorated Dan still he had the licks, but otherwise he remained an absolute monster.  There was no escaping the fact that Dan was not a joyful presence to be around. Manky, moody and slightly decayed, he seriously spooked the other boys in the band. Rehearsals were rare and brief affairs. I got a sense that their commitment to the cause was already beginning to waver. I had the worst of it and took frequent refuge on lonely park benches with whatever tipple I could afford. This wasn’t much, as we were all totally skint. We needed to find paying gigs like yesterday.

Luckily Psycho Rob managed to score us a paying gig at a seedy live music bar he knew. Beer money really, but it was a start. Rob reckoned he could also rustle up some cat from the local press to review us, and the Warlock said he would arrange a talent scout that could get us more gigs. Happy days, or so I thought at the time.

As the Warlock pulled up to the bar in a borrowed van, we were all pretty freaked out. The stakes were high, and unfortunately so were the band. I think the nerves had got to all of us, and we had all reverted to our chemicals of choice for a bit of respite. Still, we weren’t the first band to play a gig slightly dazed and confused.

Initial impressions of the boozer weren’t favourable. The place had seen better days, it was the sort of establishment you’d stagger past on a pub crawl as you suspect the natives would be hostile, the beer stale. Wiser to keep walking and not end up picking up your teeth with broken fingers. Unfortunately, we did not have the option of legging it. We needed this gig.

Completely ignored, we began setting up. Our feet sticking to the beer-soaked floor of the small stage. As we plugged in and started tuning up, we tried to shrug-off the crappy sound system. With an increasing sense of impending doom, I anxiously sneaked a glimpse at the waiting punters, hoping to spot the reviewer and talent scout. They were nowhere to be seen. It was not a bad turn-out, but I was not getting a positive buzz from the crowd. A significant amount of them appeared more wasted and hairier than we were, necking pints and gnawing away at fried chicken from huge take-away buckets. I was puzzled about the chicken, but the bar didn’t appear to be the sort of place that provided a nice ploughman’s lunch for its clientele. I felt like we had accidentally wandered into a club meeting for hammered werewolf bikers.

As we finished tuning up, I could tell the drinkers were now fully aware of our presence. I could feel their hostile eyes and hear muttered drunken mocking, mostly directed at Dan and his mangled appearance. This was bad news. Dan was already skittish, and the menacing mood wasn’t helping the vibe. To guarantee he would make it through the set, we’d given Dan a double hit of his special powder. This turned out to have been an act of foolish generosity. Dan was bit touchy about his non-living status, and the dosage seemed to have made him extra paranoid. Still, we were hoping we could win the crowd over.

Like lambs to the slaughter, we eased into “No Air Freshener Blues,” a twelve-bar boogie I had composed about my current flatmate. It was a poor start. We were all over the place, our lack of rehearsal painfully obvious. The timing was sloppy; the sound muddy and the guitars continually kept drifting in and out of tune. The sonic shambles only made Dan’s mood worse. Cat was a perfectionist. Fortunately, the punters didn’t seem to mind, a few even clapped after the first song collapsed into a grinding mess. In hindsight I suspect there could have been a hint of pissed sarcasm involved.

I was just about to launch into the next song when one of the ruffians in the audience decided to demonstrate his hasty criticism of our music by lobbing his left-over chicken at the stage. With unfortunate accuracy, the meat soared through the air, hitting Dan’s guitar with a wet greasy splat. The crowd cheered with approval and Dan truly lost his shit. Wielding his guitar like a broad sword he began swinging his six string into the crowd, hoping to crack some heads. When that proved unsuccessful, he vented his rage on his poor Fender, mashing and slapping the strings and kicking over his amp. The resulting dirge was not a crowd pleaser. It was enraged and out of control, just like its creator.

That was when the punters turned ugly, well uglier. Numerous uncool gents, unfamiliar with creative struggle, started heckling us with unkind words and pelting with us with their remaining fried chicken. There seemed to be a lot of food being chucked, but when that run out it was swiftly followed by beer glasses. There was no choice but to make a strategic retreat. Psycho Rob took a terrible hiding trying to salvage his drum kit from the mob. Cat still bears a grudge about it to this day. To be fair, I would have been no use to him, I’m more of a lover than a fighter. At least Dan had a good old go, biting a few of the ringleaders before being dragged away still snarling and bloody by the Warlock.

That was the end of the band, after only playing one song. Such a shame, but probably for the best. We already hated each other, and it usually takes a couple of years touring before that happens. Croydon Dan still plays. Fronts a Death Metal band, you’d have heard of them if you are into that sort of thing. I hope he is happier now as I do feel partly responsible for his current situation. Surprise, surprise, the Warlock has become his manager. I suspect he planned his sudden promotion all along. Should have known, never trust a drug dealer. I mean they all pretend to be your mate, but they are all snakes, waiting for the right moment to swallow you whole.

After the band split up, I stopped playing. I even had to go back to painting and decorating to earn a crust. It took me months to find my groove again. I was understandably wary, but I missed the music. This time I took my own sweet time finding the right gang to hang with. I had a couple of gigs with Sancho Panzer, a Flamenco group that played Kraftwerk and Can tunes, but it wasn’t really my thing. I also played with some Goth cats called Stake Dinner, but that didn’t work out either. Their pallid appearances and tatty threads proved to be too triggering.

Finally, I joined a covers band, The Electric Pants. We mostly do old Sixties and Seventies stuff. Occasionally I regret not doing my own material, but I needed the dough and a steady gig. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with banging out a medley of dead men’s tunes, much safer than jamming with the undead.  I’ll never make that mistake again, man. Life is precious, and death should remain the final curtain call, with no added encores. I know it’s a heavy thought, and I don’t want to get all Leonard Cohen on you, but when I kick the bucket, I’m going to be cremated. Don’t want to find myself being dragged from the grave and forced on an unwelcome comeback gig against my will. That would be a massive bummer.

Joel Bryant

Image by Arthur Halucha from Pixabay Black and white image of a guitar which might be dissolving or reforming – who knows.