By: Mike Oakwood

Lisa Nevins is the only person to touch the god of rock and roll.

She was the music correspondent for Electric Magazine, based out of Detroit. Her title mainly meant that she traveled around to the various music venues in Michigan, writing weekly reports on the state of modern rock. She was finishing up a story in Traverse City, and was not at all pleased when her editor told her to pack up and head for Marquette.

"What the hell’s in Marquette?" She asked, her bored stare lancing through the smudged glass of the phone booth. Her dark, shoulder length curls shadowed her eyes whenever she wasn’t wearing the small octagonal sunglasses that often covered them. She had on her usual outfit of a pastel oversized t-shirt, multicolored ankle length cotton skirt and black combat boots, worn without socks. If someone ever mentioned that she looked like Janis Joplin, she’d punch them in the shoulder, sometimes quite hard.

"Look, I explained to you the weird shit that happened to the crowd." Marquis’ disembodied voice replied. He’d been her editor for the last three years, and grew tired of coaxing her into assignments she didn’t like. "Read a newspaper if you don’t believe me. Grey Dragon is still up there. They’ve canceled the rest of their dates, and their manager says they’re swearing to never play again."

"Thank god." she said.

"I’m not kidding. Get your punk ass up there and find us a story. These guys are hooked on the crowd rush like anybody else in rock. Something awesome must have happened for them to give it up."

"Maybe they ran out of coke. Look, I’ll give you two days and two thousand words on this, max. Then I’m off to Ann Arbor for the Sunshine Fest." she said.

"Guess again. I want four thousand words on this, period. And I want them fast."

"Fine then." She hung up the receiver, glaring.

* * *

Stopping for gas, she picked up a copy of the local paper. On page three a newswire story appeared about an odd crowd disturbance at Northern Michigan University. Apparently over a thousand students had left the Grey Dragon concert in an ecstatic stupor, victims of some unknown agent. They gathered in the parking lot to gaze at the moon, and when ordered to leave they failed to disperse. After several threats from the campus cops, they used pepper spray, which didn’t work. Whatever had happened to them nothing, not even the burning chemicals, could wipe the eerily beatific smiles from their faces. The cops were still investigating the incident.

Whatever it was that happened, Lisa bet it wasn’t the result of seeing Grey Dragon. Famous as a four album wonder, Grey Dragon hadn’t had a top ten hit in years, and most folks couldn’t name more than three songs on their "Greatest Hits" CD. They did have one monster hit, the wildly popular "Blood on the Highway," which was destined to go down as a classic of heavy metal.

The drive to Marquette was uneventful. Her rusting Chevelle held together, leaving nothing but a thin trail of blue smoke behind her. By midafternoon she finally reached her destination. Since Northern is a relatively small campus, it wasn’t hard for her to find the field house. She expected that Grey Dragon would be holed up in some hotel room, but to her surprise they were still there. When she entered she wasn’t prepared for what she saw inside.

It looked like the concert was about to begin, rather than being concluded two nights before. All the equipment was still on the stage. The drumset, microphones and several guitars stood out in contrast to the row of black Marshall amps behind them. A crowd of about two hundred were seated on the floor. Most of them appeared to be college students. They all looked to be in some kind of emotional turmoil, many of them hugging and weeping, seeming to grasp onto whoever was within reach.

Above them on the stage sat the members of Grey Dragon. They were in the same state as the crowd, only less demonstrative. As Lisa drew closer she could see that what they were feeling was not sadness but euphoria, a look similar to the one she’d seen on the faces of friends when they got married. They nearly glowed with bliss, as if Buddha had descended from heaven and taught them all how to smile their way to nirvana.

Hands reached for her as she made her way past them. Lisa started at this, but they had not tried to grab her, merely stroke her gently. In their midst she could hear the murmur cascading through them, a reverent whisper, "Beauty, beauty. All is beauty and light." She waded through them to the stage, standing at last in front of the lead singer, a thin middle aged man with waist length blonde hair. She couldn’t remember his name, not that it mattered. She would get it later from their manager.

"Hi. I’m Lisa Nevins, from Electric Magazine. So how was your last concert?" she asked breezily.

He had been looking up past her, his eyes fixed on something farther away than the back wall of the field house. When his eyes came down to meet hers, their focus hadn’t changed. "All became beauty and light." he said. "He was here, with us. He played with us. He played our song."

"Blood on the Highway?" she asked.

He nodded, closed his eyes, and pointed off to the right. "He stood over there. He played the most wonderful chords. And the solo, my god, the solo." He began to weep. "I’ll never play again. It was so....... wonderful." A broad smile appeared through his tears. Eyes opening, he reached forward and took Lisa’s face in his hands. She resisted the impulse to immediately pull away. "All is beauty and light, my child. All is beauty and light." Suddenly he released her and stood, arms outstretched. "All is beauty and light." Nods of agreement met this pronouncement. "I’ll not stray from the light. I must be there with it. Will you join me?"

Almost as one the assembled crowd said, "Yes." Lisa stepped away. Something was going to happen, and she didn’t know what, but she knew she wanted to observe rather than participate.

"Make me part of the light." he said. "I am ready."

At this several of the crowd came forward, holding cups filled with liquid. Lisa caught the scent of it and recoiled back. They poured it over him, as others in the crowd covered themselves as well.

"No! Wait!" Lisa cried, but it was too late. The first spark from a lighter caught, and in moments Grey Dragon was in flames, followed quickly by several fans. Instead of trying to put them out, the others threw themselves on them, trying with varying degrees of success to burn themselves. One girl fell to her knees, her legs burning. Lisa grabbed her, pulling her away from the rest, rolling her along the gym floor as best she could. After a what seemed like an eternity she had the flames out. Lisa turned the girl over, expecting her to scream with pain. Instead she still had the same peaceful smile. "Beauty and light." she said.

By then others had rushed into the field house, and were doing what they could to extinguish the rest. Lisa stumbled towards the door as a campus cop came in. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yeah, I think so. Ouch." she discovered a burn on her left arm.

"Here, go across the street. The clinic can fix that." the cop pointed, then moved past her. Lisa resisted the temptation to look behind her, instead moving with deliberateness across the street, trying to escape the acrid smell that had invaded her head.

The waiting room of the campus clinic was spartan and antiseptic. Blue plastic chairs lined the walls facing the reception window, behind which sat a bored nursing student. The only magazine in the room was the one she was reading.

"Hey." Lisa rapped on the glass, making the receptionist jump. "I got a burn here."

"Come around the corner." she motioned to Lisa’s left. "Through the door. Dr. Harris!" she called, as Lisa followed her instructions. She was met on the other side by a fiftyish man in a white coat.

"Where are you burned?" he asked.

Lisa showed him her arm. "Right here. You’re going to have some more folks come in here with lots of these in a minute. A whole group of Grey Dragon fans just torched themselves." Sirens began to approach from up the street.

"They’ll be taken over to Marquette General." he replied. "It’s on the other side of this block. Let’s take a look here." He guided her to an examining room and began to look over her arm. "What do you mean, they torched themselves?" he asked.

"They were like Tibetan monks or something. They just poured on the gasoline and lit it." Lisa began to feel dazed. She sat down heavily on the exam table.

"Take a few deep breaths." the doctor said. Lisa complied and began to feel a bit better. "Your arm doesn’t look too bad. I’m going to put some antibacterial cream on it and wrap it in gauze. You’ll need to keep it clean and dry for a few days."

"Why did they do it?" she wondered.

"There’s been a lot of that since the concert." he said.

"What do you mean? Lot’s of people torching themselves?" she asked.

"No, not that." He began to wrap her arm. "I mean kids hurting themselves. Mostly it’s been sun blindness. We can’t figure out why. It doesn’t seem like they were all on drugs, or anything like that, but I’ve seen at least fifty cases in the last two days."

"What do you mean by sun blindness?" Lisa asked.

"They stare at the sun until they go blind. Damn thing is, they’re happy about it. It’s like some mass delusion. We’ve got counselors in all the dorms trying to deal with it, trying to talk some sense into these people. But all they do is look at you and smile."

"Beauty and light." Lisa said, as the doctor finished.

* * *

"Marquis this is weird," Lisa said. "It’s like the whole crowd turned into musical Moonies. Some sort of special guest artist showed up at the concert, and everyone who was there has lost their mind."

"Who was it?" he asked. "According to their agent they were a solo act that night, unless they got some local bar band for a warmup."

"I don’t know. I’ve spent the whole day trying to find out. You can’t get anything coherent out of these people. It’s like that time when Burkholder came back from the Dead gig at Cobo, remember? When his beer got spiked with acid?"

"Yeah, the dumb fuck could only sit in my office and giggle. Look, I don’t care about all the weird shit. Just give me four thousand words on Grey Dragon’s last concert. Make it retro, make it reverent, make it tragic, I don’t care. Four thousand words. Fax it to me by tomorrow afternoon."

"Hey, I thought you black dudes were the slaves, not the masters." she said.

"Bite me white girl. Tote that bale. Tomorrow afternoon, I mean it." Marquis hung up.

Lisa sighed, contemplating which hotel she’d barricade herself in while she wrote the story. Her drive into town hadn’t included any billboards for a place that looked expensive, which was disappointing since the magazine paid for her room. She fired up the Chevelle and headed down Third Street. As she rounded the corner, heading for the highway with it’s collection of hotels, she passed a group of three coeds, arms linked together, staring at the sun. It was the fourth such group she’d seen that day.

Much to her relief the tragic, fiery tale of Grey Dragon’s last appearance almost wrote itself. After editing and a final rewrite, Lisa was ready to fax all forty-three hundred words to Marquis the next morning, when the phone in her room rang. Her editor had managed to track her down.

"Guess what, massah? I’d be writin’ and writin’, and I done got me forty-three hunnert wordz." she quipped.

"That’s my good little house nigger. Now you can drive your sarcastic self down to G.R. Whatever happened to Grey Dragon happened last night to Nicki Lace."

"What?" Lisa was incredulous. "What do you mean? Where?"

"At the Hot Box. It was the first night of her comeback tour. Same sort of shit - crying fans all smiling and happy, at least at the start. They had to call the cops to throw them out. Nobody’s sure what happened, but a whole bunch of them ended up in the hospital with their eyes poked out. The cops claim they did it to themselves, but nobody believes that."

"How many words?" Lisa asked dejectedly.

"Guess the magic number and you win a prize." she could hear the grin behind his voice.

"I bet it’s four thousand."

"Hey, you are smart for a house nigger. Drive fast and you can be there by nine tonight. Nicki’s at the Goldman Hotel downtown. I’m tight with her manager, so you can get in. You’re good for this edition, so I don’t have a close deadline. But the sooner you get this done the sooner you can go to Ann Arbor."

"O-tay. But after this I’m going to the Sunshine Fest, no matter what you say."

* * *

Marquis had made a pretty good estimate of her travel time. Lisa rolled into Grand Rapids at 8:45. The Goldman was just off the highway downtown, another temple of corporate glass set into the skyline of Michigan’s second largest city.

After being cleared by the security people, Lisa found herself in the living room of the penthouse. She settled onto the sofa, an overstuffed monstrosity that could have passed for an Italian designer’s nightmare. The bedroom door opened, and Nicki Lace flowed into the room, a translucent swirl of perfumed silk and beads, crowned with wavy blonde hair which framed her wide green eyes.

Lisa rose, extended her hand and introduced herself. "I’ve enjoyed much of your music." she said.

"Why thank you." Nicki drifted off to the recliner across from the coach. Lisa could tell from the red rim around her eyes that she had been crying.

"I understand something extraordinary happened last night." Lisa said, nodding to coax her to pick up the story.

Nicki glanced down, a sly, girlish smile framing her words. She seemed to be speaking by remote control, as if her mind were on another planet. Lisa guessed that she had been sedated. "Why, yes. I was halfway through the second set. We were about to do "Falling Through The Glass." Do you know it?"

Lisa nodded, convinced now that some kind of medicine coursed in Nicki’s veins. "Falling Through The Glass" was easy to remember. It had been Nicki’s last number one hit.

"Anyway, this fog rolled in from somewhere. I knew we hadn’t planned to have any fog at this show, it’s too 70's. But this fog rolls in, all along the floor, and then it comes together in one big flash. And then..... and then....." Tears began to well up in her eyes, escaping down her cheeks.

"And then?" Lisa prompted.

"He came." The girlish smile broadened to a full grin. "He came and sang with me. He sang my song. My song. It was so wonderful. So, so..." Nicki collapsed back into the recliner, sobbing softly.

"It was so beautiful." Lisa said.

"Yes. So beautiful. If that moment had been my last on earth, I would have been happy. Everything else now seems tarnished, ugly. Even my own voice sounds harsh and scratchy. He was so beautiful. I could never defile that memory by singing or playing again. It’s hard to even look at this place. It’s so dreary. He was beautiful, full of light. All I want now is the light." Nicki held her face in her hands sobbing. Lisa could see between her fingers that the smile had not left her.

"Thank you for your time." Lisa got up, and put her hand on Nicki’s shoulder. "Get some rest girl. It’ll be ok."

"I know where he’s going." Nicki said.

Lisa stopped, not sure of what she heard. "What? Where?"

"I saw the symbol reflected in his eyes. The red "A" in a blue circle. That was on the cover of the first album from Max Cutter and the Acid Eagles. He’ll play with them next, I’m sure of it."

"How do you know?" Lisa asked.

"I’m intuitive about these things. Just ask my manager."

That was easy for Lisa to do, as her manager was waiting just outside the door. It was then she noticed the door was ajar, from which she deduced he’d been listening to their conversation.

"Eavesdropping isn’t polite, you know." she accused.

"So it’s not. Neither is having your star performer do something stupid to herself." he said.

"Maybe if she wasn’t whacked out on tranks you wouldn’t have that problem." she said.

"See now there’s where you’re wrong." Her manager was becoming indignant, stabbing his index finger at her with every point he made. "I take care of my people. I don’t allow them to destroy themselves. She’s already been seen by a doctor, tomorrow she’ll be evaluated by a psychologist. And she’s not on tranks."

"Oh bullshit." Lisa stepped back, not wanting to be jabbed by the finger. "So why is she so dreamy?"

"It’s not from the medication. She’s on stimulants, not tranks. Before they kicked in she was nearly comatose, with that damn grin frozen on her face. We hope the shrink can tell us what happened to her."

"She’s on stimulants?" Lisa asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Yeah. The doc said that if he gave her any more it would be illegal. At first all she’d do is cry. She only started talking about three hours ago. I thought we’d have to put her in restraints."

"Why’s that?"

"So she wouldn’t blind herself."

"So it’s true then. Her fans did that to themselves?" Lisa asked.

"It was horrible. They used car keys, straws from the drinks, even their own fingers. Whatever they could find. Then they just sat there together, blood streaming down their faces, all grinning like lunatics, happier than you could possibly believe." he shook his head, trying to clear the image from his mind.

"So what did they see? Nobody’s been able to give a good description of this guy." Lisa said.

"I don’t know. I was in the office with the management counting the receipts. I heard this big roar from the crowd, and I could hear the music but not the vocals. By the time I made sure we were getting paid the song was over. I thought maybe we’d lost part of the sound mixer, but when I came around to the main area it was already too late. Nicki was on her knees staring at the follow spot, crying and smiling. The rest I already told you."

"What about the people on your staff?" she asked.

"The Hot Box provided their own security. All our people were backstage. As far as I know, anyone who was there ended up the same way."

"Thanks." Lisa turned, giving one last look at Nicki Lace. She was standing by the window. In the reflection of the glass Lisa could see her face, graced with a quiet smile as she stared, unblinking, at the full moon.

* * *

"I know where he’s going to be next, Marquis." Lisa said excitedly.

"Who?" he asked.

"The guy responsible for all the stuff that’s been happening. Nicki Lace thinks he’s going to crash the next Acid Eagles concert. You’ve got to tell me where they’ll be at." she said.

"Well, hang on a second." Lisa could hear the click of a computer keyboard. "According to this, they’re playing at the Train Station in East Jordan tomorrow night."

"East Jordan has concerts?" she asked.

"Yeah. Go figure. Umm, Lisa, what do you plan to do?" Marquis sounded concerned.

"Interview the guy, dimwit. I’m a reporter, remember? Whatever it is he does it must be the most powerful performance ever. Maybe with an exclusive interview I could land a job with a real magazine."she jibed.

"Maybe you could end up like everybody else who sees him." Marquis retorted. "Look, I know you won’t listen to me anyway, but be careful. I mean that."

"O-tay, massah." Lisa hung up the phone. She was on her way to East Jordan.

* * *

The Train Station was a large prefabricated structure that resembled a pole barn from the outside. Inside it was a cross between a bar and a theater. Two beer stations served the thirsty patrons, who had to purchase tickets to use for buying beer. Lisa thought that this was a great scam for the management. Most people bought several tickets, often more than they’d end up using. That meant the Station got a whole bunch of money for selling nothing more than bits of paper.

Using her credentials Lisa managed to get backstage. Her cover story was that she wanted to interview Acid Eagle right after the concert for a big feature in the next issue of Electric. After a moment’s consideration their manager bought that line, and gave her a seat just off stage.

She suffered through the warmup bands: the first one boasted of a new record contract, the second was a locally famous group. It was no surprise to her that the local guys were better. About 11:30 the Acid Eagles hit the stage.

Lisa couldn’t remember what their biggest hit had been. As the show went on she caught herself recognizing more of the songs, a couple of which she had forgotten. At 1:30 Max grabbed the mike and shouted, "I know what you’ve been waiting for! It’s the song that started our wild ride, the power rocker of the decade......" His voice trailed off as he looked up at the ceiling.

Fog was rolling in, appearing from the darkness in the corners and collecting over the stage. The crowd hooted their approval. Max looked over at the stage manager, who shrugged. The rest of the band watched in silence as the fog gathered into a cloud hanging over the area between Max and the bass player. A rhythmic clapping sprang from the crowd, who could feel the excitement growing.

The thunderclap of lightning made everyone jump. Lisa toppled out of her chair, catching herself on her hands and knees as she hit the floor. Slowly she stood up, looking where the lightning struck.

Standing between Max and the bass player was a six-foot-tall cat. It stood man-like on it’s hind legs, knees bent backward, with green eyes. It’s face and belly were pure white, while the rest of it’s body had a striped mackerel tabby pattern. Lisa could see it’s left paw clearly, the toes longer than a normal feline’s, curled as if it were holding the neck of an unseen guitar. The air around it shimmered, keeping Lisa’s eyes from forming a sharp image. The cat pointed at Max, who completed his intro with even more gusto than before; "This is Burning Angels!"

The drummer clicked his sticks together four times to cue the opening chord, which was struck by the cat. The effect was dramatic. With each touch of the unseen strings a bolt of lightning leapt between his paws, a still shaft of light during the sustained notes, shifting quickly back and forth in time with the faster ones. It changed colors moment by moment, from brilliant white to ice blue to flaming yellow, and everywhere in between.

The effect was more than visual. Raw emotional power washed through her. This was vastly different than the thumping bass that reverberated in her chest from sheer volume. The sound reached into her, making her part of it, aligning the vibrations and harmonies of her own body with it. Her heartbeat fell in line with the bass drum, her breathing steadied itself with the melody, even the rate at which she blinked became part of the performance.

Lisa was aware of these things, the back of her mind taking stock of the situation while the rest of her reeled in awe. She believed that what she saw was just for her. She sensed that everyone here was feeling the same thing, but in different ways. Perhaps they all saw a cat, perhaps it was just her own version of what was happening. No matter how they all interpreted it, the effect was the same.

The song came to her in waves, emanating from the cat, filling her with ecstasy. The sheer power of rock and roll was embodied in this glorious feline. The rebellious bravado, sexual excess, defiant anger and carefree partying of the music coursed through her, as if all the enjoyment millions felt when listening to their favorite song was wrapped up in this one moment, and given to her.

The band reached the first chorus as the cat jumped into the air. When he came down he struck the stage with his right paw, and exploded. Completely covered with flame he continued to play, walking along the stage, his now dark eyes wide. "He is a burning angel," she thought, "on fire with rock and roll."

The end of the second chorus brought the guitar solo. Max stepped back a bit, clearly leaving this part to the cat. The wondrous player hunched over, drawing out a long note as he slowly stood up, inhaling. The fire retreated from his back, pulled around towards his face, until with the last of his breath he inhaled the rest of the fire. He exhaled one short puff of smoke.

He was completely changed. The cat was now the brilliant white of molten gold, his ears longer than before, and pointed, reminding Lisa of an ocelot. The solo began in earnest, the notes ringing with a manic sweetness she had never heard before. Tears welled up in her eyes as the emotions caused by the sound became overpowering. Insight birthed the truth of what was happening. The audience was seeing god, in all his playful, charismatic glory.

She knew that there was only one short chorus after the solo, and then it would all be over. She slowly stumbled on stage as the solo came to an end. Falling to her knees she crept closer, arms outstretched. The cat reached the final chorus, and began the extended ending typical of most live performances. On the final chord it stepped back, standing next to her.

It’s closeness only intensified the experience. The waves of power and ecstacy washed through her. She could see his fur bursting with life, the very air around him vibrating. The energy caused his every hair to quiver, as if the very flesh was made of electricity. Lisa reached out with both hands, and touched him.

The shock of intense pleasure made her gasp. Divine bliss poured into her, erasing all the hurts, anger, suspicions and jealousies. Life and light filled her being, making her shake with joy. More than she had ever wanted anything, she wanted to be part of him. Part of the joy. Part of the light.

But she wasn’t able to absorb it all. Tears flowed effortlessly as she ached with her inability to be one with him. She was human, not a god, and what she wanted most was beyond her. Yet the beauty of it only fed her longing, creating a desire matched only by the ecstasy that coursed through her.

The cat turned and looked at her. His eyes were pupilless, a deep purple with the sparkle of stars. He nodded, giving her permission to speak.

"I love you." Lisa sputtered through her tears. "You are so, so beautiful. You are..." she paused, "too beautiful."

The cat looked for a moment, then understanding came to it’s face. It hung it’s head, whiskers drooping, as it stepped back from Lisa. Closing it’s eyes, it raised it’s right arm to the crowd, then brought it down, striking one last chord. As the sound receded, the god of rock and roll slowly faded away.

Lisa sat back on her heels, crying grateful tears.

High noon shone down on Ann Arbor as Lisa’s Chevelle came to a stop outside the Sunshine Fest. The drive from East Jordan had taken much longer than usual, Lisa stopping frequently because she couldn’t see through her tears. Leaving the car unlocked she paid her money at the gate, ignoring the odd looks that greeted her incessant smile. The Sunshine Fest had been her goal all summer, and she was determined to be here.

Copyright (1999) by Mike Oakwood

Starcat@avci.net