Gary A. Braunbeck - Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

I leaned toward the Reverend. “Is it just me, or does that guy look like—”

“There’s no ‘look like’ about it, Sam. That’s him.”

Okay, there’s no way to say this without sounding like a basket case, so I’m just going to say it and be done: we’d just picked up Jim Morrison, lead singer of The Doors, a man who supposedly died in Paris almost 30 years ago. Morrison climbed into the back of the van, closed the door, and sat staring down at the floor. “Mr. Mojo Risin,” said the Reverend. Morrison looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and gave a short nod. “I’m a big fan.” The Reverend offered him a cup of coffee. Morrison took it with a half-grin, then sipped at it. The Reverend watched him for a moment, and then asked, “How is it you wound up here?”

And if I’d had any doubts as to who this really was sitting in the back seat, they were erased when he looked back up and said, “I am the Lizard King, I can do anything.”

It was that voice . “The killer awoke before dawn…”, “Break on through…”, “When the still sea conspires in armor…” The same timbre, the same inflections. Not a good imitation of the singer from a tribute band. The real thing.

I started shaking. Morrison saw this, then reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “Easy there, Sam. You got no reason to be afraid of me.” All I could do was nod. “Why are you here tonight?” asked the Reverend. Morrison shook his head. “Sorry, man. I’m not allowed to say.” “Understood. Can you tell us where we need to go next?”

“Second Popsicle pickup point.” Morrison grinned. “Man, alliteration. I’d forgotten what that feels like on the tongue. Not that I ever used it much— alliteration , not my tongue.”

We drove off into the sleeting night.

5

When I was a kid, I wanted so much to be a rock star. The music, the adulation, the fame and riches, all of it.

But mostly the music.

I tried my hand at half a dozen different instruments; the harmonica, the guitar, bass, drums, the piano, and even—hand to God—the flute (hey, if Ian Anderson could use it to make Jethro Tull one of the greatest groups of all time, why the hell not?). I was a failure at all of them, except for the guitar, and even then I had the sense to realize that if I dedicated myself to the instrument, if I practiced for ten hours a day every day for the rest of my life, I would be an at-best average guitar player…and the world has too many of those already.

So I contented myself with the fantasy of rock stardom, and my love of music. Classical, country, prog, blues, rock, metal—I loved it all. And my admiration for anyone who can pull a tune out of the ether and make it real has never lessened. Even if it’s a crap song, it’s still a song, something that didn’t exist until someone heard it in the back of their head and put it out into the world.

But I never understood why so many rock stars went down in flames. I could never dredge up much sympathy for someone who made millions doing what they loved, creating something that gave so much pleasure to the rest of the world, and then pissed it all away on drug and booze or whatever the poison of choice was at the time. But then, that’s an easy judgment call to make when you’re not the one who has to live with the pressure of always having to be on for the world, of not being able to go anywhere without people following you, wanting your autograph, your picture, a lock of your hair, or whatever else is required so that they can prove to themselves that they once touched greatness…even if that greatness was fleeting, or only in their minds, or even manufactured.

I guess any culture needs its popular icons, something for the rest of its populace to aspire to, knowing they’ll never make it. Hell, there was probably some prima donna cave-wall painter back in the Neolithic days who started to believe it when his fans told him that his shit didn’t stink.

I don’t know how many times during the next hour or so I wanted to turn around and ask Morrison or any of the others why they’d allowed themselves to fall victim to their self-indulgences when they’d died still having so much more to give to the world…then just as quickly realized how goddamned selfish that was. Maybe that Neil Young song hit it on the head about it being better to burn out than fade away.

People like you and me will never know, so how can we be made to understand?

Over the next hour, we picked up Keith Moon and John Entwistle (both from The Who), Gary Thain and David Byron (of Uriah Heep), Tommy Bolin (The James Gang and Deep Purple), Paul Kossoff (Free), the great blues guitarist Roy Buchanan, as well as Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, and Billie Holiday—to whom everyone paid the greatest respect and courtesy.

The Reverend gave them each welcome and coffee, and asked each of them the same questions: How did you get here? Why are you here? Where are we taking you?

“Honey,” said Billie Holiday, laying a thin and elegant hand against the Reverend’s cheek, “what we got to do, we got to do. ‘Taint nobody’s business but ours, and that’s just how it’s gotta be. You got that look in your eyes, you know that?” “What look is that?” “Like you already know whatever it is you’re tryin’ to get one of us to say.” “Can we get out of this fuckin’ cold already?” said Cobain. I put the van in gear and drove back to the shelter. “Sam doesn’t say much,” Morrison announced to the others. “Ah, a quiet one,” said Entwistle, grinning. Keith Moon shook his head. “Bloody birds of a feather.” And began to beat a tattoo against his legs.

Morrison leaned forward, resting his elbows, respectively, on the back of the Reverend’s seat and my own. “I gotta hand it to you two, you’re not freaking out like I expected. I—whoa, pull over.” We did, and Jerry Garcia climbed in. “Come see Uncle John’s band,” I muttered under my breath. “I always hated that fuckin’ song,” said Garcia. “Really?” asked Cobain. “That’s, like, one of my guilty-favorite tunes of all time.” Garcia shrugged. “What’s it hurt to admit it now?” Cobain thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “I see what you mean.”

“Hey, Nevermind was a great record,” said Garcia. “You were a great songwriter, my friend. Sloppy guitarist, but a great songwriter.”

“Thanks,” said Cobain. “I think.”

“You’re welcome,” said Garcia. “Maybe.”

I looked over at the Reverend. “If Ms. Holiday was right, Reverend, if you got some idea what’s going on, I’d sure appreciate being let in on the secret.”

It was Morrison who answered. “Hasn’t it crossed your mind to wonder how it is a van that’s designed to hold only eight people is holding almost twice that many right now?”

I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw an empty van reflected back at me. “I guess it’s because you’re all ghosts, right?”

Morrison laughed, as did everyone else. “Shit, no , Sam! Ghosts are, like, the spirits of real people who’re hanging around because they’ve got unfinished business.” “Like that girl up there,” said Hendrix, pointing to a young woman crossing the street. “Do we need to pick her up?” asked the Reverend. Morrison shook his head. “No. She’s got nothing to do with this.” I stared at her. “Who is she?” “Roberta Martin,” said Garcia, Hendrix, and Buchanan simultaneously.

I put the van in park and turned to face them. “ Who? ”

“The greatest guitar player who ever lived,” said Morrison.

I shrugged. “I’ve never heard of her.”

“No reason you should have,” said Buchanan in his soft, soft voice. “She was killed by a drunk driver on her way to a gig in Nobelsville, Indiana in 1982.”