Hallucinating (20 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

...the second 'Henge gig...

There is of course only one place that a Midsummer Day festival could be held; a place of ancient beauty, of deep significance to the underground, a place where festivals were held before. A place of power and of tranquility, a place of resonance. A place where it is hoped eight songs will empower a crowd.

Stonehenge.

A place never forgotten: 99 Torriano Avenue, yeah? Stonehenge is free now, shorn of fences and visitor centres and all that shit. A place alone, standing for itself, and on its own terms. Massive stones, awe-inspiring, yet, actually, quite a small circle. The place where people feel magick.

Here, the gig will happen. Here, it is hoped, something new will be made; and if that something is made, then here begins the revolution.

Tomorrow is Midsummer Day.

Today, the festival begins.

And there are two thousand people here.

From where have these crowds come? Well, Nulight first sees Stonehenge from the north, and there, inside a solar-powered VW camper van, are the people with whom he wants to speak: Master Sengel and his lieutenants. They meet a couple of hundred yards north of the stones; a few smiles, awkwardness, a flash of anger in the mind of Nulight. Then the sun comes out and the sky is blue and summery.

"Hey," says Nulight, checking out the distant crowds, "you did a good job." He shrugs. "I s'pose that was inevitable, huh?"

"I have the same commitment as you," replies Master Sengel.

Nulight studies the man. Today he looks tall and remote, balding, salt-and-pepper hair, unshaven like some dodgy old professor, albeit wearing a red tie-dye T and ripped jeans. Nice touch, that, and the silver bangles tinkling on one wrist. To his right stands Deputy Smark, to his left van der Woofer, with Sir Trance-alot making coffee in the van. No sign of a Harley, though. The tasks of Hermes are never done.

"Commitment, hmmm," mutters Nulight. "Maybe that's why I don't like you."

"You like me well enough," says Master Sengel. "It's just that you don't trust me."

Nulight nods. "Maybe."

"Perhaps you don't like the olfactory intimacy I enjoy with your partner."

Nulight shrugs.

"Perhaps it was me that found her in the woods on Beltane night."

"No way," says Nulight. "If that was you, man, you'd never be telling me."

Master Sengel smiles. "Perhaps not."

Kappa barges her way into the conversation. "If you two've finished jousting," she says, "where did you get our audience from?"

Master Sengel glances back at Stonehenge. "They came because, locally, we advertised the gig well. Come and see the gear we've assembled."

They all trot on down to the festi site. Westwards of the stones is a flat area on which lies a large stage roofed over with canvas, its front facing east, ie. the direction in which the sun will rise tomorrow. Canvas walls decorated with trippy spirals and other McKenna-ish doodles have been placed to the sides and rear. To either side of the stage are speaker stacks and a spaghetti junction of cables. Elsewhere: Apple Mac computers, holographic projectors, the PA (through which some kind geezer is playing Nodens Ictus) and racks of outboard gear. A sullen wedge of solid silicon memory is being cooled by electric fans.

Everything is powered by solar cells—a huge array set up two hundred yards south of the stones—and by windmills, which at the moment are not contributing much as the wind is light.

The punters are arranged in front of the stage, taking care not to damage the earth, though it is pretty dry, so not much worry there. People in white T's and white shorts patrol the area: security of the unheavy variety. Mostly this is a sitting down experience, it being early in the day, only noon, and nowhere near the time when live entertainment begins. But there is plenty to do—quite a few stalls, various folk playing acoustic music, and lots of food vendors proffering organic goodies and early food gathered from the land. Also the usual array of circus types.

Behind the stage are tents, tipis and a couple of solar powered vehicles, these being the homes and transport of the various famous dudes who will be playing live.

Nulight is impressed with this set-up. They are all impressed. Today could almost be a time from before the invasion. There is an expectancy in the air, and yet also a fear that the aliens might come down and spoil this, that they might buzz Stonehenge, that this special time might be ruined.

Master Sengel takes them all to the side of the stage. "I want you to meet some people," he says.

"Sure," Nulight replies, shrugging.

Master Sengel asks them to stand in a line, very formal, not to Nulight's taste, but he makes no complaint. From behind the stage come a group of people.

"These are our honoured guests," Master Sengel says.

Nulight is first in line. He stands silent, still.

"This is Margaret Jones, and this is Richard Lloyd."

Nulight nods once at them both, offering respect. Margaret and Richard greet him then move on to meet Kappa, who is next in line.

"And this is a hologram of Wally Hope," continues Master Sengel.

Again Nulight offers a single nod of the head. "Hope you're not going to give me a cosmic kick in the balls," he joshes.

Wally smiles, but being a hologram says nothing.

Master Sengel waves along the next figure, who Nulight has already recognised. "This is a hologram of John Pendragon."

Nulight nods once more.

"And this is Paul Aitken," Master Sengel continues.

Nulight nods again, offering his respect.

"Finally, Dice George is here too."

Nulight reaches out to clap the dude on the shoulder. "Nice one."

"The stones are free," George replies. "That sounds good, eh?"

"Sure does, man."

The introductions are over and Nulight's nerves begin to subside. That was one heavy assemblage of notables.

Time passes.

He chills, or tries to, for he is getting apprehensive again. They all are. He tries to calm himself, hugging Kappa, talking to the group about his plans for the next sixteen hours.

For this has
got
to work.

He can sense a vibe, now. People have recognised him, and they have also spotted Kappa's red dreads, so it is known that the quest people have returned.
It is known that the New Pagan Troubadours are at Stonehenge.
Shivers down the spine, man. As if to mark these moments the geezer in charge of the PA has begun to play Voiceoftibet bands, and cheers are being sent to the skies; and there is applause. Yeah, all the classics: Mystery Trend, Hanging Gardens Of Fungus, Hedge Wine, Henge Of Astral Stone. Even a few snippets of the summer tour CD put out by SemiAutonatic! Buddah, Nulight thinks, I bet that hasn't been heard for some time...

OK. It is half past two. In five hours, the first band is on, two old men and some classic analogue sounds. Plenty of time to chill, then.

A tipi has been erected for the New Pagan Troubadours. Inside, the foursome make themselves at home. They find rugs, beanbags, food and drink, a scattering of leaflets and other detritus. They settle down, keeping their instruments to hand. Jo goes out to check that the ponies and the whippets have food, then returns. They jam. The music is a bit ragged around the edges, this being a special occasion, but soon it soars, and the old feel is back. They play quiet so that nobody can earwig their set.

An accident: Sperm reverts to the chords for John Barleycorn, thinking they are going around one more time, and in doing so Nulight, trying to hit the new key, plays a sequence of three notes. Just as he does, Jo produces a gorgeous little riff on the harmonium, and Kappa says, "Ooh! I like that."

Muso-quick, Sperm has found one right chord. Nulight repeats his phrase, then nods once at Jo. Sperm finds a second chord. Then Nulight
hears
a new part of the melody in his head, and he plays it.

It is a theme. A fantastic melody, authentic, yet the product of chance.

"Fucking
hell,
" Nulight blurts to Sperm, "get the chords, man, and
quick.
"

Sperm plays. For a handful of seconds the foursome are sitting on a knife edge, as Sperm takes a deep breath and puts out four chords. They are
right!

"Keep playing," Nulight demands.

Kappa has grabbed her guitar and is playing the inversions of Sperm's chords. Nulight is now playing the whole theme, and on his trumpet it has a majesty that makes the hairs on his forearms rise. This is something.

Nulight puts down his trumpet, but because he does not want these moments to end he waves his hands and stares at them all, making them play on. He says, "This is the eighth tune. This is
it.
This is what we play when the sun comes up tomorrow morning. This is the tune that'll have 'em weeping, man, this is the
one.
Sperm, you and Kappa'll play guitars, I'll play the theme, Jo, you'll play a harmony to it once I've stated it a couple of times, sweets, you maybe sing oohs and aahs along with the melody. Keep playing!" And he takes up his trumpet again.

For ten minutes they play their theme round and around. Then they stop.

Tangible excitement is in the air. Nulight speaks first. "This is how we end our set at three fifty three, yeah? It doesn't matter that we composed it, that we found it. Man, it's Van Der Graaf Generator's 'Theme One', it's 'Leli B' by Julian Cope, it's Simon House's 'Sherwood', it's 'Anthem 1984' by Anthony Philips. It's a
theme...
and I'm calling it 'Theme Twenty One' because it's June twenty-first tomorrow, any objections?"

There are none.

Kappa suggests, "Why don't you play the theme just once, unaccompanied, at the very start of the set, before we all go into John Barleycorn?"

"Nice one, nice one," Nulight comments.

Jo adds, "And again, to introduce the final song—once we've finished Put Your Foot In My Slipper obviously. Unaccompanied, like before. Then the guitars can crash in, and we
go
for sunrise big stylee."

"Hey, yeah!" they all agree.

And so is their set completed.

...seven thirty of the clock at Stonehenge...

Come a quarter past seven everybody at the 'Henge is packed in front of the stage, slow-hand-clapping as they wait for the gig to begin, and it is, as Nulight hoped, a sea of rainbow colour. The PA geezer has chilled it down, playing quiet tracks from the early Krel albums and some Dead Flowers choons, but the crowd are really building up the atmos.

The minutes tick by. All the live bands have soundchecked (behind a canvas cloth strung across the stage, so the punters don't see 'em, though of course audio overspill is inevitable) and the visuals and even the computers are ready for action. Various alky-generators are coming on-line, as the sun sets and solar power is reduced.

Nulight has drunk a couple of glasses of Cornish rosé to try and reduce his nervous anticipation. He's feeling mellow though his body hasn't quite got the message. He doesn't want a spliff or anything; got to keep his mind sharp on this most important of nights.

Half past seven.

The rope holding the canvas cloth is cut, and it falls to the ground. Four white spotlight beams shine directly into the audience, blinding them, and there is a fog of dry ice out of which two old men walk. And there is an
enormous
cheer in response to this appearance by Eat Static. Merv is a tad bent over, his hair white now, while Joie is also a bit on the frail side. But, hey, they're still playing. Hiss from the tweeters as circuits come on-line. The faintest of thrums from the woofers. A synth stab. And then music.

Eat Static finish at eight thirty, much appreciated by the audience, much loved. Now it is time for part two of the gig, a holographic recreation of live music played by classic festi bands, assembled by the combined might of Master Sengel and van der Woofer. This is some achievement, the result of a month's painstaking work, and Master Sengel, who has taken MCing duties upon himself under the monicker Mr Grockle, is at hand to introduce the extravaganza.

It is as if the bands are present on stage. First up is Banco de Gaia, Toby and his colleagues playing a half hour of classic tunes, before, ambling on stage with assorted yippage, it is Pok, Krishmael, Zeg, Clive, Stella, Clover and Chrissie, viz. the Space Goats. Dice George—the real one—has arrived stage left, where he sits down to play a tad of live tin whistle over 'Pixies Jinx'. The stage lighting is a tricksy combination of recreated spotlights and lasers, plus a veneer of modern light used sparingly to create the sensation of blur and change at the edge of the projection, where laser light merges with real light.

It is nine thirty now, and the light is fading; the shortest night is at hand. With a flourish Master Sengel introduces a visual joke, holographic clips of classic 'sixties concert footage, a recreation within a recreation; Hendrix, Zappa, Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, The Byrds, Quicksilver Messenger Service, The Chocolate Egyptians, The Thirteenth Floor Elevators. Nuggets of psych fun, all of them, though the Zappa is more serious.

Back at the holo concert, and there is another huge cheer as Simon and Raja emerge into laser light, to play thirty minutes of wibbly, squelchy, Shpongle trance. The final hour is devoted to a career-encompassing set by the Ozrics, bless 'em; and what a joy it is to behold.

But now, sadly, it is the end of part two. There is a final cheer, raised hands applauding, as van der Woofer comes on stage to receive thanks for creating such a superb show. Anticipation: a hush, van der Woofer leaving the stage, and then Master Sengel says, "Let real music commence!"

So begins part three, a series of live bands assembled by Sir Trance-alot using the Harley dude as both messenger and investigator. Three bands have been reassembled, their members tracked down through fragmented Britain by the tenacious leather dude, then given horses and bartering goods so that they can get themselves to Salisbury Plain in good time. These bands are Henge of Astral Stone, Boletus Name and Speech Musipediment, all of whom play a one hour set, respectively hippy-dippy wig-outs, virtualsmooth unbrokenbeats featuring whalesong vocals, and stomping acid trance. By two thirty in the morning, the crowd are going berserk.