Rock On (56 page)

“Apart from that.”

“I don’t know. If he starts showing signs of . . . creativity . . . then we’re fucked six ways from Tuesday. We’ll have animal rights activists pulling the plug on every show.”

“Unless we just . . . roll with it. Let him decide what he does. I mean, it’s not like he doesn’t
want
to perform, is it? You’ve seen him out there. This is what he was born for. Hell, why stop there? This is what he was evolved for.”

“I wish I had your optimism.”

I look back at the cage. Derek’s watching us, following the conversation. I wonder how much of it he’s capable of understanding. Maybe more than we realize.

“Maybe we keep control of him, maybe we don’t. Either way, we’ve done something beautiful.” I hand him the bottle. “You, mainly. It was your idea, not mine.”

“Took the two of us to make it fly,” Jake says, before taking a gulp. “And hell, maybe you’re right. That’s the glorious thing about rock and roll. It’s alchemy. Holy fire. The moment you control it, it ain’t rock and roll no more. So maybe the thing we should be doing here is celebrating.”

“All the way.” And I snatch back the JD and take my own swig. Then I raise the bottle and toast Derek, who’s still watching us. Hard to tell what’s going on behind those eyes, but one thing I’m sure of is that it’s not nothing. And for a brief, marvellous instant, I’m glad not only to be alive, but to be alive in a universe that has room in it for beautiful monsters.

And heavy metal, of course.

Alastair Reynolds
was born in Barry, South Wales, in 1966. After a career working abroad in space science, he returned to Wales a few years ago and is now a full time writer. His most recent novel is
Blue Remembered Earth
(2012), and he is now working on its sequel. Forthcoming is a
Doctor Who
tie-in novel,
Harvest of Time,
from BBC Books in 2013. Reynolds is an obsessive music listener, with tastes ranging from Early Music through to Shostakovich, Sibelius, the English pastoral composers, jazz, blues, rock, folk, and contemporary world music. Oddly enough, despite the theme of this story, he does not listen to a great deal of heavy metal—although Metallica’s last album is a particular favorite. He is also a keen if struggling student of the classical and electric guitar.

Mourningstar

Del James

Rhain hated Wrath. Not so much because he suspected the guitarist might be quitting Mourningstar to join a more successful band, but because he
could
quit to join another band. As a singer, Rhain didn’t have the same options as the talented shredder, either on or off stage. No one was knocking on his door with tempting offers. Hell, other than their shithole rehearsal studio in the sunny slums of the San Fernando Valley, he didn’t have a place to call home.

It could be worse.

Compared to the foster homes and detention centers of his youth the studio was a palace—a cancerous palace with rats and who knows what else living inside the walls, but a palace never the less. Microphones and amplifiers and instruments offering a means to spit venom at all of those who bowed before the great oppressor, the subjugated singer understood the power of resentment and embraced his inner hate the same way others found religion. But instead of God, Rhain had given his soul to Satan. He communed with the Ancient Ones. Within these crumbling walls adorned with ancient arcane symbols, he had a voice and the means to unleash his blasphemous rage.

Rhain stood above all moral illusions. Words like “good” or “evil” held no meaning. They were purely relative terms expressing subjective values.
So was killing an innocent person a “bad” thing?
Not when labels like “innocent” held no value. No human life is more important than the power guiding Mourningstar. Not even the lives of its four most obvious representatives. The band and the dark forces behind it were all part of an agenda far greater than becoming rich or famous.

For the past two years, every determined ounce of Rhain’s misanthropic existence had been channeled into the band. Mourningstar served as the vessel for his bleak vision as well as his escape. The stage show and filthy leather attire and devilish makeup and bombastic music and flaming inverted pentagram logo had his bloody fingerprints smeared all over them. Wrath, Revile the bassist, and Ruin the drummer played the instruments, but make no mistake: Rhain
was
Mourningstar. Wrath and the others believed human happenstance put the four of them together—but Rhain knew better.

He willed it.

He channeled it.

He conjured it.

He made it happen.

But it wasn’t easy. Nothing ever was. The band paid their dues, suffering through the humiliation of opening shows for bands far inferior but somehow more successful. They worked steadfastly at their craft; putting in every available hour they could find to become unstoppable. It had paid off. Compared to their early rehearsals and gigs, the improvement now echoed thunderously whenever they played. Mourningstar could jam with any heavy metal band. If one need further proof, their latest demo,
Cruelties in Black,
was getting played on some of the top Internet radio stations. More importantly, it was receiving attention from Black Light Records.

Cruelties in Black
personified a musical exploration of the dark side and was the band’s greatest accomplishment to date. They‘d done whatever was necessary to raise the money for studio time and the crushing results proved quite satisfactory. As far as a demo goes, it did its job presenting a fair representation of what could be achieved if they could get into a proper studio with a real producer.

Rhain intended the music to be a glimpse into a world where the illusions of flesh and light are absent; an aural assault of unearthly delights where chords of liberated fire rose up to become sinful exclamations.
Cruelties in Black
unleashed a sonic exploration, glorification, and adoration of the Devil—the eternal adversary and enemy of the world.

It was meant to be played
loud.

Rhain’s ambition had always been to upset the status quo, and if he had to break the musical rules that others followed, then so mote it be. He strived toward complete artistic freedom, believing in his blackened heart that the only way to achieve this was though diabolical music. Darkness was its most important element; the sinister energies channeled and spread through their frequencies were what inspired Rhain. If he could introduce listeners to true darkness and let them experience the liberating potential that one can find deep within themselves, the black flame, then his existence would be one of unholy significance. He wanted to plant Satan’s seed in the listener’s mind, allowing it to slowly burn new holes of infernal insight in their collective consciousness.

Mourningstar was nothing more than an instrument for channeling the wrath of the ancient gods of darkness. If the lanky singer had to dig up cadavers in order to decorate a stage in human bones to momentarily open a portal to the dark side—break out the shovels. If violence offered a favorable outcome for band business—it was time to unleash merciless savagery upon anyone who stood in Mourningstar’s path.

Whenever Mourningstar performed live—not nearly often enough to satisfy the quartet—they underwent a transformation. No longer just longhaired rockers, Rhain, Wrath, Ruin, and Revile turned into demented heretics capable of unleashing inhuman fury and hellfire.

Rhain understood that visuals were as important as the music.

On stage, each musician sported at least one heavy necklace with an inverted cross or pentagram hanging from it. Their attire consisted of custom-made, dirty black leather. Leather sleeves covered in hooks and spikes ran from wrist to forearm. Chrome motorcycle chains and bullet belts with large demonic buckles adorned their slim waists.

Each member made his face up as a ghoulish corpse—pale white with black highlighting the eyes and lips serving as a foundation for further intricate makeup application—all to appear more intimidating than most black metal bands.

Rhain, Wrath, Revile, and Ruin could, no
should,
be the four horsemen of the heavy metal apocalypse. But now Mourningstar might be no more because some spoiled cocksucker with a perfect family and a promising future was thinking about jumping ship.

Rhain couldn’t believe it . . . yet he could. Guitarists were strange mercenaries. They always wanted to stand center stage, shamelessly waving their six-strings at anyone in the immediate vicinity. They cared more about tones and arpeggios than about honor. Besides being a phenomenally talented guitar slinger, Wrath understood the value of being in the spotlight so he learned how to spit fire just like Quorthon of Bathory and countless other black metallers. As long as he didn’t get too wasted beforehand, Wrath could easily blow flames of up to twenty feet.

Rhain put so much time and effort into convincing Wrath that Mourningstar was more than just a band. For Wrath to intentionally extinguish that flame before it had the opportunity to burn brightly was an unforgivable act of treason. Rhain yearned to bash Wrath’s pretty little face in . . . pummel him the same way he’d been pounded on numerous occasions . . . kick and stomp him until blood spewed out from his broken mouth.

To feel flesh splitting under the force of his fists would bring about some sense of retribution but that would not be enough. Wrath’s treachery crossed a line that could not be avenged by a mere ass whipping. His suffering had to be permanent. The scars of such a betrayal, much like the wounds from a curved dagger, must never fade. If Wrath was about to destroy Mourningstar before they could be carved into public memory, then his suffering had to be epic.

After thorough introspective meditation and consultation with the Ancient Ones, the singer hatched a scheme.

As part of Mourningstar’s biggest show to date, a slot at the Whisky A Go-Go, Rhain invited Wrath’s sister to be a part of the live spectacle. Ann Marie wanted—no,
jumped
at—the opportunity to be the “victim” who gets crucified and stabbed during the song
Bloodletting.
If the Whisky show was going to be their final performance, the singer would make it a communion between this world and the dark that no one in attendance would ever forget.

Scorched earth rock ’n’ roll.

Wrath suspected Rhain knew he was being courted by The Arbitrators, a four-piece heavy metal band that could sell out any club in Southern California. Step one to getting signed mandated developing a following. It doesn’t matter what genre of music a band plays; as long as they could consistently pack in the crowds the record companies would eventually come sniffing around. The Arbitrators currently owned the Sunset Strip so naturally several major labels wanted to sign them to a recording contract.

Wrath wasn’t keen on the brand of rock music The Arbitrators excelled at. It played a bit too “chick friendly” and not heavy enough. Music was supposed to be powerfully accelerated and crushing enough to make one’s ear bleed tiny droplets of sonic bliss. Black fucking metal reverberated the sounds of war, squealed like the tones of choke fucking, and climaxed into the deafening timbre of the heavens collapsing. At least when Mourningstar performed it did. Just ask their loyal following of about fifty friends and hangers on.

For the past two years, Wrath tried his best to mold his dysfunctional band mates into his musical peers. Ruin showed the most improvement and now was a lightning-fast drummer who could hold his own with anybody. Revile, though, had four large bass strings and usually only hammered one or two at a time. Despite all of the drama surrounding their daily lives, the unstable drummer with a pregnant girlfriend and the meth-dealing bassist pounded adequately as a rhythm section. But if Ruin and Revile weren’t fucked up enough, Rhain embodied the most complex person Wrath had ever met.

That’s why he loved him . . . and hated him.

Rhain possessed talent but it wasn’t the conventional singer-with-a-great-vocal-range or strutting-around-onstage types of appeal. Hell, there wasn’t anything conventional about Rhain. Wrath could remember taking him to his parent’s house and Rhain—who as far as Wrath knew, had no formal musical training—sat down at the piano and started playing a shadowy melody in the key of D flat. He instinctively knew what to play . . . until he realized that people were watching. Then he became embarrassed and immediately brought the somber melody to a halt.

Later that night, Wrath’s mother warned him that Rhain was a “weirdo.”

Weirdo was too kind a description. The singer whose dream in life was to “eclipse the sun and rape the moon” was downright dangerous.

Throughout the history of music, there have always been crazed geniuses. If one wanted to romanticize it, madness represented a gift as well as a curse. From Ludwig Van Beethoven, Brian Wilson, and Syd Barrett to Richard Wagner, Al Jourgensen, and Ian Curtis—magic and psychosis went hand in hand. Not only did Rhain have his own undiagnosed—thus untreated—issues to contend with, but in an attempt to get closer to Satan he welcomed even more insanity into his existence. How many singers fasted for days in order to be in the right state to record? How many singers conjured demons in an attempt to become a conduit between this world and the dark side?

And the most fucked up part about everything is Rhain believes that Lucifer is guiding the band’s fortune.

No, if anything was guiding their recent good fortune, it was Wrath’s skilled fingers. Just ask record producer extraordinaire Michael Mallory.

When Donnie Black and Duane Fresno, two members of The Arbitrators, came to Wrath’s house asking him to join them, the offer sounded far from appealing. Sure, the Arbitrators were a lot more successful than Mourningstar, but Wrath loved the type of music Mourningstar performed. He loved the theatrics and the power and the potential of his band . . . but Donnie and Duane had an ace up their mutual sleeve.