The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (46 page)

“Anyway, due to the age-old excuse ‘creative differences,’ The Loop split into two separate bands in nineteen-seventy. Apparently Stuart Clayton, Jim Axelrod, and Dave Monaco wanted to get out of Chicago and move to Los Angeles, where all the exciting stuff was happening. I also understand that Stuart Clayton and Joe Nance were constantly at each other’s throats as to who was the official leader of the band. Clayton was an accomplished songwriter and front man, even though he played keys. And Nance was also a damned fine songwriter and front man. So, there was a rift and a ‘big split.’”

“Red Skyez and Windy City Engine,” Briggs said.

“Right. Clayton, Axelrod, and Monaco moved to L.A. with a new drummer named Hank Palmer. They formed Red Skyez—spelled S, K, Y, E, Z—how pretentious can you get?—and started doing the kind of stuff we associate with prog rock today. Sort of Moody Blues-meets-Pink Floyd-meets, well, Chicago Blues. They recorded two albums between nineteen-seventy-one and seventy-three. The first was critically acclaimed but didn’t sell too well. The second one was barely noticed, but it kept Red Skyez on the boards.”

“And what happened in nineteen-seventy-three?” Berenger prompted.

“Stuart Clayton had a heart attack. Or a stroke. We’re not too sure. Maybe both. There wasn’t a lot of press about it. Red Skyez was not a big name and they had only two records. But
something
happened to Clayton and he dropped out of sight. There was some speculation that he was doing too many drugs, just like all of them nutty rock stars did in those days. But Clayton was especially interested in the psychedelic stuff. LSD, peyote, psilocybin mushrooms, and this weird herb called salvia divinorum.”

“What’s that?” Bishop asked.

Prescott answered that one. “Salvia divinorum is an herb that, when smoked, produces very intense out-of-body experiences and hallucinations. The effects last only a minute or two but they’re heavy-duty. Supposedly it’s not dangerous unless you’re stupid enough to be driving a car while you do it. It renders you totally helpless and uncoordinated for those two minutes. There are people who use it for meditation purposes. It’s not a party drug. It can cause one to be very introspective. It’s a ‘see God’ type of drug. And believe it or not, it’s legal in most states.”

“Really?” Bishop asked.

“Yeah, you buy it in head shops or online,” she replied.

“You sound like you’ve tried it,” Briggs commented.

“I have. I was in India at the time. Early nineties. I was experimenting with all kinds of stuff—eastern religions, Transcendental Meditation, and, yes, mind-altering drugs. Didn’t last long. I didn’t like salvia. It wasn’t a pleasant experience for me. In fact, it scared the shit out of me. I thought my body had split into a thousand pieces and they were running around the floor with minds of their own. The second time I tried it, I became the chair I was sitting in. Not my idea of fun.”

“The point is, I think,” Berenger noted, “is that Stuart Clayton screwed up his mind and body in a major way. Combining all those different kinds of hallucinogens must have had a detrimental effect on him, even though taken individually those things aren’t all that dangerous. He may have had a mental illness to begin with, too. If that were the case—say he had a tendency toward schizophrenia, like Syd Barrett—the drugs could have really messed him up.”

“Syd Barrett was that guy in the original Pink Floyd, right?” Bishop asked.

“Yeah. He was one of the founders of the band. He was an early LSD casualty. Dropped out of Pink Floyd after their first album and was in and out of mental hospitals until he died a few years ago. Sad. Brilliant musician. The band’s
Wish You Were Here
album was a tribute to him.”

“He sort of took his own trip to the dark side of the moon, didn’t he?” Briggs muttered.

“Yeah. You have more on Clayton, Remix?”

“Only that no one heard from him much during the rest of the seventies. Then, an independently-produced solo album came out in nineteen-seventy-nine. The record was called
Trrrrans.
That’s four
R
s in
Trrrrans.
Sheesh. It wasn’t well received and it tanked. The reviews I found said it was very strange. What a surprise! After that, Clayton went to Europe. We don’t know where he went. His name didn’t pop up in the music press until nineteen-ninety-two, when suddenly he was back in Chicago and he put out another solo album. This one was even more obscure and hard-to-find than the first one. But oddly enough, he has fans. There’s a Stuart Clayton fan website that has about twenty people on its message boards.”

“What’s he done since nineteen-ninety-two?”

“Nothing that we know of. Lives in Chicago like a hermit. I don’t know how he makes a living, but I know his family had money. Of all these Chicagoprog guys, Clayton’s got the most mystique.”

“Okay. Go on, Remix.”

“Anyway, Red Skyez tried to continue without Clayton. They brought in Lew Krige, a talented songwriter from Chicago who was also in L.A. He played keyboards and was a vocalist, like Clayton. Then, in nineteen-seventy-five, Dave Monaco left the band. Lew Krige’s wife Sarah was a decent bass player, so she was brought in to replace him. So you had a husband and wife team kind of fronting the band with Axelrod and Palmer still in the group. This lineup recorded one album. Then, in nineteen-seventy-six, Jim Axelrod quit the band. And his replacement was none other than...”

Remix dramatically made a drum roll with his hands on the table top.

“…Zach Garriott! The wunderkind guitarist from Chicago who was desperately trying to find a foothold in Los Angeles.”

“The guy is great,” Briggs said.

“I’ll say. Anyway, this final lineup of Red Skyez recorded one album, did a tour, and then called it quits in nineteen-seventy-eight. Just about everyone moved back to Chicago over the next few years.”

Berenger said, “But the Kriges formed their own band.”

“Right. It was called—you guessed it—Krige! They kept Hank Palmer on drums and brought in another Chicago guitarist named Paul Trinidad, who had been in a little band in Chicago called South Side. Krige existed and gigged fairly regularly until the mid-nineties or so.”

“Okay, whoa,” Berenger said. “Let’s back up before you get into that branch of the family tree. Let’s hear about Windy City Engine—the other half of The Loop that remained in Chicago when the rest of them moved to L.A.”

Remix shuffled pages and continued. “Okay, when The Loop broke up in nineteen-seventy, the other half of the band—namely Joe Nance, Charles Nance, Harrison Brill, and Manny Rodriguez—formed Windy City Engine. They stayed in Chicago throughout their long career and were still together until the untimely death of Charles a few days ago. Whether or not they’ll stay together remains a question. Over the four decades they’ve been together, they released a total of ten records and toured a lot. But mostly they stayed close to home and entertained a small but loyal following in Chicago. Joe Nance made a couple of solo albums in the eighties. Brill and Rodriguez did an album together in the eighties as well. Windy City Engine’s music could be called folk prog with some blues and country mixed in. Personally, I think it’s crap but I know there are
some people here
who like it.”

“I always liked Windy City Engine,” Berenger admitted. “It’s not crap at all. They deserved more success than they got.”

Remix turned a page and said, “Now, another branch of the Chicagoprog sound developed in nineteen-seventy-two. The band was called Rattlesnake. It consisted of a guy named Bud Callahan on keyboards and vocals, Rick Tittle on drums, and an Italian fellow named Sandro Ponti on bass. You know him, right, Spike?”

“Yeah, he’s a good friend. I didn’t know him then, though. We met in Italy much later. But keep going.”

“Rattlesnake made one album and split up in nineteen-seventy-five. Ponti left Chicago and went back to Italy. The other two guys formed a band called South Side. Rounding out the band with Callahan and Tittle were none other than Dave Monaco from Red Skyez on bass, and the aforementioned Paul Trinidad on guitar. Bud Callahan’s wife Sharon sometimes contributed vocals.
They
made one album. Then, in nineteen-seventy-eight, there was some shuffling. Monaco and Trinidad left, so Sharon picked up the bass—just as Sarah Krige did for Red Skyez—and they hired none other than Zach Garriott on guitar. How they managed to woo him away from Red Skyez is a mystery, because Red Skyez was doing much better out in L.A. Maybe Garriott just wanted to go back home to Chicago, I don’t know. Anyway, they changed the name of the band to
North
Side. And
they
made one album.”

“This is getting complicated,” Prescott said.

“Tell me about it. It’s about as bad as that Canterbury thing they have over in England,” Briggs said. “You know—Soft Machine, Caravan, Hatfield and the North, and all those guys.”

“Don’t start knocking them or I’ll punch you,” Berenger said. “Please continue, Remix.”

Remix took a sip of water out of a bottle and read on. “Zach Garriott didn’t stay long. He left in nineteen-eighty, and he was replaced by a guy named Greg Cross. And believe it or not, North Side still exists today with that lineup—Tittle, Cross, and Bud and Sharon Callahan.”

“So Zach Garriott’s the only one who really became famous?” Bishop asked.

“Yep. Formed his own band after leaving North Side and never looked back. He occasionally did sessions or played a gig or two with former Chicagoprog members. But mostly he went his own way and developed a sound that couldn’t be called prog at all.”

‘Thanks, Remix,” Berenger said. “I think that puts it all in perspective.”

“I’m going to need a flowchart to keep all this straight,” Prescott commented.

“Here you go,” Briggs said. He had been taking notes during the briefing. He slid a piece of paper across the table. On it he had drawn a family tree that illustrated the various bands, the members, and timelines.

“Wow, Tommy, this is great!” Prescott marveled.

“I stole the idea from Pete Frame. He’s a guy that did a whole book of rock ‘n’ roll family trees.”

“Okay, folks, the big question is who would want to kill off members of these bands?” Berenger asked.

“Is that what’s really going on, or are these shootings coincidences?” Briggs asked.

“You tell me, Tommy. We have the Kriges shot and killed in Evanston, which is just a northern suburb of Chicago. Then nineteen days later, Dave Monaco and Hank Palmer are shot coming out of a music club on the north side of Chicago. Then, nearly a month after that, Charles Nance gets it. According to the newspaper reports, his home isn’t very far from the club where Monaco and Palmer bought it. So they’re all within a reasonably close distance. I imagine the Evanston case is under a different police jurisdiction since it’s technically not Chicago. But the situation is pretty clear to me—within a couple of months, seven members of this rock family tree that Tommy just drew have been killed. Why?”

“Somebody obviously has a grudge,” Remix offered.

“But these people weren’t big successes. They probably didn’t have a lot of money. And is it going to stop with Charles Nance? Or are the rest of them on a checklist?”

“I guess that’s what you’re going to find out, huh, Spike?” Briggs asked.

He nodded. “Suzanne and I are leaving tomorrow for Chicago.”

T
he room was dark and smelled as if fresh clean sheets, perfume, and air freshener were fighting a losing battle to disguise mold and mildew. Only a single shaded lamp cast a bit of light onto the desk where the killer sat. Someone once said that the place was more like a morgue than a home. That had been amusing.

A piece of paper lay on the desk. A list of names, in no particular order, was scribbled on the paper. Five of the names had lines drawn through them—Lew Krige, Sarah Krige, Dave Monaco, Hank Palmer, and Charles Nance. There were six names left—Stuart Clayton, Joe Nance, Harrison Brill, Manny Rodriguez, Jim Axelrod, and Zach Garriott.

The killer picked up the latest issue of the
Chicago Reader
from the floor and turned to the back, where all the music club listings were printed. Sure enough, the band North Side was playing the very next night.

It was time to cross off another name.

B
erenger was late for his appointment with Linda, his ex-wife, and that wasn’t good. One of the problems with their three-and-a-half year marriage was that he was never on time for things for a number of reasons. He was working. Or he was away. Or he forgot. Once he was with another woman. That was the only excuse he truly regretted.