Román Leão

Tag: 1970s

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Zongo Khumalo 4

    UNFINISHED DOCUMENTARY, KINGDOMS OF THE RADIO  |  1995

    Once we decided to renovate Girassol, I figured I ought to let Mrs. Chaves know what was going on; that way if we ran into a hassle, we would be coming from a place of righteousness.

    I had to go into town and call her from the payphone at Sammy’s. Once I told her that the big house was still standing and in amazingly good condition, she actually wept on the phone. I told her the other buildings were a loss, but she was cool with us building some new ones. There was no electricity out to the property, but the gas lines were somehow still intact and the same company that provided it back when Mrs. Chaves lived there was still around.

    I got her to call the company and let them know that she now owned the property and wanted the gas back on. They said it might take a while since they would have to check the hookups, but it would be all right to put it in my name so that we could pay the bill. In the meantime, we had plenty of firewood from the tear downs.

    In fact, when we finally finished loading in all of the salvaged building materials, a girlfriend of Enrique’s brought out a jug of morning glory wine she had made and we had a huge bonfire.

    The acid-like effects of morning glory seeds was one of those things I had always heard about but never tried as they had a bad reputation for making you really sick as well as really high. For me, there’s nothing worse than losing your lunch while tripping balls, but this chick had figured out a way to extract the good shit and filter out the part that makes you nauseous.

    We were all tired from schlepping salvage all week but also had the mellow feeling of a job well done. We built a big pile of lumber we knew we couldn’t use again and all took a big drink of the wine. She called it wine, but had actually used Everclear in her process so it packed a punch like a smack from a bat.

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Charlie Perigo 4

    UNFINISHED DOCUMENTARY, KINGDOMS OF THE RADIO  |  1995

    Once we put the word out on the street about what we wanted to build, it was amazing how quickly it caught on. There were a lot of heads that had been at loose ends, which was causing them heat in some of the small towns around the Bay Area. Small towns? What am I saying? They were all small towns! Still are, when it comes down to it. At least in the head.

    A boonie rat buddy of mine named Ikaia Keala—we called him Sticky Icky in-country—used to do under-the-table construction jobs around the county and had somehow pulled the gig to dismantle the buildings on a crumbling old resort. I think local kids kept breaking in and the county was afraid of getting sued if some drunk teenager got himself parboiled in the hot springs.

    Sticky said that we could have the salvage if; one, we helped him take it all apart, and, two, if we got it all the hell out of there. You should have seen the ragtag caravan of pickups, flatbeds, vans—whatever we could get our hands on—heading further up into the woods once we finished tearing those places down. We were like an army of ants all carrying pieces of some giant dead bug back to the nest.

    We hadn’t had time to improve the way in, and there had been some genuine—and well considered, in my opinion—arguments against it. It would be harder for the county to sweep in and hassle us if we left the road impassible, so it ended being up to me to lift the salvage up and over the tangled growth with the chopper. It was really weird, I felt like I was back in ’Nam again, helping to establish an LZ.

    Once a stick, always a stick.

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Police Chief Warren Burton 1 [fiçcão]

    UNFINISHED DOCUMENTARY, KINGDOMS OF THE RADIO  |  1995

    Of course I remember when that so-called rock star disappeared in San Francisco. I still had some friends on the force out that way. You can’t believe the stories they used to tell me; drug addicts from all over the country pouring in to the City and the city government refusing to deal with it.

    How would you like it if you got up to go to work one morning and some filthy young runaway was breast-feeding her malnourished baby on your front stoop?

    Girassol? That was something else entirely. At least we had them all in one place; out of the way. It was almost like they sent themselves to their own refugee camp.

    It worked for a while, but I’m getting ahead of myself. This SFPD friend of mine that I knew in Korea got the call that night of a possible drowning out at Ocean Beach. That strip has a notorious riptide, especially around ebb.

    The way my buddy explained it is there are billions of gallons of water that come pouring out of the Bay between high and low tides and it meets an unbelievably massive wall of sand just outside the Golden Gate which shoots the water both north to Marin and south to Monterey. Get caught in that and you’d be wishing you fell into a Mixmaster instead.

    He got a call that some morning joggers found a paint-spattered pair of coveralls that matched an APB for a possible suicide. It was Lucious Cole. The two yahoos that were supposed to be taking care of him called it in, saying that he had been talking about ending it and had somehow gotten away from them. Of course there were drugs involved. That’s no real surprise, is it?

    They never did find the body. After a while, everyone just figured that Cole ended up shark food and called it a day.

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Zongo Meets The Stick (Pt. 2) [ficção]

    POINT ARENA, CALIFORNIA  |  1971

    “What about you, man? So, you’re a cook?”

    “Shit,” Khumalo groused, as he grabbed the passenger assist grip, “I was a cook. There was an… incident this morning. With a goose.”

    “OK, now you have to tell me,” Perigo laughed as he downshifted and swung into a turnout at an inappropriate speed and vector.

    “Fuck this thing,” Khumalo pulled the scratchy polo up over his head and tossed it into the weeds on the side of the road. “There was a wedding party this morning. I was cooking my ass off as my prep neglected to make it to work. All of a sudden, the bride’s mother comes barging into my kitchen. A sacred space.”

    “Amen,” Perigo sympathized as he rooted around in the center console for a cigarette.

    “This broad starts yelling about how this Canada goose took it upon itself to join the festivities, uninvited, and was now honking up and down the rows of friends and family pecking at ankles and shitting all over the place.”

    “Sounds like a goose, alright.”

    “That’s what I said! ‘That’s what they do, lady. What do you want me to do about it?’ That’s when the owner pops his fucking head in… again, his place, my kitchen.”

    “I can see where this is going.”

    “Both of them started tag teaming me about how this goddamn goose was ruining the wedding and somehow it was my job to fix it.”

    “What did you do?”

    “What could I do? I put the chowder on low simmer and went to out to deal with it. By this time, the whole ceremony had come to a halt and everyone watched as I tried to shoo the fucking bird off the deck. To it’s credit, it had moves. Every time I got it going toward the gate, it would pull a head fake and scramble past me.”

    “Daaamn.”

    “I finally cornered the bastard against the railing and it tried to bite me, so I got a hand around his neck and my other arm around his body and and tossed him over into the water.”

    “Power move.”

    “That’s what I thought. I was ready to go back to the kitchen when all of a sudden the wedding party turned into an angry mob. Apparently, the goose—somehow forgetting that it knew how to fucking fly—hit the one concrete piling sticking up out of the water. Knocked it cold. The crowd started calling me ‘goose killer.’”

    “They did not.”

    “Like it was my idea to come out and dance with the fucking thing! I told them all to kiss my ass.”

    “An understandable response.”

    “A-fucking-men. So, here I am, an ex-cook.”

    “I’ll drink to that. Sounds like you have the day off, I’m buying.”

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Down on the Mission [ficção]

    MEMORANDUM FOR: THE RECORD
    SUBJECT: Project MKULTRA, Subproject 3

    1. This project will involve the realistic testing of certain research and development items of interest to 
Chemical Division/Technical Services Staff.
    2. During the course of research and development, it is sometimes found that certain very necessary experiments and tests are not suited to ordinary laboratory conditions. At the same time it would be 
very difficult, if not impossible, to conduct these as operational field tests. This project is designed to provide discrete dedicated facilities to fill this intermediate requirement.
    3. This project will be conducted by REDACTED. Certain support activities will be provided by CD/TSS, APD/TSS, and when necessary, local law enforcement personnel.
    4. The total cost of this project for a period of one year will not exceed REDACTED.


    
REDACTED
    CD/TSS

    APPROVED:
    REDACTED
    Chief, CD/TSS

    APPROVED FOR OBLIGATION OF FUNDS:
    REDACTED
    Research Director

    Date: 11 November, 1971

    SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA  |  1971

    Carol Davidson parked the 1963 Volkswagen Beetle she had been saddled with by the agency on Bartlett Street, around the corner from their clandestine office on Mission Street. Driving the drafty German “people’s car” always put her in a foul mood, but she couldn’t be seen cruising around in her own Mercedes-Benz 280S, especially when she was supposed to be a penniless 21-year-old hippie girl. Just the look of satisfaction on her face as she floated by in a luxury leather seat with more springs than a Barcalounger would surely raise an eyebrow from her supposed cohort.

    Davidson took a moment to look around the regularly busy neighborhood street before using her ID card to unlock the unmarked office door, another anomaly that would be hard to explain to anyone unfamiliar with the new technology. As soon as the door closed, sealing off the ubiquitous thrum of the Mission District in full midday bustle, the sound was replaced by another, more abrasive noise: the sound of her angry superior.

    “Davidson,” the orotund voice rattled the framed portrait of Richard Milhous Nixon hanging in the entry hall. “In my office. Now.”

    The woman took a beat to leave her purse at her assigned desk, strategically leaving her weapon behind on the long walk to the Operations Officer’s lair, lest she feel like putting a bullet in his fat head, or one in her own if she had to endure his post-lunch onion breath again.

    As soon as she crossed the threshold into what Urban Wyrzykowski had curated over time from a faceless bureaucratic office into something resembling the burrow of a large animal—which now that she thought of it, was exactly was it was—she was hit with a miasma of stale cigarettes, sour sweat, and… yes, onions.

    “Shut the door behind you,” Wyrzykowski belched.

    “Shut the door?” Davidson protested, giving a performative half-turn back toward the empty office. “Nobody works here but me and you.”

    “The door.”

    “Shit.”

    “Shit is right, Davidson. Would you like to explain how you ended up overdosing a very famous British subject, leading to his apparent suicide?”

    “Oh, that.”

    “Yes, that, goddamn it!” Wyrzykowski’s face empurpled.

    “Well, you see, it was really quite clever,” Davidson jumped into the deep end of the story, figuring that she was drowning either way. “It was simply the old magician’s trick of misdirection. When I blew a giant hit of some pretty good Acapulco Gold into his mouth, I gave him a quick injection of the substance.”

    Wyrzykowski sat silently rubbing his temples as if trying to coax enough blood into leaving his skull so that he might black out and not have to listen to the woman’s story for a moment longer. After a pregnant pause, he opened his desk drawer and removed a orange plastic prescription bottle and began to wrestle with the new child-proof cap.

    “Would you like me to help you with that, chief,” Davidson asked as innocently as she could manage.

    “Would I…? Fuck!” Wyrzykowski resisted the urge to throw the pills across the room and carefully placed them out of Davidson’s reach.

    “May I ask you a real question, Agent Davidson?”

    “Shoot.”

    “Would that I could,” the beleaguered senior agent tented his stubby fingers and stared at his single charge. “Are you trying to kill me?”

    “Sir?”

    “I’ll ask you again,” Wyrzykowski straightened in his chair, falling back on the well-worn interrogation skill set that got him into this mess in the first place. “Are you actually trying to kill me?”

    “Not in anyway that anyone would suspect,” Davidson allowed. “Or be able to prove.”

    “I see,” the man eased a bit, now that their relationship was finally coming into focus. “It’s like that.”

    “I would say that is isn’t personal, sir,” Davidson eschewed any hint of remorse, “but, you see, it kind of is.”

    “Agent Davidson, sometimes I can’t tell when you are kidding.”

    “Agent Wyrzykowski,” the woman sighed, “sometimes I can’t tell either. Isn’t that the gig?”

    “About the Brit,” Wyrzykowski changed the topic, at this point not really caring if the crazy broad wanted him gone or not, “is he really dead?”

    “Lucious Cole?”

    Wyrzykowski began to chuckle, realizing that the agent’s plan was probably to make him want to kill himself before their conversation finally found its finish. “The same.”

    “He is safe as houses, as they seem to like to say.”

    “Are you going to enlighten me as to his current whereabouts?”

    “OK,” Davidson rubbed her hands together in misplaced glee, “I know this opportunity just kind of fell in our laps, but I do have a plan.”

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Serafina’s Gift [ficção]

    UKIAH, CALIFORNIA  |  1995

    The Kid zipped up the ripstop nylon track bag he had just stuffed with everything he would need to conduct the interviews to complete his Senior film project. He had just spent the morning checking out one of the college’s brand new Sony DCR-VX1000 video cameras upon penalty of slow and painful death. He had also mortgaged his soul to the drama department for the use of one of their portable lighting rigs. If he failed to bring it back, he would be damned to be cast as Idiot One for whatever production called for protracted humiliation for the foreseeable future.

    On a whim, he had started out creating a documentary on his name. First name: The; last name: Kid. His unusual appellation had caused equal parts confusion, intrigue, and downright hassle in his twenty- four years, but it wasn’t until he started digging into the origins of his name, that the strangeness of it really began to reveal itself.

    The Kid, or, as he preferred to be called these days, TK (which at least teased the possibility of a name to be named later), had been born on one of the most notorious Mendocino communes of the early ’70s. From an early age, he had been told that his parents didn’t want to propagate any moribund Judeo-Christian mythologies by giving him a handle that echoed the very values they were trying to eschew.

    When Child Protection Services finally showed up, wondering why the child was not only missing from the closest school roster, but from any such registers, they had scribbled his no-name into the blanks where it remained even after they finally hauled him away from the wreckage of his parent’s utopian project.

    A knock on the door of his rented bedroom broke The Kid’s reverie. Serafina Joaninha, a young woman who often felt that she had more name than she knew what to do with, entered without waiting to be invited and asked the very question he had been putting off asking himself, “Are you ready for this?”

    Joaninha was a startling young beauty of Portuguese and Goan extraction, and The Kid was routinely unnerved by the way she always just seemed to appear when he was thinking of her. Of course, he did think of her a lot. The two met cute in a Mendocino College film class, the pair being the last two cinephiles sitting through a screening of the 1932 Danish film, Vampyr.

    The Kid, having been mesmerized by the slow-moving, dreamlike movie, hadn’t noticed Joaninha sitting next to him until the final frame. When he finally turned, for a moment he thought the Polish actress Rena Mandel had somehow escaped the screen and had joined him in the dark. Joaninha had the same uncanny dark eyes and doll-like mouth as the character of Giséle. The fact that she was wearing an antique lace-collared black dress only added to the illusion.

    “I got you something, Ken Burns,” Joaninha plopped down on The Kid’s unmade bed, giving the bag of equipment a little bounce while perfectly sure The Kid wasn’t going to complain, having long acquiesced any agency in her presence. She had originally been flattered by his look of disbelief that he was lucky enough to be noticed by her but was growing tired of The Kid’s tendency to put her on a pedestal.

    Perhaps when he finished his damn documentary, she thought, he would finally gain the confidence to realize his own worth. Joaninha was willing to wait a little longer, but she wasn’t interested in being worshiped. She had enough self-awareness to know that if they were going to make it, they would need to be equal partners in the relationship.

    “It’s a clapperboard!” The Kid exclaimed as Joaninha handed over the wooden device she had hidden behind her back. “That’s the one thing I forgot!”

    “I even got you some chalk. What are you calling this opus?”

    “I thought I’d name it after Cole’s final album,” The Kid said.

    “Kingdoms of the Radio, it is,” Joaninha pronounced and proceeded to chalk the title onto the clapperboard. “Let’s kick this thing off right now. Grab the camera.”

    The Kid, excited to start his long-planned project, dug out the video camera and tripod and set them up before the young woman.

    “Scene one apple, take one!” Joaninha announced. “Mark!” With that proclamation, she struck the clapperboard’s striped sticks together and they were both off to the movies.

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: A Prisoner at the Palace (Pt. 2) [ficção]

    SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA | 1971

    With Shane’s meaty presence gone from the scene, the concrete bunker seemed to close in on the pair left alone for the first time since they left the airport.

    “So…” Rosenda began before being cut off by a recalcitrant Cole.

    “Look,” the fallen star looked down at his bare feet, “I’ve been a right twit, and I’m sorry. For everything.”

    “No, it’s all right,” Rosenda sought to diffuse whatever heartfelt confession was coming her way. If pressed, she actually preferred her musicians to be unrepentant messes. If Cole was going to start blubbering on about how he grew up playing in bomb sites and the like, she may have to pitch him into the lagoon herself. Everybody had their own bombsites to navigate, and it was by living vicariously through free spirits like Cole that made them feel as if there just may be a way out.

    “I can’t do this anymore.”

    “PCP? I think that’s probably a good idea,” Rosenda offered.

    Cole chuckled in spite of being in some sort of obvious torment. “No, not PCP, although, come to think of it, if that’s what that was, it has just made the list. I mean this, all of this. The whole business of fame and art and bullshit.” Cole sat down on an overturned five-gallon bucket and stared at his hands.

    “Come on, Lucious,” Rosenda sought to snap the man out of his funk before she had to slap him. “You’ve got it made. So many people would kill to be in your position. Albert King is opening for you tomorrow night. Albert fucking King!”

    “My position? Do you have any idea what my position costs a person? Did you know I had a wife and a kid?” Cole asked.
    Rosenda was shocked, knowing—and even somewhat admiring—Cole’s roguish rap sheet.

    “No, I guess I didn’t,” she began.

    “You wouldn’t,” Cole explained. “A beautiful little daughter. It doesn’t fit the profile does it? The thing is, I bought the hype and became this Lucious Cole asshole. The wife packed up their stuff and left one night when I was out doing God knows what. And that was that.”

    “I’m sure that she still cares…”

    “No. That was that,” Cole rued. “I’ve been told by her South London gangster brothers that if I so much as phone, I’m a dead man, and I tend to believe them. Sometimes I wish I was a dead man.”

    “Come on, Lucious!” Rosenda exploded. “Get your act together man. So your old lady ran off with your kid, do you think that’s the worst story you could hear within a block’s radius of this place? Let alone in this city? Jesus. You have a gift that helps people forget all the shitty things that have happened to them. Maybe just three minutes at a time, maybe for a few hours; but man, that’s magic. Can’t you see that?”

    “How can I help others forget when I can’t even help myself?” Cole answered her indignation with a primal wail. “I didn’t sign up to be their fucking psychiatrist. I really didn’t sign up to be anybody’s priest. Why do you think I stumble around this shitty planet high out of my mind? I can’t bear being left to my own thoughts. Do you know what that’s like?”

    “No,” Rosenda conceded, starting to feel a little empathy toward the man she had primarily seen as a cartoon rock star. “I guess I don’t.”

    “God bless you, then,” Cole offered, more than a little jealousy creeping into his voice. “I hope you never learn.”

    He began to sing in a mournful tenor, the sound filling the hollow concrete chamber and reverberating until the air was wholly suffused with his song.

    “The wind doth blow today, my love,
    and a few small drops of rain;
    I never had but one true-love,
    in cold grave she was lain.”

    “That’s beautiful, Cole,” Rosenda whispered as the last word hung in the air, a catch in her soft voice. “Is that one of yours?”

    “I wish,” Cole gave a sad snort. “No, love, that song is older than this here fair city.”

    “What’s it called?”

    “The Unquiet Grave.”
     

    The damp cold followed Shane under the colonnade as he returned carrying a bag of ice and a twelve pack of Olympia, which he promptly dropped when he saw Rosenda tied to a wooden chair in the middle of the room. Several bottles shattered when they hit the floor and cold beer seeped out of the carton and pooled on the painted concrete.

    “What the hell happened?” Shane rushed to untie the woman. “Where’s the English?”

    Rosenda had been crying, and Shane naturally thought that it was either from the non-consensual bondage or the thought of what Avidan was going to say when he found out that his star racing pigeon had flown the coop.

    “Don’t worry, Karoline,” he tried to soothe her, “we’ll get him back. They aren’t too many places to hide in this town that I don’t know about.”

    “Forget it, Bear,” she sighed, looking up at him as he worked to undo Cole’s admissible rope work. “He’s gone.”

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: A Prisoner at the Palace (Pt. 1) [ficção]

    SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA  |  1971

    A heavy drizzle spattered the Lincoln as it rolled through the damp San Francisco night. Karoline Rosenda was silent and still except for periodically twisting around in her seat to check on their charge. A clarion call of Be OK! Be OK! clanged over and over in her brain like a fire alarm, but she wisely kept it to herself.

    Shane, of course, said nothing. Rosenda knew him to adopt the platitudinous “silent type” affect whenever things got tense, and she had to admit, this was bad. Really fucking bad. If Z found out that she had let their star get dosed with dust and subsequently lobotomized by their driver, both of them were going to be looking for jobs. That’s if the dumb son-of-a-bitch lived through this. If he died on them, they were truly fucked.

    It was dicey enough that they were cruising around town with a naked and hogtied British national trussed upon the backseat. God forbid if they got pulled over for something. Rosenda breathed a small sigh of relief that they had the Lincoln. This was San Francisco; nobody was going to mess with a Lincoln Continental with an Irish driver. They might as well have diplomatic plates on the car from the borderless nation of Privilege.

    “Wash going on?” A slurred voice from the backseat made Shane and Rosenda jump. “I can’t moove.”

    “Lucious, listen to me,” Rosenda tried to explain. “It was for your own good, you were going to hurt yourself.” She climbed around to face the beleaguered rock star and searched his swelling face for a sign that he understood. Cole, for his part seemed to be taking in this new information and weighing its merit.

    “Oh, all right,” he ultimately conceded. “Can you untie me now?”

    “Sure…”

    “No,” Shane interjected, “we can’t. Not until we get to our safe house. There you can run around like a chicken with your head cut off all you want. In my car, you stay tied.”

    “Oh, all right.”

    The Lincoln moved with the stealth and purpose of a panther north along Scott past Alta Plaza Park toward the Marina.

    “Are we going to hide him at some millionaire’s house?” Rosenda asked as she watched the buildings get fancier and fancier as they got closer to the edge of the Bay.

    “Just keep an eye on him and don’t worry about where we’re going,” Shane growled. The Lincoln caught the green light and swung left on Lombard, following the sparse traffic along the curve toward the Golden Gate Bridge, before suddenly swerving right onto Lyon.

    It wasn’t until Shane turned past the newly restored Palace of Fine Arts rotunda and parked behind the science center that one of the Oppenheimer brothers had opened in the old exhibit hall that Rosenda began to guess what his plan might be.
     
    Designed by local architect Bernard Maybeck, and built for the 1915 Panama-Pacific Exposition, the Neo-classical structure framed a picturesque lagoon, complete with swans that slowly floated through their private dream world.

    The tableau was designed to echo a decaying ruin, and until the last few years, it had done it’s job extremely well; the wood, plaster, and burlap finally succumbing to the relentless atmosphere coming straight off the Pacific. The City had just finished rebuilding everything in poured concrete and steel, and Shane, who knew everyone from the contractors to the supervisors, had the keys.

    “Hold tight, I’ll make sure we’re sound,” Shane stepped out of the Lincoln and took off toward the museum. Rosenda watched him go, fully expecting the night to end in the cavernous exhibition building. Shane, however, veered off toward the rotunda before disappearing into the fog.

    “Say, sweetheart,” Cole tentatively tried his luck at using his battered charm. “Can’t you loosen this rope a bit? I mean, bloody hell, your friend there is either a cowboy or into some really kinky shit. I can’t feel my hands.”

    Rosenda thought hard about the possible ramifications of loosening Cole’s bonds, then thought about what Shane might do if he came back and Cole was back on the loose. He might not do anything, she realized. It was really no skin off his balls if Cole fucked right off and was never heard from again. She, however, did not have that luxury.

    “Look, Lucious, I don’t care what issues you are working through that make you act like a drunken clown juggling lit torches in a lumber yard, but you are not going to burn down my career.”

    Cole was still trying to muster his faculties enough to construct a pithy rejoinder when Shane yanked open the rear suicide door. He reached into the Lincoln and, without a word, grabbed Cole by a confluence of knots, which invariably made them all suddenly cinch tighter.

    The rock star yelped as he was hauled out of the car and to his feet. Shane silently took his measure, and deciding that the man before him was probably not going to bolt, produced a very large, very sharp, knife.

    “All right, I am going to cut you loose. If you bolt, I’ll catch you, and when I do, I’m going to pitch you into the lagoon,” he explained, pointing with the blade toward the murky, freezing pond that reflected the ornate colonnade and rotunda. “We need to get you inside and find you some clothes. Are you onboard, smart guy?”

    Cole, whose core temperature was dropping fast as he stood buck naked in the fog, only nodded his head enthusiastically.

    It was mere minutes before Shane reappeared and ushered the pair toward an open door in one of the larger columns that held up the soaring Greco-Roman dome. A concrete angel impassively watched over the proceedings as he stood off to the side, making sure that Cole wasn’t going to make a break for it. Once inside, he shut the door behind them, throwing the space into total darkness.

    “Don’t move,” he warned. “There’s a lot of construction tools laying about, and I wouldn’t want either of you to break any of them.” With that, the pair could hear his retreating footfalls moving away from them.

    “How the hell does he know where he’s going?” Cole asked in genuine wonder.

    “Don’t ask me,” Rosenda shrugged in the void. “Maybe he’s a fucking leprechaun.” That garnered a snort from Cole somewhere to her right, which was as close as she could come to seeing in the dark.
    With the sound of a powerful electrical contact being thrown in the distance, a row of flood lamps suddenly bathed the narrow 60-foot-tall room in blinding light.

    Cole, whose retinas had just retracted to the back of his dry skull, recoiled and looked for someplace to hide as if he were a giant cockroach. He didn’t, or couldn’t, see Shane step out of another door across the room carrying a paint-splattered pair of coveralls which he threw to Cole as he approached, hitting him square in the chest.

    “Put those on,” he instructed. “We’re tired of looking at your bony ass.”

    Rosenda, who to that point had been too freaked out by the situation to process that she was basically alone with a musician infamous for his sexual proclivities and prowess, only nodded her head in slight disappointment.

    “Look, Cole, I’m sorry I had to clock you, but I’m sure you’d have rather stayed out of the county psych lockup, and there was no way to reason with you.”

    “It’s all right, mate,” the Englishman acquiesced. “I would have done the same for you.”

    Shane considered the slight musician doing his best to knock him out and laughed despite himself.

    “That shot was ace,” Cole admitted, probing his outraged face with long fingers made for playing guitar. “Is there anywhere around here to get some ice? I’d hate to do the gig tomorrow night looking like I caught the worst of a rugby scrum.”

    Shane thought about it for a moment and ventured he could trust Rosenda to babysit while he popped over to the liquor store on Chestnut. Besides, it was her ass if the fool went AWOL. He could go for a cold one himself.

    “I’ll be right back,” Shane said, surveying the scene as someone coming in off the street might. “If anyone comes by—they shouldn’t, but if they do—you two work for Shamrock Construction. Mick Jigger here, is a painter, obviously, and you…”

    Rosenda lifted one carefully sculpted eyebrow, curious to how Shane saw her fitting into his alibi.

    “You figure it out.” With that, he left the way they came in and dissolved once again into the fog.

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Enrique Bravocado 3 [ficção]

    UNFINISHED DOCUMENTARY, KINGDOMS OF THE RADIO  |  1995

    That must have been some really good speed. It what seemed like no time at all, Zongo and I had hacked our way through the brambles and were starting to see moonlight coming through the other side. The night was dead quiet except for the hypnotic crashing of surf somewhere far in the distance.

    I was the first to break through the undergrowth and heard the distinct sound of a bullet being chambered. Once you’ve been on the wrong side of that sound, you never forget it. I stopped cold. Zongo, clueless to the situation, blundered right into me, knocking us both out into the open.

    My mind reeled as it took in the scene of the biggest Moon I had ever seen silhouetting a Victorian mansion and a helicopter with a surfboard lashed to the bottom of it.

    “Hey, man, ever been shot?” A voice out of the darkness questioned.

    “Holy fuck!” Zongo shoved me aside. “It’s Charlie Fucking Perigo! Who shot you, you fucking maniac?”

    “Charlie did,” Perigo said. “Fred Williams, you son-of-a-bitch. What are you and your buddy trying to do, give me the heebie-jeebies? You know I have a delicate constitution.”

    “The only thing delicate about you, Chuck, are them fancy panties you wear under those baggies.”

    “You ought to know, Freddie, I got them from your sister.”

    The two went on and on, playing the dozens until I finally broke in. “So I take it you two know each other?”

    It turned out that Zongo and Charlie met right after he’d come back from Vietnam and they had been thick as thieves for a while. I guess they just kind of lost touch when Zongo went south to to be part of the San Francisco scene. Both Charlie and I laughed our asses off when he told us the story about the how the Condor sign spoke to him one night. Who’s to say? I’ve seen—if not crazier things—some pretty weird shit out there on the edge.

    Well, we spent a good piece of time there in the courtyard, laughing and smoking some primo weed that Charlie was holding. At one point, we had been talking about all the heads that had been showing up in Mendo, and wouldn’t be cool if we had a place where we could all hang out together where we wouldn’t get hassled.

    Zongo took a big hit and looked kind of philosophically up at the moon so that we followed his gaze. “I’ve got an idea!” he said once he had exhaled the smoke, and that was that. Girassol was reborn.

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Chae Burton 1 [ficção]

    UNFINISHED DOCUMENTARY, KINGDOMS OF THE RADIO  |  1995

    Every community has its own creation myths; stories that bring members together in shared tradition while allowing new people to understand in a deeper way where the group was coming from. Girassol was no different.

    My favorite one was when Charlie almost shot Zongo and Enrique as they first popped out of the forest. I had taken a little hike into the woods to pee, so I missed it, but I would have loved to see Zongo’s face; not just at seeing the property for the first time, but staring down the barrel of an automatic for the first time as well. I’m guessing.

    Charlie used to love to tell how the huge Moon we had that night had risen above the tree line behind the mansion. It was a full moon at vernal equinox and came over the house due east, throwing some spooky shadows back over the courtyard.

    He’ll probably kill me for telling you this, but Charlie was always afraid of the Menehune. Ever since he was a little kid. Imagine the scene; it was dark, with this big full Moon rising over an abandoned ranch from the 1800s, and there are noises coming toward him.

    What would you do?

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Charlie Perigo 3 [ficção]

    UNFINISHED DOCUMENTARY, KINGDOMS OF THE RADIO  |  1995

    I had been surfing the late afternoon break at Manchester, north of the lighthouse, and the Sun was starting to drop behind the mountain. The great whites come in to feed when it gets dark, so I rode one last wave all the way to the beach, collected my stuff, and lashed my board to the chopper’s skid. Chae came and met me at the edge of the dunes. I had talked her into exploring the old ranch with me and she had showed up ready to go, dressed in cutoffs and hip boots. She looked so good, I almost asked if she wanted to forget the ranch altogether.

    I mentioned that being alone on the Girassol property always made me feel paranoid, like I was being watched from the tree line. This particular evening was really bad. I had a serious case of chicken skin by the time as soon as we landed. I could swear I heard voices, but I wasn’t about to say anything to Chae.

    It’s embarrassing, but as a kid, I was deathly afraid of the Menehune, the race of little people who live… well, in remote forgotten places like Girassol. I had an auntie from the Big Island who told me about them, and I never got over it. I know they’re supposed to be friendly; they were the ones who came out at night and built all the ancient temples and fishponds, but for some reason, they freaked me out. Maybe it was because they only came out at night. I never did like that story the cobbler and the elves, either.

    I know it’s wasn’t really in keeping with the whole peaceful warrior trip, but I used to keep my service piece, a Colt Commander, in the bird just in case I got bum rushed by a wild boar or some critter out in the deep country. I grabbed the gun and began my recon of the perimeter. By this time, the Sun was down and one of the fattest moons I had ever seen was rising up, casting the courtyard in an unearthly light.

    Across the clearing from the main house were the ruins of some smaller buildings, maybe worker’s quarters or something at one time. Behind that mess, was a dark tangle of green that made ’Nam look down right barren. That’s where the sound was coming from; because, of course it was.

    I have to say, I didn’t spend a whole lot of time down in the shit, not as much as the grunts, but the whole scene that night was bringing me right back to my time in-country. I took a defensive position behind one of the collapsed walls and waited for the little fuckers to come out of the woods. To my surprise, it wasn’t Menehune at all.

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Zongo Khumalo 3 [ficção]

    UNFINISHED DOCUMENTARY, KINGDOMS OF THE RADIO  |  1995

    It had been a couple of years since I’d been back north, but I thought I knew every place there was to know. That’s one of the things that made me want to leave in the first place. I had directions and a map to Garissol from Mrs. Chaves, but they didn’t really make sense. Where she had drawn the road to the old ranch, there was only a solid wall of brambles. I knew that the fuckers grew fast in the county, but this looked like virgin territory.

    Enrique had a couple of big old machetes in the back of his bus from a harvest, so we decided to try and see what, if anything, was on the other side of the blackberries. We had spent so much time trying to find a road that seemed to no longer exist that the sun was starting to go down behind the tall trees. I guess if we hadn’t still been a little wired, we probably would have waited until the next day.

    It was pretty rough going, but we did start picking up signs of an old wagon road deep in the thicket. I found it incredible to think that maybe no one had been out this way since the very first cars drove up the coast. The very thought sent a chill up my spine, especially since the next thought was, “Why the hell not?”

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Fadeout [ficção]

    RECORD REVIEW, ROCK HOUND MAGAZINE, VOL. 4, ISSUE 7 | 1970

    Hindsight is always a cold-hearted bitch. Lucious Cole was a head case. Anyone who had to personally deal with him—whether his ex-band mates in the National Loaf who threw him to the ducks, or this writer, who once was caught in his maelstrom for a lost weekend in San Francisco—could attest to his mercurial nature.

    Lucious Cole was also a genius. Perhaps it takes a seriously damaged personality to fully capture the zeitgeist of our troubled times. Cole’s new—and sadly ironically titled—album, A-OK, does just that.

    Starting the album with the slow, meditative lope of Hold Me Down, Cole’s trademark rock solid rhythm guitar anchors his plaintive vocal to the Earth. It’s easy to read too much into Cole’s entreating Come with me / Hold me down / I feel like I’m losing my grip / On the ground; but the entirety of Cole’s later output, from the Loaf’s Cut the Loaf onward, could be read as a cry for help, albeit, a consistently tuneful one.

    A weary resignation has crept into Cole’s consciousness by the title track where a swirling guitar figure underscores an exhausted soul coming to terms with leaving all his worldly possessions in the care of others. I’m glad that you still care / About all the thousand things / That I can no longer bear.

    A radio-friendly jangle of acoustic guitars announces the freedom that Cole has found in letting go in Clear Skies. Founding National Loaf drummer Chas “Chalk” Woodrow provides a skittering background as if trying to escape the session before being caught up once again in Cole’s drama but finding no traction.

    Should we infer anything by whatever olive branch brought his contentious former bandmate, and longtime foil, back into Cole’s creative circle? Was Cole making amends, intuiting that time was short, or did he just need a damn good drummer to propel the obvious breakout single?

    Whatever peace Cole found in rekindling an old friendship has clearly eroded by the arrival of the tense and jittery Sliding Away [From It All]. Chalk reprises his rhythm work on this track, laying down a solid foundation for Cole’s precarious emotional house of cards, while a trio of background gospel singers try their damnedest to provide a modicum of tranquility behind the singer’s fragile vocal.

    Woodrow has since talked about the A-OK sessions as a drug-fueled Boschian nightmare, which would explain Cole’s clipped and manic avian-sounding chirps leading into the fadeout.

    By the time A-OK hits mid-point, the album has eased into its horse latitudes, a calming tropic of mid-tempo song craft that would stand out as a handful of highlights on a lesser artist’s record. Cole, however, is merely lulling the unsuspecting listener into a false sense of security.

    Our man suddenly kicks the house speakers wide open with Power Games, a ferocious slab of pure, uncut funk, that could have established him as a viable photo-negative answer to James Brown himself. This writer, for one, would have loved to see Lucious Cole live long enough to have blown some minds and moved some asses on the new Soul Train television show.

    Perhaps A-OK’s most beguiling, and hauntingly beautiful, song is the closing track. Named after a mythical kingdom in ancient Buddhist and Hindu lore, Shambhala has come to generally refer to a spiritually pure place where wizened “sun worshippers” live out their long lives in bliss.

    One can hear the primal yearning for such a place in Cole’s impassioned delivery behind a soaring orchestration incorporating exotic instrumentation from the Far East. It’s a shame he never found what he was looking for.

    Grade: Five bones