“Where even music breaks down” – a short story by Gary Bolick

“Where even music breaks down” was a short-listed entry in our recently concluded 71st Short Fiction Contest, and is published with the consent of the author.

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Charley Patton, 1928

Where even music breaks down

Gary Bolick

…..‘Stops that never slow down. Streamliner in the center of my head, its wheels sewing-machine-like pulsing, pounding soft, insistent sounds like a drummer using brushes, sanding the tracks, groping for traction to slow, to stop, only‒the whistle’s still blowing. Approaching the crossings/stations/the central circle inside my head is−freezing hard.

…..‘So, go deeper, past indifference, scream as we keep looping, racing past every one of those stops that taunt/caress and torture. Climb the stairs, ask to be an exile. Embrace the jailer in the tower as he straps you on the rack to start slicing and dicing out a confession.

…..‘Sure, if it’s gonna be honest−the pain behind the sound must come from the rage behind the man sticking that hot-white poker into your gut; it must come from his−why? Why is he driven so? What is he really after?

…..‘S’why, I burn the husk, crack the hard-shell covering of latent seeds inside of me. Heat and blood push intent to transform/allow dead and dying dreams to liberate the root of that sound‒the hard, dark silence buried in the center of each of our hearts‒desperate to make a sound, validate−us.

…..‘Still, I got to press harder and deeper, then move faster as we approach the crossroads/stations while that whistling/clawing/centering/piercing whistle remakes the dream of me/us over and over again−until?

…..‘I heard tell the eggheads call it: absolute zero. No skin/sinew or purpose is left, nothing but pure unadulterated nothingness. It is there I believe I will find the essence of−me. Where I am no longer sense and body, but only sound. Motion, vibrations, timbre and tone forcing even light to pause−stop, yes, just there,’ or so Horace thought to himself for the thousandth time as he finished peeing, flexed his hands, then looked out of the bathroom window into a fresh red sun rising up over the bay.

…..“Polyphemus weeps,” he whispered as he checked, his red/raw/ bleeding fingertips, just recently crusted-over/scabbed, only now to be freshly recut/worn farther down and oozing again.

…..Peering into the medicine cabinet mirror, a racoon’s eyes, winked/blinked, then danced as he remembered the last/perfect riff played before his bladder screamed for release.

…..‘Stop?’ he thought, ‘but how? Even stops−move as the whistle blares out. Emerging light sparks the new sound that will bend the notes so as to caress gravity into pulling down the air that fashions a second awakening: the shadow of that same sound pushing past itself to have a look inside of me/asking/forcing the root/rose and thorn buried in the pit of me to open and drain down through, then up and out of me and my hard/hell lover, my guitar, that will-’

…..Horace was suddenly frozen and glaring at the stranger in the mirror. Staring deeper and deeper down into the licking/laughing fire in his center−there−he saw, heard and felt the backdraft of the heat and sound fuse and blow up/out and through him as the stranger staring back from the mirror whispered,

…..“No, sir. Don’t you dare, can’t never can stop, until I play some more. No, don’t, never stop. Stops? Just another circle forming under the last loop and riff. Run deeper, bleed faster/longer make the latent seeds sprout into petals from a new spring: notes, that mirror, then slice open my head and find an ant hill of sound washing in/out/down and back through my brain, just the underbelly and shadow of each fresh/new, but fleeting vibration that will . . . will it ever release me? Stops?”

…..Horace slammed his fist into the mirror, screaming, “Stops! Yes, I remember all those fucking−stops!”

…..Yes, the same story at every stop: Muscle Shoals, New York, L.A., Nashville and Memphis,

…..“No! God damn it! No! Not the note played. That’s easy. Stop! Wait! Now, just do me a little favor. Listen! God damn it! Listen to what’s behind and under, and there! Hear it? Hear it, escape? Listen!”

…..Equipment handlers, side men, caterers, PR-men, salesmen, yes all of−them−and even a few more who just happen to be visiting the studios−stopped−when Horace played, but, yes, but unfortunately there was no stopping him, stopping Horace from taking it one step farther, always one, no, more like twenty steps farther down the road to . . .

…..“There! God damn it! There!”

…..And that is−where−he always lost them. When he began to play the notes as if he were an archeologist or quantum-physics-theorist,

…..“Yes, listen! Hear it? It’s how and where and when the note decided to reveal itself. It’s here. The note is birthing, calving, now feeding itself into a continuum. But here, now, we’re touching−hearing the wellspring. Music as it collects/gathers−takes flight.”

…..Running back the tape, all who heard it, stood rapt, would shake their heads and take a wide birth around and away from him, murmuring,

…..“Damn, I mean when he first starts to play it’s mesmerizing and then he goes to a place where, ah, shit, chief, I mean, I just don’t know. Who’d ever thought a guitar could make sounds like that? Amazing, but just too damn−scary.”

…..And, then, to the last resort, the upturned eyes/face and unconditional love and trust of his son: Harry, Horace took a deep breath, calmed his ragged nerves and whispered,

…..“In this, these notes. These, here, son, please, let me show you how the gods scattered the shards and threads of a broken paradise, spread them out into the wind. How they weaved sound like it was a fabric sewn in tight, mosaic circles, so when I breathe, I see it in all in deep/centered behind my eyes, then play it. Please, let me show you the sounds the angels made when it was, all of this still−new. Here! For you−you!”

…..You: Harry Summers had not seen Horace, his father, in twenty years. When his mother Adele, died unexpectedly, Horace dropped Harry off at his brother Ike’s house, never to return. Ike and Judy became mom and dad.

…..A telegram arrived eighteen months after Harry’s arrival informing Ike that his brother Harry was found dead in his van. Apparent suicide from carbon monoxide poisoning.

…..“Your dad was different, Harry. Gifted, wildly so. He didn’t just hear the notes. He heard and saw where they originated. He was a sort of conduit for all of−us, all people, it seems. Damned heavy load, that. Wasn’t cut out for this life. That’s why we understood it, never questioned him when he gave you to us. It was a profound act of love; it really was. He was protecting you the only way he knew how. He’s gone, but you’ll always have us. I hope that helps, some.”

…..A car crash killed both Ike and Judy. The delivery man smiled, nodded and said,

…..“Sign here, please. Thanks.”

…..Harry opened the FedEx box. There, in front of him, were CDs and tapes recorded by his birth father Horace. Taped on top of the bundle was an envelope with a handwritten note from Ike,

…..“This might make more sense now that you’re a man, give you a better idea of who and what your father faced when the world came face to face with his music.”

…..Love you.

…..Uncle Ike

Austin Lomax
Blues-on-the-Beach Records
3124 Sunset Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA

Horace Summers
Tower Place Apts.
Merion Drive,
Fremont, CA

…..Mr. Summers:

…..I listened to your tape. Interesting and the most frightening piece of music I have ever heard. Comes from a place, yes, the only word I know to use is a place that I have never actually been to, but have knowledge of, but only indirectly, historically, if you will. Here at Blues-on-the-Beach Records we pride ourselves with having not only recorded the best new talent, but having an exhaustive archive and record of the masters. So, yes and no. Your music is from a place I have listened to, but from a time and made by men, I actually never knew face to face. Only through their sound, if you will, am I able to connect to the astonishing music you have created, here on this tape.

…..I am reminded of a friend of Charley Patton, yes, that Charley Patton, the original Delta Blues master. It is from an old Victrola roll we have here. It’s an interview and recordings from his apprentice, a man who would ride with him through the Delta, help him set up and pass the hat, wake him when he overslept. The man knew that he needed and wanted to be around the master, so he took whatever opportunity the master offered. His name? Amos Holcomb. Holcomb played the dobro. Not a good mix or fit for the Delta blues, but he was an extraordinary artist in his own right who had the foresight to realize that any time spent with Patton was worth any sacrifice. Amos and Charley were just past Vicksburg, two a.m. came over a rise in the road, saw the burning cross, the body swinging from the limb of a big live oak tree. Heard the wailing of the lynched man’s wife and children. Saw the faces of the crowd. Both Charley and Amos looked away and then back again and stopped at the first place that would board “coloreds”.

…..Amos said neither spoke of it. Charley just picked up his guitar and started playing slowly at first, then picked up the tempo. A mix of finger picking and flat-picking, like a spring breeze peppered with staccato, rapid-fire bursts of melodic rage. Patton alternated sounds went, back and forth, as though the pain and fear and angst needed different textures of sound. Haunting and illuminating, Amos said.

…..Then he went on to say, I knew that I was as close to hearing a man’s heart weep as well‒is possible. I felt the light of the sun change as my own heart struggled. I even felt a little short of breath.

…..As the interview continued, Amos said that it was in that moment when he felt his heart begin to labor, that Patton signaled him. In fact, it was the first time Charley had ever asked Amos to join in with his dobro. Amos pulled out his slide and they played on until sunrise.

…..Towards the end of the interview, Amos said that both he and Charley saw it, felt it and didn’t even try to push back or pull out. It was a place where even music breaks down. When everything you love has been stripped away and burned or thrown down a hole, you play and play and touch a place where all of life and hope and love‒collapse.

…..Then Amos played a portion of what he and Charley Patton played that night. Mr. Summers, seems you were there as well. Mr. Summers, what you have here is exactly what I heard in the tone and fear and resignation I heard in Amos’ voice describing that night and the reprise he played on the old Victrola roll. Sir, I don’t know. I can’t make a record out of it, but it sure needs to be remembered. I just don’t know. I have never experienced such a deep loss of self-respect as I am experiencing while writing this letter. I feel like my soul has left me and for good reason. You deserve so much better than what I am offering you, which, truth be told is nothing. But I just wanted to acknowledge to you that it was heard. Absolutely remarkable music. I have my creditors to consider. We operate on a shoe-string budget as it is. If I were to make a limited pressing of this tape, I just don’t know who would appreciate it, save for a few scholars or brilliant musicians like yourself. It’s the world we live in, unfortunately.

…..Best,

…..Austin

…..Harry folded the letter back into the envelope, put it on the coffee table, then dumped the rest of the box’s contents onto the table. A faded Polaroid tumbled out last. It was from Disneyland. He was sitting on top of his father’s shoulders, his mother was next to them, and Mickey Mouse was next to her−waving. On the back of the picture was a note. Judging by the awkward scrawl, it was from his father: I wish I could have been better for you. One of the good times. Love, Dad.

…..Harry popped open the clear plastic cover of one of the CD cases. Written on the CD in the same scrawl as the back of the picture was: Variations on Bechet’s “Blue Horizon.” Harry loaded the CD into his stereo and pushed play.

…..Forty-five minutes long, it reminded Harry of Bach’s “Goldberg Variations” only more visceral, languid−bluer, as though it was echoing out of a basement club at four a.m. His father had taken the Bechet classic, and through the multiple variations, succeeded in creating a four-dimensional elastic mirror of sound, pushing Harry to muse, ‘I’m nowhere and everywhere, all at once.’

…..Turning off the stereo, Harry listened to the silence, remembering the evenings when his father would disappear from the supper table and go down into his basement studio, not returning until breakfast.

…..‘So, talk to him,’ he thought.

…..Taking out a legal pad, Harry closed his eyes, felt his father’s music vibrate, echo and expand out and through him, then wrote,

In the heart’s mirror
Unchained eyes bloom spring petals:
a lake face weeping

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Gary Bolick is a native of NC, and currently resides in Clemmons, NC with his wife Jill. Bolick lived and studied in Paris and Dijon, France prior to graduating from Wake Forest. He has published numerous short fiction pieces and poetry as well as five novels.“When even the music dies,” is drawn from a novel: When Pigs Fly, he recently finished and is looking to publish.

Go to www.garybolick.com for information on his latest published work.

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