Will
Donna find a man who will be devoted and true? Can Sally ever combine her
forbidden sexuality with her need to be of service? Can Devon move beyond his
self-infatuation to help bring a fractured family together?
EXCERPT: Ten Years After the
Future
The dance hall was
more like a storage warehouse, a cavernous shadowy funhouse. Everything swirled
colors before the drugs even kicked in. Meandering through the angelic
ghost-like dancers, they quickly found their way to the front of the stage
The evangelical
alchemy of the Grateful Dead—and Jerry Garcia’s nimbus of black hair, belied
his un-rock star stature and glory. She was mesmerized from the beginning by
his angelic plaintive voice, all teary toned and wise; with a beat that was
both an easy rhythm, and blue, at the same time. His voice—a helpless mournful
supplication to a distant, seemingly almost
attainable heaven. She had never heard such a soulful voice and yearning
guitar harmonizing together. Music being created,
rather than planned or executed—a perfectly refined improvisation; jams that
went on for twenty minutes.
Strobe light
staccato-jerky movements pulsed beneath cellular exploding light shows. Tie-dye
florescent togas undulated in waves, spinning dervish dancers in bare feet and
flowing prairie skirts, and dancers—swimming wildly in mid-air, scaring away
the phantoms from every ancient dancehall visions and high school hops of the
past. The ghost was cleared. The dead were grateful
And hair; hair,
everywhere hair, flapping and flying, flouncing and bouncing like windblown
willows, fleece braided tentacles. Sweat pouring off in a rain storm of
complete abandon and all the head-snapping corybantic dancing...even the name
of the band—shattered any lingering fears or presentments of eminent endings or
destruction. They had the audience pulsing with them upon each note, as if
everyone there had all taken the same psychedelic drug together and knew it.
Then that roaring,
dominating sound, as if dozens of jet planes became harmonic in the same frame,
the drawn-out agony solos as ecstasy; a waterfall of bass notes wrapping
tightly around vibrating electric guitars, all twisted together by an electric
organ, and pounded into one’s body fueled by duel drummers. All six parts in
unison, improvising perfectly together. Music at once busy and clean, bouncy
and diabolical; she felt as if they were all vibrating underwater together,
hyperventilating through the same gas mask of joyous, psychedelic drugs.
Pig-Pen, the scruffy,
street urchin, biker, circus barker organist/vocalist striding center stage,
intoning everyone to “Get your hands out of your pockets!” and “dance” and then
actually specifically pointing out and shaming any non-compliers; until
everyone, in spite of themselves, had their own unique mojo going. His
disheveled, tough- guy menace, ready at any moment to strut forth and
forcefully break into the middle of the instrumental perfume. It was far-out,
spacey, time-machine, liquid blues in glorious melody, hatcheted open by an
interloping shit-between-the toes, down-home barn yard, western funkiness.
Everyone was rocking slowly as one big conscious, peristaltic, snaking engine
to the pure music throbbing through each pore of existence.
Donna had never
experienced anything like it. And what happened next had her actively
disbelieving what she was witnessing.
Some audacious woman
in the audience was overly troubled by Pig Pen’s bold, peacock strutting. She
jumped on stage from the side, and theatrically mocking his swagger, moved in
and grabbed his microphone right out of his hand. While Donna expected security
to quickly show up, others around her started jumping up and down and clapping
wildly. Normally mellow, Shell went wild too.
“That’s Janis
Joplin!”
“Yeah?”
Donna knew she should
be really impressed, but something about her wasn’t really impressive. Long,
unkempt brown hair, a floppy brown blouse, a pair of tight green bellbottoms,
little make up and mismatched jewelry; she looked more like she might have just
crawled out of a basement rocking chair, mocking Donna’s vision of a rock
queen.
Flailing with the
pulse of the rising rhythm, incarnating a musical spirit of her generation,
head down in concentration, she gyrated closer and threateningly closer to the
lead singer. Arms thrashing above her head, within and through her entire body,
limber but wobbly, she blended orgasmicly with the electronic vibration. She
was a definite show all on her own. But it didn’t make sense—she had her own
famous band she could do that with, Big Brother and the Holding Company, why
did she need to upstage the Dead? An excess demanding attention to replace
love? A savage consumption of admiration, driving toward her own ecstasy? The
previous gentle, sunbeam aura and daisy chain dancing was suddenly being rent,
by a playful but viscous knife. Most stood more amazed and observant.
Pushing Pig Pen
playfully to the side with her rocking hips, the band, confused, warmed up to a
tighter and tighter rhythm.
“Okay, big boy. Let’s
see you whip it out!” Left hand extending the mic away from him in a clumsy
pirouette, while her right hand grabbed at his crotch.
Pig Pen, looking
suddenly sheepish, almost embarrassed, certainly confused, backed away,
cautiously muttering something about his “old lady.” Not the macho guy he was
moments previous.
“Come-on, honey. If’n
you won’t whip it out for us and show us what the big band leader’s got here,
you gonna loose your gig to little ole’ Janis...” Theatrically bending over.
“Oooh noooo; my ole’
lady get the rolling pin after me...”
“Well then, you just
lost yer lead here hot shot. See you later...”
And as startled fans
hooted and shared bemused glances, Pig Pen quietly, without further fuss, moved
off stage. Janis swaggered, danced in over-pleased ambling circles, threw her
head back in celebration, and clapped frantically for audience support.
“What’s going on?”
Donna hung tightly around Shells neck and shoulders.
“I dunno. I guess we
got two shows goin’ for the price of one?”
Jerry Garcia, looking
less worried than entertained, calmly motioned to the other band members with a
head nod to crank up the flurry, and entered into an unnamed jazz type jam.
Janis jumped, danced and whirled about, cherishing her newly assigned role as
“band leader.” But apparently tiring herself out with wild dancing, she soon
ambled aggressively toward the lead guitarist. With a mischievous,
conspiratorial nod toward the wide-eyed spectators, she crowded and loomed in
on Jerry Garcia.
Carefully positioning
herself to the right and slightly behind him, she bent her knees, squatted
slightly, and wrapped her crotch around the back of Jerry’s guitar. Lingering
there, she began, slowly at first, throbbing and sexually mimicking intercourse
to the beat of the drums with Jerry and his guitar.
While no one in the
crowd assumed they might see sex right there on stage, Donna could feel a
collective “now what?!” of bewilderment shared by everyone else in the crowd.
Everyone seemed to be holding their breath in expectant anticipation.
What
happened next clearly stunned Janis as much as every other eye glued upon them
in the old warehouse.
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