Burning Down the House

Yeah, we were right on the doorstep; ready to make it big. We signed a contract, were playing big clubs, had a following, and the sound, damn, we were hot. It’s the same old story, happened to a million bands, but really, you should have seen us when we were on fire, with Satan on the bass driving us like demons. I often wonder what that guy is up to now, if he ever got his shit straightened out or just kept on the self-destructive fast track until he faded into oblivion.
He seemed to come out of nowhere. One night we were practicing in Tim’s garage when he came knocking on the door holding a bass in his hand. “Heard you guys were looking for a bass player.”
We all looked at each other. None of us recognized the guy, and we had no idea how he knew we needed a new bass. Glen had just quit the day before and we were discussing if we knew anyone to replace him, or if maybe we should put out an ad. Glen was good, and we were starting to build a following, and since bass players aren’t that easy to find, we were kind of upset. Who could have guessed he would leave us to become a Franciscan monk in New Mexico? He said he saw a fork in the road in a dream. He could see one road led down the path to stardom, with money, followers, partying, and the whole soul eating atmosphere that goes with it. Down the other road he saw light, leading to peace, inner peace, where spiritual growth and happiness could be achieved. He knew which one he had to take.
Tim said, “Are you crazy? You’re seeing that in a dream, seeing all we’re trying to get to, and you want to take it away from us?”
Glen said, “You would be wise to seek enlightenment yourselves. The spotlight can suck the soul right out of you.”
I said, “Spotlight? Jesus, you’re the bass player, no one will know you exist. Just meditate, count your rosaries and say your prayers before we play to protect your soul, and let us deal with all the evil fame and glory.”
“Sorry guys, I have been called. I hope you find what you are looking for, and I hope what you are looking for is good for you.” He packed up his bass and walked to the door.
Ian said, “Say hi to Jesus for us.”
Glen turned, smiled and waved. We didn’t see him again, though we heard rumor that he left the monastery to start a Christian punk band.
So, we were trying to figure out what to do when Satan knocked on the door. We looked at each other as he stood there, unsure. None of us knew this guy. He was a weird looking dude, kind of reddish, with pointy features and he seemed to walk on his toes. And he had a tail. We couldn’t tell if this was something he attached to himself or was a weird deformity from birth. It seemed it would be rude to ask, so no one mentioned it.
He could see that we were a little hesitant, being taken by surprise and all, so he said, “Just give me a shot, let’s jam together for a bit and if it doesn’t work out, I’ll move on.”
So, we figured, what have we got to lose? We started to ask him what songs he could play so we could pick out a song we all knew. He said, “How about we play Enemies?”
We all looked at each other. Tim said, “Our song?”
He smiled, “Yeah, that’s a good one, and I think I have a bass line for it that will make it really scream.”
Ian said, “We haven’t played that one out yet, how do you know it?”
Satan said, “You must have played it somewhere, I’m sure I’ve heard it.”
We looked at each other, told Satan that we would be right back, and walked into the laundry room.
Ian said, “You’d think we’d know if we played our song out. Do you suppose this guy is some sort of stalker, hanging outside the garage listening to our practice sessions?”
I said, “Could be, but what have we got to lose? Let’s see if he can play.”
Tim said, “He could be a psycho or something.”
“Who isn’t a psycho?” I asked.
We agreed to give him a shot. He plugged in his bass and played a couple of lines. It sounded good, so Tim counted with his sticks, and we went into the song. His bass playing was incredible. His lines were better than Glen’s, and really brought the songs up a level or two. It seemed like we all played and sang it better, tight, energetic, with heart and soul. Needless to say, we were happy to let him into the band.
When we played our first gig together, we were smoking, definitely burned down the house. The next time we played, the place was packed, we were drawing them in like moths to the flame. Quickly we started playing bigger clubs, and we were lighting them up. Satan’s bass lines were above awesome, they just drove the songs like a semi barreling down the highway. We all played better than we had ever played before. And hell, people didn’t even know it was Satan driving us. He was the bass player, not the star, not the singer, or the guitarist up front that everyone wanted to worship. It was like everyone looking at the bright shiny outside of a car with a fancy paint job, not realizing it’s the engine that makes it move. We didn’t realize it ourselves, really. We thought that he just helped bring out the greatness in us, but that we were really the great ones, and that bass players were interchangeable. Even Tim figured he was Ginger Baker or something, a special drummer that stands out from all the rest.
Though every now and then Satan would step up to the front and lay down some riffs that would make Flea or Entwistle jealous to the core. Sometimes when he was really going, he would pull his tail around and use the pointy end as a pick. The crowd would go into a frenzy. Then he would step back and he would be out of the crowd’s focus again. No one clamored to have him as the front man all the time. How many bassists that aren’t singers are front men anyway? He could sing when he wanted to, in a low booming, subtle voice, but even though he was writing some of the songs now, mesmerizing lyrics we didn’t quite understand, he preferred to let me do the singing.
We put out some demos and got signed on with an indie label. A couple of our songs were getting airtime on in college and underground radio. We were playing bigger places. Of course, all the trappings Glen had been talking about had started to enter our lives, girls, parties, drinking, no money to speak of yet, but a hell of a wild time.
We signed with a major label and were getting serious studio time. We were having a party to celebrate when one of the guys at the party, someone none of us knew—sometimes we had no idea where the people around us came from—pulls out some heroin. We all had listened to enough Neil Young, Steppenwolf, Morphine, Ten Years After, John Lennon and Lou Reed to know we didn’t want to mess with that stuff.
At that point Satan stepped out of the corner he was sitting in. He always seemed to be sort of sitting in the background, never really doing the hard partying himself, never out in front of things, yet always seeming to be pushing events, quietly guiding them. He seemed to quietly pick the venues for our gigs, our agent, the record company, the parties we would go to and many of the people we would meet, but you never noticed him doing it unless you paid attention and thought about it.
This guy offering us heroin brought him out of the corner, to the middle of the room, to actually make a speech; “Where did you come from, dude?” he asked the dealer. “We really don’t need what you have to offer. What we have and what we are doing is so much more powerful than what you have. We are playing music that reaches deep inside people, finding that primal groove that follows a path deep into their souls, where they find elation in desire. Then we have them, and not on some substance to shoot into their blood, but from something more wholly connected, in which a basic instinct grabs them. We can lead them anywhere; we can take them to our space. More and more will hear us and follow. We will circle the nation like an army and conquer all humanity. So, you can take your junk, that only empties out the soul but does not conquer it, and flush it down the toilet.”
The speech sounded a bit pompous and grandiose even for us. We kind of liked Satan better when he was just staying in the background. But we agreed with him and cheered him on. He was part of us, and we had come this far with him.
The dude said, “Yeah, whatever. A fancy way of saying you’re chicken, that you don’t have enough control of yourself to control a drug.”
Satan scoffed, “I can have total control.”
“This shit,” the guy said, “will open your mind. You will understand what you never understood before. You’ll feel the power of the universe coursing through your veins.”
“The power of the universe can be felt when you own the universe,” Satan said.
The guy took a little baggy and put it into Satan’s pocket and said, “Here, just have a little try, on me. Have a little fun once, then you can say you’ve done it and forget about it.”
“Why would I want to try it now?” Satan asked. The guy walked off into the kitchen, the bag still in Satan’s pocket.
The next week we were in the studio recording. Something just didn’t seem right. We weren’t on like we had been. It seemed clear to all of us that Satan was lacking drive and energy. His playing lacked soul. He sounded ordinary, at best, which had us all sounding ordinary. We got through the session, but we weren’t as happy as we could be with the takes. We were hoping when we went back in a couple of days we would get our sound back.
Satan walked a bit in front of us as we left the studio. He saw someone down the street and yelled, “Hey Jack.” He turned to us and said, “Hey guys, I’m going to hang out with my buddy Jack for a while, I’ll catch up with you later.”
Tim took a look at the guy and said, “Hey Satan, isn’t that the pusher from the party? What are you doing hanging with him?”
“He’s a cool guy once you get to know him,” Satan said. “We’ve become friends.”
I asked, “Shit Satan, are you using?”
“Nah, man, I’m just hanging out with the guy.”
I said, “Using will kill your flame, man.”
He got perturbed, turned a little redder than usual, and said, “Hey, back off. You ain’t got no reason to lord over me. I’ll hang with whoever I want to hang with.” He walked down the street to meet up with Jack.
The next session Satan was cold, he wasn’t even on beat. His licks were nothing any cherub with three lessons couldn’t do. We were getting pissed. The company execs were paying attention and if we were blowing studio time and couldn’t put out a good sound, we wouldn’t get decent promotion and would get dropped.
“What’s up Satan?” I asked. “Where’s your sound?”
“I’m not feeling well today. Under the weather,” he said. “Does it feel really cold in this studio to you guys?”
We were all hot, and Satan had a jacket on. Tim threw his drumsticks at the wall and said, “Fuck this shit, let’s try tomorrow, I’m out of here.”
There was nothing we could do at that point. We told Satan to go home, get some rest and clean up his act. The next day Satan came in looking like shit. He was moving slow, didn’t seem to want to play, his tail was dragging. I looked into his eyes and they looked dead, there was nothing in them, the fire had died out.
“Damn, Satan,” I said. “You’re hooked. You’re acting like a dumbass sidewalk junkie now. What’s wrong with you?”
He didn’t even have the spirit to get mad and fight. He sat on a stool and said, looking down almost mumbling, “You have to try it to know. I had almost forgotten what heaven felt like. But now, I can be in it. I’m the man, all things running through me. I own the universe.”
Ian said, “You are not going to own anything but a box in an alley if you keep it up.”
“You just don’t understand, but I’ll be alright, I can still play. I’m just not myself today.”
We talked to the record company about postponing the session for a couple of weeks. Fortunately, they had other acts we could switch with. We told Satan to get his ass clean and come back to practice next week. When he came into the practice session, he was with Jack, and looking worse than ever. He just kind of ambled around, couldn’t even find his bass, though it was right out in the open. It brought us all down. None of us could play. We started arguing among ourselves, angry at every mistake anyone made. We all sat together after Satan left.
“He’s bringing us down,” Tim said. “We have to get rid of him.”
“But he helped us get this far,” Ian said. “Wouldn’t it be betraying him to just kick him out?”
I said, “Who’s betraying who? He’s messing everything up at just the wrong time. That son of a bitch has the most god given talent of any musician I’ve seen and he’s throwing it all away to be a junkie.”
Tim said, “All that about reaching into everyone’s souls with the power of music, just him talking shit.”
We told him the next day that he was out. He cried a little, then just walked out the door. We found another bass player. He was good, but he wasn’t Satan. We put out the album. It had a small following but didn’t rise to the pinnacle we all thought it would. The company lost interest and moved us to the back burner for just about everything, studio time, engineers, and everything else. We put out another album that was completely flat. We just went our separate ways after that, getting together every now and then to jam. We never heard from Satan again. We heard rumors that he had cleaned himself up and was still trying to get a following, but every time we thought it was him it was just someone else showing flashes of brilliance.
Sometimes when we get together to play, we keep looking at the door, expecting Satan to come walking through it, pick up his bass, and lead us into the promised land. But he doesn’t come, and we are left roaming the deserted cities of our hearts.