God May Be Tone Deaf But I’m Not

Connor Crosswhite flashes a toothy grin as he passes Hattie the receptionist, who puffs up her posture hoping the rock god will notice her.

Whipping off his sunglasses, the tanned, trim, thirty-three-year-old Brit-born lead singer of the band THC breezes into Rollin’ Records’ conference room like a swashbuckling pirate.

“Well, if it ain’t his nibs,” Amp Steele, the group’s bass player teases. “How’re things in paradise?”

“Living in Monaco is like being in Disney World every day.”

“Wouldn’t know, mate,” Amp replies. “My checks are much smaller.”

Connor musses Amp’s abundant black hair. “I told you before, Amp. The real money is in songwriting.”

“Well, it’s not in touring,” Angus Bickerton says, crinkling his ferret-like features. Known for his impatience and impetuous nature, the thirty-six-year-old lion-locked guitarist twiddles his thumbs. “I’m hoping this meeting is about getting back together. If we don’t tour, I don’t eat. And man, I’ve been really hungry lately. How about you, session man?”

Thirty-eight-year-old Donal “Dino” Doherty fakes a smile. Tall, and rail thin, the gentlemanly, spiritually minded drummer quietly replies, “Session work isn’t what it used to be. The rappers steal their beats, and the punks hire any neighborhood kid who can keep time.”

“Where are Crispin and Mallon?” Connor asks.

“Probably hatchin’ a scheme,” Amp answers.

“You really don’t like Mallon, do you, Amp?” Angus asks. “Thanks to his suggestions, our second album went triple platinum.”

“And now we’re his puppets,” Amp replies.

Although THC has been rock’s most successful act for the past two years, they were formed a decade ago, when Connor, the son of a barrister, and Alf “Amp” Steele, raised poor in Hackney, met at a battle of the bands. Their two groups ended up in an actual fight while Connor and Amp planned their partnership. Angus and Dino eventually took the place of departing members. On producer Mallon McCool’s recommendation, keyboard player Crispin Green joined THC three years ago, and stardom soon followed.

Mallon McCool strides into the room wearing an expensive suede jacket, a lambswool turtleneck, and a pair of Cartier sunglasses.

The bandmate’s eyes light up when they see Crispin. Formerly clean-shaven and fashionable, the nerdy thirty-four-year-old has grown a beard that stretches to his chest and is wearing a white kaftan. Perched on his head is a tin foil hat.

“Hello, Rasputin,” Angus guffaws. “You get cable on that thing?”

“It helps me talk to God.”

“I thought you were going to keep an eye on him,” Connor whispers to Dino.

“Kind of hard to do when he lives in New Mexico, and I live in Scotland.”

Mallon and Crispin sit down at the head of the table. Crispin chants to himself.

“Ten months apart and he goes full zealot on us,” Angus comments.

“Let’s hear him out,” Dino says quietly.

“What’s on your mind, Crispin?” Connor asks.

“My getting in touch with God inspired me to create our next project,” Crispin replies.

“Crispin has found his spiritual path,” Mallon adds.

“Well, I’m not bowing to Mecca or sacrificing chickens,” Angus shoots back.

Crispin’s normal mile-a-minute cadence is now slow and sedate. “I’ve written a mass. I’d like it to be our next project.”

“Did you say mass or mess?” Angus jests.

 “Like Jesus bloody Christ Superstar?” Amp asks.

Connor frowns. “Wait a minute. You’ve already written our next album?”

Angus cackles. “Touring is starting to look a whole lot more profitable, isn’t it, Connor?”

“I’m the group’s lyricist. You wrote your own lyrics?”

“Yes, as part of my new creative process.”

“Our next album should reflect the successful format of the last one,” Connor protests. “A rock opera will be too big a leap for our fans. A lot of people noticed us because of ‘THC Two,’ and now you want to throw away a successful formula and kill our momentum? You think because it’s got our name on it people are going to buy your rock opera?”

“…Mass…And not just because of the group’s name, baby, but Nikita Chernoff too,” Mallon says.

“You want Nikita Chernoff to join our group?” Dino asks. “Who is Chernoff, anyway?”

“A very happening, avant-garde jazz artist,” Mallon says. “He’ll open up new doors for THC.”

“I don’t want to go through any door he’s holding open,” Amp says.

Angus agrees. “Me neither. We’re not jazzers.”

Connor looks into Crispin’s cloudy eyes. “Guess that means more instrumentals.”

Angus twists open a bottle of Perrier. “Still chasing the bottom line, eh Connor? No songwriting credits, no mansion in Monaco.”

“That’s not it at all, Angus. People are talking about us in the same breath as The Beatles, Fleetwood Mac, and Yes. A jazz album could sink us.”

“It’s not going to be just a jazz album, baby,” Mallon counters. “It’ll be jazz, rock, and blues, like what Traffic used to do.”

“Then let them do it,” Connor says crossly. “We do rock songs and ballads. That’s our identity.”

The door opens. Two men wearing black leather jackets enter. The first is a forty-ish bookworm with crooked plastic frame glasses, whose unkempt beard is as greasy as his hair. The second is short-haired, pimply, and seems desperate to hide from everyone’s probing eyes.

“This is Nikita Chernoff,” Mallon says.

Everyone looks at the second man, who arches his back, shrinking.

Pointing at the pimple-faced man, Mallon says, “Not him. That’s Grigori Gorky, our interpreter.”

“You mean the greasy grizzly doesn’t speak English?” Angus asks. “How are we supposed to work with him?”

“You’ll be working separately,” Mallon replies. “TCH will record the album, then Nikita will add his parts.”

“And if you do need to communicate with Nikita I speak four languages,” Grigori says, sitting down uneasily across from Angus.

“Do you speak any of those four languages fluently?” Amp asks sharply.

Mallon jumps back into the conversation. “It really won’t be that hard to communicate. Crispin has already had preliminary discussions with the production crew.”

Angus nearly chokes, spraying Grigori in the face with Perrier.

“Wait. You’ve been having meetings without the rest of us?” Angus questions.

“What songs have you written?” Dino asks his soft voice calming the rising tension.

“Well, I was thinking we could begin the album with a musical version of the Lord’s Prayer…”

Angus gags, spraying Grigori again. “The what?”

Connor shakes his head. “One of our most popular songs is ‘You’re My Evil Woman.’ It’s the hardest, most blistering rock and blues tune we’ve ever done. Now you want us to sound like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir?”

“We’ve also done ‘Flying High,’ which was heavily influenced by gospel,” Crispin points out.

Amp gives Crispin a squinty stare. “I ain’t wearin’ no bloody robes or lightin’ candles.”

“Just listen to what I have in mind. The second song, ‘Grace,’ isn’t that far removed from ‘You’re My Evil Woman.’ It’ll take advantage of Connor’s gravelly voice and there’s plenty of space in it for Angus’ frenzied guitar solos.”

Crispin looks at Nikita. “Can you add some screaming synthesizers to it?”

Grigori turns to Nikita, posing the question in Russian. Nikita replies using sweeping hand gestures.

“What did he say?” Connor asks.

“No problem, comrade.”

Crispin continues explaining his plans. “For the second song, ‘Calvary,’ which is about Jesus’ crucifixion, I’d like a crowd chanting together like they do in Pink Floyd’s ‘Fearless, ’ when they all sing ‘You Can Never Walk Alone.’”

“We’re not bloody Pink Floyd,” Amp points out. “What are they going to be chantin’, ‘You nailed it, Jesus?’ That tin foil hat of yours is too tight.”

Grigori turns to Nikita explaining the concept of  “Calvary.” Nikita responds with a few grunts before answering “Толпа! Da!”

“That was a mighty long explanation for such a short answer,” Angus notes. “Are you sure he understands?”

“Perfectly,” Grigori responds, posting a nervous but confident grin.

Crispin’s eyes glaze over as he speaks. “Then there’s ‘Salvation,’ which is about the resurrection of our Lord.”

“I’d rather sing about Jack Lord or sing with Lorde,” Connor returns.

Nikita grins. “Hawaii Five-Oh!” he manages in English. “Book ‘em, Dano!”

“Well, at least we’re fans of the same show, even if it has been off the air for twenty years,” Dino says placidly.

“You’re going to love ‘Salvation,’” Crispin says. “We need you to stay fired up for this one, Nikita.”

“Right! Fired up!” Grigori says, turning to Nikita, who nods in agreement.

“The title track is a tour-de-force,” Crispin brags. “It opens with a church organ that leads into Connor’s devilish vocal. It ends with birds chirping, then flying off, giving the impression of going from chaos to peace.”

“I think it’s the bats in your belfry that could use some peace,” Amp says.

“You’ll have a spotlight too, Dino. One of the instrumentals, ‘On the Seventh Day’ is a percussion battle between your drums and Nikita’s hammering percussion.”

“Got it. Hammering percussion, “ Grigori says, making a hammering motion with his hand.

Copying the motion, Nikita says, “молоток.”

Crispin adjusts his tin foil hat.

“Oh, oh, he’s picking up Uranus,” Amp says.

Connor pats him on the back. “Stop being crude, Amp. Any ballads on this opus of yours, Crispin?”

“A real beauty called ‘Eloise’. It’s about my dog.”

Grigori ducks as Angus chokes on his sip of Perrier.

“You wrote a love song about your dog?” Angus asks.

Connor and Amp roll their eyes as Grigori turns to Nikita.

“…Woof…Woof…”

“Don’t worry, Connor. The way it’s written, people will think it’s a love song to a woman.”

Crispin continues to explain the other tracks as Connor, Angus, and Amp grow more skeptical.

“We’ll do it under one condition,” Connor offers.

“You mean you’ll do it,” Amp grumbles.

“It can’t be THC’s third album. It’s Nikita’s album with us serving as backup musicians. Then, when we’re done with ‘Ritual,’ we record a more conventional album.”

“…A real album,” Angus adds.

Crispin shifts his hat. “Gee fellas, I worked hard on this.”

“Then you can wallow in the accolades if there are any,” Connor says. “But my name goes on the inside cover in two-point type.”

“Yeah, it’s a vanity project,” Angus adds. “If you’re so gung-ho Crispin, you put your name on it with Chernoff. I’ll use an alias. How does Ace Stringfellow sound?”

“Stupid,” Dino says. “Crispin is our bandmate; he writes most of our songs. He’s come up with something new, and innovative. We need to support him, not desert him. If this works, it’ll open a lot of doors for us.”

“And if it doesn’t, they’ll be closed for good,” Connor replies.

Connor’s enthusiastic gait slows as he passes the cross laid out in the hay covering the rehearsal room. Pictures of Jesus, the apostles, and nativity scenes cover the walls.

“…Ambiance…,” he says to himself.

Hattie catches up to Connor, waving a stack of photos. “Can you sign these? The fans are clamoring for them!”

She hands Connor a sharpie. “I hope we still have fans after this nightmare is over.”

“How’s the recording going?” she asks.

“Slow. Dino’s having problems fitting in with the orchestra. He’s bashing away, trying to play louder than they are. Crispin is working himself to a nub, going over every note. Angus seems to be the only one who’s thriving. He’s riffing like a madman, loving it. I haven’t seen Amp since we had our meeting, so I hope he’s somewhere recording his parts.”

“And you?” Hattie asks, her eyes sparkling.

“Confused. Crispin keeps saying ‘I need you to sound more like the devil’ or ‘Channel Jesus!” That part I can do because it feels like I’m being crucified.”

“This one’s for me,” Hattie says, handing him the last photo.

I’d be lost without you, Connor writes, scribbling his phone number on the back.

Swinging open the door to the studio, Connor is caught off guard by the pudgy musician sitting on a stool.

“Are you here for the THC session?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“You sitting in for a song or two?”

“No. The whole album.”

“I’m sorry. Who are you?”

“Waddy Rendazo. Mallon McCool called me in to take Amp Steele’s place.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s in London. He’s quit the band.”

Nursing a throbbing hangover, Connor staggers to the door.

Angus stands at the door, stamping his feet and snorting like an enraged bull.

Waving a copy of the album, he yells, “Did you see this?”

Barely able to focus his eyes, Connor looks at the album. The picture of a beleaguered Crispin Green appearing to be nailed to a cross makes him wince. The title in bold white letters “RITUAL BY THC” nearly brings up the previous night’s whiskey.

“Oh, Christ.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Angus shoots back. “If you think the cover’s bad, wait until you listen to the songs. God may be tone deaf, but I’m not.”

Conner and Angus storm the record company’s executive floor. Knowing what they’re there for, Hattie says, “It’s not all bad.”

“Yeah, there were ten seconds when I actually didn’t feel like crucifying Crispin and Mallon,” Connor snaps.

“It’s actually good you’re here,” Hattie says.

“Why?”

Connor’s question is answered by a loud crash and a heavy dose of curses.

Connor and Angus rush into Mallon’s office. Dino is tossing around copies of “Ritual” as he screams, “You egotistical, greedy, thoughtless swindler!”

“And he’s the calm one in the group,” Connor notes.

Picking up a copy of “Ritual,” Connor yells, “What happened? Crispin asked for a screaming synthesizer on “Grace,” not actual terrifying screams! The title track was supposed to have a church organ, instead, we got the sound of an incessant, annoying heartbeat!”

“Grigori’s translation was a bit off. It made Nikita misinterpret ‘screaming synthesizer’ for ‘screaming people,’ and when he heard the word ‘organ,’ he thought Grigori meant the sound of an organ in the body…like a heartbeat.”

“And what about ‘On the Seventh Day?’” Dino asks. “Instead of percussion Chernoff stuck in the sound of a hammer banging on an anvil, and if that isn’t bad enough, it’s there for the entire length of the song!”

“And what happened with ‘Salvation?’” Angus shouts.

“Sorry, baby, Grigori misunderstood what Crispin said when he told Nikita to ‘get fired up,’” Mallon replies.

“So, he put the sound of a burning building on the track along with a fire alarm?’

“And I should have known there was going to be trouble with a song about a dog named Eloise,” Connor admits. “But did he have to put a wailing dog on the track singing along with me?”

“…It worked for Pink Floyd…”

“I think it was that great philosopher Amp Steele who once said, “We’re not bloody Pink Floyd,” Connor replies. “We told you not to release this album under our name. Do you know what this crappy record is going to do to our careers?”

“Didn’t you listen to this before you released it?” Dino asks.

“We sure didn’t get a chance to,” Connor says. “Whose bright idea was it to put out a record without getting the approval of the people playing on it?”

“The producer,” Mallon answers quietly.

“You’re the producer!” Angus growls.

“Actually no, not on this project. Since Nikita needed an interpreter, I thought it would be a good idea to let Grigori act as one of the producers.”

“I hope you fired him,” Dino says.

“I hope you crucified him,” Angus adds.

“I can’t, baby. He’s my wife’s cousin.”

Hattie creeps into the office, holding a batch of clippings.

“Reviews,” she announces, holding her nose as if they smelled bad.

Connor looks them over. “Listen to this… ‘The C.I.A. can end the tactic of waterboarding terrorists to get information. One spin of THC’s confusing, obtuse, and extremely bad ‘Ritual’ will make even the most devout terrorist crack…” Here’s another review… “Nikita Chernoff’s annoying, repulsive embellishments bury Connor Crosswhite’s vocals. We’ve been waiting for years for Crosswhite to sing a duet with someone. We never expected his partner would be a German Shepard…’ And how about this one: ‘At last, a record that makes Yoko Ono sound like a genius…”

“It’s over for us, Connor,” Angus mutters.

Mallon clears his throat. “Um, by the way, your contract is up. Considering the negative response to ‘Ritual,’ the company has decided not to offer you guys a new contract…”

Connor and Angus have to hold Dino back. “What! We’ve been the number-one act in music for the past two years!”

“That’s in the past, baby.”

Hattie enters the room again. “I feel like the grim reaper.”

“What now, Hattie?” Connor asks.

“It’s all over the news. I think the pressure of the album’s failure got to Crispin. He just checked himself into a psychiatric hospital.”

“Guess he’s not in the group anymore,” Angus comments.

Connor pours Angus his third shot of whiskey in as many minutes.

“'Ritual’ has killed Angus Bickerton’s career. Just call me Ace Stringfellow from now on.”

Connor looks at the album cover.

“What were they thinking?”

“They were thinking that as long as it had the name THC on it, the public would buy this crap.”

Pulling out a lighter, Connor sets the cover on fire, tossing it into the fireplace.

Cackling, Angus screams, “I AM THE GOD OF HELL FIRE!”

“What’s that from?” Connor asks.

“That’s the opening line to Arthur Brown’s ‘Fire.’ We should have recorded that instead of Crispin’s loopy mass.”

The two men smile, high-fiving each other.

Rave Record Magazine (October 3, 2023)

Two weeks ago, a bomb called “Ritual” blew up THC’s world domination of the music charts. The group that had been likened to the Beatles was suddenly being compared to flame-out failures like Milli Vanilli. This week, THC’s latest single, a re-working of Arthur Brown’s 1968 hit “Fire,” backed with a cover of Spooky Tooth’s 1974 chestnut, “Hell or High Water,” shot to #1 on the Billboard charts.