And You Have to Pay for the Elephant Too

London Langtree continues to twist the tuning pegs on his guitar, a task he began over an hour ago. As if to excuse his obsession, the frail, blonde-haired musical genius smiles boyishly at his bandmates.

Axel Welch, Rails Rainsford, and Steady Eddie Evans glance nervously at each other as the rumble from the impatient crowd thunders in the background.

“Gimme that!” Axel, Mystic Touch’s husky, short-tempered rhythm guitarist yells, yanking the instrument from London’s hands.

Frustrated, Axel twists the tuning pegs until two of the strings on London’s Gibson Les Paul guitar snap in half.

“You’re so impatient! Now look what you’ve done!” London wails.

London pulls the guitar from Axel’s grasp. “You’re such a Neanderthal, Welch. Just a brute with a cash register for a brain. Don’t ever touch my guitar again!”

Lowering his head, the bangs from his long hair hiding his hangdog expression, bassist Rails Rainsford says, “Just replace the strings, and let’s go. We’re already twenty minutes late getting started.”

“It’s not that simple,” London replies. “It has to be tuned a certain way. It has to have the London Langtree Sound.”

“Here we go again,” Axel complains. “Are you so full of yourself that you really believe that made-up media crap that you’ve invented your own brand of music?”

“It’s generated a lot of good publicity for us,” Rails chimes in. “The Beatles had the Liverpool Sound. The Dave Clark Five had the Tottenham Sound. I know this doesn’t make you happy Axel, but ours happens to be named after London. It helps sell tickets and albums. London is so popular the fans have even started calling him God.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen graffiti saying, ‘London is God’,” Steady Eddie Evans, Mystic Touch’s placid 6’ 7” drummer adds. “At first, I thought they were talking about the city. But it became obvious what they meant when we started getting all those paintings of London on a cross. Some fans are mighty passionate about it.”

The Avon Theater shakes as the fans stamp their feet, yelling “London! London!”

“And it seems like the real crazy ones are all here tonight. So, let’s get going,” Rails urges.

“I have to fix my guitar. I’ll need at least fifteen more minutes,” London says.

Closing his blue eyes, Axel tries to steady his stewing temper. “It’s just a guitar, man. You’ve got others, use one of them.”

“Is it really just a guitar, Welch? Or is it our trademark sound? Is it your paycheck? Is it a way for you to pay for your two illegitimate kids and three ex-wives?”

Eyeing Axel’s Fender Stratocaster, London picks it up, smashing it against a wall.

Axel lets out a crazed “I’M GONNA GET YOU, YOU SPOILED...” before Rails and Steady Eddie block him from getting to London.

“What’s the matter, Welch? It’s just a guitar. You said it yourself.”

“All right. You made your point, you baby-faced brat. Write me a check for three grand, and the splinters are all yours. Right now, we’ve got a show to do.”

“I’m not playing tonight. I’ve lost my inspiration.”

Axel balls up his fists, spitting out his reply. “Nothing says rock god like dying young, Langtree. I feel inspired enough to make that happen. I’ve excused your spoiled brat act for the past two years because you’re talented, under pressure, and probably drinking too much to compensate.”

“I don’t drink. I’m only twenty.”

“Then maybe you should start,” Axel counters. “Your head is always in the clouds, Langtree, like you’re searching for that perfect note. You can’t relate to the world around you. Okay, we’re all older, in our early thirties. We’re dressed casually, but neat. You look like you just rolled out of bed. And you’re clueless about how to treat people. If you actually had a conversation with any of those bubbleheaded followers of yours who call you God, they’d realize what an immature whiner you really are.”

“We can help you grow up and get through whatever crisis you’re going through,” Steady Eddie adds. “We can be your friends if you let us.” 

“I don’t need friends. I just need players who can take direction and come in on the right note.”

“See? Clueless,” Axel says, exasperated.

“Relax, Axel,” Rails says. “We can play without London tonight. He can sit back and see how good Mystic Touch is without the London Langtree Sound.”

The sellout crowd at The Avon Theater begins to murmur London’s name three songs into the concert. Midway through “The Spirit,” Magic Touch’s signature tune, Axel waves his arms, bringing the song to an abrupt halt.

Seething, he steps up to the microphone. “You ungrateful pigs! We’re up here busting our butts, and you keep screaming for some selfish, temperamental, wanna-be Jimi Hendrix!”

Axel’s harangue is drowned out by a wave of boos.

“LONDON IS GOD!” a voice shouts.

Axel recognizes London’s voice. He spots London standing off-stage next to the sound engineer and gives him an odious look. London smiles innocently in return.

The crowd chants “LONDON IS GOD!” 

A bottle of beer hits the stage near Axel, splashing him with foam.

More bottles, cups, programs, and debris follow, forcing Mystic Touch to take cover backstage.

The chanting gets louder, more demanding. The crowd tears the seats apart, scattering splintered wood and cushions throughout the theater. The audience charges the stage, stealing Axel’s guitar and Rails’ bass, toppling over amps, shredding speakers, and trashing Steady Eddie’s drums.

Fuming, Axel proclaims, “That’s it! He has to go!”

“He’s your friend, Eddie, you fire him,” Axel says.

“I just happen to be the only one who isn’t arguing with him. Tonight changed all that,” Steady Eddie replies.

“C’mon, Eddie. You’re the most diplomatic,” Rails adds.

“Be very sure about this, guys. He may have only been eighteen when we formed the group, but London has written seventy percent of our songs.”

“And he generates ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the problems,” Axel snaps.

“But he’s the star,” Steady Eddie continues. “The fans and the media think we’re just along for the ride.”

“Then it’s time to change drivers,” Axel barks.

London enters the green room.

“What a spectacle!”

“You instigated it,” Axel returns.

“You guys struggled tonight. Axel, you were off-key most of the time. And Rails, you lagged behind the beat.”

“You deserted us, left us without a lead guitarist or a vocalist. You think you have the right to critique us?” Axel questions. “Do it, Eddie. Tell him now, before I break every one of his guitars over his head.”

The giant drummer clears his throat, speaking softly. “London… It’s obvious you don’t enjoy playing with us anymore. You ride in a separate limo. You stay at different hotels away from the rest of us. You don’t answer our phone calls or listen to our suggestions. You’ve lost your sense of humor, worse, your sense of direction. Sorry, London, but we have no choice but to fire you.”

London laughs uncomfortably. “What is this, a joke? I’m the guy who keeps this group afloat. It’s my sound, the London Langtree Sound. You’re my band.”

“Not anymore.”

Session bassist Mick Low waves at the fashionably dressed figure in the control booth, whispering to keyboardist Mason Moraz, “Isn’t that Corky Collins?”

“Yeah, these days he shouldn’t be near a food mixer, let alone a sound mixer,” Moraz replies. “He played with Carnell North in Avalanche. They were so loud, the Guinness Book of Records listed them as two decibels below the threshold of pain. Corky stood too close to Carnell’s amps. The dude is stone-cold deaf.”

London begins playing. The band of first-class session men follows suit, and the song becomes a seamless groove. When London switches off his guitar, the band claps enthusiastically.

“Wow! That was the best solo I’ve ever played. I can’t wait to hear the playback.”

London looks up at the sound booth.

“Play it back, Corky.”

“Ready when you are, London,” Collins replies.

“What? Didn’t you record that take?”

“What take?”

Nigel Platter, London’s new producer, tears off his headphones, putting on his mirrored sunglasses in the hope of hiding his disgust. “Was that as awful for you as it was for me?” he asks Grant Dinero, London’s manager.

Grant clutches at his constantly aching stomach, fearing the past two months of trying to coax an album out of London has given him an ulcer. “An entire album of guitar feedback. Listening to it is like chewing aluminum foil with a mouthful of cavities.”

“Agreed,” Nigel replies. “I think we should call this ‘The Onion Album,’ because once fans peel off the plastic and put it on the turntable it’s going to make them cry.”

“I don’t know which is worse, this drivel or his attempt at a country album.”

Nigel sticks his finger in his mouth as if he’s going to gag. “Those songs were horrible. ‘My Uncle Used to Love Me But She Died,’ ‘If Our Love Was Made of Oil, We’d Be Three Quarts Low,’ and my all-time favorite, ‘I Gave Her My Ring and She Gave Me the Finger.’ I sure hope he’s got something else, something that’ll sell.”

“What, Gregorian chants?” Grant asks. “A duet with Yoko Ono? A medley of Tibetan Yak farts? He needs to find a direction. Where is he?”

“Studio one. He’s decorating it.”

Grant enters Studio One with Nigel, who lowers his sunglasses, rolling his bloodshot eyes. Imported tapestries, lanterns, and chimes hang from the ceiling and walls. The floor is covered with thick Persian rugs and brass caldrons emitting eye-watering incense.

Grant’s jaw drops. “Is that an elephant in the corner of the room?”

“Yep. Armin the elephant. He cost an Armin and a leg to rent, get it?”

Grant rubs his aching stomach. “Thanks, Henny Youngman. But why?”

“Armin is going to be the featured soloist in London’s song, ‘The Elephant Stomp’. In the meantime, I hope we can keep Armin from crushing all these expensive nick-nacks. The poor pachyderm is a bit nervous. He’s already sprayed some of the equipment. That’s going to cost you.”

“I’m not too sure this is safe,” Grant says as London strikes a match.

London drops the match on a collection of origami figures.

“The sprinkler system works, doesn’t it?” London asks.

Grant looks at Nigel, who shrugs. “We’ve never had the need to test it.”

Flames engulf the figures of an origami horse and a re-creation of the Eiffel Tower, turning them to ash.

“This is for inspiration, right?” Grant asks.

“Yeah, it’s to heat up everybody’s imagination. We’re going to record ‘Hellfire’.”

“Could be worse,” Nigel says. “Arthur Brown wore a colander on his head soaked in methanol when he sang ‘Fire.’

“Don’t give him any ideas.”

London soaks the remaining origami art with lighter fluid.

“You should stand back,” Grant cautions Forrest Fuego, London’s hirsute session drummer.

The flames shoot off the table, jumping onto Fuego’s furry arms and long beard.

Screaming, Fuego runs out of the studio, careening up and down the hallway. A spray of water douses his fiery trail.

“Looks like the sprinkler system works,” Nigel says.

“So, who are these guys?” Grant asks, pointing at the dozen musicians seated at the center of the studio.

“They’re the Vegetable Philharmonic,” London replies. “They carve their instruments out of vegetables. I can’t wait to hear the cauliflower congas or the kabocha keyboards. And after the session, they’re going to make soup out of their instruments.”

“I’ll pass. I think my ulcer just exploded.”

The Vegetable Philharmonic marches out of the studio to the flat sound of a French bean flute.

A fuzzy-haired member of the horseradish horn section hands Grant a container of soup, winking at him.

“I think she likes you,” London says.

“That was fun, London. But musically, it was a disaster that was somehow worse than the country music album catastrophe. Can you please tell me what’s going on in your head? The country album guaranteed the South will never rise again. I thought I knew what the blues was all about. Then I heard your album, and I really got the blues. You set a studio on fire trying to recreate hell. Now you’ve spent two days with vegetarian vagabonds recording rutabaga rubbish. Why don’t you just do what you do best and make an album featuring the London Langtree Sound?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? You invented the sound.”

London begins to fidget. “…It was Lemon McTell…”

“The blind Black guy who used to hang around backstage when you were with Mystic Touch? I always wondered why he was on the payroll. He didn’t seem to do anything.”

“He tuned my guitars for me. Nobody else could do it and make them sound the way they did but him, not even me. That’s why I lost it that night at the Avon Theater. He was in the hospital. I couldn’t tune my guitar, and I didn’t want the other guys to find out I was a phony; that the London Langtree Sound really came from Lemon McTell.”

Grant beams proudly, holding up London’s gold record plaque.

“Well, it took a few attempts to get it right, but you finally did it. ‘The London Langtree Sound’ album is the number one album in the U.S., Britain, Australia, Germany, and France.”

“Great! Where’s my share of the money?”

“I hope you’re taking care of Lemon McTell.”

“Yeah, sure. But I’m getting a little tired of living off that piddling allowance you’ve been giving me.”

Grant’s thick eyebrows pull together as if he’s been insulted.

“The money is in the bank. You still have to pay for studio time, which is considerable since you made half a dozen failed attempts over eighteen months at recording a full album. You have to pay for the musicians you used, all eighty-five of them. And you have to pay for the elephant too. Then there’s the therapy for the poor kid who had to clean up behind Armin the elephant. That’s on you too.”

“I guess I got a little too inspired,” London admits.

“The decorations, the flowers, the carpets, they’re all your responsibility. You also get the bill for Studio One to cover its reconstruction after you tried to inspire the band to record ‘Hellfire.’ You should have been more careful when you sprayed that lighter fluid. Forrest Fuego is suing you for damages because the second-degree burns on his hands are going to keep him from drumming for the next year.”

“What else am I paying for?” London asks.

“The limos. The hotels. The musicians wrecked the TVs, beds, and furniture, not to mention the pools. All that food, booze, and champagne. You didn’t think the record company was picking up the cost of all that stuff, did you? And there’s Mystic Touch’s studio time and the damages to the Avon Theater.”

“Wait a minute, I’m paying for Mystic Touch’s expenses? They broke up two years ago. They don’t even exist anymore.”

“But their bills do. And it says in your contract that the profits from your album will be applied to cover any of Mystic Touch’s remaining expenses.”

London lets the shock of his situation sink in.

“When do I start making money?”

“When you go on tour.”

“Tour? I made a solo album. I played all the instruments myself. Besides, I don’t want to tour.”

“You have to,” Grant replies. “Or I have the right to have you committed.”

“Let me guess. It’s in the contract.”

“Right. You really should have read it before you signed it,” Grant says. “Don’t worry. I know some top-flight musicians who know Mystic Touch’s material and your solo album cold. I took the liberty of hiring them for your tour.”

“Who are they?”

“Axel Welch, Rails Rainsford, and Steady Eddie Evans.”