Rock 'N' Roll Song 

        It was a well-worn piece of craftsmanship that had served him well 
back in that other time. But it had sat now for a great many years in the 
crawl space under the basement stairs, and he'd not bothered with it. To 
even touch the guitar brought the memories back -- and he didn't want any 
part of those memories -- those that had devoured him back when he'd been 
young and before he'd met his good wife and fallen in love and learned to 
think good and proper thoughts. 
        Chris had played in a band -- a very good garage band -- back in 
the sixties, and they'd had a lot of fun and picked up some chicks. But 
then the end had come and it had seemed to come ever so quickly that there 
had been no way to escape its onrushing jaws.  And death had followed it, 
and it had been a hard death to take, and he had put the guitar away, and 
had not had it out since. 
        And he had settled into an elementary sort of life, giving up his 
life of music, and becoming an accountant, playing with numbers instead of 
notes, and he met his wife and she saved him from himself. It had been a 
hard time for him after Ron had died. He had curled in upon himself and 
shut out much of the world. He'd gone to classes at the university and 
studied toward his degree, but his life was barren and desolate, and he 
allowed no one to intrude. Ron had been his everything back in that other 
time -- the two of them had met in Sunday School at the age of twelve -- 
and it wasn't long before they'd formed a pact to share in everything they 
did. 
        And that had meant sharing the music. When Ron got a guitar for his 
thirteenth birthday, it was only natural that the two friends would 
conspire a way that both could get involved in the music. So, Chris 
scrounged and saved and soon became the bass player in a local garage band 
that Ron put together, almost before he could play his own instrument. And 
much to their surprise, they actually learned to play some songs and were 
soon playing at house parties, then coffee houses, and, finally, in high 
school gyms and not only having fun, but getting better and better. 
        And while Chris struggled with the bass, it was obvious that Ron 
had been born to play the guitar. He took a few lessons his parents 
arranged for him, but had soon outdistanced his instructor and seemed to 
live only to play. He was the natural leader of the band, choosing most of 
the material and arranging their gigs and handling all the business end of 
things. 
        But there were signs early on that not all would be wine and roses. 
Ron started to crash at school. The more he focussed on the guitar and the 
band, the less he focussed on school and that area of his life. He seemed 
to think that he had a part to live; that if he was to be a great and 
talented man of music, that there was a certain lifestyle that needed to be 
lived. And that was the beginning of the end for Ron. 
        It was  a special time back then, back when they were all going to 
be rock 'n' roll stars and set the world on fire. They all chased the dream 
at the beginning, all thought it was possible. But for most, it was never 
anything but a dream. And for all but Ron, it eventually became nothing 
more than the fun and the chicks, but he took it so seriously that it 
finally killed him. 
        "I'll tell you, Chris, that new tune we learned is a great one," 
Ron said one day, as they sat in the uptown hangout after practice. 
        "You like all the tunes with huge, raunchy guitar solos in them," 
Chris answered. 
        "That solo isn't that raunchy -- not the way I play it," Ron 
countered, defending himself. 
        "Yea, right," Chris answered. 
        "I'll tell you, though, have you been watching the news?" Ron 
asked, enthusiasm in his voice. "The way the younger generation's taking 
over. Man, it is too cool." 
        "Yea, groovy, I suppose, eh?" Chris responded sarcastically. 
        "Hey, the times they are a changin'," Ron said. 
        "Yea, and I get enough hassle trying to grow my hair a little over 
my ears," Chris answered. 
        "We've got to lead the fight," Ron said, a small trace of defiance 
in his voice. 
        "I gotta find a summer job," Chris answered. 
        "The band will be playing by then," his friend answered. 
        "Well, my Dad will believe it when he sees it," Chris said. 
        "Chris," Ron started, his voice suddenly all serious like, "we have 
to show these other sheep the way to go. They are not bright creatures." He 
paused and gestured to the others in the restaurant. "We have to think for 
them -- we can do that through the music." 
        "Pretty heavy stuff for this hick town," Chris answered. 
        "It's in this hick town where we have to work hardest to change 
attitudes," Ron answered. "My Dad is the biggest racist in town. He hates 
Commies and thinks we should kill them all. He treats my Mom like a slave. 
He's a pig, and so are most of the others in this town. They represent the 
evil empire and it's our job to bring them down." 
        "What about my Dad?" Chris asked, somewhat alarmed to think his 
father might also be part of an evil empire. 
        "Your Dad's kind of cool," Ron answered. "He buys us beer for 
playing cards. Not all Dads would do that. That's cool. He understands." 
        "Understands what?" Chris asked, understanding nothing of this himself. 
        "That the young people are the power," Ron answered. "That we are 
the power, and that we're going to change it." 
        "Change what?" Chris asked, continuing his line of questioning. 
        "The way things work, you lunkhead," Ron said, somewhat 
exasperated by the conversation. "The way most people are slaves who have 
nothing and who are nothing. We're going to make a new way where everyone 
will count for something -- where there won't be rich and poor and all that 
dumb junk -- where it'll be more fair." 
        "It'll never be fair, Ron," Chris said. "Guys like Howie Peterson 
will always have the great cars and the great chicks because their old men 
will always own the local movie theater. We'll struggle away in the band 
and we'll always be broke, but we might get some great chicks -- you more 
than me because you're the leader and play the guitar." 
        "Yea, but the girls always go for the silent, bass player types," 
Ron chided, reaching across the table and tussling Chris's hair. 
        "Yea, right, in my dreams," Chris laughed. 
        "Wet dreams at that," Ron joked back. 
        But Ron was caught up in the whole thing. He took to writing 
serious, dark, depressing poetry about the state of world affairs, then 
putting it to music. And while the songs weren't top forty material, which 
bothered the other guys in the band, they were well received by some of the 
local crowd who wallowed in their pretentious deepness. It was just that 
time. 
         But Chris could not see. He could not understand or see as clearly 
as his friend. Ron was the philosopher who would use his music to spread 
his ideas and to change the world. Chris was a mediocre bass player who 
actually did manage to pick up the odd chick. 
        And the more some adored Ron for his great and wondrous 
pontificating, and all of his songs about cooperation instead of 
competition, the more caught up in himself he became. So that when the 
drugs came, the mind-expanding drugs that would let you see in other 
dimensions and in new ways, he was ripe for the picking. The first to try 
them all, then to rave about where he had been and what he had seen. It was 
funny at first, but it didn't always stay that way. But they couldn't see 
that at first. 
        They played a high school reunion one night. They were good. Ron 
was in rare form. He reached new heights. But a drunk heckled them. 
        "Why don't you guys get a haircut!" he hollered out between songs. 
        It got quiet in the gym, almost as if the audience was waiting for 
an answer. None came. 
        "God, play some decent music!" cried out the drunk. "You guys sound 
like shit. We want country. Play something decent!" 
        It was extremely quiet in the gym, strangely so, for a dance. Ron 
was the leader. He usually responded to the audience. Chris had no mike -- 
he couldn't respond. The other guys froze. 
        "Whatsa matter?" hollered the drunk. "You guys dead, or something!" 
        There was another moment of awkward silence. Then, suddenly, Ron 
crashed out the loudest, most distorted sound he could from his guitar. It 
blasted out into the gym, ricocheting off the barren, brick walls and 
causing a flash of pain for those who listened. Next, he unslung his 
guitar, and dropped it right where he stood, so that more ugly, twisted 
noise reverberated through the gym. Then, he turned and abruptly left the 
stage, leaving the screaming instrument laying there wailing. 
        Chris moved quickly to silence the guitar and Chet, the keyboard 
player, finally seemed to snap back to reality, and announced a short 
intermission, drawing a chorus of boos from the audience. Bill, the 
drummer, angrily smashed a cymbal, then threw down his sticks and stormed 
off. 
        The scene in the dressing room was not pleasant. 
        "Christ, what an asshole that guy is," Chet said, clearly upset at 
what had happened. 
        "Which asshole would you be talking about?" Bill asked. 
        "What do you mean by that?" Chris asked, stepping toe to toe with 
the drummer. 
        "What's wrong with Ron?" Bill asked, standing back a step. "Christ, 
he can't just do stuff like that.. We'll never get hired back." 
        "He's sensitive about his music," Chris answered. "The guy insulted 
his music." 
        "Well, the guy's sort of right," Chet interjected. 
        "And what's that supposed to mean?" Chris asked, turning to face 
the keyboard player. 
        "We should be doing more top 40 stuff," Chet answered. "Especially 
at a gig like this." 
        "Hey, Ron picks the material," Chris said. 
        "Well, he ain't doing a great job," said Bill. "Or there wouldn't 
be scenes like that one." 
        There was silence in the room. 
        "Where did he go?" Chris finally asked. 
        "He's likely outside stuffing a little more dope into him," Bill 
said, sarcasm in his voice. 
        "Eat shit," Chris answered, venom in his. 
        He left the room and exited the school, heading around to where 
Bill's Dad's truck was parked. He found Ron sitting on the running board, a 
deep scowl on his face. 
        "The guys are pissed," Chris said. 
        "Let them be pissed," Ron answered, sullen anger in his words. 
        "Bad scene," Chris said. 
        "Yea," Ron answered. 
        "They want to do more top 40 stuff," Chris said. 
        "They don't get it," Ron said. "We can't make it playing top 40 
stuff. There's got to be a message in the music. It can't just be fluff." 
        "It's what the audience wants," Chris said. 
        "The audience doesn't know what it wants, until we give it to 
them," Ron answered. "They're sheep." 
        "They're the audience," Chris answered. "They pay the money." 
        There was quiet. 
        "All right," Ron finally said. 
        "All right what?" Chris asked. 
        "We'll do more top 40 next set," Ron said. 
        "If they let us back on," Chris said. 
        "We'll knock 'em dead," the guitar player answered. 
        "Let's go in and sort things out with the guys," Chris said. 
        "You go ahead," Ron answered. "I'll be right in." 
        Chris turned and started to walk, then turned back. He saw Ron try 
to hide something so he couldn't see. "What are you up to, Ron?" he asked. 
        "Nothing to worry about," his friend answered, sounding a little 
anxious and caught-in-the-act. 
        "You should take it easy when we're playing," Chris advised. 
        "It makes me play better," Ron answered. 
        "It also screws up your judgment," Chris said. "I'll see you 
inside. Think about it." 
        And it wasn't like the rest of the band were angels. There was beer 
and there were drugs -- that was just part of the scene -- but it was like 
Ron believed so strongly in the mind-expanding part and he thought it 
opened up his consciousness and made him write better songs and play the 
guitar better. Chris talked to him. Tried to explain that he should take it 
easy. But Chris knew he was losing his friend -- that Ron was slipping away 
-- that he believed it was all part of who he was and that he needed the 
drugs to be part of the scene. So, for some they were recreation, while for 
others they were life itself, and Ron was one of the latter, and who knows 
how or why that came to be. 
        But the band hung together, and so did Ron, so that time passed. 
Finally, high school ended. For Ron, it meant dropping out just before the 
end. Chris stayed with it and got his diploma. 
        It was his graduation night and he'd bought a nickel of reefer for 
the occasion, and had headed out to the town dam where he sometimes went to 
reflect. He was surprised to hear something rummaging around in the bushes 
by the path. 
        "Christ, hippie, you sure pick the spots," said Ron's voice, as he 
scrambled up from the brush and onto where Chris was sitting cross-legged. 
        "I like my solitude," Chris answered. "Thought you'd be out gettin' 
high tonight. Not interested in what the lowly high schoolers were up to." 
        "Well, this is a big night for my best buddy," Ron answered. "High 
school graduate and all that." 
        "At least it's done," Chris said. 
        "Well said," answered Ron. He sat beside Chris, and a joint was 
produced. "This is a special occasion," Ron said quietly. "I've got 
something better." He produced an aspirin case from his coat and opened it. 
        "What is it?" asked Chris, trying to peer through the darkness and 
into the pill box. 
        "It's a bit of angel dust I won playing pool," Ron said. "How about 
it, eh? You only live once." 
        "It's heavy shit, eh?" Chris asked. "I heard it's pretty heavy." 
There was nervousness in his voice. "You doing a lot of this, Ron?" was the 
question Chris asked next. 
        "It feels good, Chris," Ron said. "You can't imagine the freedom it 
gives me to write." 
        "But, Ron," Chris answered, "it's awfully hard on the head. It can 
really screw you up." 
        "I know what I'm doing," Ron said. "I never lose control. I need 
the stuff, Chris. Everybody who makes it in the business, uses it. It's 
just the way. It helps you be creative." 
        There was a silence. Chris puffed on the joint, not offering it to 
Ron, feeling it would be a foolish gesture in light of what his friend held 
in his hand. 
        "How about it?" Ron asked, offering the pill container. "You up for 
some fun?" 
        "Think I'll stick to the reefer," Chris answered. 
        "Whatever you think," Ron answered, his voice flat and even. 
        More silence. 
        "I'm dumping the band," Ron said, interrupting the moment of quiet. 
        "Why?" asked Chris, also deadpan. 
        "I'm moving in with some other guys -- you know a couple of them -- 
and we're going to get serious about the music," Ron answered. "We're 
getting a farm house. We're going to get good and make it. I've got a 
boxful of songs just waiting to be played -- there's an important message 
in them and I've got to get it out. That'll never happen playing top 40 
stuff." 
        "Sounds like you've got plans," Chris remarked. 
        "We need a bass player," Ron said. "Everything else is in place, 
and they had their own guy picked out, but I made them wait -- said I had 
somebody else in mind. You want the job, it's yours." 
        "Flattering offer," Chris answered. "You think I can cut it?" 
        "If you put your heart into it," Ron answered. "I'd like to have 
you along -- just for old times sake." 
        Chris sat in silence, seeming to mull over the idea in his mind. 
        "We'll make it, Chris," Ron said. "We're going to help change the 
world." 
        Chris remained quiet. 
        "I love you like a brother," Ron said. 
        "It's a dream," Chris said. "They'll never let you change things. 
You just don't understand the way things work. You're my best friend, but 
you're a dreamer. It can't work the way you want. They won't let you." 
        "Who the hell are "they"?" asked Ron. 
        "We never find out," Chris answered. 
        "What does that mean?" Ron asked. 
        "All of our lives we talk about "they" -- my Dad talks about them 
all the time -- but we never really know who "they" are," answered Chris. 
"It's the guys up there in the stratosphere and they've been there since 
the beginning of time -- and they used to be stronger and now they're 
smarter and they've got the power -- not us." 
        "I don't think you're right," answered Ron. "We can make a 
difference. I know we can." 
        "Yea, we can make a difference," Chris agreed. "But they'll twist 
and distort any difference we make, just like you twist and distort notes 
on the guitar, until they get us back in line." 
        "How come you're so damned smart?" asked Ron, putting his hand on 
his friend's shoulder. 
        "I'm not so damned smart," answered the friend. "I'm just a 
realist. I know how things work. You're a musician. You've got your head in 
the clouds. How can I expect you to understand stuff like this." 
        There was another moment of quiet. 
        "I've got to try, you know," Ron said flatly. 
        "I know," answered Chris. 
        More quiet. 
        "You aren't going to come, are you?" Ron more said than asked. 
        "No," Chris answered. 
        "Come visit us on the farm?" Ron more asked than said. "Do a little 
jammin'." 
        "You know I will," Chris answered. 
        "Got a joint left to share with me?" asked Ron. "Just for old times 
sake." 
        And they smoked that joint together, and Ron moved into the farm, 
and the other bass player took up the job. And Ron's band got to be really, 
really great and managed to cut a demo record and came ever so close to 
making it -- but it never could quite seem to get over the hump and out of 
the bars. And the bars ate Ron alive over that first couple of years they 
were on the road, and he drank more and more heavily and did more and more 
drugs. Each time the band went through another rejection, or just missed 
another record deal, he sank somewhat lower. 
        Chris worked on construction, but was good to his word and visited 
the farm fairly often, bringing along his guitar and jamming with Ron and 
the guys. It was fun at first and he enjoyed his brief forays into such a 
life. But he could see that as good as the band was getting, it was falling 
apart, losing its soul, as it lost Ron -- as he disappeared from the 
surface of life. Finally, Chris drove home late one night from the farm, 
and put away his guitar, the one he had bought together with Ron all those 
years before. He put away the guitar and knew it was put away for good. 
        Some time passed and Chris didn't visit the farm. He heard about 
the exploits of the band and how there was difficulty with Ron, who was 
struggling with life and not getting it right. His friend was apparently 
shacked up most of the time with an alcoholic woman, showing up late for 
gigs, so drunk and high he couldn't remember which song was being played -- 
and he'd written them all. Chris tried calling the farm a couple of times, 
but couldn't catch Ron -- he wanted to talk to him -- see if he could help. 
        One night, as Chris was just saying good night to his parents, the 
phone rang. His Dad answered and gestured that it was for him. 
        "Hello," he said. 
        "Hi there, buddy," answered Ron's voice. 
        "How are you?" Chris asked, honest concern in his voice. 
        "Oh, I'm okay," Ron answered. 
        There was silence on the line. 
        "How's life?" asked Ron. 
        "Great," answered Chris. 
        "Still workin' on construction?" Ron asked. 
        "Yup," answered Chris. "It's a living." 
        More silence. 
        "You were right, you know," Ron said matter of factly. 
        "About what?" asked Chris, unsure what his friend was talking about. 
        "The audience does want fluff," Ron answered. "Actually, we were 
both right -- they want fluff, but they're sheep, too." 
        "I don't know, Ron, you guys seem to be doing okay," Chris said. 
"The last time I heard you, you were sounding great." 
        "Yea, we sound great all right," said Ron, "but every time we 
approach a record company or get close to a deal, we get the same old thing 
-- write us a top 40 piece -- give us something a little more commercial." 
        "So, why not?" asked Chris. 
        "I can't write fluff," Ron answered. 
        "You could write what you wanted," Chris said. 
        "I don't know," Ron answered. 
        "What's wrong?" Chris asked. "You sound bummed." 
        "A couple of the guys are leaving the band," Ron said. "They don't 
think we're heading in the right direction." 
        "I'm sorry, Ron," Chris said, but he could feel the disappointment 
in his friend's voice. "Got any replacements in mind?" 
        "Likely not," Ron answered. "Likely just going to fold the whole 
thing up. Give it up." His voice wavered, seemed to lose its composure, as 
he said the last. 
        "God, Ron, I'm sorry," Chris said. "After all the work you've put 
into it." 
        "The audience wants fluff, Chris," Ron said. "They haven't the 
balls to face the real stuff." 
        "Could be you're right," Chris answered. "Your stuff is great." 
        "From another time," Ron answered. 
        There was a moment of silence. 
        "Remember something," Ron said. 
        "What's that?" asked Chris. 
        "I never lose control," Ron said, and there was determination in 
his voice as he spoke the words. 
        "I know that," Chris said. 
        "Gotta go," Ron said. 
        "Let's get together," Chris suggested. 
        "Soon," Ron agreed. 
        And the line went dead. 
        They found Ron at the farm the next day. He was also dead. 
Overdosed. That's what they said. Overdosed on some very mean drugs. That's 
what they said. They said he played a pretty good guitar, but that he 
wouldn't conform -- wouldn't write a top 40 hit. In the end, that's what 
killed him. They'd all had integrity back in the old days, but only a few 
kept it for any length of time. For most of them, it was for the fun and 
the chicks. But there were others who took it more seriously -- and they're 
dead -- overdosed. 

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