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Mr. Walters asks a question
that was once proposed on some awkwardly spinning vinyl… By Clay Waters November 5, 1986 As advised, Jed looked for the one girl in the flat most
definitely not a member of the occult. Not that he had a clue what an
occultist, spiritualist or medium was supposed to look like -- he'd never had
his fortune told, not even for laughs. But "occultist" would indeed have been way down
his list for the girl who greeted him in the kitchen -- far below, say,
checkout girl. "I'm Saffron," she said, fixing upon the London
Observer tucked under his arm -- the identifier they'd agreed to on the phone.
"Glad you could make it, Jed." "Thanks for having me." "Saffron" was dressed light for the weather, in
a lime halter-top with yellow sunflowers and shiny red leather sneaks of
stylishly unstylish origin. Only the tortoise-rim glasses and male-style black
bangs hinted at an off-the-beam personality lurking within. "It's not
putting you out, coming here on short notice?" "Not at all. I could use the break." Actually,
with his deadline for the London Observer looming in 36 hours, he couldn't
afford to spend time away from the typewriter. But he had nothing to write
about. That's why he was here, at this slightly shady party over a curry house
in East London. "Would you like some glogg punch? It's got figs in
it." "Sure." The skull-shaped pewter punchbowl
looked like something that would hold "glogg." The rest of the goodie
table was filled with raw veggies and other unspeakables. In the corner was an
oval table draped in red linen. No crystal ball, but perhaps those were only
for TV fortunetellers. One woman spoke loudly and anachronistically into a
new-fangled portable phone the size of a brick. A dozen or so others were
chatting in groups, more women then men. Saffron was the youngest, and Jed
noted a few longing looks from the men (and a jealous eye-cutter from the phone
woman) as she scooped punch. She returned with his mug of glogg. "This is
where I ask if you've met Midge Ure." "Backstage at Hammersmith, actually, just last
month. Says he's trying to get some aid to Ethiopia concert off the ground, but
there's no interest. The government wants musicians to do their bit." Her eyebrows arched. "Really now. Musicians do their
own thing, otherwise they're just sods on the assembly line. Did you know
Labour has new rules about what mediums can do? They don't believe in the
occult anyway, so why should they care. And if that's not enough, the union
sends this shaggy ape by my flat to spread bad vibes." She caught her
breath. "So what's your story on this week?" "Nothing, yet. That's why I'm here." A séance
to raise Paul McCartney on the 20th anniversary of his death was as
promising as anything, and beat out his initial lame idea -- a review of the
new Bananarama album, an LP he found himself incapable of paying attention to.
If he didn't give the Observer something decent by Friday morning he'd lose his
tenuous freelance gig. No more of those little checks, delayed as they were, and
the rent on the flat was already overdue. Saffron's enigmatic phone call had
come as comic relief -- or perhaps a thin string to a drowning man. He'd know
soon enough. A thin young man in undertaker dress was doing his
part for unconventionality by passing around Ecstasy tablets using an unhinged
bathroom mirror as a tray. His scabby skin went red when Saffron thanked him. "Want one?" Saffron said, holding up the tab.
Jed could see the government tax stamp. He declined. "I did it right one time. I danced
seven hours and then went home and alphabetized my kitchen." He cleared
his throat and gave her a professional look. "You said you had a Paul
McCartney scoop. His motorcycle crash was 20 years ago next Sunday. Perfect
timing." "Which is why it'd be too obvious to make up,
wouldn't it?" "The Beatles had just started an album when he
crashed his bike, you know," he said, reminiscing. "Their most
ambitious project -- a concept album taking in psychedelia and philosophy and
all the drugs. But they had to scuttle it. The tapes never surfaced." November 9, 1966. A rock n' roll death, at once
dishearteningly typical and almost relieving in its innocent tragedy: Paul
McCartney, bassist and songwriter for the most popular band in the world,
tooling down the road on his motorbike to visit his aunt, had lost control and
skidded straight into (and, gruesomely, under) a lorry approaching from the
other side. It had been like JFK all over again when the news hit Jed's
high school -- girls bawling, group pilgrimages to the restroom and the
counselor's office. And not all the crying by the girls. "Did they break up?" Saffron asked. "They should have. The three surviving members
finished one more album, in 1968, but it was a dud. It was clear they missed
Paul. George and John together didn't work. The Lennon-Harrison
songwriting credit was bizarre enough. The two of them were too alike. I mean,
'Wail Me A Willowtree', derigidoo pipes in a rock song? Real end-of-the-pier
stuff. It got to #9 on the singles charts, but that was public sympathy. You
can tell what Paul meant to them just because none of them amounted to much
after he died. Now John's become this big right-winger bitching about the
Labour government and calling for Thatcher to stand for office again." "It's alright to bitch about the government."
She winked. "Well, you know what I mean." A right-wing
occultist? he thought. "So what if Paul had lived? Would there have still
been disco or olam or flay?" "Hard to say," he said, stroking his goatee in
what he hoped resembled contemplation and not cluelessness. "The Beatles
gave guitar-based music a shot in the arm. But the music kept getting denser
and slower and heavier, weighed down by all the psychedelic trappings and
exotic instruments no one had really mastered. Then virtuosity became hip, and
all these guitar bands started playing in 9/4 time…." He stopped, seeing
that her face had frozen -- she'd heard more than she'd wanted. "So when's
the séance?" "As soon as I can pull everyone's face out of the hummus." He didn't really think the spirit of Paul would descend
start cranking out bass guitar, but he was hoping -- praying, really -- that
this unlikely girl and her cohorts could conjure some half-convincing bit of
mummery. He didn't think he could face Bananarama again. "I hope we get something good tonight," Saffron
said. "You don't even have to use my name in the paper. Probably for the
best you didn't, given the crackdowns. Still, you could drop a hint or two.
Sunday's the only day I really get to read, though I usually go for the
Telegraph. Last Sunday they had this physicist saying there could be an
infinite number of universes running parallel to ours, accounting for every
possibility, but that the laws of physics would prohibit making contact." "So what's the point?" "That's what I thought. Wouldn't you love to have a
peek? In case Paul's alive in one?" "I guess he'd have to be, wouldn't he?" "Now that's a thought. What if Paul was -- " "Saffron, shall we do this, then?"
Portable-phone woman had her hands on her hips. "Yes," Saffron shook her head. "Douse the
lights, please, Linda. We'll get started. A stranger is joining our circle
tonight, he's with the press, but he's a believer, so the circle will not be
broken." Jed held his tongue. As if at random, five of the party-goers detached
themselves from their wine glasses and took seats at the oval table in back.
The rest stood back watching respectfully, ceasing to graze. Saffron took Jed's
hand and led him toward the table. Silently, Saffron lit nine candles. At her instruction,
they took seats and clasped hands. Jed discreetly switched on the tape recorder
before offering his hand to the man on his left. "Through
the nose, out the mouth," she was chanting in a changed, monotone voice.
"Though the nose, out the mouth. Keep your mind blank. Be calm. Be
comfortable. Our beloved Paul, we bring you gifts from life into death.
Commune with us, Paul, and move among us. If you are among us, Paul, please rap
once." She repeated the words and after a dramatic delay a
hollow rap came from the center of the table. Continuing in a deeper, more
deliberate voice, she said: "Paul, did you play bass guitar in a rock
band? Rap once for yes, twice for no, please." The
crisp ring of the doorbell almost sent Jed out of his seat -- strangely, the
others at the table simply turned to the door in annoyance. "Shall we get it?" One of the quiet watchers
said. But Saffron was still in her "trance." The door opened
but no one entered, and the vacuum gradually sucked the room's attention up,
except for Saffron, who had to be shaken awake, blinking and perturbed. She
shook her head in disgust. "Bloody union backstabbers." A squat officer of the law stood blandly at the door, the
photo ID he held before him no more sedate than his presence in the flesh. Two
other bobbies were arrayed behind him, making a modest blue-and-gold pyramid of
official fabric. In his other hand he held a sheaf of fliers. Stepping inside,
he began eyeballing party members, consulting the sheaf. He halted in front of
her. "Miss Siobhan Wakefield?" "Siobhan" returned the officer's brisk nod with
a sour, apprehensive one. "Miss Wakefield, by order of the Queen you're placed
under arrest on suspicion of practicing mesmerism without a license. You do not
have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when
questioned something--" "Yes, thank you, I know my rights." Jeb liked this mooncalf and her sweet-sour act. "You can pay the fine for a first offense, or you can
scrub your record by joining the organ donation program, provided they're in
good order. Young girl like you should be alright, if you've laid off the
fags." He glanced around in disapproval at the other partygoers, most of
whom had lowered their cigs. Another officer worked the crowd asking for
identifications while a third stood sentry at the door. "May I have your name, officer?" Saffron said,
a knee-jerk flexing of rights that Jed appreciated. He tipped his bob. "James Salt, at your
service." Then he looked blandly over at Jed, betraying neither fear nor
favor. "If you want your fortune told or to converse with your dead
aunties, sir, best do it through proper channels." Siobhan barked out a bitter laugh. "Channels. Nice
one, your highness." An officer took Jed's shoulder to escort him out the
door. Jed looked back at Saffron. "Is there anything I can do?" he
asked her, feeling ineffectual. "I'll be fine. I'm not a vagrant or anything. I'll
just call my dad. See you on the 30th anniversary. Or when I get out
of chokey, whatever comes first." *** What a waste. He set the tape recorder down rather roughly beside his
typewriter, jabbing Rewind so it would be ready to use (for an Observer story,
perhaps -- what a laugh). "The Bust of the Medium" would have been a
funny story, really. Not really fit for the music pages, though. And
politically, it would have cut a little sharply for the lefties at the
Observer, with a Labour regulation coming off as humorless and ham-handed.
Perhaps it was. Halfway through the rewind came a strange squealing
sound. He stopped the tape. From the time he'd switched it on to when the police
invaded was about three minutes, an interval in which nothing of interest had
occurred except a "ghostly" tap on the table. Yet here was a definite
clump of unfamiliar (or at least unremembered) sound from the séance. He pushed PLAY, and shivered. Music. Not loud music, not clear music, but undeniably
music. But how had it gotten there? He knew mediums were crafty by definition,
but Siobhan could not possibly have switched tapes on him -- The voice had a familiar ring. He had to laugh. How on earth had she done it? The recording itself was definitely a homebrew, faint and
scratchy -- made to sound like something from beyond the grave, it sounded more
like something recorded inside one. Shouty vocals raged over an unfamiliar song
with a careful music-hall beat. Jed had to admit the Paul impression itself was
quite good, before fading out in no doubt "ghostly" fashion. Siobhan's
boyfriend, or whoever was doing the singing, had a career as an impersonator.
Provided he could obtain a busking license. Jed thought it would make an amusing anecdote for a
column on the anniversary of McCartney's death -- a young occultist's charming
attempt to deceive a music writer. Then he could unload the usual poignant
fogey rock romanticism: Paul and the whole teen legend thing, wasted youth, the
obligatory Rimbaud reference. He was far too cynical to carry off the
worshipful, rock-icon stuff of obituary cliche, so the less of it the better. So! A "spiritually minded girl in Soho Square"
would get to read about herself in the Observer, assuming she was at liberty. Feeding the typewriter, he centered the paper and tapped
in: "Is Paul Alive?" He rewound the brief snippet of tape, listening again to
the words of the opening couplet. Well, why not? He typed the lyrics in. After all, by the time the Sunday
edition hit the stands November 9, Paul's death would actually be "20
years ago today."
Lt. Salt