Read Online Hallucinating by Stephen Palmer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephen Palmer
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more often lie down, in the sunshine. This is the great rhythm of the passing years for many such, overwintering technopolitan style, summering out in the open. An Earth rhythm, Celtic, natural, perfect. Release an album once a year just like plants release seeds.
(Not so Mystery Trend. They have legal hassles.)
(Just so Henge Of Astral Stone. They have completed "and then we picked up our musical instruments and really played them, until they bled, and their blood drops dripped over the staves and became notes that were all the better for being yellow," which is the long-awaited follow-up to the difficult third album "The Difficult Third Album".)
The failure of the Berlin hit makes Nulight think long on what course of action to take, until, after many cups of herbal tea, smokes and freakwater, he has a brilliant idea. It is summer. The weather is greenhousing. Why not form a band?
This scheme is augmented when, one evening, as Nulight and Kappa are drinking in a Glasto watering hole, none other than Zhaman arrives, his dreads filthy, his clothes dusty, his boots holed. Nulight at first shies away from him, for this is the keyboard maestro of Mystery Trend—the enemy—and maybe a battle is in the offing. But Zhaman grins and raises his hands, and they are empty.
"Peace," he says. "They've sacked me."
Nulight grabs Zhaman and sits him down with a pint of Crippledick. The music of Henge Of Astral Stone is on the jukebox, and all is cool.
"So spill the beans," Kappa says, rather suspicious.
Zhaman grins his disarming grin, tying his dreads into a bundle with a ribbon. "It's all getting a bit heavy," he says. "Chantal threw a wobbly and I got sacked. She says you're going to drop them from the label?"
Nulight shrugs. "There's been mentions."
"Hey, I hope you do let go. She's obsessed with this alien stuff, like she's been hypnotised. The rumours that are going around..."
Nulight has taken a decision. "Rumours, rumours. Look, Zhaman, this is what we'll do. My LA people will nullify the Mystery Trend contract then let Chantal know. I'm starting a band to play festi music. Wanna join?"
"Hey, yeah," Zhaman says.
Nulight is pleased. It was Zhaman and Morwenna Icecool Flak who wrote most of the Mystery Trend tunes, though Chantal orchestrated them, and provided the lyrics. Zhaman is a muso, head high in the sky, in fact, way out into space, as he is a disciple of T McKenna. Nulight continues, "Me and Kappa are in already, and now you. There's a rasta dude called Partzephanaiah who I'm gonna ask. It'll be heavy auton music."
"But all our keys will be wrong—"
Nulight raises his hands. "Like... you know Terry Riley's "Shri Camel" from nineteen eighty? He retuned an old Yamaha keyboard to Indian scales. We'll get some electronics geezer to do the same. I got the frequencies, man. It'll be easy. We just go out and slay them."
"Sounds a tad freaky to be true," Zhaman remarks, "but I'm in. All my 'boards are in Zurich, but I can haul them over—"
"I'm flush, leave it to me," Nulight says. Kappa looks worried, but Nulight ignores her expression, saying, "Don't worry, I'm not on self destruct, it'll all work out."
"And the Berlin computers?" Zhaman asks, "won't they stop you?"
"That's the point, man. They won't know at the start. The idea is to attract the attention of certain people, maybe get them in a position where we can trap them, but at the very least expose them."
"You mean aliens?"
"It's true, man. We did it at Stonehenge." Nulight decides not to mention the fact that the alien told him not to be so annoying. He needs action, he needs a resolution.
"I heard gossip on the net," says Zhaman, "and I've seen the vidclips, but I wondered if some sadboy had rendered up some fake footage. In fact, that's what everybody is saying, that it's a classic hoax—"
"It's as true as you're sitting here," Nulight says with considerable emotion.
Zhaman is stunned. He is a big bloke, but sitting back in his chair he seems
(Not so Mystery Trend. They have legal hassles.)
(Just so Henge Of Astral Stone. They have completed "and then we picked up our musical instruments and really played them, until they bled, and their blood drops dripped over the staves and became notes that were all the better for being yellow," which is the long-awaited follow-up to the difficult third album "The Difficult Third Album".)
The failure of the Berlin hit makes Nulight think long on what course of action to take, until, after many cups of herbal tea, smokes and freakwater, he has a brilliant idea. It is summer. The weather is greenhousing. Why not form a band?
This scheme is augmented when, one evening, as Nulight and Kappa are drinking in a Glasto watering hole, none other than Zhaman arrives, his dreads filthy, his clothes dusty, his boots holed. Nulight at first shies away from him, for this is the keyboard maestro of Mystery Trend—the enemy—and maybe a battle is in the offing. But Zhaman grins and raises his hands, and they are empty.
"Peace," he says. "They've sacked me."
Nulight grabs Zhaman and sits him down with a pint of Crippledick. The music of Henge Of Astral Stone is on the jukebox, and all is cool.
"So spill the beans," Kappa says, rather suspicious.
Zhaman grins his disarming grin, tying his dreads into a bundle with a ribbon. "It's all getting a bit heavy," he says. "Chantal threw a wobbly and I got sacked. She says you're going to drop them from the label?"
Nulight shrugs. "There's been mentions."
"Hey, I hope you do let go. She's obsessed with this alien stuff, like she's been hypnotised. The rumours that are going around..."
Nulight has taken a decision. "Rumours, rumours. Look, Zhaman, this is what we'll do. My LA people will nullify the Mystery Trend contract then let Chantal know. I'm starting a band to play festi music. Wanna join?"
"Hey, yeah," Zhaman says.
Nulight is pleased. It was Zhaman and Morwenna Icecool Flak who wrote most of the Mystery Trend tunes, though Chantal orchestrated them, and provided the lyrics. Zhaman is a muso, head high in the sky, in fact, way out into space, as he is a disciple of T McKenna. Nulight continues, "Me and Kappa are in already, and now you. There's a rasta dude called Partzephanaiah who I'm gonna ask. It'll be heavy auton music."
"But all our keys will be wrong—"
Nulight raises his hands. "Like... you know Terry Riley's "Shri Camel" from nineteen eighty? He retuned an old Yamaha keyboard to Indian scales. We'll get some electronics geezer to do the same. I got the frequencies, man. It'll be easy. We just go out and slay them."
"Sounds a tad freaky to be true," Zhaman remarks, "but I'm in. All my 'boards are in Zurich, but I can haul them over—"
"I'm flush, leave it to me," Nulight says. Kappa looks worried, but Nulight ignores her expression, saying, "Don't worry, I'm not on self destruct, it'll all work out."
"And the Berlin computers?" Zhaman asks, "won't they stop you?"
"That's the point, man. They won't know at the start. The idea is to attract the attention of certain people, maybe get them in a position where we can trap them, but at the very least expose them."
"You mean aliens?"
"It's true, man. We did it at Stonehenge." Nulight decides not to mention the fact that the alien told him not to be so annoying. He needs action, he needs a resolution.
"I heard gossip on the net," says Zhaman, "and I've seen the vidclips, but I wondered if some sadboy had rendered up some fake footage. In fact, that's what everybody is saying, that it's a classic hoax—"
"It's as true as you're sitting here," Nulight says with considerable emotion.
Zhaman is stunned. He is a big bloke, but sitting back in his chair he seems
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