Music of the Living Dead
the rotting vegetation and disintegrating tombstones of certain cemeteries,
with entrances approximately six feet down, exist activities that
go unnoticed to those of the waking world. I am one of the few, perhaps
the only, who has found the opportunity to have dreamt of such things,
or should I say misfortune....
A select number of graveyards are home to a band, a band of the dead.
A vast array of music, some unlike any known to living man, can be
experienced if one travels extensively enough, but no map of these
realms exist and I have no intentions of encouraging potentially life-threatening
behavior. I have heard solo pianists whose every song bursts with
thrice the melancholy of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata or the
infamous Gloomy Sunday and have even briefly caught the performance
of a punk group that certainly put all living acts to shame. I believe
they called themselves Boogey and the Men, but all was far too chaotic
to officially catch a name or decipher band members from crowd. Pits
of the dead are absolute madness, you know, for they are literally
in some sort of pit around the clock. Experts, I say.
A peculiar incident in these caverns stands out most vividly, however.
It was a group by the name of Spider Blue. The singer had bled to
death when attempting to carve hooves out of his feet, and so now
he’s a graveyard singer. Yeah, they were one of those groups
that insist on telling their life stories between each and every song.
Well, Spider Blue consisted of that singer, The God Formerly Known
As Pan, along with a blind organ player, midget guitarist, a woman
(who died in some random tragedy) on upright bass, and somehow a stillborn
Now, they weren’t particularly talented; vocals reminiscent
of all croaking blues musicians/neurotics, the organ player hits a
multitude of apparently wrong notes, and the midget’s fingers
failed to finger pick the out-of-tune guitar with any style or grace.
The drums and bass complimented each other nicely, but I believe it
was said that through a series of complicated events the stillborn
theoretically belonged to the woman.
Together they created something wonderfully dreadful, morbidly magnificent,
a sound so unique only such clichés could properly describe
it. Each song was a death and bone creature (and to imagine that it
was all improvised). They started small...a falling leaf, a bruised
drop of rainwater, built up to humans, and then came the closing song.
All the dead people in the room grew rather excited. They all began
to stare at me with strange, unblinking eyes that may have revealed
soundtracks to secret worlds and cosmic snuff films if they were converted
to audio. The singer of the band said they were closing with a song
of the sounds of myself dying. Interesting? At the time. Beautiful?
I withhold from using that word to describe anything that the human
mind is able to comprehend. Well, I literally died when they played
the song. There were no feelings or images involved, just noise, and
forever will I now exist through word and sound.
This particular tale, if ever it reaches any living creature, must
be taken as a warning, and perhaps its being received via random wave
of sound (or even body of text) will prove the threat of what is now
thought to be “just a harmless pastime” to be of the extreme.
Perhaps I am a shadow of sound, and perhaps I never died, only condensed
all existence into this cage of underground audio incest. To be quite
frank, I don’t really care what or where I am on any map. I
don’t even mind if I truly got here through streams of the bleakest
psychedelic technology known as sleep, just want to join me a band,
a band of the dead.
Is this some form of blessing, or curse? No use in explaining this
network of dead musicians in too much detail, for that might form
a map. Nonetheless, maybe someday I’ll see you lonesome in the
crowd and...this last song’s out to you.