ROCK
  by D.M. Hanna

  As the last cord peeled from Screamer's instrument, Frank strummed 
his finishing bass lick, and Tom-Tom brought their original tune, 
"Landslide," to a crashing, thudding close. The trio looked to one 
another for assurance that their performance had been as near flawless 
as possible.

  "You guys are good," she said shifting in her seat, "but you're 
missing it."

  Knowing full well that this was their *big break*, they had arranged 
a follow-up piece -- just in case. Without a word, Screamer launched 
into yet another of the Quaker's unique numbers they affectionately called 
"Andrea's Fault". With fingers pinching, sliding, and stretching to make 
each and every cord excruciatingly poignant, their lyrical accompaniment 
was lost amid the thrum of Frank's bass line, the complex rhythms of the 
drumming, and an eerily howling amount of feedback.

  After the song, when the silence returned, it seemed even louder than
the tune it preceded and followed.

  "See? That's what I mean." Terri called to them, "Volume isn't the
answer."

  "How 'bout this?" replied Tommy, who immediately cut loose with a 
driving drum solo. It began hard and demanding; in swells it rose and 
fell until the tempo was nearly lost in a cacophony of highs and lows 
and symbols crashing. Toward the end, the others joined in with their 
own accompaniment and played until they were thoroughly exhausted.

  Terri said nothing; only her slow, sad, negative nod was offered in 
reply.

  "So tell us what we need to do." exclaimed Frank. "We wanna be 
*great*, so TELL us!"

  "Take a break," she began, approaching them, "sit down, and LISTEN."

  Knowing that for every success there are literally THOUSANDS that don't
ever make the "big time", they did as they were told, laid down their
instruments, and sat quietly.

  "I've been doing this for a whole lotta' years, guys -- you know the 
word on the street! My reputation is *why* you're here." she said, 
letting her voice trail off to a low, slow pace. "I'll tell you this: 
you have the power -- what you lack is the PASSION."

  Before any of the three could protest her statement, she continued,
"Back when I first got into this business, I took on three other guys 
like you -- exactly like YOU and YOU, and YOU," she stressed to each 
of them individually. "And, I told them what I'm telling you now. THEY 
had potential; that very same ability I see in you. THEY took my advice, 
and THEY made it really big!" 

  Terri paused for a moment to let it sink in, then went on in a mild 
tone. "Each of you has the ability to touch the people, to reach right 
into their centers and shake their souls.  You have the potential to 
succeed . . . and you seem willing to follow my instruction. Relax
. . . just relax, listen to my voice, and know,  what I'm about to 
tell you will make you the greatest sound to ever rock the world."

  None of them was consciously aware of her mesmerizing influence, as 
the threesome did little more than sit quietly listening to her peaceful, 
sultry voice and well chosen words.

  Terri looked deep into Frank's coal-black eyes and spoke to him as 
if they were quite alone and the others were miles away. In a calm, 
cool tone she almost whispered, "Peter played the bass line with a 
natural flow. Like it was his pulse . . . sometimes it was as steady 
as a well oiled clock, and other times it skipped a beat, or added a 
pulsation here and there. With every cord he plucked at the heartstrings 
of all who were within hearing range or close enough to feel the 
vibrations . . . let the bass be your foundation. 

  "Make it the base for the offerings from the band to their faithful. 
It needn't be limited to the background, or remanded to support the 
others; just let it go -- let it flow. Allow the cadence to seep from 
your heart -- BLEED your passion out like a slow, cold death. Cause when 
that streaming emotion trickles from you into the sound, it will set the 
pace for the others . . . let it speak your desire; do you understand?"

  Frank stared blankly; his head slowly nodded in recognition.

  Turning to Tom-Tom, she uttered a single syllable, "Eb," and he
unconsciously snapped to attention, hearing and seeing nothing but her. 
"Eb starts out low in the beginning, his beat is almost undetectable
. . . tempo should complement the sound and demand nothing; echoing the 
heart's meter at first -- an awakening, then raising to embrace the world 
. . . in-CREASE-ing in pace with the work. ONE -- BEAT; each -- in -- turn 
. . . DRAW-ing the RHYTH-m a-LONG with THE WORK. ME-ter-ing the AR-dor 
and re-FLEC-ting the heart's ex-ER-tion -- A-GAINST the LA-bor of the DAY!
Then re-MEM-ber-ing the day when it is done . . . re-MEM-ber."

  As her voice trailed off to something less than a whisper, Tom's fingers
twitched in tune to her cadence, as he saw and heard nothing but the notes 
and their meter in his mind, heart, and soul.

  Unlike the others, Screamer had willingly succumbed to her control and
first words. Almost instinctively, he had assumed a meditative stance with 
legs crossed, hands resting on his thighs palms up, eyes closed, and head 
tilted back; his only motion was in breathing slow, even, shallow breaths.

  "Iggy has the drive," her voice cooed in his ears, "and when Iggy plays,
everyone shares in his pleasures and sorrows. Sometimes his sound is a 
soft whimper . . . like a child's quiet fear and sometimes . . . SOMETIMES 
-- his melodic voice CRIES out for the tortured souls in HELL! Trust 
yourself to express the like anguish of LONELINESS and LOVE! Play the 
passion and the intensity will care for itself. YOU-CAN-DO-IT!" 

  His only reply was a grunt and nervous twitches from the tips of the 
fingers of his outstretched hands.

  "You have what it takes," she said with a devilish smile. "Forget who 
you were -- remember -- who you ARE. Don't look with your eyes, instead, 
SEE with your HEARTS. Seek out your MUTUAL center . . . find the opera 
inside the collective soul and play!"

  Possessed by her spirit, commanded by her hypnotic hold, they stood 
in unison, eyes closed, and arms ready to embrace the tools of the muse. 
None of them saw the coming of the instruments, nor were aware of their 
odd design and metamorphic construction. All they knew was that they 
HAD to play -- to play the tearful and cheerful cries of their new found 
spirit -- to play their hearts out.

  When the drums began beating, it was a most slow and erratic rhythm; 
sounding much like sporadic crashes of mountains and boulders, although 
much, much -- LOUDER. Each and every beat came from some place deep and 
dark, where crude sounds abound, but often go unnoticed and forgotten. 
Methodically, the almost uneven meter became a plodding pulsation and 
increased in dimension until the rhythmic progression openly invited 
and taunted the others to join in the throng.

  Then, in a universal tongue that no language of man can well speak, 
the bass called out to the world with a faith that has existed since 
eternity's far distant beginnings. Altogether marvelously frightful, that  
combinative sound speaks in grunts and growls with wild animalistic cries 
for food, shelter, and others to continue the cry when the ancestors are 
food for still others, or dusty moldy memories -- or less. Wed in pace 
and purpose, the duet came together in a voice understood by nothing 
less than planets at birth, stars at death, along with comets, meteors, 
and other cosmic changelings of creation -- that know truth and justice 
are imaginings and that alteration is the only true -- universal law.

  The threesome finally united. The muse of primeval mankind could be 
heard to whimper and whine her existence; echoing like the uncountable 
hordes, who preceded her up from the primordial ooze. The emerging voice 
first spoke -- pitched high upon shrieks and catterwallings, which 
reverberated sounds of crushing bones and stopping hearts; then it 
changed with a whooping chorus increasing intensely, among laments and 
mutterings of the defeated. Cressendoing to yet another level where
the vibrations etched out fragmentary boundaries -- for it to breech.

  Then suddenly, a completely new song exploded forth -- a curious, 
mystical blend of gnosis, terror, hope, and hopelessness. Higher and 
higher it strove into expanding complexities. Instantly, the opus 
transcended all manmade scores, rendering even seemingly perfect 
compositions pale in its wake.

  Within the movement dwelled a power -- that same power Terri had 
acquired a distinct taste for, so very long ago. Its potency and majesty 
could and would again -- sate her thirst, as it had before, and would 
again and again throughout the timeless void of the everlasting. 
Enraptured by the enormity of the find, she wallowed, lapped, and 
breathed in the awesome cataclysmic force of her making, and conducted 
the others to feed her need with their very motion and sound.

  Wonderstruck and oblivious to the shear matter rending intensity of
their performance, the band played on as the roof was torn free and clear 
of its supports, the walls around them fell away, nearby buildings 
crumbled, and masses of dumbfounded horrified people rushed to the 
deafening, crushing beauty of the song.

  On and on ran the song; its aching, bewitching mix of harmonies and
discords was accompanied by the tumultuous din of all the people who had 
ever heard its bitter-sweet melody and felt its ferocious vibrations, and 
with them carried it to the pinnacle of its ultimate magnificence.

  Then -- it was just as suddenly over. All but the low and deeply 
distant drumming remained -- in that place where every universal note 
had been played -- accompanied by every voice of yesterday who had sung 
the song simultaneously, but now, only a weak spasmodic pulse endured.

  "Lovely," she whispered, but she was not alone in the ecstasy of the
moment, for the trio too -- was fulfilled.

  "Take the show on the road," muttered Peter, blinking his slate gray 
eyes.

   Eb's ear piercing scream filled the air and threatened to ring the full
and blood-red moon.

  "ROCK AND ROLL!" maniacally laughed the changeling, Ignatius.

  They had achieved not only an earth shattering performance -- they 
were again blissfully aware of themselves -- their real identities. Who 
they had been, they were no more; who they were -- they would be yet 
again. The song had ended, but it echoed and reverberated in their 
minds. Never again would their music seem mechanical or forced; they 
were born-again, transmogrified, and whole. Converted.

                            # # #

Copyright 1994 D. M. Hanna
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Don, residing in NW PA and originally from Ohio, has decided to focus on
writing for his soul income. He enjoys writing both SF as well as main-
stream short stories. He has a novel in progress, and when taking a break, 
works on his shorts. You will see more of his work in RUNE'S RAG.
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