Smoke on the Water

JEFF

Jeff Maltby picked up a guitar for the first time at summer camp during the summer after fourth grade. It was church camp, 1975 and his first encounter with an actual real live musical instrument other than the upright piano from the music room at school or the organ at church. Three of the counselors had brought them – big blond Martins and Yamahas – and, this being a liberal Protestant sort of place and it being the mid-70s, used them mainly for strumming John Denver, Dan Fogelburg and the occasional round of “Kum-ba-yah” at vespers.

When given the opportunity to hold one of the guitars during small group time on Tuesday, Jeff held it on his lap and made a few tenative exploratory strums. He pressed his other fingers on the strings, which hurt. His cabin-mate, John Hamm, who was a sixth-grader, took the guitar away from him after a really short time. Hamm showed him how to play “Smoke on the Water” on the top string. Jeff watched carefully – seemed simple enough. For the rest of the week, Jeff took every opportunity to play with the guitars, and by Friday evening was plunking out a passable, one-string version of “Smoke on the Water” for the talent show. Jeff knew it wasn’t great, but it certainly beat “Leaving on a Jet Plane.”

Jeff didn’t become a guitar player, really, although he did maintain his relationship with “Smoke on the Water.” For the next fifteen years, through a series of suburban bedrooms, rec-rooms, basements, cabins, tents, dorm-rooms, campsites, crappy apartments and slightly less crappy apartments, whenever a guitar showed up Jeff would unobtrusively pick up and play “Smoke on the Water.” It wasn’t that he really liked the song – he wasn’t a Deep Purple fan. It was just an odd little habit he’d picked up. He was barely even conscious of it anymore. Guitars and real guitar players were ubiquitous enough in his world that he’d eventually gotten rather good at it, with the help of various friends, roommates and passersby showing him exactly how to hold his hands so that his reproduction gradually became more accurate and complex. He never tried to play anything else and considered his odd ability as akin to bar bet fodder or being double jointed.

DMITRY

Dmitry Medvedev was a bear. A Russian brown bear trapped as a cub after his mother had been killed by hunters. Dmitry was trained to be one of the very last dancing bears. He was sold to a hairy fat man in a red coat. He was kept in a little shed. The man punched a hole through his muzzle and attached a chain to it. The man jerked on the chain and made him stand on two legs, over and over again. The man beat him with a stick. The man would beat on a bucket with his stick which made a noise that hurt Dmitry's ears. The man made him stand on hot iron plates. The man would yell at him. When the burning got bad, Dmitry would lift his feet. The man would yell some more. He would beat on the bucket some more. Dmitry did not like the man.

The yelling and clanging and beating and burning would go on for a long time, then the man would leave. A different smaller man would come and give Dmitry food. Dmitry like the little man. The little man carried a tiny box that made music. Dmitry liked to hear the music. The music sounded like his mother's heart beating. It made him feel better because it meant the clanging and beating and burning was over. He would rock his body back and forth with the music.

Dmitry joined the circus. The big man sold Dmitry to Sasha Yurikov. Sasha took Dmitry to many different places. Dmitry would stand up on two legs and move his feet the way he had when the big man was beating and burning him. Sasha did not beat him or burn him. Sasha did not hurt him and gave him food, but Dmitry had to stand on two legs and move his feet for many hours every day.

Dmitry and Sasha went many places with the circus. Every few days, Sasha would put Dmitry in his cage in the truck. They would drive to a new place and Sasha would let Dmitry out to dance for the people. Once, Dmitry had to stay in his cage for many days. Sasha only let him out of the cage for a short time every day. When he came out of the cage he was in a strange place with water all around. After many days of this they left the water place and Dmitry began to dance again.

MICKEY

Mickey Morris was just one of those guys. He could get you to do stuff you didn’t want to do. Anything from another round of tequila shots to driving the gang across the state to see a concert that you personally didn’t give a shit about seeing to “investing” the rent money in his plan to sell screen printed panties to college girls, Mickey could convince you to do it. Even if you knew you shouldn’t and you really didn’t want to and you really REALLY shouldn’t. It was something about how he was always smiling and about he always seemed to need your agreement on a deeply personal level and that turning him down would be a soul crushing blow and he was so sincere. So you usually ended up going along with a sigh, internally reassuring yourself that it wouldn’t end up so bad this time, despite the fact that giving in to Mickey’s wishes had resulted in a long string of blackouts, arrests, skin parasites and evictions or narrow escapes therefrom.

Mickey was the singer in a band called “Cougar Medicine”. Cougar Medicine played Post New-Wave Southern Techno-Funk well enough to fill the bigger bars in town, but not to go much farther. Mickey was excited because he had gotten the band a gig at The Santa Slam, which was a music festival over Labor Day weekend at Santa Claus Land. Santa Claus Land was a declining amusement park 150 miles away whose owners had hit upon the idea of a musical festival as a way to squeeze one more profitable weekend out of the season. The other members of Cougar Medicine thought it sounded cheesy and were dubious whether it would be truly rockin’ to play their unique brand of Post New-Wave Southern Techno-Funk at a place called “Santa Claus Land”. In the end, of course, Mickey convinced them.

Cougar Medicine practiced at the rented house shared by Fred, the lead guitarist and Jimmy O, who played the bass. Jeff’s girlfriend Carla, who was Jimmy O’s cousin, had the third bedroom, so it was there at the house that Jeff first met Mickey, about two weeks before Labor Day. Jeff was waiting for Carla to get ready – Jeff was taking her to a movie (her choice) and Tumbleweed for their three-month anniversary. Jeff was sitting on the couch finishing the last dozen or so bars of “Smoke on the Water” (Fred didn’t mind) when Mickey opened the front door, walked in and flumped down on the couch beside Jeff, who finished up the song with an odd little hammering-on flourish that Fred had showed him the week before.
Mickey said Jeff’s playing was “amaaazing” and introduced himself. Jeff was doing his best to tactfully demur and explain that he couldn’t really play when Carla came down the stairs, hungry and ready to go. Carla greeted Mickey with a smirk and a raised eyebrow and Jeff told him goodbye. Before they left, Mickey managed to extract a commitment that the two of them would be attending the Santa Slam.

APRIL

April Love (yes that was her real name, thank you very fucking much mom for a pole-dancing destiny) glared over her keyboard at D.K. the drummer, raising her palms and eyebrows in a gesture of exasperation and mock submission. Fucking Mickey had fucking done it again. It was bad enough to be playing at an amusement park, but now he was pulling yaps up onto the stage.

Not that it had turned out to be a bad gig. There were at least a couple hundred people in the audience, which was more than most of their bar shows. It just looked like less cause this fucking amphitheater (The North Pole Playhouse!) would hold ten times that many.

But Mickey was just so fucking impulsive. They had just finished “Plaid Flannel Blues” which went over pretty well, considering, when he starts jumping and flopping all over the place, pointing and hollering out into the crowd. Then he jumps down off the stage and is dragging this guy back up with him. Turns out to be Carla's boyfriend, Josh or Jeff or somefucking thing like that. She'd only met him a couple of times – didn't seem like a bad guy, maybe a little stiff.

None of which was so bad. But then Mickey and Jeff/Josh/Whatever stand there on the stage arguing for like five minutes. Fucking Mickey wants him to play guitar and he won't or can't. And they're going back and forth, Mickey pushing and pleading and the guy shaking his head. All this time the crowd's getting restless, so D.K., never one to miss a chance, starts out on a drum solo. This goes on for at least two and a half minutes, during which time all she and the rest of the band can do is smile and act like this is supposed to be happening. April swore that she would crack D.K.'s fucking skull with that crash cymbal after the show.

Finally Jeff/Josh shrugs and gives up, which seems to be how people usually end up reacting to Mickey. “Honest to God, it's the only thing I know,” April heard him say. So the guy comes over and grabs Fred's guitar and gets ready to play, which is a good thing because about this time not only is the crowd getting pretty damn restless and looking to see if there's a clear route to the nearest aisle, but all of a sudden there's some kind of disturbance at the very back of the hall. It looks like a guy in a bear suit is beating up Santa Claus, but she can't tell for sure. Anyway, Mickey comes over then and tells them they were going to play “Smoke on the Water” with Jeff/Josh.

Which just pissed April way the hell off because what was this some kind of 8th grade backyard three chord operation? What was next, Journey? But the crowd was really starting to lean toward the exits and she thought she saw rent-a-cops in the distance. Plus it was fucking pointless to argue with fucking Mickey.

And it turned out to be OK anyway, because Jeff/Josh could actually play, so he rocks out on some Deep Purple for five minutes or so, gives Fred his guitar back and sits back down. The audience likes it, cause he's one of theirs or something and he played a song they all knew which gets them back into the show. Santa Claus and the rent-a-cops seem to have disappeared – but the guy in the bear suit was still there doing some goofy-assed shuffling dance, which he continues to do for the rest of their set.

SASHA

Sasha and Dmitry stood where Andrei Alexey had told them to stand, near the stage where the rock bands played. It was not a good place for them to be. They could still see the Kharakov Brothers to their left, juggling in the entrance courtyard. And Boris Boris was swallowing flames just around the corner to his right. But Sasha was not comfortable, even with the close proximity of his friends. Sasha could tell that Dmitry did not like it there either. After 15 years traveling, living and working together, day after day, Dmitry was the closest thing Sasha had to a wife. Sasha cared about Dmitry. Plus, Dmitry was the last dancing bear there was. Without him Sasha had no way to make a living, much less travel away from the Soviet Union.

Dmitry didn't seem to like the some of the music, which was odd for a dancing bear. But this music was loud and discordant. Sasha didn't like it and neither did Dmitry. It drowned out their little cassette player with Dmitry's usual music on it. But Dmitry, bless him, was doing his best to dance to the music the rock bands played. He was a good bear.

What really disturbed Dmitry was the Santa Claus statue. It was big – taller than Dmitry. Every few minutes it would move back and forth, brandishing a stiff whip over the backs of eight little deers that floated in front of him. Every time it did this it emitted a spectral guffaw. Dmitry would flinch and jump. It was hot, and as the day wore on Sasha and Dmitry both became more and more uncomfortable in the unaccustomed heat. Dmitry kept edging away from the statue, but Andrei Alexey had said it was important to stay where he was. It was not good to trifle with Andrei Alexey.

Then the dog came and barked at Dmitry. Dmitry did not like dogs, but he was very well trained and the dog was only a little one. The dog stayed and barked at Dmitry for a long time though. It was very hot for Sasha and he knew that Dmitry was very hot too. He had the tired look in his eyes and he hung his shoulders. Sasha patted him and gave him his water bottle, but it did not help much.

Then the drums started. Dmitry did NOT like the drums. It was drums and only drums and they seemed to go playing by themselves forever. Dmitry became agitated and then more agitated. He growled and then bellowed and then roared. Still the drums played on. Sasha tried his best to soothe Dmitry and began trying to lead him away to a shady spot away from the drums, Andrei Alexey or no.

But just as he started to lead Dmitry away, the accursed Santa Claus statue started up. Dmitry froze. He was perfectly still for a long moment. Sasha did not recognize the look in his eyes. Then Dmitry roared again, reached up to the chain attached to his collar and snapped in two like a twig. He fell upon the statue in a frenzy, first battering it with swipes of his paws then lifting it bodily from it perch and dashing it to the ground, whereupon he wrenched Santa Claus's head from his body with a deft twist.

Sasha rushed to restrain Dmitry, but Dmitry gently brushed him aside, flinging Sasha to the pavement eight feet away. Sasha lifted himself from the ground in a panic and began edging around Dmitry toward his bag. There were hundred of people and many little children around. Dmitry began pounding the headless statue into the ground.

Sasha reached his bag and sadly opened the bottom compartment where he kept his revolver. He shook and wept as his hands closed around it. He could hear shouts and see uniformed men approaching.

Just then the drums stopped. Dmitry stopped too. The music started again. It was loud with a thumping beat. Dmitry dropped the statue and looked up. Sasha slid the pistol back into his bag. Dmitry stood and began dancing, heavily at first and then with a lightness and grace that Sasha had not seen for many years. He could swear that Dmitry was smiling.