It’s Halloween night and Black Cat Waltz has sold out the Nebula Lounge in downtown Los Angeles. The feeling is electric.
“I hope they play ‘The World’s Gone Red.’” I overhear a young woman say this to a young man beside her. She’s dressed like Dorothy and he’s dressed like Toto. She smokes what is either a hand-rolled cigarette or a joint—the smell suggests the latter. “This is gonna be interstellar.”
The night is crisp and tangy as an apple, which fits the season (it’s cold, especially for L.A.). I stand in a line that winds around the corner and out of sight. It’s composed of cats, vampires, ghosts, pixies, Holly Golightlys, witches, John Waynes, hobos, and more. I myself am dressed in a leather jacket, jeans, and loafers. If anyone wonders what I’m supposed to be, I’m prepared to say, “Journalist,” which is of course entirely true. Anyway, no one’s asked yet.
The mood is a rope ready to snap. Bits of B.C.W. songs float up from the cacophony, with different voices joining the chorus as they hear it. Shouts of “Let us in!” and “This should be a free event, man!” echo into the night. Cars pass cautiously, as if fearful of the gathered crowd.
Indeed, one can sense the single-mindedness of this group. This is not some random assortment of young people out to hear some live music—this horde is here for Black Cat Waltz. Or, perhaps more specifically, it’s here for Julian Strange.
I hear snippets of conversation. Oddly enough, they’re all about Mr. Strange. This seems nearly impossible when I reflect on it. No one’s talking about the end of the war or Jaws or Patty Hearst or the Thrilla in Manila. Here in this line on this night, we only talk about the man and the band we’re about to see.
“Open the doors!” someone shouts. And another person quotes, “You can’t see the forest from the trees, when you’re dead and beaten and down on your knees!”
Someone else: “Julian Strange will live forever!”
And another voice: “Open those doors, pig! We want in, pig!”
Presumably, that last comment is directed at the bouncers on either side of the door (though they’re not policemen, so far as I can tell). They stand there grumbling and looking murderous. The wrong annoyance would give them an excuse to hurt someone, I’d guess. They’d probably enjoy that.
A fight breaks out somewhere in line. Two of the club’s bouncers peel away from the door to end it. That gives others hope. Three men dressed as the Three Stooges make a break for it. They get halfway through the door before they’re hauled off by a fresh pair of bouncers. Curly screeches, “We just want to see him! We just want to see him!” That leaves only one man defending the entrance. He suddenly appears a deal less confident than he did a moment ago.
The moment doesn’t last long. The doors open a crack and a message is relayed; the single man at the door pulls it the rest of the way and stands aside, like a surfer avoiding the rush of a tidal wave. I’m pushed from behind and suddenly I’m running forward with the rest of them. It’s either that or be swept under.
We crash through the open doors and flood into the lounge. I spoke to the event promoter earlier in the day and learned the maximum capacity for this venue is 1,001. Judging by the size of the line outside, I expect the health department will receive a call sometime soon.
The chanting begins as soon as we’re inside. One name, repeated over and over again: “Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange!” There’s a band here tonight, though you’d think it was a solo act.
The chant continues and grows louder as new voices enter the space. I attempt to order a drink with little luck—Gandalf and a Janis Joplin look-alike cut ahead, and suddenly a fresh wave of bodies rushes forward. Oh well.
When the lights dim, the audience screams. The lights come up again, and for the first time I notice the stage is littered with gifts. Wrapped boxes, flower bouquets, lingerie, packs of cigarettes. More follow them.
The stage itself is a modest platform ringed by more expressionless men in black shirts. The crowd tries an approach, but even their shoving can’t break these guys. At least not yet. The equipment behind them is all set up: a many-piece drum kit, Marshall stacks, wires, monitors. One single microphone in the center of the stage. Rumor has it that while the other members of the band can sing, Julian Strange won’t allow it; he wants only his own voice heard during shows.
Figures appear onstage. The crowd explodes. My eardrums whine with the sound of voices, so many voices collected into one. The figures are as follows:
Warren Wilder, the band’s guitarist. He’s dressed as William Shakespeare, complete with a ruffle around his neck, tights, and an ink-stained quill in his ear. His blonde hair is shaped in the style of the Bard’s. He slips his Fender Stratocaster over his shoulder and bows to the crowd.
Then there’s Francisco Jones Jr., the band’s drummer. He places a foot on the shell of both his bass drums, and suddenly he’s standing atop his own kit, arms held high, forming a cross with his drumsticks. He’s dressed as one of the three little pigs, making the whole scene all the more surreal.
Next, Luther Bangs, the band’s bassist. I think he’s supposed to be a blueberry though I’ll admit it’s difficult to tell; he wears a blue shirt, blue pants, long blue socks, a blue hat over wild hair. Maybe he’s just a guy wearing blue clothes. He dons his Gibson Grabber and waits, elbows propped upon the top edge of his instrument, one leg crossed over the other. Bangs stands just out of reach of the stage lights, a man in the shadows. He fires off a bass lick, his fingers flowing deftly over four fat strings and composing a flawless scale.
Then comes a pause while the three men wait. There is a fourth member of Black Cat Waltz and the audience knows he’s back there somewhere. Their chant begins again, louder than ever before.
“Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange!”
Yet still no man himself. They roar, they shout, they scream their throats bloody, all for him, all for Julian Strange. Someone has fainted beside me and her friends are trying to haul her out while still keeping their eyes on the stage. The chanting continues.
The voices grow louder, somehow. It doesn’t seem possible, yet it’s happening. And they grow louder still at the sight of the curtain parting behind the stage.
An immense figure approaches the mic. His night-black hair is a silky curtain and his beard cascades down his face like a rushing waterfall. He wears a formless white gown. The room’s gone hazy with smoke, but one can still make out the crown of thorns circling the man’s forehead. Blood (I hope fake blood) leaks down his face and into his eyes. He raises his hands and reveals more on his palms. It would appear the origin points are two deep gouges in the centers of his hands. If I could see his feet from where I’m standing, I’m sure he’d have identical wounds there as well.
The man standing at the mic is Julian Strange. He’s dressed as Jesus Christ. Maybe tonight there’s no difference between the two.
“Good evening ladies. Good evening gentlemen. Good evening felines.” His voice is a comet rippling through space. More screams, most of which sound orgasmic. “Good evening, my children. Happy Halloween. I hope you came to sing and dance.”
More howls, more calls. The man’s presence is like blow to these people. I must admit, even I am drawn to his energy. He has a magnetism unlike any I’ve encountered, and he hasn’t even started singing yet. It’s amazing. It’s strange.
Julian Strange purrs something into the mic. “Do you need an exception to the rule?”
Jones strikes his crash cymbal, Wilder thunders a tremendous chord, Bangs’s fingers slide down the neck of his bass, and suddenly we’re off into the first song, this one titled, “An Exceptional Boy.” It’s a tongue-in-cheek semi-autobiographical song about Julian Strange’s own life, stylized as a musical tale about a boy named Little Mudge who loses his voice. (Mudge, of course, is Strange’s real surname.)
The audience erupts. There are no seats in the Nebula, but even if there were, I doubt anyone would be sitting. They bounce up and down and jerk from side to side and dance like devils around a pyre. They hang from low ceiling rafters and are eventually pulled down by security. They rush the stage and are cast backward. They reach for Strange and they shriek wild words. The music drowns them out.
No sooner has the song ended than another begins. The next one is “May I Have Another?”, a subversive condemnation of those who make war.
Strange preens about the stage, leers at the audience, jumps so high that at times he appears to float. A man his size shouldn’t move the way he does, but I’m watching it and I know it must be real. On the guitar, Warren Wilder’s fingers dance over his fretboard. His string bends are impossibly crisp. I’ve seen Hendrix, Blackmore, and Clapton live, and though this man isn’t them, he is damn close. Behind him, Jones rages away at his drum kit, striking it like an enemy in battle. And Luther Bangs stands off to the side, edging closer still to the backstage. His rumbling improvised basslines wind around the main melody and form a counter-solo to Wilder’s, yet the man himself is almost like a ghost. One might wonder where the sound of his instrument comes from.
They play “There’s Starlight in Your Future,” “Cue the Music,” and “Sing Us a Song (But Not That One),” all in rapid succession. The room itself seems to bounce; the air is heavy with the smell of marijuana and booze and human perspiration. At first I recoiled from the Halloween fabric rubbing against my skin, but now I’ve accepted it. In this room, one is not allowed personal space.
I keep expecting a mid-set break, but Black Cat Waltz never takes one. They continue with a pair of ballads: “Love is for Strangers” and “Janine.” Their energy seems inexhaustible. Julian Strange has by now torn off his gown to reveal the hairy chest beneath, which seems to contrast with the usually hairless image of Jesus Christ. He’s also not so skinny.
Some cops have entered the floor. At first I take them to be attendees in costume, but when they snatch joints from people’s lips and haul them toward the exits, it becomes clear they’re the real deal. One of them gets up toward the front of the crowd and screams something into the ear of one of the security guys. The guy listens, leans back, shakes his head, and shrugs. If they’re trying to shut the whole thing down, it seems that’s not going to work.
Onstage, Waltz plays a song called “Mortal Man Blues,” a psychedelic 12-bar jam from their first album which stretches as long as 15 or 20 minutes when they play it live. I have no idea how deep we are into this rendition; their presence on stage seems to warp my perception of time.
At some point, the bulkiest and meanest-looking cop of the bunch bellows something at the audience. Problem is, he’s having a shouting match with Luther Bangs’s amplifier. He’s not winning. His face is all red and spittle flies from his mouth; the veins in his thick neck stand out like clutching fingers. He screams, and no one reacts. All we hear is Black Cat Waltz. He waves his arms toward the exits, even tries dragging someone off, but he’s a siren in a hurricane. He’s been rendered meaningless.
After another minute of this impotent posturing, the cop turns to the stage. The band has not stopped playing since they started, and it’s almost midnight. I can’t see the cop’s face, but I can imagine the expression upon it: awe, disbelief, hatred, embarrassment. When he turns back to the crowd, he’s deflated. He disappears within the audience, and I don’t see him or his men again.
By now the show is winding down. I never thought it would happen, truth be told, except they’re now playing “Interplanetary Freeway,” which is another double-digit minute composition. This one always comes before the encore, I’ve heard. It’s as good as you’d expect, down to the improvised guitar jam, an extended drum solo, and a bit where Strange repeats Wilder’s guitar licks with nothing but his voice.
“We thank you,” Julian Strange says to the crowd when it’s all finally over. “You’re the best audience we’ve ever had.” (I’m told Strange makes this assertion to every audience he plays for.) “We’ve got to be going now. Bless you, thank you, and goodnight.”
Shrieks as they leave the stage. The lights go out and we’re plunged into blackness. Maybe it’s the reefer mist I’ve been inhaling, but I swear I’m seeing things in the dark. Glowing eyes, bared fangs, leathery wings, tails, tentacles, tongues. They must be costumes—though I don’t recall them looking so horrifying in the light.
A woman’s voice asks if I’d like to make love on the floor. I decline, explaining that I’m actually working. She growls something that sounds more animal than human. I’m jostled and bumped from all sides. Twice I’m nearly knocked off my feet. I don’t know what’s going on around me, but I don’t question it. This is no longer Halloween—this is the night of Black Cat Waltz. Of Julian Strange.
They’re calling Strange’s name again. This time it’s louder than before, more desperate. They scream and cry and beg not for Waltz, but for Strange himself.
An amplified voice answers them. “Meow,” it says.
The crowd shrieks, the lights come up, and there they are. Black Cat Waltz.
For the encore, Julian Strange wears his crown of thorns and nothing else. This, of course, is completely illegal: appearing before hundreds of people entirely naked (with a massive erection, no less) is not exactly by-the-book. It doesn’t matter. The music plays on.
The band launches into “Gift to the Universe” and the crowd sings along. Pure hive mind, as if everyone in the room knows every word. I even find myself joining them, though I’ll admit I don’t know the whole song. Doesn’t matter. My voice joins the others and for a while, there is no individual singer. Even Strange’s voice, loud as it is, weaves together with the rest. We’re all one for this last number, and it is glorious.
When they finish, Strange says nothing. He and his bandmates bow and wave and blow kisses, and then they vacate the stage without another word. It’s an amazing feat, what they’ve accomplished. The crowd seems finally sated. They turn their backs on the now-empty stage and head for the exits. I follow them.
Outside, the night feels colder than it should. You don’t have to listen long to hear voices singing the songs. They disperse into the dark, yet a part of Black Cat Waltz stays with them. A part of tonight will stay with me as well.
I spot Dorothy and Toto wandering down the sidewalk, arms locked around one another. Dorothy says, “See? What did I tell you? Inter-fucking-stellar.”
Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction.
© Kyle A. Massa, 2018. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be duplicated or distributed in any form or by any means without expressed written consent from the author.
