Salt of the king, p.9
Salt of the King, page 9
“Of course,” said Dietz. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t be of service.”
“You mean … you can’t tell your musicians about the gig? I’m sure some of them would jump at the chance to make a little extra money.”
“You may be right,” said Dietz. “But that’s not how the orchestra functions. We are not a bevy of freelancers, ready to jump into the studio to help record a bebop tune.”
“It’s a serious recording project,” said Harold. “I’d call it art rock.”
“Whatever you call it, the Duro Symphony Orchestra is a unit. The individuals are not for hire.”
Harold had not expected a slammed door. “But … Mr. Dietz … Doctor Dietz … it’s not a union project. I just need some musicians who want to work.”
“Then run an ad in the newspaper,” said Dietz. “My musicians are not available.”
“Can’t you just let them know?” asked Harold. “Tell them there’s this chance for a little extra work on the side?”
Dietz looked down over his glasses. “I’m afraid not. In fact, if any of my artists decided to try and sneak around behind my back for a little extra cash at your … ahem … gig … they would be booted out of the orchestra and out of the union.”
“Wow … that’s harsh,” said Harold.
“Firm, I believe, is the word you’re looking for. The rules are clear and were established to protect the musicians and the integrity of the business.”
A big, fat monkey wrench, tossed right into the gears. Harold knew there was always unexpected turbulence at various points in a project. It always happens. But hiring local classical musicians was not something he had worried about. By going straight to the conductor, he was keeping everything aboveboard and clear, avoiding threats to anybody’s territory. What he got was a complete roadblock. Not only could he not hire union musicians, he’d be putting their careers in jeopardy if he talked a few into helping him. What a fatuous ass.
The phone rang, and the conductor took the call, nodding toward his guest to let him know the conversation was over.
HAROLD DROVE BACK to Best Studios, where JJ Johns was working with Allen Wallace on test recordings. Harold was glad to be away from the studio, because Allen Wallace had a reputation for tweaking lyrics and arrangements, and JJ did not take well to somebody messing with his words. Tension between engineer and artist was likely, and Harold thought it best to stay out the way. Still, he had to break the bad news.
Harold had written a two-hundred-dollar “we’re serious” check, and Wallace, in turn, had given Harold a key to the studio. This showed a lot of trust on the part of the studio owner. He told Harold and JJ they could let themselves in anytime as long as they followed the cardinal rules: Park in back, leave nothing in the car, and lock every lock both coming in and going out. Also, keep the thermostat at sixty degrees.
Harold pulled up behind the studio. He hoped it was going well. Rather than banging on the metal door, Harold used his key to let himself in through the double layers of security.
Wallace and JJ were both in the little studio. JJ sat in a folding chair with his Telecaster, which was plugged into a small tube amplifier. Wallace waved to Harold when he walked into the control room.
“Let’s try it my way now, just one time,” said Wallace.
“Start from the second verse?” said JJ. “Man, that makes no sense. If I do that, start right in the grim part—the poison river and the polluted air and everything—it’s too fast. Plus, the audience isn’t going to know what I’m talking about. It’s a weird place to start the song.”
“You’re right,” said Wallace. “But it will hook them right away, make them sit up and say ‘What’s this guy talking about?’ And then they’re going to say ‘I wonder where this is going. I better keep listening.’”
“Or just get mad and turn off the radio,” said JJ.
“Just try it, for me.”
“Okay,” sighed JJ. “Second verse, chorus, then first verse?”
“No, second verse, first verse, then chorus. The chorus is your payoff.”
“Alright. I’ll try it.”
“Fantastic! Now, this time I want you to lean a little back from the vocal mic. Especially during the chorus.”
Wallace stepped in to the control room, where Harold waited. “You want to play piano on this? It’s just a test run to get a feel for the song.”
“No,” said Harold. “That’s fine. Go ahead.”
Wallace shut the studio door, then sat down at the soundboard and switched on the engineer’s microphone.
“You with me?” he said.
On the other side of the glass, JJ gave a thumbs up. Wallace was using the older eight-track recorder. He punched the forward button, and the reels turned.
“Okay, we’re rolling. Take it from the top.”
JJ shut his eyes and leaned back a little, then began strumming the rhythm part. As instructed, he began with the second verse. JJ crunched a hard chord on the telecaster and sang loud.
“The roiling deathly waters here
Roll towards a poisoned sea.
Beneath these clouds of smoke and soot,
And I wonder why nobody else can see
What’s going on … what’s going on …”
JJ paused. “You want me to go straight into the first verse right there.”
“Exactly,” said Wallace. “Except … wait a second. Let’s work on that line ‘Wonder why nobody else can see.’”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“You’re rhyming sea with see.”
“They’re different words,” said JJ. “It’s a perfectly good rhyme.”
“It’s off-putting,” said Wallace. “Let’s go with something stronger. How about ‘Sometimes I think nobody cares but me’? Doesn’t that sound good? Makes it more personal. And it’s a better rhyme.”
“Maybe … whatever,” sighed JJ. He scribbled notes on his tablet, adding to the tangle of previous notes.
“Take it from the top,” said Wallace. “We’re still rolling.”
“All right.”
“I see the deathly waters here …”
The session was under control, if tense, so Harold left the room to get a soda out of the refrigerator and to think. What a glitch! In Tulsa, he would have had no trouble collecting nine classical musicians, easygoing, professional, and willing to make a few bucks on the side cutting a pop record. Not here. Could he find anyone else to drive out to the Texas desert for four days of low-paid work? Possibly, but not likely. What other options were there? Well, there were other orchestras in West Texas. Also, he knew there was a local college here in Duro. It might have a music department, and he could round up some acceptable student talent. It was worth checking out.
Harold retrieved a Dr Pepper from the refrigerator and popped off the cap with a bottle opener attached to the door by a piece of kite string. He sat down at Wallace’s desk and took a sip. The expansive desktop was mostly bare. There were a couple of stacks of notes and some sheet music. The only decoration was a framed picture of an attractive Black woman with tall, girl-group hair. It was a five-byseven publicity photo. Harold picked it up for a closer look. There was a notation on the bottom, in a looping, flowing script.
Love to Allen,
my Heart and Soul
your Mabel
Harold didn’t know the singer, though her wide face and hairstyle reminded him of Eartha Kitt or maybe one of the Ronettes. Of all the artist photos in the office, this was the only one that had earned a place on Allen Wallace’s desk. Harold was fascinated by the woman’s face, sepia toned with soft focus. Striking dark eyes, just a hint of smile …
“That’s my second wife,” Allen said from the doorway. Harold hadn’t seen him come in.
“I’m sorry,” said Harold. “I was messing around with your desk. I just saw the picture. She’s a beautiful woman. I love these old-style fan photos.” He set the picture back in its place.
“She was a beautiful girl,” said Allen. “She still is. And I miss her every day. Hey, could I get into that desk for a second? I need a pen that works.” Harold scooted out of the way. Allen chucked an old Bic pen into the trash can, slid the center drawer open, and found a replacement. He made a couple of quick doodles on a scrap of paper to make sure the pen worked, then returned to the control room.
“Okay,” Harold heard him say from the other room. “Strum one bar, then go into the chorus.”
Allen Wallace was married to a Black soul singer? Here in this roughneck part of the world? People are interesting.…
CHAPTER 11
A Chance to Make It Right
Unlike almost every other Freemason lodge in the South, Local 886 was growing. This could be explained in part by what was happening in Duro, which was bathing in its fourth major oil boom since the town was incorporated in 1895. The population had swelled by 5,000 in just the past three years.
Typical Masons were grayheads, with an average age in their mid-fifties. Young men showed little interest these days in their fathers’ fraternal organizations. The Shriners, Elks, Jaycees, and Odd Fellows were all experiencing a similar decline. The Duro chapter of the Loyal Order of Moose had closed its doors for good in 1969.
In contrast, the Duro Masons had inducted six new members in the past year, all of them young professionals in their twenties and thirties. This was a notable accomplishment, and many in Lodge 886 credited the past master, Tony Pomeroy, with the turnaround. In his two years as worshipful master, Tony had emphasized both recruitment and a high public profile for the lodge. When they sponsored a fundraising drive to help Duro residents whose homes were damaged in the flash flood of 1970, Tony had coordinated the effort and made sure everyone knew the lodge was behind it. He curried friendships among local newsmen and TV reporters and kept them apprised of Masonic activities, both major and routine. Food, clothing, and toy drives were all reported and touted, and every parade had a Mason float.
In January, Tony had stepped down from the master role and was elected senior warden. The new master, Eddie Hudson, was perfectly happy to let Tony continue as the public face of Craft Freemasonry on the Caprock.
Lately, Tony had been occupied with a new assignment: planning, and paying for, a restoration of the old monument out on Highway 652. The October general meeting of the lodge was held the second Tuesday of the month. For October, Tony had located, befriended, and invited a special guest speaker: Alex Dunbar, historian of Grand Lodge 460 of northwest Texas, based in Lubbock. It was said that he knew everything there was to know about Texas Freemasonry, all the way back to 1835, when that first group of Tennessee Masons had ferried across the Sabine. Tony hoped that Dunbar could give the members of 886 a sense of the rich history surrounding the monument and perhaps impart a little more excitement about the restoration and a willingness to cough up money. Tony was almost alone in his interest in the monument. He had visited it many times as a kid and a young man and had found the place wonderfully mysterious and beautiful, even in decay.
These days, its condition was, in a word, disgraceful. There had been no attempt to repair, clean, or even mow the grounds around the structure in many years. Few Masons even bothered to drive out and see it. Some of the newer members didn’t know it existed, much less that it once held special significance for Masons the world over. As late as 1965, the lodge had held an induction at the site, and even then, it was an embarrassing mess. The facing stone was chipped in numerous places, the iron plaque had rusted, trash had piled up around the base, and graffiti marred the central obelisk. The small parking area and footpath to the site were overgrown with hackberry, prickly pear, and other shoe-piercers.
The old monument’s greatest flaw, Tony knew, was its location. It may have been only a dozen miles from Duro as the crow flies, but there was no easy or obvious way to get there. Its position by the big salt flat was a major impediment, because the state never built a highway across it; hard desert rains every few years would briefly turn it back into a real lake. From Duro, it was a twenty-mile drive involving several meanders and two ninety-degree turns. The closest human dwelling was five miles away, in Autry, a tiny village on its way to becoming a ghost town. However, the location was the one thing they couldn’t do anything about.
Master Hudson couldn’t make the Tuesday night meeting, so Tony served as chairman. There were nineteen members present. Respectable, though Tony had hoped for more, especially since he had personally invited an out-of-town guest. There were also two visitors, a young engineer recently moved up from the Rio Grande valley, and Tony’s own son Nicky.
Now that Nicky was twenty-one and had returned to Duro, Tony hoped he would consider joining the lodge. He hadn’t shown much enthusiasm so far, but he did agree to attend tonight’s meeting. At the very least, Tony could count on Nicky to pay attention during the guest lecture. The boy had loved the monument when he was growing up, loved it when the family drove out to see it, loved hearing stories about it and making up his own. If the site’s restoration were up to Nicky, it would be a surety.
The lodge meeting began, as usual, gradually. There was the casual half hour of hobnobbing, shoulder rubbing, and social networking by the members before Tony brought the regular meeting to order. After the invocation, he hurried the group through the minutes, old business and new business, as efficiently as possible, for which everyone was grateful. He then introduced Alex Dunbar.
Dunbar was a short, bald, and owlish man who talked confidently in a high, raspy voice. He had asked Tony to provide a slide projector and screen. This got everyone’s attention. Whatever this guy was planning to say, it involved visual aids and might be interesting. Tony gave a short introduction and turned the meeting over to the historian.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Dunbar said. “And thank you, Master Pomeroy. I really appreciate these opportunities to talk to fellow Masons in some of the smaller, out-of-the-way lodges around the state.”
The remark irritated Tony. We’re not that small, friend. But he kept his mouth shut, smiled, and nodded.
Dunbar continued. “I was especially excited when I heard about your plans to restore the energy-line monument out in the western part of this county. The Pyle Monument, it’s usually called. The structure has a fascinating history, and I’m hoping that, tonight, I can put its importance into some context. I also have a suggestion that I hope is not too radical. But I get ahead of myself.”
Dunbar switched on the slide projector, with its noisy fan.
“If someone could get the lights, please.”
Tony complied.
As the projector fan rattled, the first slide chunked into place, and Dunbar adjusted the focus. It was a black-and-white outline drawing of the United States, with the state borders rendered as simple lines. In addition to latitude and longitude, the map was crisscrossed with diagonal lines, forming thin diamond patterns on the map. Some of the lines were thicker than others.
“Many of you have seen this famous map before, I’m sure. It shows the major and minor ley lines that cross North America. From this photo, we can’t appreciate the extreme detail of this map, which is enormous—four feet by six feet. The original, which is stored in the Masonic Temple in Washington, DC, is in very delicate condition, but fortunately, there are excellent copies. As you can probably see, two major ley lines cross through West Texas and intersect a few miles southwest of town. Now, here’s a detail.”
He switched to the next slide, which showed the western part of Texas where the southeast corner of New Mexico juts in. The ley lines were prominent, and at their crossing point in West Texas there was a small printed notation:
31°31′31″N
103°10′3″W
“Please note the significance of that latitude and longitude. We’ll come back to it in a bit. Meanwhile, it’s important to remember that the map predates any attempt to describe and survey this part of West Texas. In other words, our forefathers, the ones who studied these azimuthal alignments, knew nothing whatever about Texas geology. They just calculated locations on an inaccurate map. However, they knew the importance of numbers. The latitude thirty-one degrees thirty-one minutes north is of particular importance. If you follow that line around the globe, you find yourself crossing some of the most studied temples and burial sites in Egypt.” He flipped through a series of slides of Egyptian tombs, probably photographed from travel books. “Keep going east, and you pass through some truly ancient burial sites in northern India.” A slide of several eroded statues. “And eventually, you find yourself at Longhua temple in Shanghai, China.” Another slide, this time of a vine-covered ruin. “Not as famous as the Jade temple, but older and more historically important.”
Dunbar looked up from his notes. The Masonic faces in the room, lit by projector, were mostly blank, as if they were watching slides of somebody’s vacation. He kept going.
“Now, the longitude one hundred three degrees ten minutes west is special for a different reason. There are some very powerful magnetic anomalies along the parallel but little in the way of human historical sites. In Texas, it passes through the edge of the salt lake that’s near the Pyle Monument—La Sal Del Rey, it’s called. Most of you have at least driven past it, though I’ve heard there’s not much water left. Did you know it’s one of only two natural lakes in Texas?”
He looked up. No response.
“Like I said, nothing very special in the US, but when you get to Mexico …” He went to the next slide, which was of a series of enormous round earthen structures. “The longitude passes through a very significant pre-Aztec ruin, the temple called Tzintzuntzan. Let’s say it together—tzin … tzun … tzan.” He chuckled. Not a laugh out of anyone.
Tough crowd, he thought.
“So, what I’m trying to show is that the lines are important, but there are many such lines around the globe, and the ancient Egyptians and Greeks and Chinese knew them well. What makes the Pyle site meaningful? I’ll show you.”
