Anderson, Terry

English

Digital Commons @ Butler University

MANUSCRIPTS 5The Spider's WebTerry AndersonI believe in the music which you singI believe in the magic which you bringand even thoughthey say it's just a showI believe you speak the truthfor those of us aloneThe Warrior-Allen MercierThey were screaming for him that night- Screaming their lungsraw til) their voices were shrill and stretched like taffy, Their tearscould have floated a boat; their clapping could have crashed thewalls of Jericho. I can't imagine how many parents must havewondered when the children came home from that concert raving,their faces stained with tears, their hands red and sore from clapping,their nerves torn and frayed by the excitement.How he played that night! So good they were dancing in theaisles, hugging each other and feeling so fine that nothing couldhave brought them down. The smoke from the pipes and roaches,joints and turkeys was like a cloud that everyone could bounce upon.That night they were riding on an endless wave. A wave that carriedthem from one edge of the ocean to a distant shore, exotic and un-known. Somewhere they could only reach through him, and hismUSIC.Allen Mercier was a god that night. He plucked a bit of Brando,Christ, Napoleon, and ever Lucifer from the universe and showed itto them. He strutted and wiggled, kneeled and prayed to them,electrified them with his fantastic musicianship, transfixed them withhis lullaby voice.There were 40,000 kids crammed into that little auditorium. Allof them carne out in shock, and in love with Allen Mercier. Theydreamed they might meet him at a party. They envisioned the daythey met him on the street and he just smiled and said in that gentleGeorgia accent, "Why don't y'all come over and we'll smoke a littleand listen to some good jams."6 MANUSCRIPTSAllen was born in little McCaysville, Georgia, in the same yearHarry Truman decided Douglas MacArthur wasn't suited for theKorean \Var. His father was a civil engineer with the power company;his mother a piano teacher in the high school. His twin brother Tomwas the star quarterback for Georgia in the Peach Bowl; his oldersister Peggy an accomplished. and. recognized artist in New York. Butthis biography business is so black and while. It doesn't tell you thesecrets that were swirling around in his head when he disappearedinto the Georgia wilderness for two weeks without even leaving anote to his anxious, fearful parents. It doesn't explain why he quitthe University of Georgia and took off to New York to live in roach·infested apartments and subsist on beans and powdered milk.The money he did make carne from studio work, and from pan-handling on the street, neither of which brought in much to live on.New York was a disaster altogether. The winter hurt his health; thestruggling strained his nerves. In the spring he wound up in one ofthe 'modern' clinics trying to shake off the bad effects of some nastydope he hit.After he was released, he headed for California and dreams ofsuccess and sunshine. He only found the sunshine. Los Angeles is nota friendly town if you're alone and unready for its ways. He triedhard to get an "in" with the recording companies; but nothing, noteven the traffic signs, paid attention to his presence. So he packed hissuitcase again, and this time headed for the Canadian Rockies. Henever made it. A stop in Seattle introduced him to some old friendsfrom New York and a short job as a milk deliverer for a vendingcompany. But things were changing down the coast.That summer his luck returned. Friends back in L.A. weref,orrning a band and needed a piano player. Allen fit the bill andSweatshop started spinning. A few hits later, Allen was a minorname on the scene, known for his songs rather than his singing.But now his Io t, . h doorv anc 1. . .. 0 was In t e , d he needed only a s rove topush 111111 mto the limelight.".The push which opened the door was the Pt. Reyes MusicI'estival two years aa Y h 1 . .. 'bO. ou remem er t re scenes Irom the movies.rnazazme . I· ,I, ,"," S, anc SlX 0 clock news shows: 300000 kids carnp ing on.t iat scenic shoreli listeni . ' ., bne, lstenmg to their gods of rock mUSlC. I'hreeMANUSCIUPTS 7days of pot smoking and pill popping, nude swimming and grouplovemaking, three days of rock music and joyful celebration.Allen was the final act on the second night. It was really late,and everyone seemed drained of energy and will as they listened tothe set before his. But they caught fire almost immediately when hesang his Universal Suite for the Stars. That night had to be one of themost beautiful ever. The stars were like sequins on a velvet rope; themoon like a diamond pendant-and with Allen were 300,000 sailingoff to another galaxy.The news media grabbed his performance. They showed theworld the scene when thousands of fans swarmed the stage and carriedhim upon their shoulders as a new hero. \Vithin weeks he was thehottest, highest, most blazing figure in the music world. I remembergoing to a record store in Dayton and seeing his records gobbled upoff the shelf within an hour of release.It wasn't just a promotion trick either. Allen had talent, realtalent that everyone could see. The fat cats who had sat back, theirnoses turned up listening to the Philharmonic play Mozart, suddenlywere standing. He was on top, because as Ezra Pound had said,"He was good."But what about Allen? \Vhen the changes came. \Vhen the worldwas showing him with ovations. Where was Allen?The answer: he was back in the mountains, living as peacefullyand unnoticeably as possible. He was tinkering with his motorcycle,and writing music that was getting further and further into a sur-realistic texture. But he wasn't showing off; he wasn't even makingripples.r remember being up at his house near the middle of September,talking about his new project, a movie. Allen wanted to film a shortclip in which he imagines himself a fly stuck to a spider's web. Thecocaine he'd brought: out was soft and snowy, powdery and cool,and he was loose and very open. He said that he felt like he wasbeing drawn into the spider's web, and that any struggle only entangledhim 11l0re.He was tired, strained by the sudden rush of attention,r told him. He didn't answer, but went to the piano and played partof Tlie Warrior, and said that he had a feeling it would be his finalwork.r didn't: see him for a long time./3 MANUSCRIPTSComplications and other business kept me away from the Westfor almost a year. I'd been bouncing from one end of the Atlanticcoast to another like I was a kid on a pogo stick. It was through,my work in the East, and I was relaxing at: home when I received acall from Allen. I-Ie said the movie was finished and he'd writtensome music for it, and hoped that it could be performed soon. Heasked me if I would arrange a performance. I said "Yes, of course,"and we scheduled it for the end of October. He told me that he wantedit to be a surprise, so no onc-e-press, critics, not even I~could seeit.The press build-up was fantastic. Critics were waiting in linealongside the kids, eager to snatch up the limit of four tickets perperson. Allen was nowhere to be found. Reporters scoured everyhaunt they knew of for some advance revelations, but Allen had dis-appeared.That Friday in Concord was exciting. The radio stations hadreceived permission to broadcast; the T.V. crews, anticipating an-other Pt. Reyes, had dispatched cameras inside and outside theauditorium. On the street the police tensely waited for the crowdsto gather. Inside, Allen joked, saying he hoped the roof blew off andeveryone inside and out could see the movie and hear the music.We talked little. He was busy making sure that every screen,every projector, every amplifier and speaker was placed just right.I was worrying about the crowd gathered outside and the firemarshal's threats that the show would be cancelled if the aislesweren't kept clear.At eight o'clock I walked on stage and introduced Allen. Hewent to the piano and opened with a soft set of his more beautifulsongs. They were, of course, tight and flawless; but the crowd, abit restless, was anxious for the new music.After an hour he took a break and everyone buzzed, "This mustbe it coming." Soon Allen walked out on the stage to a single micro-phone in the middle. He waited while the crowd quieted down; andthen, when the auditorium was silent, he directed their eyes to thescreens along the walls. His movie, The Spider Web, was black andwhite, stark and very tense. It put the viewer in the place of the flyand showed the spider slowly creeping along the sparkling threadstoward its kill. Anxiety went up; the perspiration told on everyone'sMANUSCRIPTS 9forehead. Then, as mysteriously as it began, it ended-the spider notquite to the victim, the moment of death not quite arrived.Without words the music began, at first very solemn, slowlyrising and weaving as the film had. It was a long song, intricate indesign, but always building in tempo and spirit. By the end they weredancing. No longer afraid like the fly, they were celebrating; theywere alive and excited. And that's how he left them, ending thesong in a frenzied crash.Immediately after the show, Allen was gone. He wasn't founduntil three days later. Dead of course, his strength taken out of him,his lifeless body a cold shell.I'm sure he realized he was dying, and wanted to finish on thesame note his song did, one of jubilance, one of happiness:The candle which lights our wayAnd brightens 'gainst the greyis flickeringburning lowconfusing now our path to gobut i'm sure you who see the truthhave pity on uswho must chase our days aloneThe Warrior·Allen Mercier.

THE SPIDER\u27S WEB

https://digitalcommons.butler.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=3080&amp;context=manuscripts

THE SPIDER\u27S WEB

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