Leaning into the black metal mic beneath a hot spotlight, I feel no cold desperation, no stage fright. I’m wearing work shoes, blue jeans, a black leather jacket and a purple long-sleeved shirt buttoned to the neck. At 67, I have no children or pets and resemble very few grandfathers my age.
“This is a song for a serial killer,” I tell the crowd at Border Bar in Pittston, Pa., where Camp Rattler headquarters vibrates like a coiled desert serpent preparing to strike.
Head camp counselor James Callahan observes from the shadows at the back of the room. Tattoos on his long arms move. The bartender pours drinks and pulls beers. Jami Kali and her little sister sit like mystics at a table against the wall. Other members of her tribal band linger on the edges of tonight’s deep scene.
Taking a strong breath, I unload unrecorded song lyrics to “Blood Red Syrah,” words to blow your mind that set the stage for me to read the first chapter of my novel of the same name.
“No peace of mind exists in Wally’s head amid the wrecked debris. Drunken vineyard demons wait along the coastal sea. Corkscrewed eyeballs pop like Champagne corks at night. Wally sticks another one – far out, out of sight.
Sadness stalks a lonely road along the western edge. Coastal losers walk along a raw wine country ledge. Seeking truth in tortured lives left scattered on the way, Wally’s got just one way out – it’s much too late to pray.
Blood red syrah leaks tears hot from my eye, blinding me to happiness and many reasons why Wally Wilson laughed then chose me to die. Blood red syrah leaks tears hot from my eye, blinding me to mercy and many reasons why Wally Wilson laughed and then chose me to die.”
Psychedelic sickness decants a killer Cali whine. Syrah screaming in his head while soaring to cloud nine. Cosmic coded wisdom will one day stop his cold tirade. Once he sits and gives his life – a mad Zen renegade.
Tongues of flame lick red hot coals and turn his mind to ash. Igniting fast in Wally’s head so sad they had to clash. Wally Wilson found his peace beneath a redwood tree, enlightened by the lives he took that finally set him free.
Blood red syrah leaks tears hot from my eye, blinding me to happiness and all the reasons why Wally Wilson laughed and then chose me to die. Blood red syrah leaks tears hot from my eye, blinding me to mercy and all the reasons why Wally Wilson laughed and then chose me to die.”
The crowd applauds. I introduce myself and tell them a little about my novel, about how the read gets rough at times. But, I say, we must face harsh reality together if we ever hope to know what we believe and what we’re willing to do about the violence. I tell them Syrah is the voice inside Wally’s head and also the name of a red wine. I say Wally is mentally ill and refuses to take his medication. I tell them he wants to rid his life of Syrah but loves her desperately, too.
Chapter one goes well. I stumble over words once or twice because the lighting is dim. My voice gets rough from a raw delivery. The bar crowd pays attention. I’m impressed. So I kick in with an encore, lyrics from a second unrecorded unperformed song – eerie, haunting and best suited to a powerful young woman’s voice.
“This one is called “Syrah’s Siren Song,” I say.
“My sweet voice lives in your head – unspoken words best left unsaid. Taunts that threaten to the core inspire my mayhem to explore a world you sadly do abhor.
Tell me how to talk to you – what dear Wally can we do to make our lives the way we must to live together in shared trust. Tell me how to please calm down, to dwell in peace rather than drown.
My sweet voice screams in your head – unspoken words best left unsaid. Taunts that threaten to the core inspire my mayhem to explore a world you sadly do abhor.
Tell me how to care and love, to stop destroying those I shove off cliffs into the swirling sea. Tell me how my beauty hurts when I treat you just like dirt.
Tell me how to live again. Tell me to forgive again. Teach me how to meditate. No, I want to aggravate.
My sweet voice howls in your head – unspoken words best left unsaid. Taunts that threaten to the core inspire my mayhem to explore a world you sadly do abhor.
Tell me if we’ll win again, tell me that we’ll sin again, tell me when the tidal wave comes crashing in, to lock me in the loony bin. Is the devil truly you? Tell me Wally, tell me true. Tell me, Wally, tell me true.”
Sweating from adrenaline and the increasing heat from the overhead lights, I drop the book and take a bow. Stepping from the stage, squaring my shoulders and heading to the pool table, I know we’re onto something.