Interior. Chateau Marmont - Midnight

You wouldn’t expect these long corridors to be so quiet, given everything they’ve seen and heard, but oh so quiet they are. No echoes of Morrison or Bonham from the vaulted Gothic-inspired ceilings, no whispers of Belushi from their exposed beams, no murmurs of Bukowski in the dim-lit hallways, no traces of Bowie on the dark wood paneling on the walls; no sound coming from Sunset Boulevard either, only the muffled footsteps of the thin, big lipped man carrying a slim package of sorts under his arm, on his way to bungalow 27, a surprisingly brisk pace for an eighty two year old soul.

But this ain’t no ordinary soul, and rock and roll ghosts, contrary to what may be expected, tend to behave —out of boredom, not respect— in this holiest, most discreetly decadent of places.

— . —

This business that was about to be dealt with tonight was set in motion in a similar chateau, back in 1971, at a pop up hippie commune, peak rock-gods-running-from-the-law hideout called Villa Nellcôte, France, down in a humid, cable-ridden, smoke and booze filled basement, to be precise. Down there, standing at the gates of a revolutionary decade for artists, a cosmic rock and roll puzzle was sorting itself out, while questioning every part of music’s creative process: Who’s got a song, who’s got a riff, who’s willing, who’s eager, who’s here, who’s awake, who’s sober, who’s fucking up for this?

Music and ideas crawled their way down to that dungeon as they pleased, sometimes staying for days, only to disappear for weeks, in an unusual mixture of divine intervention and boredom, sprinkled with some hard work and every substance known to man. In between takes, the basement door would open and an assortment of guests, pushers, musicians, roadies, engineers, family and other characters would show their faces. Occasionally even members of the band would show up and lay down some parts.

Please allow me to introduce myself, said the thin, deep black eyed, sharp boned man that joined the queue on a dark yet clear night. They woke the big lipped man from a Benadryl dream and told him he had a visitor. They couldn't wake his music partner from his nightly H coma, but the big lipped man said he’d vouch for the guy, and so the not complete strangers met on a balcony, on that dark yet clear night, overlooking the mediterranean sea.

To this day, no two versions of that conversation agree. Some speak of fame, others of music, other still insist the subject was neither. You’ll get to watch them all wither away, you’ll sing and dance your way to the end of times, you’ll be last man standing, someone claims of overhearing, right before the men hugged.

— . —

The sleeve bore the face of many men, as if many men had to come and go for all of this to happen. Foreign tongues, the deep black eyed, sharp boned man sitting on the velvet sofa read out loud, taking a closer look, carefully setting it on a turntable by his side. The thin, big lipped man couldn’t remember the last time he was actually nervous; the bungalow inside was warm and cozy, but he could swear by the chills up and down his spine it was freezing. You see, the favor he came for was a big one.

He wanted out.

Rock and roll came blaring out of a pair of speakers. It was familiar territory: the riffs, the cadence, the voice. It wasn’t Villa Nellcôte fresh, but nothing had been ever since. The two men listened intently in silence, when it was done, the host nodded, and then went over every track with detail. The host pointed out more facts about the music than the big lipped man who’d actually made the music. The new drummer pushed, but there was less roll than rock now. Some good hooks, even a tribute to that powerhouse of a woman who passed at yes, 27. The record didn’t feel octogenarian, and perhaps that was its whole point. When the host ended his review — as he had done with every other record since France, in similar instances— he closed by saying he looked forward to the next one.

Big lipped man took a deep breath, searching for some courage to speak out. This is it, this is the last one, he finally said.

The host smiled, as if he sensed this was coming. Well what are you gonna do with all the time you have left? You know, eternity…last man standing, remember?

Big lipped man stood up and paced around the room, circling around the host. I’ll stop making records.

Smile went away from host. That wasn’t the deal, he said. I need the music.

I’ve said what I had to say, mate.

Then you’ll be a dead man among the living.

So be it, he said, and headed for the door. He wasn’t folding, he was willing to walk this earth forever with nothing left to give, a simple human in human clothes. Behind his back, the host played the record again, first riff, bluesy, drum fill, bouncy strut. Big lipped man heard his own voice roaring in, not half bad.

Dead man among the living, he thought when he got to the door. Not a bad title for a record, wasn’t it?