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"The Morbid Tabernacle Choir"
May. 28th, 2022 05:00 pm"The Morbid Tabernacle Choir"
7/14/1963
I.
They drew a few interested looks at the gas station. Their vehicle was a brand new, gleaming white Chevy van with the words WENT LOOKING FOR AMERICA airbrushed on one side in flowing Art Nouveau lettering. The other side displayed a droll image of a disgruntled Bald Eagle walking along with its head down. The attendant finished filling the tank, then took some paper towels and a bottle of Windex from a rack on the pump and cleaned the windshield.
As he was wiping, the middle-aged man's eyes bugged out. Sitting behind the wheel was a face he had seen on magazine covers and albums, as well as guest appearances on THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW. Still in his very early twenties, thin to the point of seeming starved in his red long-sleeved shirt, the driver had a face marked by a prominent beaked nose and shaggy dark blond hair which passed his collar on both sides. From one corner of the thick-lipped mouth dangling the stub of a nearly finished cigarette.
"Yeah, it's me," said the driver without enthusiasm. "Michael Sean Cadogan, better known to my screaming fans as Mick Jackal."
Accepted a few dollars for the gas, the attendant grinned. "My daughter would wet herself if she saw you, Mr Jackal. She cuts out every picture of you she can find and pastes them into scrapbooks."
The young man behind the wheel flicked his cigarette butt to the ground. "Have you heard the band's music, eh? What yer think?"
"Not for me. I still like big band music, it's what I grew up with. But it's a new generation, let them enjoy themselves with that they go for."
A huge smile split the pleasantly homely face. "I like that! I like you, mate, you've got a live and let live attitude."
"Very pleased to have met you," put in the seraphic-featured young blonde in the passenger seat. She gifted the attendant with a blissful smile. On this muggy July afternoon, she was wearing a blue piece of thin cloth with tied around her neck to leave her shoulders and arms bare. She was slim and looked fine without a bra.
Not knowing how to respond, the attendant merely stepped back and waved as the van pulled away."
"He was right smitten with you, Jane," said the singer, digging in a shirt pocket for another cigarette from the crumpled back. "Appears to me the front of his pants got tighter."
"Oh, please," Jane York scoffed. "It's so hot out that I bet he sees a hundred half nude young women today."
From the rear of the van, another young woman leaned forward to peer between Mick and Jane. She was still a teen, quite short and full-bodied in a loose pullover sweater. Her friendly roundish face was noticeable for a pair of round-rimmed glasses with remarkably thick lenses. "I'm not getting anywhere with that song about the ticking clock," she grumbled. "All I've got is something about 'time hurtles on/like a car without brakes/The gifts it bestows are not half what it takes.'"
"Eh, that could work. Keep at it, Tamster. I need something strong to close the first side."
"Side Two could open with an alarm clock going off and kickstart a livelier song," Tamster suggested.
"Write all this stuff down, wilyer?" he said. "Even phrases and scraps. One never knows what pieces will fit together."
"And I need a spotlight song to show off my wonderful crystal-clear tenor," Jane put in.
From the rear of the van, a sleepy male voice added, "Don't forget, this album is supposed to be about finding the real America. Beneath all the corruption and greed and race hatred, we find MORE corruption and greed and race hatred."
"Back to daydreaming with you," Mick Jackal laughed. "You're still high, Ragged. Tamster, do you think that Sooner needs a walkie?"
"He seems quiet. You're okay, aren't you boy?"
For the first time, a hard edge crept into Mick's voice. "After what he did last night, he really should be tired."
( the rest of the story )
7/14/1963
I.
They drew a few interested looks at the gas station. Their vehicle was a brand new, gleaming white Chevy van with the words WENT LOOKING FOR AMERICA airbrushed on one side in flowing Art Nouveau lettering. The other side displayed a droll image of a disgruntled Bald Eagle walking along with its head down. The attendant finished filling the tank, then took some paper towels and a bottle of Windex from a rack on the pump and cleaned the windshield.
As he was wiping, the middle-aged man's eyes bugged out. Sitting behind the wheel was a face he had seen on magazine covers and albums, as well as guest appearances on THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW. Still in his very early twenties, thin to the point of seeming starved in his red long-sleeved shirt, the driver had a face marked by a prominent beaked nose and shaggy dark blond hair which passed his collar on both sides. From one corner of the thick-lipped mouth dangling the stub of a nearly finished cigarette.
"Yeah, it's me," said the driver without enthusiasm. "Michael Sean Cadogan, better known to my screaming fans as Mick Jackal."
Accepted a few dollars for the gas, the attendant grinned. "My daughter would wet herself if she saw you, Mr Jackal. She cuts out every picture of you she can find and pastes them into scrapbooks."
The young man behind the wheel flicked his cigarette butt to the ground. "Have you heard the band's music, eh? What yer think?"
"Not for me. I still like big band music, it's what I grew up with. But it's a new generation, let them enjoy themselves with that they go for."
A huge smile split the pleasantly homely face. "I like that! I like you, mate, you've got a live and let live attitude."
"Very pleased to have met you," put in the seraphic-featured young blonde in the passenger seat. She gifted the attendant with a blissful smile. On this muggy July afternoon, she was wearing a blue piece of thin cloth with tied around her neck to leave her shoulders and arms bare. She was slim and looked fine without a bra.
Not knowing how to respond, the attendant merely stepped back and waved as the van pulled away."
"He was right smitten with you, Jane," said the singer, digging in a shirt pocket for another cigarette from the crumpled back. "Appears to me the front of his pants got tighter."
"Oh, please," Jane York scoffed. "It's so hot out that I bet he sees a hundred half nude young women today."
From the rear of the van, another young woman leaned forward to peer between Mick and Jane. She was still a teen, quite short and full-bodied in a loose pullover sweater. Her friendly roundish face was noticeable for a pair of round-rimmed glasses with remarkably thick lenses. "I'm not getting anywhere with that song about the ticking clock," she grumbled. "All I've got is something about 'time hurtles on/like a car without brakes/The gifts it bestows are not half what it takes.'"
"Eh, that could work. Keep at it, Tamster. I need something strong to close the first side."
"Side Two could open with an alarm clock going off and kickstart a livelier song," Tamster suggested.
"Write all this stuff down, wilyer?" he said. "Even phrases and scraps. One never knows what pieces will fit together."
"And I need a spotlight song to show off my wonderful crystal-clear tenor," Jane put in.
From the rear of the van, a sleepy male voice added, "Don't forget, this album is supposed to be about finding the real America. Beneath all the corruption and greed and race hatred, we find MORE corruption and greed and race hatred."
"Back to daydreaming with you," Mick Jackal laughed. "You're still high, Ragged. Tamster, do you think that Sooner needs a walkie?"
"He seems quiet. You're okay, aren't you boy?"
For the first time, a hard edge crept into Mick's voice. "After what he did last night, he really should be tired."
( the rest of the story )
