A 1st draft abridged extract from the third Toten Herzen novel There Will Be Blood v.2 (The novel will be published at the end of Toten Herzen’s Malandanti world tour, some time in 2016.)
Every time the main lights strafed the crowd Dee found a single member of the audience to focus on. In the sea of heads, the infinite pixellation of Rock in Rio, be it a man held aloft or a woman perched on a pair of shoulders, one individual received Dee’s exclusive attention.
“The organisers have told you not to form a pit, right?” Fifty metres from the stage monitors a fair haired woman roared her disapproval. “Well, we don’t come from a totalitarian state and last time I looked you kicked out your military leaders in 1985, so fuck ’em. If you want to form a pit, form a pit.”
The crowd stirred. A wave of furious energy pulsed from Dee’s right and the fans in the middle were crushed together.
“Get off your fucking knees and do what you want to do. Get off your fucking knees, you cocksuckers. . . .”
The compression in the crowd pulsed back to the edges; the fabric tore and a gap appeared.
Susan’s hand slipped down the neck of her Flying V, Elaine’s bass made the ground rumble and the tear spread, the crowd separated and the mother of all mosh pits opened like the mouth of hell.
Over the din, the terrible heartbeat of Rene’s kick drums, Susan’s arpeggiated melody and Elaine’s throat grabbing rhythm, Dee thrashed F Major and the crowd poured into the gap. Fists and feet swirled like a human whirlpool and the violence rippled through 200 000 bodies.
Dee played on. She felt the ground move as if the audience had stopped with the earth continuing to rotate around them; turning the venue anti-clockwise, the movement, the friction, like a tectonic shift roaring above the PA system.
Toten Herzen’s total wattage couldn’t compete with the mayhem. Elaine balanced on a Marshall stack, her eyes shut, mouth open. Susan balanced on the monitors front of stage, hair swinging in time to the circulation of the crowd travelling through space like an out of control galaxy.
Dee continued singing. She knew the crowd couldn’t hear her. The bother had started, the genie out of the bottle. The spiral galaxy had found its black hole and by the time the song was concluding riot police stood stage left.
The end of the song rumbled on. “The men in hard hats are here to take you away,” she shouted. “You’re not ready to fucking go home, are you?” The crowd howled. “So, you gonna let these fucking robocops send you home?” Every time she paused, the response hit her in the face, “’cause we haven’t finished yet.” She looked around at the activity amongst the technicians stage right. “And if anyone pulls the fucking plug on us I’ll eat the fucking president for my supper. . . .”
The scream of the crowd and the thunder of the band conspired to push the concert ever closer to an ugly finale. The air filled with missiles, anything that could be thrown, hurled, lobbed, heaved, went back and forth, left and right. The crowd shifted and rolled, controlled by the invisible generals commanded by Dee’s maniacal instruction.
She sang, sweated, hunched over the mic feeding the aggression surging from the venue. Susan was gone, lost in the mesmeric chaos; her tall figure oblivious to the push and shove multiplied by 200 000.
And when the main beams arced across the crowd, Dee saw the full extent of what she had started. The battlefield and the fires, the charges, retreats, a swirling spinning wasteland; Brazil on the move, hurtling towards another Toten Herzen headline.
The band left the stage at one minute past one, Sunday morning.
“Riots in the favelas,” said Scavinio hypnotised by the newsfeeds on his phone.
“Good,” said Dee. “We need the column inches. They’ll have to chop down the biggest tree in the forest-”
“Was that necessary?” Scavinio’s question stopped the band, and the number of uniforms in the backstage area became apparent for the first time. “Yes, you’ll get the column inches, the column miles. They’re talking about it in Beijing. Do you think they’ll let you play anywhere after this?”
Dee thought ahead to South Africa and Israel and Azerbaijan, Mombai, New Zealand (timid little island full of orcs and hobbits), and said, “There might be some localised objections.”
“It’s a silly rule, Tom.” Susan’s head covered by a white towel made her look like a nun.
“A silly rule?”
“Yeah. If you don’t want people to break the rules don’t set any rules.”
Scavinio scratched the back of his head with his phone. “What sort of logic is that Susan?”
“My logic.” And off she went, followed by the others: pop pop pop pop, four vampires vanishing, off to their hotels, their hunting grounds, their shadowy corners and a post-gig meal.