Album Worlds, Part Two

         

 Kerig Knox sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor with the door locked riffling through the shorter of two piles of record albums setting before him. The first world he visited had been “The Allman Brothers – Live at the Fillmore East” and now he desired to visit a second album’s world. In front of his crossed legs a dozen “finalist albums” sat, splayed out so he could see each of the twelve covers at once in order to render a decision a little more efficiently, but by no means easier. This must be how parents feel when they must choose one child over the other… or others. Like ten more others, for a total of a dozen children. It’s nowhere close to “Sophie’s Choice” but it is still a rough, unpleasant experience. He began in earnest to decide and decided he would give a final, one-minute assessment of each of the remaining eleven record albums.

Most were his older albums, most of which bore one large round water stain roughly the size of a Long-Playing, 33 RPM record that had marked both front and back covers, a result of leaving his record collection on the concrete floor of his sister’s garage while he backpacked throughout Europe in the summer of 1976 as a graduation gift to himself. He wanted to make the best-possible choice for this sequel because the first trip had been such a mind-blowing; no, mind-altering experience. He reflected on how much this music had formed his own, private soundtrack for his life and the lives of those around him, but he could not forget how horrifying and sudden his teleportation back to the Allman Brothers’ concert in March of 1971 at Mr. Bill Graham’s Fillmore East venue had been. And so, after just three weeks, the eighteen-year-old college freshman felt ready to explore another world inside a record album. Or would it fail, and that first time would be it? Or, maybe not “it,” but a hallucination, dream, or delusion? Kerig knew it had not been his first and he hoped it wouldn’t be his last teleportation. He liked the funky, quasi-scientific way it sounded.

          Although Kerig identified first as an adventurer he did his best to counter that sometimes extreme person with making precise decisions relating to what could potentially be one hell of a wild adventure. So, the conservative part of him decided to stay in his comfort zone and go with another black-and-white cover from his largely colorful cover collection. Maybe not as much drama or glitz as there would be inside a technicolor album. Black and white seems safer, he thought. So, that was that. One of two of Kerig’s remaining b & w LP cardboard covers sat atop the splayed pile and beckoned him to pick up and inspect it for the umpteenth time in three weeks.

            The front design consisted of a stark black and gray photograph depicting Neil Young and an unknown older lady. They walk in opposite directions on a sidewalk probably in London – the straw-haired Young walking left while the woman behind him strides to the right without having completely cleared the musician, just her back leg and backside missing. The pint-sized octogenarian, bundled in black long coat with matching muffler and hat, clutches her outsized satchel purse with both pale, bony hands, as though to protect it from the oncoming Canadian musician about to pass. Immediately behind the pedestrians is a low, two-foot-high, gray block wall topped by a black five-foot wrought-iron fence; a pastel gray, grated flood drain immediately behind it, and a building’s wall constructed of standard-sized bricks with white mortar. Somehow the bricks screamed red and orange to Kerig, despite their gray tones.

          The six-foot-one Young scowls in profile, his facial image appearing to have been treated in the photo lab as a negative. Instead of the lifelike skin of the passing short woman, Neil’s sunlit skin is dark and the shadows of his cheekbones and jaw are electric white. Emblazoned above the two sidewalk pedestrians and colored in a collage of gold and beige, “After the Gold Rush * Neil Young.” Opening the double cover, Kerig reviews the double-wide fisheye shot of Neil lounging on a black leatherette couch with the cork walls of a sound studio behind him. Propped up by his arm and half-lying on the sofa, Neil is clad in a white, embroidered tuxedo shirt with the bottom two buttons undone to reveal a bare abdomen, boxer shorts, and a pair of decoratively patched Levi jeans. A twentyish, long-haired woman wearing a floor-length skirt and long-sleeved blouse sits in the corner posed to light her white cigarette with a hidden lighter or match and facing away from Neil. Five uncased guitars stand or lay on either side of the sofa – three acoustic instruments and two electric guitars in total.  

          Closing the double cover and turning to the back, Kerig smiles, remembering the strange life-sized shot of Neil Young’s denim-covered butt. Partially covering his left “cheek” was a vertical 5” by 3” patch of chintz in a leaf design; and covering his right buttock were three patches of different fabric designs: paisley, embroidery, and embossed velvet. Above the four patches is a narrow belt made of an inch-wide black leather band, a series of two-inch wide, three-inch long metal rectangles connected by the narrow band with metal grommets for a rustic flair. Since the belt only occupies the lowest third of the belt loops, two more rectangular patches adorn the space above the belt and just below the loops’ tops. What amuses Kerig is the close resemblance Neil’s patched seat has to his own decorated pair of Levi 501s. The pair of 28-waist, 36-length Levi’s had been patched at least a dozen times by any of the following: his sister Dee, his girlfriend Ducky, his mother Marguerite, and himself. Mostly rectangular and square patches, with just a few embroidered scraps… almost identical to Neil Young’s pair.

          Their patched jeans may have been the first-discovered similarity, but the total grew to several and then many. Perhaps too many. Kerig Knox and Neil Young looked so much alike they could have been easily mistaken as brothers. Both wore their hair thick and long and parted in the middle that fell past the middle of their skinny, curved backs. Both had large eyebrows along, mesmerizing eyes, Neanderthal brow, lots of facial hair, and a gaunt, almost skeletal face. Both stood tall, Kerig by an inch more, and each tipped the scales at “a buck-fifty.” Friends and family of both had described them in secret as “painfully skinny.” Neither walked with any confidence nor wore anything besides old, patched jeans; a suede fringe jacket; long-sleeve plaid flannel or white rumpled tuxedo shirts; mirrored aviator sunglasses; hiking boots over white socks; and – when the mercury broke the century mark – military cargo shorts.

          Since Neil Young had undoubtedly been Kerig Knox’s number-one rock idol, role model, and perhaps template for becoming a better person, the difference between the two began to blur, beginning with Kerig in his cramped bedroom.

As he closed his eyes and focused on the image of Neil Yeil on Goldrush’s cover burned into his eyes, his spirit seemed to lift and even levitate his being. And then he began communing with a power or wavelength he’d never encountered before. The essence of the unknown being – be it demon or guardian angel – flooded Kerig with his favorite thing on earth - music. As a symphony of bells, strings, horns, and string instruments swirled around and inside him, his core identity felt as though it were actually shifting and then… undulating, causing him to convulse around his solar plexis and lighten his head as though it drifted and dragged itself along the eight-foot ceiling like a florist shop balloon untethered after being inflated with helium Kerig felt a battle of wills, a struggle of muscle and thought, and a full-out tug-of-war gyrating in every direction as though he had been transformed into a gyroscope with a stomach and intestines.

The two powers or forces wrestled, spinning and jostling each other inside Kerig to the point where he lost track of which spirit fought for him and which represented his greatest musical hero and life model – Mister Neil Percival Young, of Winnipeg, Canada. During the flurry of blows, slaps, and kicks - somewhere in the middle of this battle royal - Knox felt as though the two had merged into one but then split because they could not or would not coexist in the same sphere. During the eighteen-year-old’s seizure or too-real of a dream or hallucination, or who knows what else?, a battle raged between two wits, wills, egos, or whatever force drove these beings to this major league spiritual wrestling match.

                                               

                                                          ***

          Okay, Bud. Take at least a couple deep breaths, start focusing on the images of Neil and the old lady in merry London and…… just… let… go - of both the now and the here.

          Opening his eyes, Kerig knew when and where he was. Looking down the broad cement sidewalk with an iron fence and brick building behind, he spotted a short, handsome, goateed young man pacing to and from the much taller Neil Young and an equally tall man whose physique is best described positively as “chunky.” All the while the short, goateed man with the perfect head of longish, dark brown hair, wielded a reporter’s black shutter box camera with attached metal platform and telescoping apparatus. Kerig remembered seeing the boxy devices with specialty attachments in Forties movies – ones with newspapermen. They were mainly used by photographers to capture the essence of a story in a single image or two. Hey, that’s the kind photographers use when they’re on the run.

“Graham Nash Alert! Graham Nash Alert!” squawked Kerig’s brain – both warning and exciting him. He cringed momentarily but loosened when he realized not another soul could either be seen or see him for two blocks in both directions. Listen, Dude. This is your big chance to meet not only Neil Young, but his bandmate Graham Nash. Just…be yourself. No, check that, just be.

And Kerig did just that. Instead of turning tail and hiding in embarrassment, the skinny kid - clad in blue flannel beneath a black vest walked toward Graham Nash. Since Kerig had shaved himself clean that morning, the only remaining facial hair was his pair of “lambchops” – sideburns ending with chunky peninsulas of hair on his facial cheeks. Damn. I feel like a Neil Young imposter or at least a poseur. Or is it spelled without the ‘e’? Either / Eye-ther way, I need to find out why this, this… power put me here. What is my purpose… my mission… my part in all this?

          THHHHWEEEEEEET … THHHWWWWWUUUU!!!!!!

Kerig, trying not to clutch his chest, grabbed his corduroy vest so hard that the twisted fabric still had to be ironed the next morning. Looking down to examine the damage, he said “shit” and began to tell himself off, put himself down, take on all the blame, and punish himself for every single setback – real, perceived, or even possibly hallucinated. “What a klutz… what a… what a freaking dork. Who grabs and twists his own chest – or should I say ‘vest’? NO ONE – THAT’S WHO!! Dude, try not to blow this amazing, golden… (did I say ‘amazing’?) opportunity. Just breathe in deeply this refreshing - ugh - smoggy London air. Go ahead. Hold for a count of eight… … … Okay, good. Now, exhale for six counts… … There. Good. Now do that twice more and you’ll be ready to see wh---"

          THHHHWEEEEEEET… THHHWWWWWUUUU!!!!!! A voice rang out, “Hey, YOU! Young man! Sir! Yes… yes you… the dude with the … with the Neil Young duds. Could I bother you for just a few moments?”

          Without thinking, Kerig replied: “Bother me? Oh, no sir. What can I, uh, do for ya?” (Did you just end that question with a “ya” instead of a ‘you’? And you did not use that girly form of the proper ‘you’ just now, did you? And, thirdly, while yelling that silly made-up word at a grown man in a wide-open public area in a foreign country, who happens to be, fourthly and hopefully lastly, Graham Freaking Nash of Hollies; Crosby, Stills, and Nash; and CSNY fame with Kerig’s hippie role model, Neil Young, present and future rock icon? Just be careful and don’t say “love ya” at the end of your talk. Jeesh.)

          Smiling brightly at Kerig without hiding his overbite, Graham Nash walked to him and asked, “May I ask a little favor, uh -?”

          “Uh… (DO NOT use your real name, K Man. Use a cool, you know, hippie-sounding name.) “Rusty. Folks call me Rusty. I’d shake your hand, Mr. Nash, but I don’t want to disturb your nice camera.”

          “Oh, yeah. No, that won’t happen – not as long as I maintain my patented Nash Grip upon it that I first mastered at six years of age with this contraption. But… I haven’t dropped or injured Rosie in the eighteen years I acquired it.”

          Kerig was about to ask about Nash’s camera’s name, but Graham had the jump on him. “Hey, listen, Rusty, could you assist me a bit on this photo shoot? I can’t pay you much but Stills is supposed to have the cash on him. He doesn’t trust Neil or me, and Crosby?” Nash stiffened to attention and then bent like a violin bow, leaning back farther than Kerig thought possible for anyone, much less a musician. A surprisingly deep, gruff flow of laughter flowed from Nash’s uplifted head, accentuating the well-sculpted goatee of the Hollies’ former lead vocalist and the lone member to hold Crosby, Still, Nash & Young together.

          “What exactly can I do for you, Mr. Nash?”

          “You can start by never calling me that again. Mr. Nash is my father’s name, but please call me ‘Graham.’” After Kerig nodded and smiled brightly, Neil’s bandmate and photographer sucked in a quick breath, looked around, and said, “Listen, Rusty, I have an unusual request to make.”

          “Uh, okay. Sure. What can I do?”

          The short man smiled. “I know this sounds weird… bizarre, but would you kindly step in as my Neil Young double?”

          “Your ‘Neil Young double’?”

          “Yeah, I’m afraid you heard me right. See--“  Looking to the left, right, and  behind him and seeing no evidence of Neil or his obese manager, Graham whispered a foot from Kerig’s ear: “Neil is… a great guy, don’t get me wrong, but he is sometimes… highly…… you know, unreliable. For example, Neil was supposed to be here for another hour at the very least, but I’m pretty sure he gave me the slip. And not the first time nor will it probably be his last. Neil has already established a career of flaking out on anybody and everybody and the reality is that our boy will never change. And so, since my goal is to finish all cover photography today for Neil’s next record, I could really use you to step in for him.”

          Kerig’s internal voice went berserk. (FOR NEIL-FREAKING-YOUNG? YOU WANT ME, little ol’ me, to pretend to be the world-famous former member of the legendary 60s rock group Buffalo Springfield?, the solo artist who will sell several millions of records in the next two years alone, the visionary leader of the band Crazy Horse, and member of CSN&Y? ARE YOU FRIGGIN’ KIDDING ME?! AND GET PAID FOR IT?… BY STEPHEN EFFING STILLS?! Uh, yeah man, COUNT ME IN… LIKE FLYNN!)

          “Okay,” Kerig said. Graham placed his free hand on his new hire’s shoulder, craned his neck to make eye contact with the kid a full head taller, and proposed ten dollars an hour… tax-free… to stand in for Neil Young. Since the U.S. minimum wage was $1.65 an hour then, he would be making six times the normal rate for his job at Fernando’s Mexican Restaurant washing dishes, cooking when the owner was too drunk, waiting tables when Fernando’s wife left in disgust at her alcoholic husband, closing up the restaurant nightly, and driving his inebriated boss home.  

          The old lady in the black winter ensemble returned to hear Graham Nash’s plan for the next shot. Kerig and Nellie Witherspoon would walk almost directly into one another on the wide sidewalk as though it were three feet wide, which they did without knocking each down on the first take.

          “Great! That was a good shot, but I forgot to have Rusty wear Neil’s pea coat.” Picking up a navy-blue wool coat he had folded between Neil’s exit and Rusty’s entrance, he helped Kerig into the coat, which fit him perfectly.

          After Graham Nash told him the next shot wouldn’t be for another five minutes, Kerig spent that time pacing back and forth on the huge sidewalk for a hundred feet in both directions. He knew he had to pump himself up, encourage himself right then, so his pep talk to himself began with, Okay, Rusty. Instead of feeling silly or desperate after hearing himself pronounce his new, concocted name aloud and not far from Nellie and Graham, Kerig’s perspective flipped from feeling awkwardly silly a moment ago to having complete, utter confidence. He thought his new moniker fit him like Neil’s navy-blue pea coat: No more hard-to-pronounce-and-spell first name for me. And, no more insecurity bordering on psychosis. From now on, Dude, you are Rusty Something-or-Other and, damn it all, your winning ways begin right here and right now.

Those three declaration were enough to recharge his batteries, tighten his focus on his upcoming duties in a possibly parallel universe, and believe - truly believe with all his mind, heart, and spirit - that he, Rusty Knox, will nail this golden - no, platinum - opportunity totally into the board. I was born to do this, Fate.  From now on, whenever You kick me in the ass, I promise to heed Your foot and transport my butt where You need it to be for the universe to operate at a more optimum level of efficiency or justice.

*     *      *

          When Kerig returned to the section of concrete where Graham Nash stood, he looked at the Englishman and awaited his instructions. “Listen, I checked in the darkroom and Neil’s last shot was perfect for the front cover. So, what I need now, Trusty Rusty, is an image for the album’s back cover. Without Neil here, though, I’m not sure how to proceed.”

          What Kerig / Rusty said next caught the semi-professional photographer’s attention like nothing else that morning. Without preamble or apology, he said, “I have an idea, but it might sound super lame when I say it aloud…”

          “Try me, friend.”

          “Okay. So, it’s just you and I right now, right?” After Nash informed him Nellie had been paid and sent home, Kerig proposed, “I don’t know if you need me to pose as Neil or what, but I did think of a sure-fire idea for the back cover.” Inspired by his self-pep talk of just a minute ago and thinking he had a killer idea for the cover, Knox said, “How about you shoot some close-ups of my clothes? People will think they’re all Neil’s duds with Neil Young himself inside them.”

          Graham took close-ups of “Rusty’s” blue flannel shirt / black corduroy combination, his black boots with white tube socks, and the front and back of his patched Levi’s.

          As soon as the shoot was over, everything disappeared from Kerig’s sight: Graham Nash, Graham’s camera and attachments, the London sidewalk where he and Nellie had crossed paths. The entire scene replaced by Kerig Knox sitting on his bedroom floor, looking for the thousandth time at the rear cover photo of a man’s patched up Levi’s posterior. But this time, he realized it was his own butt he’d been checking out on Neil Young’s “After the Gold Rush” all the previous times he’d looked at it. But he waxed philosophical about it, realizing he had actually made twenty U.S. greenbacks showing off his own patched backside. And speaking of sides, Kerig couldn’t see a downside to this teleporting thing and wondered if he ever would.

          But he did know this much for certain: only time and music would tell.

         

                  (Copyright, Patrick Rowlee 6/8/2020. All rights reserved.)