God Save the Queens

Back in the mid-eighties I was paying my dues producing heavy metal and punk rock bands in Philadelphia. The late nights and substance abuse finally paid off when I received a large check from a now-defunct record company (Tone-Deaf) for producing Cholera's second album.

I was looking for space to install a small recording studio. One Sunday I picked up a copy of the Enquirer and saw this house for rent. It sounded perfect — small with a couple bedrooms and a finished basement. Lenny Loud (r.n.Loudermilk) was a friend and also a sound engineer. He'd worked with bands like Slayer and Black Flag, among many others and came with me when the real estate agent showed me the place.

We drove there in Lenny's truck, nicknamed the Magic Bus, though it was neither, just an elderly RV he'd jerry-rigged to haul amplifiers and recording equipment. The Hieronymus Bosch scene of Hell painted on its side was undoubtedly Lenny's finest work. The Magic Bus lacked a muffler, so its arrival in the neighborhood didn't go unnoticed. We pulled up to the address given and saw an uncomfortable looking woman standing in the doorway of 808 Maple Avenue.

The house didn't appear to have been condemned and was in an okay section, the exterior may have been blue at one time. The real estate agent was in her fifties and quite blonde. Sandy? Sharon? Something like that. Lenny and I provided a bit of contrast — my hair had a dark, bluish tinge that I'd really worked on and Lenny's head was shaved; we were both dressed entirely in

black. And we'd both been drinking. I was fighting double vision, which may explain why the place seemed bigger. Sandy had us enter first, which I thought was odd but figured maybe it was some realtor protocol. She let us know the old Cape was down- market for her. I think her threat to check my credit references was trumped by the fact that I had a few thousand in cash for rent and security.

"They've had a few different tenants in the last couple years. Not sure why, but it's been vacant for a while." I looked around, nodding and tried not to breathe on her. During a lull in the proceedings she said to Lenny. "That's a real nice truck you've got out there." No attempt at hiding the sarcasm.

"Want to buy it?" Lenny asked. He told her of the vehicles many features, his love of Bosch's paintings. His enthusiasm cut short any further dialogue.

Though the basement was my primary focus, Sandy didn't seem to want to go down there at all. I assumed the reason being the generations of filth. "Sorry, I don't trust these heels on those narrow steps." She had no idea how close I came to throwing up on those designer shoes.

So Lenny and I explored the cellar on our own. I thought it was the best part of the house. "Got to do something about the electrical, but I think it's perfect." Lenny agreed, "Has to be seventy, eighty years old but it's solid as a rock. They don't make `em like this anymore. Some egg cartons, a few baffles..."

Soon the lease was in my hands and signed; I started making plans. It didn't take too long to get the place up and running, within a couple months I was cutting a demo for a band from Norristown called Carnal Despair. It was during the playback of "Sloven Love" that I first heard a loud, bellowing sound coming through the headphones, which I couldn't get rid of. I kept hearing this woman's voice yelling "God", though I couldn't figure out the rest. Had to be the most harrowing thing I'd ever come across. I had installed a glass partition around the soundboard and this noise would make it rattle almost to the breaking point. Musicians typically like working at night and it seemed that all the recordings made after hours were affected. And once this happened, the noise couldn't be erased, the tapes were shot.

The next day I played one of the ruined songs for Lenny Loud, "I'm at a loss, it's just a few words, could be a woman's voice. I can't make it out, though." "I know that voice." Lenny said slowly. "Yeah, I thought so too, real powerful. Can't figure out where I've heard it." "I think it's Kate Smith and you probably heard it at a hockey game, the Flyers sort of adopted her." Then he fiddled with the equalization and brought up the offending vocal in the mix. "Definitely Kate Smith." "Wait a minute, didn't she just die?" "You asked me what I thought. I know that voice. My old man worked with her, she'd visit the house once in a while when I was a kid. Maybe she liked that Lower Caste album you did," He said, while rubbing his head.

Using different equipment didn't help. In the next few weeks the encounters intensified, now we could

actually see her. For whatever reason, the First Lady of Radio had found a home in my little studio. No matter whether the equipment was turned on or not, at some point almost every night a rotund, bespectacled apparition would materialize, somewhat out of breath and "God Bless America" would burst through the speakers at teeth-chattering volume. What started as a flickering shadow became a skeleton, followed by that distinctive figure. Kate's features were a greenish-grey, though not due to the fluorescent lighting and the air took on this powdery, perfumed smell. It was all a study in kitsch until she stopped singing and fixed you in her sights, eyes aglow. She could turn on a foreboding malevolence and I realized that damaged hearing was the least of my problems.

We tried scheduling recording sessions only during the day but the Clods insisted on doing theirs at night. Their singer, Leo, didn't mind the ghost. He said, "I don't give a shit; she can join in on the choruses for all I care."

The guys from the Clods had a youthful bravado I'd seen before in lots of other bands. They knew everything, what they didn't wasn't worth their time. Leo was the worst, picture an ugly Jim Morrison. Being around them sorely tested my patience, but when they played together they had something.

I figured if I could capture their peculiar energy I could get them out of indie hell and signed to a major label. The session started off amiably enough, a new song finished, overdubs on a couple others, hardly any vomit. But later on when we were wrapping things up, Kate Smith made her entrance in a midnight blue

evening dress. She did not look well, but was in characteristically strong voice. "Stand beside her and guide her..."

Kate put her arm around Leo's shoulder, an attempt at a duet. Leo found that he now gave a shit. He and the other Clods knocked each other over as they went screaming up the stairs, their patriotism sorely tested. It was not until then that I noticed that Carl, the drummer had apparently passed out behind his kit. After watching the Clods disappear, Kate walked over to Carl and planted one on his cheek. His eyes popped open and he joined his band mates, post haste. Kate's head turned towards Lenny and me, she was beaming. What was especially unnerving was her appearance would go from nearly lifelike to the extremes of decay in an instant. I kept hoping she'd walk back through death's door but before long her appearances became more regular.

One Saturday Lenny suggested we put up a couple crucifixes in the studio; though the guys from Hellbeast insisted on turning them upside down. But late that very evening she was back. This time everybody had gone home and I was alone wrapping up a mix. After finishing her anthem, Kate staggered up to the control booth and put her face against the glass. Her skin had a translucent quality, making it easy to imagine the skull beneath. No fog appeared on the glass near her mouth; though she stood there for the longest time, seemingly unable to see me, then disappeared. And the crosses? She loved them, taking one in each hand like a prop and singing with more vigor than ever.

Like any good tenant I put in a call to the landlord, Sal Viglione. "Yeah, Mr. Viglione, it's Jim on Maple Avenue. I've been having some disturbances here at the house." "What do you want me to do about it? Call the cops." "Well sir, it's not really a law enforcement issue. Every night something happens in the studio." "The what?" "Uh, the basement." I hadn't told him the extent of my renovations. "You see, a woman suddenly appears in the room."

"I don't wanna hear about your weird relationships." He was old-school Italian; his impatience with me had just crossed the line. "I had a feeling there was something wrong with you. You got a lot of peculiar people comin' in and out of there at all hours. You're on a short leash, my friend."

"Don't hang up. Uh, listen, has anybody else ever seen a ghost in this house?"

On the other end of the line there was complete silence. "Mr. Viglione?" I could hear him saying something in Italian, I assume to his wife, sounded like fantasma. Then he spoke very quietly, "What's it look like?" I said, "Older, heavyset woman, glasses." "Very loud?" "Deafening."

He exhaled long and hard, "Jesus Christ, not again! Listen Jimmy, I can't help you. Go to church or something. I don't care if you move out. Just leave me alone!" Then more Italian wailing in the background from Mrs. Viglione before the line went dead.

The next evening Lenny and I were sitting around drinking Old Milwaukee, trying to decide on our next move, "Jim, I hate to state the obvious, but we're not running a wax museum here. If you don't do something, no band's gonna work with us." He got all this out without removing his cigarette or disturbing the two inches of ash.

"So what the hell should I do, get a priest?" I gave the console a kick. I was about to throw the beer can across the room when Lenny went wide-eyed, tore off the headphones and pointed at the speakers. "Hang on a sec, listen." I said, "Is that the Sex Pistols?" "Yeah, but that's not Johnny Rotten singing."

As he turned up the volume it was unmistakable — another voice battling with Kate's, louder and even more disturbing. No doubt I'd have to break the lease now, let the chips fall where they may. The annoying glare on the partition was gone; it shattered and tiny bits of glass sprayed all over us. A second full-figured apparition slowly turned into Ethel Merman. She and Kate stood about ten feet apart; two old veterans blowing the song to pieces. "God save the queen!"

Ethel was all in red, wearing her best pearls — Satan's mother-in-law. I glanced down at the console; the needles were also in the red. As the duet continued I expected dogs to keel over, birds to fall from the sky. "No future for you!" Kate literally howled, as she pointed across the room.

Ethel came right back with, "No future for me!" Neither of them needed a microphone. Lenny said, "When did Ethel Merman die?" "Does it matter? She's here. I think we know now why Sandy has to keep showing the house." "Well the fat ladies are singing, Jim, maybe it's almost over." "You think they're in some kind of Vaudeville Purgatory or something?"

He shot me a look. "No, just a couple dead matrons with time on their hands. We're the ones who are in hell." Kate and Ethel were now arm in arm, bringing the song home Broadway style. I watched Lenny brush the glass shards onto the floor, his Doc Martens started tapping along; he looked at me and said, "You know, maybe this could be commercial." I said, "They've certainly got rhythm." "I think we need to take charge of this situation." Then he flicked on the control board microphone. "Okay ladies; let's try it one more time from the top."

The two apparitions stopped mid-song, both looked our way. Kate's glasses couldn't hide a withering stare; she said something to Ethel, who nodded. First they smiled and I'd never felt my flesh crawl before. Then they tore into the song with an intensity that would've made Johnny Rotten cower.

I found myself staring at Lenny's Misfits t-shirt, rendered a dark gray from repeated washings. A couple tiny bits of the busted window twinkled on his shoulder. I said, "It's just weird enough to catch on. They say punk's not dead..."

He adjusted the fader on the vocals; his eyes narrowed and a bit of a grin broke out. "I'll take the undead over Henry Rollins any day."