Page 17 - Effable Encounters

Krud

“Maybe I don’t give a damn if it is or not,” Krud rejoined. “Now,
this is a patriotic song. It calls for all good, loyal Americans to make a
sacrifice: keep the wheels of commerce turning by turning our
national parks and historic sites into toxic dump sites. All that
chemical and radioactive crap is necessary for our life-style, so the
real heritage has to be chosen and supported wholeheartedly. Dow
Chemical, Alcoa Aluminum, Three Mile Island: they should all be
allowed to dispose of their industrial byproducts in federally owned
and maintained facilities. After all, they paid for them, didn’t they? I
mean, with campaign contributions. So, why be sanctimonious? Stop
dumping it in my backyard, man, and take it over to Yellowstone.
Yeah, you gotta dump it, dump it, dump it here. Dump it, dump it,
baby, yeah.”
Vince let him run through his song. The guy just wasn’t listening; if
only he had an agent: someone you could trust, someone whose cut
came right out of your own take as well as the artist’s. But Krud
thought he could do it all: negotiate contracts on the spot, compose
lyrics and music, overdub his voice and direct studio musicians. Well,
it was obvious to Vince that Krud’s talents did not extend to public
relations or mass marketing.
“Please, Sheldon,” he said, when silence had again fallen over the
dressing room, “you’re not making my job any easier. Let’s look at
another new song of yours. The people at Squirt just don’t know how
to take you; they’d like to work something out, they think you’ve got
the potential to be on the scene for a long time—f you don’t burn
out. Now, what about ‘Dancing on the Dead’? Is that supposed to be
a dream story? Some kind of psychedelic experience? Nobody at the
studio could figure it out from what you’ve written here.”
Schacht took the piece of tattered foolscap from Vince’s hand and
scanned it. “You’re right,” he said, grinning crookedly. “I can’t make
heads or tails of it, either. No matter. I’ve already reworked it. Maybe
it was like a dream or a vision I had. Stomping hard to the beat of
machines, crushing through layers and layers of history, smashing all
traces of human presence on Earth. Crash! Down through the streets
and the cemeteries and the subways and the sewers. Bam! Right
through the libraries and hamburger joints and cathedrals and missile
silos. Millions of feet, in patent-leather boots, in high-top sneakers, in
sandals made of old tire-treads, all crashing down on computers, on

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