Just ‘coz I spend me time wif’ monks don’t mean I’ve lost me taste for ‘avin’ a drink every now and again. So this fine afternoon, I fire up the trusty Kawasaki and depart me ‘umble abode for a little jaunt to Don Sao Island. I leave the Glock stashed away. Don’t figure them traffickers’ll be comin’ ‘round for awhile. So-called life in the so-called Golden Triangle, doncha know.
Don Sao ain’t no proper island — well, ‘cept during monsoon season. Fine little tourist trap set by the government; enterprisin’ Commie buggers. Trippers take a little boat ‘cross the Mekong, pay a small fee. Then they walk ‘round drinkin’ Cobra whiskey (wiv’ an actual snake in it!), buyin’ overpriced trinkets and fake Italian ‘andbags (a.k.a. “Frauda”), and tell everyone back home they’ve been to Laos. Me, I go ‘coz this outdoor bar there — really just a shack open on three sides — ‘as the best liquor ‘round ‘ere and Nok, the barmaid, fancies me.
Nok flashes a broad smile and nop in greeting; I return the gesture. I stand there a while, Scotch in ‘and, observin’ the ‘uman menagerie. Up walks this geezer; young chap, perhaps early thirties. American, obviously. Just more tastefully dressed, coiffed, and intelligent-looking than most of ‘is kind. Orders a screwdriver in crappy Thai.
And then… I ‘ear the main ‘ook from Black Cross blastin’ from ‘is pocket. That choppy Jupiter-8 arpeggio and fucked-up TR-808 beat poundin’ away underneath. So ‘e pulls out this slab of glass and metal — them things as pass for telephones these days — and starts talkin’. But I’m not ‘earin a word. Parts of me brain quiet for years are lightin’ up. The bloke puts the slab on the bar. I can’t resist speakin’ up.
“‘Scuse me, mate. Wot wuz that ‘chune on your little… phone thing?”
He shoots me a look. “That? Oh, that’s Black Cross, by Johnny Arkham.”
“Thot so. ‘Aven’t ‘eard it in years.”
“I’m surprised anyone else recognizes it. You’ve got good taste.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah….” the stranger muses. “Johnny Arkham… made one incredible, visionary album, then just… disappeared. No one knows what happened to him.”
“Well… I do.”
The chap gazes ‘cross ‘is thick-rimmed glasses, amused but skeptical. “Really? How’s that?”
“Well, you see… I’m the bleedin’ man ‘imself, y’know.”
Bloke looks me over. I’ve grown a bit thinner, browner, and grayer since anyone from the “scene” laid eyes on me.
“Okay… can I ask a few questions?”
“G’wan.”
“What is your full legal name?”
“Jonathan Martin ‘Edges, of Whitechapel. Born March 14, 1967.”
“When was your album released?”
“Blood Over Blood, June 17, 1987, Anno Domini.”
“Who did the cover art?”
“Vaughn Oliver.”
“Jesus. You’re either Johnny Arkham or his biggest fan, after me. So, what brings you to Laos?”
“I bloody live ‘ere.”
“Oh… Since when?”
“‘Bout… 1992?”
“Well, shit. I’m flabbergasted and… ecstatic to meet you, Johnny.” The man reaches out, smilin’. “I’m DJ Azathoth.”
I return the ‘andshake. “A pleasure…”
‘E gazes at me. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Sorry, mate. No idea. You spin records, then?”
“I’m really more of a producer. I do everything — composing, programming, recording, mixing, editing…”
“Sounds like you’re really an artist, not just a bleedin’ producer. You actually create, right? Not just dick around and make money off of uvver people’s creativity.”
Azathoth chuckles. “I guess the meaning has changed a bit.” He sighs. “Damn, can’t believe I’m actually talking to you. Your album changed my fucking life. I mean, you basically invented dubstep, like, a decade before it had a name.”
“Invented wot? ‘Duckstep?’”
“Holy shit, man. You’re, like, really blowing my mind. Here.” Azathoth fishes earphones out of ‘is pocket and plugs them into the phone. “Check this out; Apocalypse Null.”
I put them on. A friggin’ tsumami of syncopated percussion, throbbing bass, and screechin’ synths hits me ears. I start bobbin’ me ‘ead involuntarily. Azathoth grins.
“Pretty wicked, man!” I say, popping one ‘phone out.
“Wouldn’t exist without Blood Over Blood. Notice the influence?”
“Yeah, yeah. Brilliant!”
“Hear that bassline? Not the sub-bass; the one with all the resonance and vibrato?”
“Whottabout it?”
“That’s your old Jupiter-8.”
“You sampled it from B.O.B.?”
“No, that’s your actual keyboard; programmed by me.”
“Huh?”
“On my first English tour, I bought every piece of your old gear I could find.”
I stare at ‘im in disbelief. “You’re a nutter, you are…”
The phone starts buzzing around on the bar. Azathoth unplugs the earphones (“Pardon me.”) and talks into it. “Hello Nigel. …Excuse me. Nigel, Nigel. Can this wait until tomorrow? …Yeah, yeah, go ahead, no prob. Ok, later.” ‘E waves the phone. “My tour manager. Got shows lined up in Bangkok, KL, Singapore, and Jakarta. I’d love to fly you to any or all of them.”
“Dunno if me papers are in proper order…”
“My people can fix that.”
The sun starts setting behind the trees ‘cross the Mekong. We move to a free table; I wave to Nok, who sends her daughter, Nou. Christ, how she’s grown; I remember when she was a toddler. I ask ‘er, in Lao, to fetch some foodstuffs; she goes skippin’ off. Azathoth orders another round. I attempt to pay, but ‘e won’t ‘ear of it.
“So, Johnny,” Azathoth says, “Um… what happened after Blood? Where did you go?”
“Travelled all ‘round Asia; saw some amazin’ sights. Wound up comin’ ‘ere and just… stayed.”
“Why did you… ‘go off the grid?’”
I gaze towards the Thai bank; can’t hardly see water nor land. “Well… I grew tired of playin’ the game. Felt like, musically, things was goin’ nowhere, and the world at large was ‘eaded in the same direction.”
“So you haven’t followed events for the last… twenty-odd years?”
“I see stuff on the telly now and again. People bein’ killed in the Mideast, American politicians talkin’ shit. Same old bollocks as always; can’t see no difference from before, really.”
“I see your point.”
Nou returns wif’ sticky rice, beef salad, grilled pork on skewers, two large bottles of Beer Lao, and two fresh glasses wiv’ ice.
“So what are you up to nowadays?” Azathoth asks. “Do you have a studio here?”
I laugh. “I’m lucky to have electricity, sometimes. No, my life is rather simple. I go to the temple, chat with the monks, meditate. Lots of readin’…”
“So you’re a Buddhist now?”
I shrug. “I guess, by default. Suits me frame ‘o mind.”
Azathoth shakes ‘is ‘ead, “This is just mind-boggling. I remember hearing Black Cross for the first time, it blew me away. I knew I was hearing the future. And I was right; it’s here, you helped create it. But now…”
“I’m not part of it.”
“But you could be! I would love to work with you!”
“I’m content where I am; off to the side of ‘istory, as it were.”
We’re alone in the bar now, save for Nok and Nou.
“Hey man,” I say. “You should prob’ly get back across while you can, before the goblins come out.”
“Goblins?”
“Them ones wiv’ needles in their arms and razors in their pockets.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll sort you out.”
I weave over to the bar and ask Nok — who rings her brother, who rings a chap ‘e knows wiv’ a longtail — and return to the table.
“Alright, I’ve arranged a ride. Should be ‘ere in about fifteen.”
“Thanks, Johnny. I don’t suppose you have e-mail…?” I simply laugh. “Ok, I have an idea.”
Azathoth staggers to a stall nearby and tells the proprietress, “I’d like the best smartphone and largest prepaid SIM you have.” The transaction completed, Azathoth fiddles ‘round with the new phone, then ‘olds it up. “Here. My private number, on speed dial.” He ‘ands it to me. “Please call me. I’d love to bring you to a show.”
We stand on the embankment; Nok’s brother’s friend ties up ‘is boat. Azathoth turns to me, ‘and extended. “Well, Johnny. Such a privilege, getting to talk to you.” We shake. “Gee, feels like I’m shaking God’s hand here.”
“Ah, fuck. Stop that, or I’ll knock your fuckin’ block off, I swear.”
“Not very Buddhist of you.”
“Fuck the Buddha. But nice speakin’ to you… Azathoth.”
“Oh. It’s actually Jeffrey. Jeffrey Winchester.” The boatman waves ‘im aboard. “Take care, Johnny. Call me, okay?”
“Cheers, Jeff.”
The roar of the engine precludes further conversation. I watch and wave as the longtail vanishes into the darkness.
Nok and Nou are packin’ up when I get back. I ‘and Nok the phone. “Give this to someone special,” I say in Lao. “I don’t need it.” Nok’s brown face splits wiv’ an astonished smile; she bows ‘er ‘ead and flashes the nop gesture.
It’s too late, and I’m too drunk to make it ‘ome safely. Guess I’ll shack up with the monks in Sibouheuang. They know me. Well, not who I really am. Prob’ly just as well…
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