Which is why I recall seeing them with such perfect clarity.
And then a big roadie, who didn’t have a beard, but who wasn’t my dad, nudged me rather firmly in the rib-area and told me to, ‘Get ready with those boxes, mate, the star-turn is going on next.’
And I have to confess that even in my cosmic and all but universally enlightened condition, I was a bit teed-off that The Sumerian Kynges were not going to be the star-turn, or indeed any turn at all. Because this was the Perfect Day that Lou Reed would later sing about and the sun was shining down and Hyde Park was filled with beautiful people. So The Sumerian Kynges really should be playing. Because we were here and this was supposed to be our time.
So yes. I was a little teed-off.
‘And pull the Sellotape off the boxes before you carry them onstage, ’ said the roadie. ‘Mick can’t be having with de-Sellotaping. It wouldn’t be cool.’
Which had me more than just a little bit more teed-off.
Not that I wasn’t still cosmic. No, believe me, I was.
‘And get your act together, you stoner.’
And that was an interesting one.
Because it seemed to me that that final remark triggered something. Or put something into motion. Or brought something into being. A physical/spiritual something. And somehow I projected.
And although I never touched him with my hands, I pushed that roadie. Very hard. And he flew backwards with a look of perplexity upon his face, the memory of which I still and will always treasure. And he hit the side of The Stones’ limo very hard and collapsed in an untidy heap. And the driver of the limo issued from that limo and looked at me, some distance away, weighed up the possibility that I might have struck the roadie, mentally declared it a no-goer, looked down at the roadie, up at the big dent in the passenger door of the limo and then gave the roadie a very sound and thorough kicking.
Which caused me to turn my face away. As I was of a delicate disposition. And filled to the very brim with cosmic consciousness.
But I did smile and chuckle just a bit.
And I did regard myself and say, ‘Oh yes,’ and then, ‘Oh joy,’ and then, ‘I’m Superman.’
Which, I agree, was a pretty dumb thing to say, because if I was going to be any kind of superhero, then that superhero would have to have been Doctor Strange. For he was the Master of the Mystic Arts. And probably a chum of Count Dante, the Master of Dimac, the Most Brutal and Disfiguring of the Martial Arts. Of whom I was a great fan. Although my Dimac manual had still failed to turn up. Even though I’d left a forwarding address for The Flange Collective.
And then suddenly The Rolling Stones issued from somewhere and made for the stage. The band with the black afro-hairstyled electric organ player (what was his name?) [16] were leaving the stage. But the two bands passed each other in complete harmony, which I felt very deeply (and was glad).
‘Oi, boy,’ called Mick Jagger. And I suddenly became aware that he was addressing me. ‘Boy, bring on the butterflies when Charlie gives you the nod.’
And Charlie Watts, who was passing by, mimed this nod to me. The miming of the nod and the nod itself were indeed very similar. In fact it would have been, and indeed was, impossible to tell one from the other. Except for the fact that the miming of the nod occurred earlier.
I glared somewhat at Charlie. But I did not project. Because, in all truth, I had become something of a fan of The Stones, and of Charlie in particular. And was hoping to get his autograph later.
Charlie scuttled up the steps. And I bethought me of those other steps, the ones that led up to the school stage (from the left-hand side of the stage when viewed by the audience) on that night that seemed now so long ago.
‘And don’t muff it up,’ said Mick.
And to some extent the rest is history. The Stones went on stage, Mick read a bit of poetry ‘for Brian’ – Shelley, I think it was, or perhaps Byron, or perhaps the Great McGonagall – and then Charlie gave me the nod and I lugged the boxes of butterflies onto the stage. Although hardly lugged, as they didn’t weigh very much. And then Mick opened the boxes and shook out the butterflies, many of which were dead, as you’re not really supposed to box up butterflies. And I looked up into the wonderful skies, and saw the wonderful butterflies and I knew, just knew. I just knew.
What?
Well, that would be hard to explain.
And then I looked out at the audience, the two hundred and fifty thousand beautiful people. And my, they were beautiful, in their beautiful clothes, with their beautiful hair and their beautiful beads and bells. Just beautiful.
But then I saw it.
It, as in something I hadn’t expected to see. Could never have expected to see. And certainly wasn’t supposed to see.
I saw them.
In my heightened condition I saw them. Was enabled to see them. Saw those who were real and those who were not. Saw indeed the living and the dead and could discern the difference between the one and the other.
Because out there, in that crowd, all that were out there were not living. They were there, too. And there were hundreds of them. The animated dead that I had encountered before (although even now, as it were, I do not have complete recollection). But the dead that Mr Ishmael had spoken of – and I knew that I remembered that, indeed now it seemed that I could remember everything – they were out there in the crowd.
And they were in their hundreds.
And they were dead.
And I could see them clearly.
34
And I got rather upset. Because there and then I had a revelation, within my soul-space, and I remembered everything. All the missing bits of what had happened in that cemetery in Hanwell. With our stolen equipment and the mausoleum of Count Otto Black. And the zombies rising in the glowing mist. And the helicopters and gunfire. And the Ministry of Serendipity beneath Mornington Crescent Underground Station. And Darren McMahon the mysterious doctor and Elvis lookalike. And all that was said and all that was done to me and how I suddenly woke up once more back at my luncheon table.
All as if it had happened only yesterday. And all in perfect clarity.
And I looked out across that vista in the park, at all those beautiful people. And I could see the others, lurking amongst them, looking on the outside to be as them, but on the inside, where I could see, not as the living. These were indeed the dead.
And I think, in all of my upsetness, that I must have projected once more, because suddenly now The Rolling Stones were finishing their set, to great applause, from both the living and the dead. And after their encores they were making their way off the stage. And the mighty crowd was stirring, making as to leave, for the show was all over.
But I projected.
And we, The Sumerian Kynges, came on stage.
They looked a bit rattled, the others. They were clearly stoned and Toby was still pulling up his trousers. And Andy was now wearing one of Mick Jagger’s spare stage costumes, which he had apparently availed himself of from the boot of The Stones’ limo. And he looked rather well in it, too, I thought.
And The Stones’ instruments were still on stage. And we took them up. And we played. How we played.
You will note, with grateful thanks I am sure, how I have been sharing with you the original lyrics of The Sumerian Kynges’ songs.
And so now I give you one more. The song that closed our performance at The Stones in the Park gig. When we topped the bill. Although no one remembers it now.