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Scream
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Freakbeat #3

Kyle Hemmings

    We were in the South of France watching a tennis tournament, camouflaged in dark glasses and wigs. Me, the lead guitarist of Discrete Sons, experimenting with tape machines and simultaneous signals, and Johnny G. my secret lover and lead vocalist. Lately, he was looking pale, sickly. The score was 10-Love.
    We ate hot dogs with mustard, pretended life was eternal or that The Beatles would last forever. But I couldn’t understand why we no longer had sex in the backseat of limos. He later admitted he was just diagnosed with some strange parasitic disease for which there was only experimental treatments. I asked him if it was something he caught from a groupie. He chuckled like the shy child I once knew growing up in a household of too many fly traps.
    No, he said, it was probably from drinking dirty water somewhere, maybe on The Asian Tour, exploring too far off the main roads. He said he was going to refuse treatments, that he couldn’t envision a life confined to bedpans and creaky wheelchairs.
    I reminded him that he had written our best hits, that soon the goons from the record company would greet us with baseball bats, and demand another string of top tens.
    The tennis game ended, tied score, superstar vs. the next big thing.
    He told me that he had been in love with an older record exec, that the wife would die if she found out about the on and off again affair.
    I felt betrayed, small. For weeks, I had no voice.
    Johnny G. fled to some mountaintop in India, under the tutelage of a Maharishi Something. Weeks later I received a letter signed by the Maharishi’s spokesperson, a young British woman named Gayle Fletcher, a former Carnaby Street model. We kept his death a secret, at least for awhile. By mid 1967, fans kept asking why Johnny G. left the band. We told them he went psychedelic.



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