“He was a lot more fun before he died,” Keith whispered.
John popped the roach into his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully, savoring its burnt-herb flavor on his tongue. He stood up, giving the drummer a rough slap on the shoulder. “We were all more fun,” he replied. “C’mon now, mate. Back to the grindstone.”
“Rock ‘n’ roll,” Keith murmured.
“… long live rock…”
The island was known as Graceland.
Thirty years after Resurrection Day, it was the only place in the new world where live rock ‘n’ roll could be heard, and its existence was largely due to Elvis’s considerable influence and charisma. Through the course of many high-level trade agreements, the enlistment of a handful of loyal Titanthrops, a couple of years of seeking out resurrected musicians, and (so it was rumored) at least half a dozen translations, Elvis had managed to establish a small colony on a small island a hundred miles up-River from Parolando, an undiscovered rare bit of dirt and rock where two unclaimed grailstones lay. Not unexpectedly, he had decided to call the island Graceland. This was the way it was listed on the riverboat charts, the name by which it was known to hundreds of thousands of Valleydwellers who had heard of it.
Graceland had only one industry: rock ‘n’ roll, played live and loud. Elvis had been canny enough not to put his bands on riverboats to tour up and down the great river; there were too many uncivilized places where his groups could not only lose their grails and hard-won equipment, but also their lives. Instead, he settled an island and sent out word that two supergroups performed there six nights a week, eight months a year, and let everyone come to him. Tickets were bought at the dock through barter: whatever Graceland’s fifty permanent inhabitants needed— fishmeat, cloth, refined metals, tools, open grails, new firestarters, precious and semiprecious stones, riverdragon products, extra liquor and cigarettes, groupies (especially groupies)—were gained in trade for a week’s admission into the stockaded Graceland amphitheater.
Each week, another riverboat landed at the dock, unloading another hundred-odd passengers who had bartered their way up-River or down-River to Graceland. They surrendered their goods at the dock, then went to the lean-to cabins on the island’s leeshore, where the visitor’s grailstone lay. Admission to Graceland was for exactly a week, with admission to the amphitheater coming extra. However, since all weapons were confiscated at the dock by the Titanthrops and the accommodations were relatively pleasant, few minded the cost. It was the closest many of the resurrected could get to having a real vacation in the new world.
Of course, Graceland had its own dues to pay. Not only did neighboring river-nations have to be consistently bribed to keep them from contemplating invasion, but all of the amphitheater’s belongings—from the electric guitars to the relatively sophisticated sound equipment to the upstream hydroelectric generators that powered everything—
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had been custom-built by the inhabitants of Parolando and New Bohemia, who in turn received the lion’s share of Graceland’s gate receipts. There were few creature comforts available to Graceland’s permanent inhabitants as a result of the system. However, as the King was known to frequently observe, it beat hell out of working. If picking one’s fingers to the bone each night on crude copper strings couldn’t be considered working, that is….
There were two regular house bands on Graceland, alternating sets each night during the concert season. One was the American band, the Wonder Creek Revival: Lowell George on local vocals and rhythm guitar, Duane Allman on lead guitar, Berry Oakley on bass guitar, Rod “Pigpen” McKuen on harmonica and keyboards, Dennis Wilson on drums and —when she was sober and able to take the stage—Janis Joplin as guest vocalist. The Creeks had a laid-back, Marin County sound that appealed to most of the Valleydwellers, considering the agrarian circumstances they had faced since Resurrection Day; it was easy to relate to a rendition of “Proud Mary” or “Watching the River Flow.”
The Mersey Zombies, on the other hand, were at an inherent disadvantage. Given the mixed heritage of the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Who, and the Sex Pistols, the quartet could manage a few numbers that were palatable to the average Valleydweller, but then-sound was more geared toward British Invasion (both of them), guitar-driven hard rock, which seemed to be unsettling to most audiences. Songs like “Cold Turkey” and “I’m So Bored With the U.S.A.” didn’t have much to say to an audience far removed from either heroin withdrawal or Uncle Sam. And then there were the contradictory reputations of the two bands. If Janis was
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