Spirit in The Sky
written by: Lina Lambert
The abandoned music room was silent for so long, you’d swear it’s been trapped inside a sinister beast of burden. But if you listen closely—closer than any human ear can hear—there is a low rumbling hum. Not from electricity, nor from tangled cables, but from a chilly October wind, howling like a werewolf, bringing a motley crew of dusty instruments to life.
A sudden gust bursts through the open window, cold as ice, flinging a tambourine off the shelf onto the wooden floor. A percussive voice crackles from behind tangled cobwebs.
“Another one bites the dust!”
Yamaha, the old guitar, twitches against the wall, as he remembers the hands that once cradled him. “Wish you were here,” he laments, vivid dreams of his beloved Maestro float in his head, like time in a bottle.
Mr. Tambourine Man interrupts. “Oh! Darlin’!” he says with a flair from the floor. “You act like it’s the end of the line. You know we’re gonna rock this house tonight.”
“That is a bunch of hocus pocus.” The wind chimes trill, a spine-tingle jingle in the dark. “Can’t you see? Our Maestro’s already gone. And without him, we’re just livin’ on a prayer.”
“Oh, cry me a river!” The ukulele twangs, snapping at the bandmates. “Let it be. You know Maestro is bad to the bone. He’d never take the money and run.”
“Hey, not without the two of us!” The wah-wah pedals wail in unison. “Besides, we’re a rock and roll band, through and through.”
The sexy saxophone grins like a foxy lady, leaning back on her legs. “You bloody well right! And I ain’t too proud to beg my sweet lord to bring our hero back.”
Yamaha slumps, his strings all tangled up in blue. “You don’t know how it feels.” He shakes a guitar pick from his neck and weeps.
“Good golly Miss Molly!” The metal spoons do a clickety-clack, tap-dancing like skeletons. “Stop being so paranoid. You people are strange, whining like it’s all over now.”
The hot-blooded drum thumps in reply. “I am certain he didn’t drift away. He’s probably just taking care of business.” A wooden mallet crashes on the cymbals with an echoing boom-boom-boom. “Besides, we get a peaceful, easy feeling that our Jim Dandy is closer than we can imagine.”
“But, I’m tired of waiting!” Yamaha whines. “I just want him close to me.”
“Well, you can’t always get what you want!”
Yamaha could have shot the sheriff with the look he gives the bass guitar. “I won’t back down! I know our Maestro has to get back to us, he just has to!”
“Don’t do me like that!” the kazoo croaks, hot tears welling behind blue eyes. “C’mon now, don’t fear the reaper. Maestro would never fly like an eagle. We’re his pride and joy.”
For what it’s worth, Yamaha takes this into consideration, wondering if Maestro could just be out for the weekend. “But…” he cries, thunderstruck at the thought of Maestro being lost in a strawberry field, forever. “Suppose, he’s climbing a stairway to heaven?”
“Yeah, it’s kinda spooky, but I don’t reckon he’s knocking on heaven’s door,” the sax insists. “Not yet. Maybe it’s deja vu, but I’m thinkin’ he’ll be back in the saddle soon.”
Helplessly hoping to get everyone on the peace train, the accordion billows, “Hush, you pinball wizards. This isn’t the Monster Mash with the Folsom prison blues. Quit being so dazed and confused.” The squeeze box adds, “You know it don’t come easy, but there’s no use acting all crazy.”
That strikes a chord with the instruments. In the haunting stillness of the night, under a harvest moon, in the houses of the holy, the boys in the band put their fears and any superstition aside. The showbiz kids remember the glory days, the good times, bad times, all the times filled with sweet emotion.
Over the hills and far away, a bohemian rhapsody fills the air tonight, as the sultans of swing create some kind of wonderful for the leader of the band; their beloved Maestro, the spirit in the sky.
Because rock and roll never forgets.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
A few months after my husband Jim died, I walked into the band room, and there was a hush in the room. It was as if the instruments were asking me when “maestro” would be coming back, that it had been a long time since he’d taken them out to play. This is how I envisioned their discussion after I left the room.
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