Of Banjos And Babylon

I wanted to create a new genre, bluegrass sci-fi

A bruised red sun sank past the the silhouettes of skyscrapers, glittering on the metallic flying machines that darted back and forth through the haze.

Robot cars inched along the maze of highways like ants, driverless and silent.

It was the year 2042 and the earth was ruled by robots, and humans were their slaves. Everything was run by computers, and art and music were long outlawed. Well, there was still music, of sorts. It was created by computers and sounded like R2D2 and C3P0 arguing. But it was the only music that was legal, and it was called Disco.

The only humans allowed to be involved with music in any way were slaves to the robots, and their job was to crank out soul killing electronic music on computers.
They thought, said and did what the robots told them to, and kept their mouths shut except when yelling “pump it up” or “lets get this party going!” at robot functions.

In other words, they were “DJ’s”.

But on the outskirts of the Robot City there still remained some free humans. They lived in hiding in mountain caves and underground tunnels, and among them were the last surviving artists and musicians. It was in one of these tunnel complexes that a group of revolutionaries dwelled, who’s mission was to keep real music alive, by any means.

They called themselves the MRM, or “Musicians Resistance Movement”. They were the only entertainment the human refugees had, and would sing songs in the flickering light of the cave fires at nightfall.

They also took it upon themselves to protect their fellow humans, and would hunt small robots or DJ’s who wandered outside the walls of Robot City. A captured DJ was a priceless source of intelligence, and were easy prey once separated from the pack.

These DJ’s were truly spineless, mean as little dogs when in a pack, but completely helpless when caught alone. They had evolved into large-headed thin-necked creatures after centuries of playing disco on laptop computers.

When captured it was fairly easy to get then to talk, but if they clammed up the solution was simple: tie them to a tree and subject them to live folk music! Even the toughest DJ would crack after several minutes of Scarborough Fair, or anything by Peter Paul and Mary.

Today a young man named Seth was heading the hunting expedition. Seth was a longtime member of the MRM and knew every Bob Dylan song ever written. He never went anywhere without his ancient nylon string guitar, strung across his back like bow and arrow.

They moved across the sand toward the distant walls of Robot City shimmering in the heat. It was going to be a good hunt, thought Seth. He could feel it in his bones.

The procession paused in a stand of trees, and Seth shook the last drops of water from his canteen.

“Time to lay some bait…” he whispered. The rest nodded. They knew the drill. The DJ’s were irresistibly attracted to anything shiny or hi-tech looking, and a well placed CD or flash drive, glinting in the sun, would invariably bring one out into the open.

Seth tossed several CD’s into the sand and hunkered down to wait.

Then they heard it: a snuffling sound, interspersed with muttering, and getting closer.

“Drop the bass….yeh, yeh…who wants to party…everybody on the dance floor..yeh…”

The DJ came into view and stopped. His beady eyes peered out from a sideways ball cap, and one hand held up his massive pants. Around his neck hung a necklace of thumb drives and iPhone cords, and his head bobbed to the invisible beat of his head phones. He was ridiculous.

Then he spotted the CDs, glittering in the sand. With a cackle he scampered over and pounced on them.

“Yo! Free discs! Ground score!”

Seth made a hand signal and a large net sailed through the air and covered the little creature, who began leaping about and shrieking piteously.

“Now!” Seth yelled, and his crew surrounded the net, pinning it down.

Seth pressed his face next to the DJ’s. “You ready to talk?”

The DJ hissed and shrunk away. “Never! DJ will NEVER talk!” He spat.

“Either you talk, or I’ll MAKE you talk!” Seth barked, shaking the net.

“NEVER!”

“OK, you’re getting the treatment. I didn’t want to do this…” He sighed, slinging his guitar around and forming a D chord.

The DJ shrank back in horror. “Nooooooo….GUITAR??!!”

Seth nodded and launched into song: “How many roads must a man walk down…”

“Aaaugh!!!!! It hurts!!!” The DJ cried, curling into a ball. “Stop it!!”

“…Before…you call him a man…!” Seth continued, in a perfect Bob Dylan drawl.

“OK OK!!! I’ll talk!!”

Seth set his guitar down. “Good. Now tell us: when is the next Robot gathering?” The DJ moaned and wrung is hands. “This weekend…big party….” He whispered. “That’s all I know….”

Seth shook his head and reached for the guitar, and the DJ shrieked and began pleading.

“No more guitar! no more guitar!!”

“And…how many seas…!” Seth began, singing each word painfully slow.

“OK OK! I’ll talk!”

Seth paused, pick in the air mid-strumm. “This had better be good, little man!”

The DJ had gone fetal, rocking back and forth in the dirt. Seth leaned in and putting on his meanest scowl. “Tell us your secrets, NOW, or I’ll play Desolation Row, every single verse!”

The DJ recoiled in horror. “I’ll tell!! I’ll tell!!” He rasped. “What do you want to know!?!”

Seth grabbed the net and pulled the DJ’s wobbly head close. “Tell us what the robots are afraid of!!” He hissed through clenched teeth.

“They…th-th-they….are afraid of….” chattered the DJ, shaking like a leaf.

Seth shook the net. “Yes?!? afraid of…?”

The DJ writhed in torment, and spat the word out like poison.

“BANJOS!!”

* * * * 

They gathered at the council ring around a moss covered stump. The top was flattened into a table, covered with stones and twigs forming a primitive map, and massive oaks cast a patchwork quilt of shade. Their voices were hushed and urgent.

“This is big. REAL big…” Seth whispered. “We’ve never heard of anything that the Robots were afraid of, until NOW!”

The rest nodded grimly. They were about a dozen strong, a ragged bunch of men with tangled hair and intense eyes. They were the Musicians Resistance Movement.

It was the year 2040 and Robots had taken over the earth, driving the human race into hiding. The Musicians Resistance Movement, or MRM, had just received intelligence that the Robots were deathly afraid of banjos, and their leader Seth was intent on taking advantage of this.

“We need to find a banjo player, NOW!”

A tall cadaverous looking man raised his hand. His bald dome was framed with the remains of a mighty mullet. He had acquired the nickname “Skullet” and bore it with pride.

“I hear tell of a banjo player that lives across the Dead Desert, in the eastern caves.” He rasped. “She is but a little girl, but they say her powers are mighty!”

Skullet was an ex Heavy Metal singer, and his voice was trashed.

Seth raised an eyebrow.

“The eastern caves, huh?” He mused, planting a finger on the map. “That is quite a ways away…”

Skullet grinned, displaying a patchy row of teeth. “Well if you can find a closer banjo player, then tell us!” He challenged.

Seth winced. “Shut up, Skullet.” He snapped. “This means crossing the Dead Desert. You know what happened to the last ones who tried that!”

The Dead Desert was an endless landfill created by the Robots, who dumped all the  packaging from their computers there. It was a sea of bubble wrap and styrofoam, and struck terror in the hearts of the humans.

The circle was silent.

Seth rose slowly. “Well if this is the only way, we will go. But I need a team…who is with me?”

No one said a word. In the distance a cricket chirped.

“Very well. Then I will take…YOU!” Said Seth, pointing at Skullet. “And….and…”

The circle shrank back.

“And the prisoner! For he knows the way across the wasteland!”

Everyone let out a breath. The prisoner was one of the humans that worked for the Robots, playing electronic music for them and submitting to slavery Yes, these were the DJ’s.

Seth nodded. “Very well. We will meet at dawn. Meeting is adjourned.”

The group melted back into the trees.

The next morning they gathered at the cave entrance, silhouetted against the early sky. Skullet was tall and stooped, Seth was square and well muscled, and the little prisoner crouched between them on a leash.

“Lead us to the Dead Desert little man!” Seth commanded, and the DJ growled and begun galumphing ahead.

They came to an overlook, and the DJ skidded to a stop. “Dead Desert! Dead Desert!” He crowed, clapping his hands to his oversize ball cap.

Seth and Skullet drew alongside and peered over. It was a fearsome and majestic sight: an ocean of plastic, stretching as far as the eye could see. Jagged branches of dead trees groped toward the sky and the odor of melted plastic assaulted their nostrils.

“We’ll, what’s next?” Seth addressed the DJ, who was now wringing his little hands in torment.

“Please master, don’t make us go into the Dead Desert!” It whined.

Seth gave a tug on the leash. “You wanna hear another Bob Dylan song? I’ve got Wagon Wheel ready to go!”

The blood drained from the DJ’s face. “NOOOOO!! Not the Wagon Wheel!! Bad, nasty Wagon Wheel! We hates it!”

Seth smirked. “That’s what I thought. Now, lead the way…”

They clambered down the ravine and stopped at the edge.

Seth smirked. “Time to see if this really works..” He said. “Hand me my guitar…”

Skullet obeyed. “Are you thinking of…of…the Dance of the Ancestors??” He whispered.

“Yep.”

There was a myth, told by grandmothers around the campfires, that the only way to cross the dead dessert alive was to pop the bubble wrap faster than it could bury you.

And long ago when musicians were still free, there was something called “clog dancing”,  involving stomping ones feet fast and furiously in time to music.

The grandmothers called it the Dance of the Ancestors, and they believed this was the only way to pop the bubble wrap fast enough to make it across.

Seth aimed his guitar across the silent ocean of plastic. “Lets DO this!”

Skullet whipped out a rusty harmonica and held it up, sparking in the sun. “Count us off dude!”

“You know Turkey in the Straw right?”

“Better than I know my own mother!”

“A one, and a two…”

The harmonica and guitar hammered out a rousing beat, and they began to dance.

Deedle dee, deedle dee, deedle STOMP STOMP STOMP…Deedle dee, deedle dee, deedle STOMP STOMP STOMP!

Dust rose around their pounding feet as they stomped into the bubble wrap, and the air was filled with rapid fire popping. It sounded like gunfire, in rhythm with the tune.

Like two whirling dervishes they sliced open a pathway, stomping and strumming, pop pop pop!

“Dude, it’s working!” Gasped Skullet in between harmonica toots.

Seth flashed a sweaty grin. “Keep stomping old man..” He panted. “We’re not out of the woods just yet!”

Far above, a raven circled and watched the plume of dust as they cut a path through the Dead Desert, leaving behind a winding trail of flattened bubble wrap. Catching a sudden gust the bird climbed higher, and in the distance the grey towers of Robot City crouched like cement gargoyles.

Deedle dee, deedle dee, deedle STOMP STOMP STOMP…

* * * * 

“Banjos versus robots…” Seth mused, trudging through the red dust of the wasteland. The orange sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows behind them. “Who would have ever thought it would come to this..?”

“I still think you’re crazy, dude.” Skullet rasped. “I wish I never told you about Buttercup!What an idiot I am.”

Seth stopped, jabbing his walking stick into the dirt.

“Listen man. This is our last chance. Do you want to live the rest of your miserable life in hiding, watching those b*****d robots enjoy the planet they stole from us?!”

The little DJ cowered on his leash.

“There are no more banjo players, they’re all gone. The robots made sure of that! So if this little girl is the only one left, then by God, were going to find her!”

Skullet shook his wispy hair, sun glinting off his dome.

“And what then?!” He spat. “Us and a banjo playing girl, against a city of robots?!”

Seth blew out a long breath. “Skullet…” He said, measuring out his words. “It’s the only plan we’ve got. The Robots fear the banjo. We don’t know why, but that’s what our little captive here tells us…”

Seth turned and glared at the DJ, who shrunk away whimpering.

“So, we’re going to find Buttercup, sneak her into Robot City, and get her playing the banjo!”

Skullet shook his head and growled.

Continuing across the sands, they entered a canyon capped with ancient bristlecone pines.

The DJ snuffled and stopped, peering ahead.

“Aha! It’s the Eastern Caves…” Seth said, pointing.

Their eyes followed his finger toward a row of mossy cliffs. Tiny shapes of people milled about, and on the wind came the sound of bells. It was an entire village nestled into the mountain.

The DJ scrambled ahead, leading them to a wooden gate adorned with an ancient bell. Seth gave it a tug. CLANG! A hobbit looking fellow with a furry hat popped up.

“Who goes there?” He inquired.

“We have heard that Buttercup, the banjo player, dwells in your village.” Seth announced, “We are here to pay our respects…”

The hobbit scrunched his face and nodded.

“Enjoy your visit, fellow humans!” He burbled, opening the gate and gesturing them in.

Brushing past him, they headed up toward the caves, adorned with ivy and moss.

Then they heard it.

Twang twang plunk! Twang twang plunk!

Sitting on a log cradling a giant banjo, sat Buttercup. Her sandy blond pigtails stuck out like springs, and freckles surrounded her upturned nose. She was cute as a bug’s ear.

“Hi guys. Wanna hear a song?” She chirped, swinging her legs.

Before anyone could respond, she launched into a blazing banjo tune. The notes poured out on a silver cloud, and Seth began stomping and clapping.

The DJ shrieked and cowered behind them, looking as if he had been kicked.

She finished with a flourish and a grinned.

“That was AWESOME!” Exclaimed Seth, applauding loudly. “So…hey, would you like to come with us on an adventure?”

Buttercup wrinkled her nose. “Is there candy?”

“Yep, lots of it!” Seth lied. “C’mon, lets go play!”

Buttercup slid off the log swinging her banjo over her shoulder. “Yay, candy! Let’s go!” she piped.

They started off down the path, Buttercup skipping ahead.

“You are a bad person, Seth.” Skullet mumbled. “I can’t believe you just bribed her with candy.”

“Whatever works man, this is war.” Seth shot back. “Now we just gotta get her into Robot City before she changes her mind!”

After an hour of marching they emerged from the mountains. In the distance tall black towers rose from behind a metallic wall.

“Home! DJ go home!” The DJ barked, jumping up and down pointing his bony finger.

Buttercup began charging across the sand. “Candy!” She shrilled.

When they reached the wall it was like nothing they had seen before. A solid forcefield of energy, swirling with numbers and blinking lights. They stared in amazement.

“Ooooooooh!” Said Buttercup.

“Great! It’s the freakin Matrix. I don’t see any way to get past this thing…” Skullet moaned.

“Well, that’s where our little friend comes in!” Seth said, gesturing at the DJ. “Show us the trick, little man!”

The little creature wrung his hands and moaned.

“Remember our deal? You show us the way, or…Wagon Wheel!” Seth threatened, reaching toward the guitar on his back.

The DJ screamed in terror. “No!!! Not Wagon Wheel!”

“That’s what I thought…” Chuckled Seth. “Now, get us through the wall!”

“DJ not like this…nasty humans are mean to us…” The little creature whined, shaking his enormous head.

They stood and waited, faces flickering in the light of the digital wall.

Then the DJ rose up on his haunches, running his fingers across the surface. Suddenly a keypad appeared. Snuffling with excitement he began tapping out numbers. To their amazement a door appeared, opening into a swirling tunnel.

The DJ scampered in, Buttercup bounding after.

Seth and Skullet looked at each other, then plunged in.

The tunnel curved down then spit them into an enormous room of computer screens and blinking lights. They quickly took cover behind a towering LCD screen.

Buttercup clutched her banjo and whimpered.

“Don’t cry, it’s OK…” Seth whispered.

Skullet turned white as a sheet. “Dude, were in the control room of Robot City!” He breathed.

Suddenly the DJ snarled and lunged away, yanking the leash from Seth’s hand and vanishing amid the stacks of computers. A terrible alarm began to shriek, and the room was flooded with flashing red lights.

Seth grabbed Buttercup hoisting her onto his shoulders. “PLAY, BUTTERCUP, PLAY!!” He bellowed. Buttercup instantly smiled and began playing. Her little fingers were a blur as she launched into Foggy Mountain Breakdown.

From every corner of the room Robots came clomping out, filling the floor. Then one of them tilted his huge square head, listening to the banjo.

“Beep beep boop?!?!?” It said. Then it began to move.

“Oh my God..! It’s starting to dance!!” Breathed Skullet.

Indeed, it was doing the “robot”!

One by one the other Robots followed suit, their cathode eyes turning into spirals, their arms jerking in time to the banjo.

And then, KABLOOM!!!

In a shower of sparks and blue smoke, the Robots head exploded. Buttercup screamed with delight and played faster. POW! another head exploded, then another. More Robots streamed into the room, heads exploding like thunderous popcorn.

As quickly as it began, everything fell silent. Buttercup plunked one last note as Seth lowered her to the ground. They stood and stared. Through the smoke, a sea of headless Robots stood frozen in dance positions. The air was as still as a graveyard, except for an occasional snapping spark.

“We did it….” Seth breathed. “We turned the tide…”

Skullet pumped his fist in the air. “Yeah man! We did it!! And all because of us!!

Seth shook his head, looking down at Buttercup.

“No man. Buttercup did. And…her BANJO!”

Buttercup wrinkled her nose and stomped her foot. “Where’s my candy?!”

 

Reviews

[Brae]

To be continued, as soon as I have another vision about the future of the history of folk music :-)