Ingrid Winterbach
It Might Get Loud
Relentless riffing
ONE FINE MORNING KARL HOFMEYR is called on his cell phone. Your brother is causing havoc, says the caller, you must come and get him. Who am I talking to? asks Karl. Josias Brandt, the man says, your brother is staying with us on the farm. (Karl hasn’t spoken to Iggy for a long time. His cell phone’s been beeping engaged.) Can I talk to Ignatius myself? Karl says. He doesn’t have a phone any more, says Josias, he’s chucked away his phone. (How would the man know that?) He’s giving us grief here, says Josias. What kind of grief? Karl asks (not that he really wants to know). He disappears and then when he comes back, he’s all over the place. He’s aggressive, he accuses me of all kinds of nonsense. They’re going to nail him, says Josias, I can no longer assume responsibility for his safety when he disappears like that. It’s a liability I no longer want to shoulder. (Liability. Nothing wrong with the guy’s command of language.) I’ll sort something out, Karl says. You’d better sort something out quickly, says Josias.
*
That evening Karl visits his friend Hendrik. They’re firm friends, have known each other for a long time, ever since school. They’re partners in a small software business in town. Hendrik is also into music, as he is. He plays the guitar in a small rock band. He writes poetry as well. Karl doesn’t read much poetry, but what he’s read of Hendrik’s strikes him as good. Hendrik is always laughing. He is sturdy and hairy, with a broad, flat face. Everything is broad and flat about Hendrik. He looks like an amiable mariner. He is of a solid disposition and a reliable friend — the most reliable of Karl’s friends. He has long, curly hair and a beard. His hair is somewhere between brown and red. Hendrik is an optimist. Nothing ever gets him down. Late into the night they listen to Accept’s new album, Blood of the Nations. Kick-ass cover: against a red backdrop a fist, dipped in blood, with two fingers raised in the V-sign, with the group’s name in metallic letters over it. They’ve been looking forward to this album — Accept’s first in more than ten years. They listen to the LP, Hendrik ordered it recently; neither of them listens to CDs any more.
He and Hendrik attended the Deep Purple concert in the ICC a while ago. The crowd went berserk when Ian Gillan sang ‘Smoke on the Water’. Every single soul in the audience’s hair stood on end. The man was unstoppable. He blasted a hole in the dome with his voice. Steve Morse, his guitarist, had hair like seaweed, Karl thought, like seaweed in the sea, billowing to and fro. With that flailing guitar accompanying him. Introducing him, Gillan said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you: Steve Morse — freshly manicured and slightly scared.’ The event was a highlight. One of the few highlights in Karl’s life the last few months. His voice was hoarse for days afterwards, from shouting and cheering that evening.
Only after they’ve had quite a few beers does Karl get up the courage to tell Hendrik about the phone call that morning. Yes, says Hendrik, doesn’t sound good. Sounds shit, says Karl. What are you going to do? asks Hendrik. I suppose I’ll have to go, says Karl. When? asks Hendrik. I don’t know, says Karl, I’m half-hoping that if I wait long enough, the situation will sort itself out.
They have another beer and listen to Delirious Nomad, Armored Saint’s second album. Pure Los Angeles power metal, says Hendrik. Totally underrated, says Karl. Jeez, says Hendrik, to think that old Dave Pritchard’s dead. Devastating, says Karl. Best news ever that Duncan and Sandoval got back into the act, says Hendrik. Can’t wait for their new album, says Karl.
They have a last beer and listen to La Raza. No holds barred delivery, says Hendrik. Relentless riffing, says Karl. But try as he may, tonight the music just doesn’t grab him as totally as usual.
John Bush shouldn’t have gone over to Anthrax, says Hendrik. Probably a career move, says Karl. Bush should be in Saint, Hendrik says, that’s where he belongs. Anthrax opened for Pantera in San José the other day, says Karl. Would give my left testicle to have been there. (Would give my left testicle to be anyplace but here right now, Karl thinks, what with Iggy causing shit again somewhere. Just as he thinks now Iggy’s okay, now he’s settled, now things are going well, then something else happens. And every time he, Karl, has to pitch in to save the show.)
*
Maria Volschenk’s good friend, Jakobus Coetzee, writes by email to tell her that he’s taken up residence on a city farm. A foster farm, freak farm, pig farm, he calls it, where the sleep of reason brings forth monsters (harpies). People there don’t opt for the simple life. What can you expect from a city farm, he asks — a farm in the city with a view of the mountain; a haven for have-nots? For those of reduced means and straitened circumstances.
Lording it over all this is the director of operations, says Jakobus: Josias B, with unbridled id — a latter-day Lear in leather sandals. A fabulous director of operations, a sensational extrovert. Come drop in when next you’re in this neck of the Cape, come cast an eye on roaring pig and fascist goose.
*
The next day there’s no word from the Josias Brandt fellow. He’s almost tempted to take heart. Perhaps Iggy has come to his senses. Perhaps the situation has sorted itself out. With Iggy you never can tell. Iggy is unpredictable, if nothing else. Iggy is bloody gifted, he’s way out, but he is a loyal brother. He’d do anything for Karl. Iggy is a good person, it’s just that he does odd things at times.
But that evening Josias Brandt calls again. ‘When are you coming?’ he asks.
Karl hesitates.
‘Listen,’ says the man, ‘I’ve put up with Ignatius for quite awhile now. I’ve been patient for a long time. At first he was okay. But then he started with his nonsense.’
‘What kind of nonsense exactly?’ Karl asks.
‘I told you yesterday. He’s aggressive. He could get violent. And sometimes he wears women’s clothes. He’s carrying on like a fucking whore, man.’
‘He’s been okay this last while,’ says Karl. (Women’s clothes; Iggy whorish? Fuck. Not as far as he knows.)
‘That he no longer is. He’s a liability. I can no longer assume responsibility for his emotional or physical well-being. If he does something rash and comes unstuck, I don’t want it on my conscience. So sort something out and come and get your brother.’
Later that evening he drops in on Hendrik again. I don’t know what to do, he says. I don’t know what Iggy’s up to. He had a paranoid episode a few years ago. These last few months things seemed to be going well. I haven’t spoken to him for a long time. I have no idea how serious it is. He’s not answering his cell phone. The Brandt fellow says he’s chucked it away. Iggy’s not the aggressive type. He’s not violent. Quite the opposite. It’s not like him to chuck away cell phones. I don’t know what’s happening. Women’s clothes. He’s never done that before.
‘Where does he get the stuff?’ asks Hendrik.
‘I was wondering that myself,’ says Karl. ‘If only I knew what he was up to. I’ve got a premonition. I had a terrible dream about him last night.’
‘Desperate times call for desperate measures,’ says Hendrik. ‘Go see a psychic.’
‘What should I see a psychic for?’ Karl asks. ‘You know I don’t do psychics. I don’t do oil and I don’t do psychics. I don’t do mediums or paranormal events or séances or contact with the dead or any of that kind of stuff. I have no desire to see the face of my dead mother or grandmother or great-grandmother or whoever. I don’t want anyone to see any face over my shoulder or above my head — not a face, or an apparition, or a significant cloud or whatever.’