Legends of the Devil and Blues had been whispered and sung throughout Mississippi history. Tales of crossroads meetings and soul-selling for the power of making music that altered life and death, that conjured spirits and fame. It was the sinful, temptation-heavy lyrics that had spurred its listeners to the juke joints to drink and dance rather than the church and salvation.
All things Cameron Forde had found in his endless research in preparation. Of course, there was probably some karmic being somewhere laughing at the fact that, had Cam actually told his superiors of his severe hearing disability, his first big assignment wouldn’t have been the coverage of the weekend-long Blues Festival hosted in the middle of bumfuck Mississippi – though, in his defence, he was an extremely talented lip reader.
He had gotten through the first few days in a combination of sheer dumb luck and the kindness of happy drunks, who would willingly rant endlessly about the dynamic pairing of harmonica and a steel-string acoustic. And, whilst this assignment had been taken with begrudging gratitude, he had slowly fallen under the spell of Gleaners County. The country town, which had seemed nothing out of the ordinary, had been transformed by the blues themselves. There was not a single street one could walk down without feeling the vibration of a drum beat seeping out from a storefront into the road; the stores that were to host musicians found themselves decorated in blues memorabilia from the town's history.
Black and white pictures.
Band Shirts, hung in glass cases
Artists captured in paint, left playing for eternity.
The older the photographs, the harder it was for Cam to place names to faces; it was something he put down to poor film quality and lighting. A simple issue of age. A usual deterioration that came with photographs being left too long in frames, and for a festival this old, it wouldn’t be out of place.
***
It was finally the last night of the festival, and Cam found himself once more ending the night at Gleaners Hotel, nursing a warm beer and watching as the final crowds drifted in from the streets outside – it was tradition that the Hotel hosted the last performance of the festival – and he wasn’t going to miss the grand finale. His notebook sat on the bar next to his beer, filled with scribbles and notations. A mix of musicians and names he’d never use in his story. The Memphis guitarist, who had spent fifteen minutes explaining why he, unlike his Memphis kinfolk, was not a blues fraud; the drunk patron who had sung tales about not too subtle innuendo of her grandmother’s adventures with B.B. King; nor the twin brothers who had argued over the necessity of a musician to have experienced heartbreak before they could claim to know blues. But he had written it all down, methodically. It was his first assignment, and he’d be dammed if he didn’t take it seriously.
Despite that, Cam couldn't help but search through his memory, trying to find any recognition of the final band. He had spent the past seven days living and breathing blues had researched every musician scheduled to perform. He could swear that only a half an hour earlier he could have recited every act that had been on the festival program.
Hell, he could name his breakfast for the last fortnight. But the name of the band?
Nothing.
He glanced at the program hanging up behind the bar. There, printed beneath the 11:30 slot. The Midnight Halters. He stared at it, waiting for some form of recognition to click into place. Yet nothing did. It meant nothing to him. Perhaps a simple mistake on his part, forgotten under a blaze of scotch and sobers, in between interviews. He turned to the bartender, waving him down.
‘Do you know who they are? The band?’ He had hoped that perhaps the opinion of someone forced to be here might have been the music trove. Yet all he received was a shrug of indifference and some mumblings of “a band that plays blues”. He had this weird feeling, as he resettled into his seat, looking out upon the crowd, that now barely held breathing room between patrons. Everyone had arrived for the finale hurrah; they were excited to know the band was coming, but did these people know anything about them either? But there were people there, excited and ready. It was simply then a mere oversight in Cam’s preparation for the festival and the bartender’s knowledge of which band was playing on his shift. So, Cam let himself be taken by the crowd’s enthusiasm and let himself watch as the stage came to life.
It had been stripped of most of the lights used in the previous acts; the spotlights had been turned off; the smoke machine that had featured across some of the more well-known acts was not in its usual spot. There was no elaborate equipment.
Just five chairs.
Five microphones.
A drum kit.
An upright bass.
A Harmonica.
Three guitars.
Cam watched as five shadows walked across the stage, their faces hidden by the shadows. He could feel the first note before he heard it. The vibration had travelled through the earth, into the soles of his shoes, and into his heart. There was something old-fashioned, ancient. Nothing like the electric blues that had played all weekend. No screaming guitar. No roar of amplification. Each instrument joining in next, well-timed, and patient. Softly forming a single sound, as a soft light began to glow – almost as a halo around the musicians. Whilst their faces remained hidden by the shadows, Cam could make out their clothes: their dark suits, white shirts, hats – as if out of the old photographs he had stumbled upon earlier.
And for the first time, since the band had begun to play, he noticed how quiet the crowd had become. The people who had been drinking, shouting, laughing just minutes before were still. But he could feel it, the vibration of the music still playing in his chest. He could see the people dancing.
No.
Not dancing, swaying, almost mechanically. Slowly. Together. Perfectly in sync. It was mesmerising; he couldn’t help but reach into his pocket for his camera. Something screamed at him to document this. His flash went off, and for a moment the guitarist’s face was visible. He lifted the camera again, another flash of light. There was something wrong. He raised the camera again.
Flash.
The drummer’s face was hidden behind the cymbal; only the hollow leather of a pale cheek was visible.
Flash.
The harmonica, players face hidden beneath the brim of a hat, just the sharp glint of the metal against his yellow teeth.
Again.
A glare of light.
A burst of light from a hanging mirror ball.
Again, and again. Each picture incapable of capturing anything but a mere glimpse of musicians. He lowered the camera, turning it over in his hands, checking each and every inch of it for some form of explanation. A reason as to why – but nothing: no explanation, no logical reason.
In his frustration, he hadn’t noticed the missing beat beneath the sole of his shoe, the slight metallic buzz in his ear. The song had ended. No music was playing, no riot of applause, not even the mumbling of chatter among the fans. He looked out to the crowd and felt his body stiffen ever so slightly. Tears ran down the face of every person he could see. Not sobbing, no expressions of grief. Just a hundred people stood still as they cried. He looked at the man beside him as the tears softly fell from his face, racing over his cheeks, a slave to gravity. There was nothing upon his face, no emotion of sadness or joy, just emptiness, and for several seconds his heart stopped.
Then someone screamed.
Loud, and of high enough pitch that Cam was able to recognise the noise. He turned, searching – searching for the owner. A woman, mouth stretched inhumanly wide as she screeched, her hand clawing at a man beside her. Cam had made to rush to her side, until he noticed the comatose state of the man she was mauling. She wasn’t defending herself; she was attacking, viciously and unprovoked, clawing bloodily at the skin of his face as it began to peel off. He watched in horror as her nails caught in his cheeks, her nails tearing hollow holes into his cheeks until his tongue was seen gurgling on the mass of blood. And yet, he did nothing, still. Lifeless, yet his chest was still breathing, eyes still open, still crying.
A vibration rumbled through the earth, tearing Cameron’s eyes away from the sight in front of him to the stage. The band stood slowly, in perfect unison, and began to play. With a single note, chaos erupted around him, bodies slamming into one another. Nails tore into flesh. All around him, violence echoed. A man came crashing from behind Cam, knocking him into another, who turned quickly, a fist driving into Cameron’s mouth, the force knocking him onto the floor. He scrambled quickly, scurrying for a space under a table, as the sea of violence continued around him.
Two men dragged a woman backwards by her hair, tugging, as if trying to pull her hair off like one would a pen cap. One man continued to slam his own head against the brick wall, again and again. Bottles shattered over shoulders, impaled stomachs, and legs. A woman sinking her teeth so deep into the arms of another that when she came up for air, her smile was missing teeth, still lodged in the arm of her victim. There was no anger in their faces, no rage, or hatred. They attacked with the blank determination as if it were a task one had to complete.
Cameron crawled out from under the table, pushing himself up to his feet, desperate to get out of the Hotel. A hand reached out from the crowd, clawing his jacket. He twisted, removing the fabric from his body, no longer caring about the camera, or his notes. He had almost reached the door when he saw him.
The man who he’d watched being mauled. He was standing, his face a monstrous painting, jaw unhinged, no longer held together by muscle and skin. He simply stared ahead as the woman tore at his chest. Cameron froze, as their eyes met. The man smiled and Cam turned, leaving as fast as he could.
Yet, as Cameron ran could still feel the rhythm.
A pulse.
A heartbeat.
Something underneath the ground.
The violence exploded out of the Hotel behind him.
The festival was far from over.
From the Mississippi Gazette, January 1997
One Month On: Gleaners County Mourns.
It has now officially been one month since tragedy at the Gleaner's County Annual Blues Festival, which claimed the lives of sixty people, with many still missing, leaving families across the county in mourning.
After an investigation, authorities have concluded that the events of the evening tragedy were the result of a tragic series of accidents, panic, and mass confusion. While questions remain surrounding the precise circumstances of the incident, investigators have ruled out any evidence of deliberate wrongdoing, with all witnesses to the events being under critical care or of unsound mind.
Among the missing was the Gazette’s very own Cameron Forde, 24, a young reporter who had been covering the festival. Forde’s vehicle and personal belongings were recovered from his motel room, though authorities are now looking for a body; we remain hope he may still be alive. Friends and colleagues at the Gazette have remembered Forde as a promising young journalist whose career had only just begun.
The tragedy claimed the lives of several musicians performing at the festival, as well as local staff and attendees. Gleaners County Council has extended its deepest condolences to the families of loved ones affected by the disaster will be holding a memorial service this weekend, where candles will be lit for the lives of each lost and missing.