Murder by Music
I was mid-inspiration for my book. Just getting over a few days of writer’s block. I was listening to the music download my dear friend Bruce had sent me last week when the call came.
Jason, Bruce’s adopted son spluttered out the terrible news, his father had passed away suddenly. An accident. He’d let me know about funeral arrangements, blah blah blah. I was too stunned to take in the rest.
An accident. I only spoke to him a few days ago. Last Tuesday, in fact.
We always spoke on a Tuesday. It was one of Bruce’s many quirks. It didn’t matter how urgent the reason; his friends and clients had to wait for a Tuesday to speak with him. Why? Elvis Presley died on a Tuesday. Bruce always became inconsolable on Tuesdays, so calls cheered him up.
It drove me crazy and I continued to have terrible telephone tantrums when I couldn’t speak to him. But then that was only one of hundreds of idiosyncrasies that I became used to over the 40 years I knew him.
A pathological dread of anything medical- diseases, doctors, hospitals, cigarettes and drugs. He wouldn’t even take cold medication. An anachronism in the murky world of world of musicians and club life.
Like bringing his own cutlery to any restaurant we chose to go to. And only ever drinking instant coffee. He would carry his own small jar of Nescafe in case. And, of course the Tuesday calls.
His music knowledge was encyclopaedic. He had four hundred thousand albums lovingly stored alphabetically in his temperature-controlled garage. Floor to ceiling, felt lined shelves cocooned the pristine records. His ‘babies’. He knew every track and every artist and where each cherished 12” vinyl sat on the shelves. A fortune in discs.
The culmination of decades as one of the most underrated DJs on earth.
An alphabet soup of mental challenges-OCD, ADHD, ASD, with a smattering of bi-polar disorder, and competing narcissism and echoism-had conspired to keep him on the outer perimeter of stardom. He was intense.
Most people just thought he was mad!
But when he was on form, at a wedding party, school prom or night club, he glided through the music like a ballet-dancer. Smooth transitions, seamless tracking, intuitive track linking, using light and sound in an invisible force to create the exact mood he required. Genius.
He manipulated people with music. If he played dance tracks, you couldn’t help yourself, you had to dance. If he segued to romantic, you’d be smooching with the nearest dance partner you could find. His work was faultless.
A week later, I still hadn’t heard about a memorial or funeral for my musical friend. My calls to Jason went unanswered.
I called a mutual aqaintance, Jonjo, a retired cop who had taken enviable early retirement and became a DJ under Bruce’s expert tutelage.
Bruce’s biggest disappointment in life was that his son had never shared his passion for music. In fact, Jason seemed to resent Bruce’s collection, taking up all his dad’s time, space in the garage, and, I have say, love.
Jonjo had a natural affinity to music, and he and Bruce bonded over beers and unrecognised blues guitarists like Philip Sayce, Dan Patlansky and Hannah Wicklund.
They stayed up until dawn sometimes, challenging each other. What year did Jeff Healy release ‘See the Light’, what chord opens Stevie Wonder’s tribute to Duke Ellington, how many albums did Eric Clapton sell worldwide, what year did Muddy Waters die, what was the name of BB King’s beloved guitar? Way too easy, Buddy!
Jonjo answered the phone in his usual effusive way…YUP?
He knew instantly why I was calling, and at first, seemed reluctant to talk. But I wasn’t about to hang up if he knew anything. Turns out the coroner had considered Bruce’s death suspicious, and further investigation was required.
In my fog of disbelief, had I misunderstood Jason’s information? An accident he said. Cut and dried, I’d assumed. I had been too shocked to enquire further.
Jonjo explained. Bruce has been crushed to death in his garage by a rickety shelf full of albums. Two tons of vinyl.
He elaborated. Six screws had been found on the floor by the body.
I hung up and hid the screwdriver in my desk.
Travel. Write. Drink Coffee. Repeat 