A groovy fable
“Why don’t we try it again from the top, fellas?” Sid asked from behind the worn drum kit, his sticks raised in preparation.
“Aw, forget it, Sid.” Rodney dropped his guitar and let it hang from the cracked leather strap. “It’s a crummy record from a crummy band, and that’s not about to change with another bloody rehearsal.”
Colin muttered something about the soulless rat race and hunched over his bass, fiddling with its pegs. The other boys glanced at him for a moment, then returned to their argument. “No studio wants to record ‘The Froggs!’” Rodney pushed back his bangs and began to pace.
Sid threw his drumsticks on the tom-toms and approached Rodney until they were face-to-face. “I thought you liked that name!”
“It’s bloody stupid!”
“You’re bloody stupid!”
“Shut up! You’re both idiots!”
Sid and Rodney whipped their heads to gape at Colin, assuming him to be the dissenter, but he was staring at the door of the basement, squinting at a figure peering down the stairs at the boys. “All of you are. Mewling about names. Shut your traps! No one cares!” The figure made her way down the stairs, revealing herself to be a woman with tangled hair and a back bent like a door hinge, who was clothed in flowing, dark robes. A witch, the boys realized. They had, of course, heard of witches—Colin’s cousin Stewie had run off with one several years back and never been heard from again—but this was the first time they’d ever seen one in person, and they were terrified.
She grabbed Rodney by his lapel and pulled him down next to her face. Her sour breath dusted his nose, and he had to restrain a sneeze. “What matters is a record deal.” She looked at the others. “Right?” Afraid of giving the wrong answer, they blinked and stammered, so she yelled, “Right?!” They managed to nod. She turned to face Rodney again. “You—you lead this… group? These—oh, what are the kids saying now—crazy cats?”
Sid huffed and stepped forward, but Colin yanked him back and pushed him into a chair before he could object. Rodney, somewhat bemused, but still petrified, gulped and nodded.
The witch smirked. “Then I’ve got a special deal for you, my groovy friend. You distract this square who’s been giving me a hard time, and I’ll get you your precious record deal. Just like that. Cool beans?”
“For real?” Sid rose from the chair. “You mean it?” The witch nodded.
“What do you need us for?” Rodney asked, crossing his arms.
Sucking her lip, perturbed, the witch replied, “I need you to play your beats for the guard of the golden record my folks used to own. I want it back, but you need to distract him with some groovy tunes, so I can sneak in.”
“We’ll do it,” Colin said.
“Col!” Rodney wheeled on his taciturn bassist. “What do you think you’re doing, mate?”
Colin shrugged, and the witch cackled. “It is done! Let’s jive, dudes! Or however you idiots say it!” She began to spin, and, as she did so, her robes billowed around her, spraying dust around the basement. With a puff, the Froggs and all their instruments disappeared from the basement and reappeared in a seaside grotto, facing a massive, russet walrus. “Have fun distracting, you hip kiddies!” the witch said. “Peace!” And again she disappeared in a puff.
The walrus turned, noticing the three teens, appraised them for a moment, then asked, “Well? You blokes gonna do your act or what?”
Rodney faced the animal and stuttered for a moment before Sid yelled “1—2—3—4!” and started pounding out the beat of their favorite tune—“Why Won’t She Be Mine.” Colin raised an eyebrow, but joined in with his bass, leaving Rodney no choice but to pick up his guitar and start singing. “See her e-ver-y day / But she’ll never stay,” he crooned.
When the Froggs finished the song, the walrus put a flipper to his chin and contemplated for a moment, then nodded and smiled. “Groovy!” he said. The band gaped at him. “For real! I dig it! You cats should totally make a record!”
“You—You mean it?” Rodney dropped his guitar, this time from happiness. “Really?”
“Absolutely! I’m just so glad you chaps are actually a band. I pegged you as more thieves after the golden record.” The walrus slid down to the water and relaxed himself into it. “All the blokes who come by anymore are trying to get its perfect pitch.” He sighed and smiled as the water lapped at his body.
The teens straightened and stared at each other, slight grins on their faces. “Perfect pitch? That’s what that kooky record does?” Sid asked.
The walrus looked up from the gentle waves. “Yeah, for the owner. Pretty overhyped, if you ask me. This one whacked out chick keeps trying to steal it, but I always catch her. Too bad for her henchmen, though. Think she’s killed all of them.” He rolled onto his back and gave a melancholy huff. The band mates stared at each other; Rodney rubbed his neck and gulped. “Anyway, you can see it if you want. Through there.” He flapped a flipper behind him.
The Froggs dropped their instruments and darted past the walrus into a hallway weathered in the rock, stopping only briefly to call, “Thanks, mate!” as they ran. Inside, they dashed past a menagerie of vanquished creatures, from slumbering electric eels at the entrance to a prone elephant seal at the end of the passageway. On the other side, as if waiting for them, the golden record glittered on top of a battered chest. The witch, her hands poised on either side of it, noticed the boys and screeched.
“Split!” She snatched up the record and held it over her head. “Get out!”
Sid and Rodney froze in the entryway, scrambling to come up with a plan, but Colin shoved past them to confront the witch. He towered over her and wrenched the record from her hands with such force that it flew through the air away from both of them. The two other Froggs banged into each other as they hurried forward to catch it, but they were too late. The record hit the ground and snapped into three equal pieces.
“You morons!” The witch began to spin again, and the air crackled around her. “I’ll kill you, daddy-o’s!”
Colin stooped to gather the record pieces, then joined his friends in fleeing back through the passageway. Their lungs felt like they’d just sung for ten straight concerts, but still they ran. Finally, they reached the grotto and, searching for a weapon, grabbed their instruments. A cloud of dust erupted above the sand, and the witch appeared. She saw their attempted defense and snorted. “Oh, yeah, far out weapons, dudes. Bummer for you only an axe can kill me.” She gathered her robes about her and prepared to spin once again. “Peace out, squares!” She hunched over and twisted her body—
And froze as a Fender Stratocaster smashed on her head. Rodney’s hands were shaking, but he managed to say, “This axe good enough?”
The witch slumped to the ground, dead. Speechless, the boys stared at each other, and the walrus rolled over and looked them up and down. “Nice job, Froggs,” he said.
– – –
A day’s journey, two days of sleep, and a month of rehearsing later, the Froggs waited behind a gold curtain, a brand new Stratocaster resting in Rodney’s hands. “Everyone have their piece?” he asked. Sid and Colin reached into their suit pockets and pulled out a shard of golden record each. “Far out,” he said.
“And, welcome back to the Fred Mulligan Show!” The curtains drew open, and the band launched into the most perfect three-part harmony the audience had ever heard: “Want her bad cause she’s so fine / Oh, why won’t she be mine!” The crowd whooped and howled, and each Frogg, with his own third of their perfect harmony, took a moment and thought the following:
Rodney: “Finally, we’re good enough.”
Sid: “I always believed we could make it.”
Colin: “Can it truly be art if we stole the means to make it? Or is the only way to make art to steal? Is the art in the stealing or is the stealing in the art?”
Colin then shrugged and started thinking about dinner.