Harmony and Discord: Songs out of Time, #2

By Stella Jorette

He had just one job - be a rock star. She had just one job - save the world. What could go wrong?

After several hit tunes, Martin should be ecstatic. But rock-stardom isn't as glamourous as he'd hoped. In fact, constant adulation is nerve wracking and requires a schedule. Sometimes, he's even expected to turn up on time and pay attention. Perhaps Jon Swift, front man for All Souls, holds the key to the swinging, jet set life-style of Martin's dreams.

Meanwhile, Pam accidentally drinks psychedelic punch. And one hallucinogenic effect doesn't go away, a peculiar singing style that resonates with both people and animals, and, curiously, with the stemware. But a threatening stranger attacks and sends Pam undercover until a betrayal forces her hand.

Will Martin lose everything while chasing his dreams? Will Pam survive long enough to fulfil her mission?

Harmony and Discord is the second book in the Songs out of Time humorous science fiction series. If you enjoy diverse characters, strange happenings, and retro-Seventies vibes, then you'll love Stella Jorette's far-out adventure.

Buy Harmony and Discord today and jump into the groove!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Imagine Imprints
• Release date: Sep 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9780648725534

Book preview

About the Book

He had just one job - be a rock star.

She had just one job - save the world.

What could go wrong?

After several hit tunes, Martin should be ecstatic. But rock-stardom isn't as glamourous as he'd hoped. In fact, constant adulation is alternatively nerve wracking and boring and requires him to show up on time. Perhaps Jon Swift, front man for All Souls, holds the key to the swinging, jet set life-style of Martin's dreams.

Meanwhile, Pam accidentally drinks psychedelic punch. And one hallucinogenic effect doesn't go away, a peculiar singing style that resonates with both people and animals, and, curiously, with the stemware. But a threatening stranger attacks and sends Pam undercover until a betrayal forces her hand.

Will Martin lose everything while chasing his dreams? Will Pam survive long enough to fulfil her mission?

A drawing of two people Description automatically generated with medium confidence

An Aberration

Homage to an Ice Cube

Martin Davis, newly minted rock star, and his lovely wife, Pam, stepped into the main gallery. Space age music throbbed, rattling his bones and reverberating inside his chest. He stifled a sigh at the thought of wandering through another art extravaganza. This event was housed in a repurposed wharf-side warehouse complex, complete with the occasional whiff of fish. Artsy types never thought anything through—the lighting, for starters. The only light came from a strobe pulsing blue to purple, illuminating something rotating on the ceiling.

Pam tugged his jacket sleeve. He leaned down so she could shout in his ear. What do you think that’s supposed to be? She pointed up at the hanging objet d’art, trumpet-shaped and leaking smoke from one end.

He shouted, I’m guessing giant spliff. Let’s head toward the light.

The light flowed from a gallery around the corner which held a boxing ring, of all things. Stark naked men and women ran to and fro, slamming into the ropes. He didn’t mind naked, but the contestants or performance artists weren’t particularly attractive and... Ouch! Two slammed into each other full tilt. Sweat sprayed as they bounced from the collision and hit the mat. Martin drew back, skin prickling as if he’d taken the blow. Bloody hell! Why the violence? This was not sexy. This was not elegant. This was sickening. His disgust must have shown, because onlookers glanced into his face and murmured, absorbing his verdict like aphids sucking sap from a plant.

But this shite was supposed to be hip, not revolting. What did everyone else think? He rearranged his expression to neutral and surveyed the crowd. Many of the birds clung to their men and cringed. Distant and blasé expressions plastered the blokes’ faces. Maybe he should try distant and blasé. Inside the ring, a lean bloke in a beret smashed a chubby redhead into the ropes. Martin winced. Distant and blasé wouldn’t be easy to maintain. Time to move on.

Martin led Pam toward a side door. Charles, his closest ally at the label, said this opening should attract a docile urbane artsy set intrigued by your music. Docile his arse, if the boxing match was any measure. Charles, who was ancient, at least forty and growing longer in the tooth every minute, may have lost the thread. He’d said, Have to get out and about, my boy. See and be seen. Part of the job. Art openings, movie premiers, new restaurants, those Italian noodles heavily spiced with bug spray-flavoured leaves, Charles teaching him to swirl the noodles in his spoon, Martin’s pathetic attempts, a splash of sauce on his lapel. One would expect Charles would give him a break, considering the noodle fiasco and the recent gruelling Nordic tour. A curse upon Charles and his good intentions.

In the next room, wisps of fog rose around a glowing green punch bowl. The fog, and come to think of it, the smoke from the giant spliff were probably dry ice, a fun substance, the only redeeming feature of science. He should warn Pam about the punch, but—what was this round brown object, not unlike an over-sized rat dropping, an inch from his nose? Martin tucked in his chin.

Do you have a question for the magic bean? asked a bloke dressed in a silver lamé body suit, a blue cape, white gloves, and a feathered butterfly mask. Bean? Suppose the brown thing could be a gigantic kidney bean. The Silver Nutter held it in front of Martin’s mouth like a microphone. Pam flashed him her just play along smile. What other choice did he have with all these eyes on him? He rearranged his face into cool indifference and hovered in the space between basking in the crowd’s attention and coughing up a clever answer. He could pull off clever a fraction of the time. Right now, necessity might trump clever.

Mr Bean, Martin asked, Could you please direct me to the loo?

The crowd tittered appreciatively, then turned, pretending not to care, but Martin knew they phenomenally cared, because the gawking would go on all night.

In the relative peace of the antiseptic-smelling industrial loo, Martin stood dick in hand, anointing the porcelain. A thin blonde met his eye for a moment, startled with recognition, then shied away like a deer in the headlights. He loved this easily weathered reaction to his fame. The slightly bolder fans who’d drift into his orbit, seeking a minute or two of his attention, were more work, but manageable. Martin Davis, rock star, a magnetic force on the jelly behind each iris, was an event within the event and the reason his tickets were always free. Free-ish. These gigs slaughtered him.

Martin Davis? Man, I loved ‘Pear Shaped World.’ A smarmy bastard extended his hairy hand.

Martin glanced down at his still dangling penis and back up. Sorry. Occupied. The nerve of some people.

Amazingly, the bloke leaned against the wall between urinals and continued. Couldn’t find tickets for the Palladium gig, man. And I’ve been a fan since ‘Last Gasp.’ You’re getting too big. Got an extra pair for an authentic fan?

Christ. Running the gauntlet even whilst taking a piss. These punters who barged in and held his eye were hard work, always asking questions or wanting something. He hadn’t thought to bring along any freebies, though Pam probably had some in her bag. But this bell-end wasn’t worthy. Martin tucked away his own bell end, threw out excuses about management and the label and scarpered.

Urinal man followed him into the gallery. Martin fixed his face and stared about three feet ahead, pretending to be intent on something, as if ignoring a beggar. Street corners and publicity events shared much in common. One never knew what to expect, and a little distance helped conserve energy. Pam called this manoeuvre his contact avoidance algorithm. So be it. At least the blank stare allowed him to check out the crowd without being hassled. And frankly, the crowd topped the crap art. For starters, these two fantastic chicks, topless, completely topless, parading arm in arm, lovely jubblies jiggling in the strobe light. And a third beauty offered all comers a turn at finger-painting her shapely midriff. Things were looking up. Martin silently apologised to Charles as he knocked against somebody’s shoulder.

Ah. Martin, my good man, what do you think?

Martin’s eyes stayed glued to a dark-haired bloke in a cropped top. A hula girl tattoo decorated his belly, the tattoo’s grass skirt flipping with every muscular flex. Martin muttered, Far out.

An obvious nod to Miro, no?

More a nod to ‘Hawaii Five-O’.

Pam shook his elbow, so Martin peeled his eyes off the torso and—

Bloody hell. He’d been cornered by Randolph Grebe, fifties crooner and minor film star retired into a new role: pompous and insufferable man of culture. The wretch rose from the slime for every stupid opening and interrogated Martin, always fishing for weakness.

Martin followed Grebe’s gaze to one of the elephant poops taking up the gallery’s floor space. The closest poop was labelled Conical Paradox #42. Conical Paradox his arse. Some tosser had slapped house paint on a cone of ceiling insulation. Grebe, stroked his sparse goatee, still fixated on #42 as if it were special. But #42 looked just like #43 and #44. Well, not quite: #42 periodically released a thin stream of vapour from its tip—more dry ice, no doubt.

Grebe shot Martin an arched eyebrow as if to say, Respond, you ponced-up ned. What Martin wanted to say was, Same shite heap as the rest, just steaming. But that probably wouldn’t do. Instead, he stalled, stroking his chin, a learned gesture he’d spotted during an episode of Open University.

Grebe raised his accursed eyebrow and chuckled.

Sod it all. Martin Davis was a musician, not a sculptor. Keith, his best mate, could explain #42, but Keith was away in art school. He could pour a whiskey, settle down in front of the telly, and learn art on Open University. But the lecturers had shockingly bad hair and suits beyond any conceivable excuse. And realistically, he wasn’t much of a student. He’d left school as soon as possible with O Levels. But he wasn’t ordinary, and he’d shown them. He’d show Grebe. He’d have Musical Genius consider #42. In preparation, Martin hooded his eyes and allowed his neck to bend slightly toward a shoulder, just so, contemplative, astute...

Oh! Martin. There’s James. Pam waved vigorously down the hall. An anonymous partygoer graciously returned the wave. Excuse us, Randolph. So very nice to see you.

Pam grabbed his hand and led him down the hall. Thank God.

Who’s James? asked Martin.

A figment of my imagination. I was just getting us away from Grebe. They slipped into an alcove. One of those multi-armed Indian goddesses waved at them from a pedestal; she wasn’t real, just some kind of large puppet. Martin waved back. Pam squeezed his hand. I sensed a slide into Creative Guy.

The name is Musical Genius. Genius, a vague and delicate creature, floated halfway between this plane of existence and the next. Martin had created him to impress music executives, but fame’s tsunami had slapped Martin into a seawall of hipsters and snobs who dug Musical Genius. Genius usually bowled over the smart birds like Pam.

Pam smoothed his collar. Response to art is personal. Everybody’s impressions are valid. So don’t let Randolph stress you. I understand the pressure, people hanging on your every word, asking you to bold and underline the text of life. But ‘keeping it real,’ as they say, is the best approach.

But real was growing a fuzzy edge, like bread mould, because everybody expected something different. The fans varied. He terrified some. But some scared him, the ravenous types, eying him like he was a hunk of meat. Someday he’d be eaten alive. They’d roast his bones and suck out his marrow. The label wanted sales and no drama, him tame but somehow also rock-and-roll. Of course, they were business types entirely out of touch with today’s groove. Reporters, on the other hand, wanted bad behaviour, very bad behaviour, the badder the better. Critics hoped he’d be the next Dylan, a stretch on the best of days. He had profound moments, but those moments were musical, not words spoken in the moment at art openings. So occasionally, he’d trot out Musical Genius to avoid sounding like a dunce.

You don’t like Genius?

I like you better. Though I prefer Genius to that smarmy fellow who calls me ‘darling.’

The alcove suddenly warmed; Martin loosened his collar. Only Pam could dislike both Musical Genius and Suave Playboy. Suave was incredibly popular and easy to play, though possibly a bit dim. Suave would’ve shrugged at the hideous mound of poop that was Conical Paradox #42, then outrageously flirted with Randolph. Of course, Suave Playboy, the stupid slut, might have ended up in the rear seat of Randolph’s car. And. Well. Yeesh.

They passed into a nearly empty gallery. Frosty air blasted from the ventilation grille. Powder blue walls surrounded a pedestal bearing a glistening giant ice cube centred in a black pan of water. A placard of dense and indecipherable art wank sneered at Martin from the wall.

Pam hugged herself and leaned into his side. I believe the placard translates to ‘homage to an ice cube.’ Charles would approve. He so enjoys the clink of ice. What’s Martin Davis’s interpretation?

Not sure, but Musical Genius says this bollocks should draw a life sentence. He turned toward the cube, but somebody blocked his view, an ash blonde, tall and angular; her cheekbones might’ve been carved by a mattock. This shockingly beautiful fashion magazine type might be fodder for fantasy but proved terrifying in the flesh. Probably because she reminded him of the Finland tour. Was she part of the exhibit?

The woman tipped her head, regarded him like he was a dodgy thrift store find, then smiled, lips only; the eyes remained glacial. Musical genius? How interesting. Music is my specialty. Lydia Delacroix, music critic. And you are?

Martin. Martin Davis. Rock star. At your service. He tipped his head, forgoing the hand kiss. No need to trot out Suave Playboy. This lady could powder Suave with a single icy blast.

She raised a hand to her chin. Martin Davis. Rock star? Curiously, I’ve never heard of you.

Had she just accused him of lying in her unpleasant combination of posh and sub-zero? Could’ve softened it. Could’ve asked if he was having her on, for instance. The woman sounded vaguely British but didn’t follow the British way. A true Brit would be far less direct, employing a perverse politeness so subtle, it’d take him a week to work out the insult. Martin, drifting out of any known frame of reference, glanced at Pam. She was American. Well... Not really, but let her answer.

Pam dipped her head, one of her let’s all be chums mannerisms. Martin’s specialty is rock-and-roll. He’s relatively new on the scene but has a substantial following. Ah Pam, so earnest, so generous, trying to give the Snow Queen the benefit of the doubt.

The woman raked her eyes over Pam. My research was comprehensive. She tapped a black lacquered nail on her front teeth, then returned her hand to her chin. But no matter. She pulled a notebook from her purse while muttering in a foreign tongue. What was your name again? For a moment, her eyes tocked back and forth; she squeezed them tight, then blinked. Something was off about this bint. Maybe she was high.

Martin Davis of Martin Davis and the Skylarks.

Well, Martin Davis, enjoy your evening. She fished a pocket-camera from her purse and snapped. Brilliant white light swamped his vision. When his eyes recovered from the flash, she’d vanished.

Pam Takes Flight

The flash left Pam’s vision splotched with dark patches. What a night. First Randolph Grebe, now this thoughtless woman. Thoughtless and strange. Usually, people cornered Martin and babbled about his music, but they didn’t deny his existence or label him an aberration. Admittedly Martin was different, but aberration seemed harsh. And this camera flash was taking forever to dissipate. She shut her eyes, but a party was in full swing on the insides of her eyelids, geometric forms spinning, twirling, and writhing. Maybe eyes open was a better choice. But now the flash radiated from Martin’s hair and threw the gallery walls into undulating waves, pulsing in time with the music. No. This light show must be part of the exhibit. Fantastic! Isn’t this lovely? How’d they create these effects?

What effects? Martin stood blinking, confusion writ all over his face. Oh, dear. That woman’s imperious and dismissive behavior must have disagreed with his chronic need for validation. She should reassure him, but all that glitter spilling from the light fixture was such a distraction.

Well, that effect, for instance. Quite impressive. She pointed to the sparkling torrent.

He glanced up then back at her. Looks like a ceiling to me.

From deep within, a tiny voice whispered, "High. High as a kite."

Goodness. That voice sounded like Vi. Curious Vi piping up now, the first time since the exorcism, other than the occasional soft "fuckwit lobbed at Martin. Hello! Nice to hear from you after all this time."

Martin’s eyes widened. Are you talking to that spirit again? I thought she’d gone to ground.

Did I speak out loud?

Don’t encourage her. Martin’s words materialized in front of his mouth in bulbous rock-poster font and danced through the air toward her ear. She’s trouble, and the next thing you know, you’ll wrestle some sod to the ground.

Funny, sound traveling so slowly. And such a pity, Martin fretting over nothing in this peaceful, kind universe. Although, something must not be quite right. Vi promised to be quiet unless I’m in trouble. Am I in trouble? Am I having some kind of...episode? Pam trailed her hands through the streaming confetti. Oooo. Let’s play.

Martin grasped her shoulders and stared into her eyes. All pupil, like a gerbil’s. You didn’t drink the punch, did you?

The punch? Had a glass while you were in the restroom. Rather too sweet, sadly.

He hooked his arm around her elbow. Never, ever drink the punch at one of these gigs. We should get you home.

Some minutes or an eternity later, their cab lurched forward and into the theater district, bedazzling signage towering on both sides of the street, the neon reflecting in blue-black puddles. A horn squealed; colors twinkled in the raindrop smattered glass. The cityscape blurred and melted, color becoming sound, sound morphing into color. Pam snuggled against Martin, her anchor and safety net in the swarm of symbol and meaning crystallizing around her. An eye gazed up from the car floor, its iris the palest blue like a heat-baked summer sky, just like Martin’s. Its pupil dilated wide, wider, and she slipped into the blackness below, a quiet space underneath, where she drifted and listened to eternity.

But in this one spot, the black lightened to gray, then cleared, revealing a window to a world of pouring rain and steaming heat. Fronds undulated in the wind. Water carved rivulets in the mud until the sun broke through in a searing yellow blaze. A note sounded in the distance, echoed across time and space, clear and pure, resonating with her soul. Her song, the song of her true self, Pamili. She called back.

Visiting Friends

At the apartment several days later, Martin shrugged on his coat. Ron and I will vet a couple places. We’ve got to find a better scene; Charles and his art openings be damned. I’ll call when I’ve found something promising and see if you’re feeling up to it.

I’m fine. The cabinet knobs have stopped dancing, so go and have fun. Pam wrapped a scarf around his neck and kissed him.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes, probably checking the size of her pupils. You look better, but I’m playing it safe. I phoned Reema and invited her over. She’ll be here shortly.

I’ll be glad of the company. Remember to smile and say hello to the fans by the door.

He slipped into the hall, looking guilty or sheepish, undoubtedly up to mischief. But Reema would soon arrive, so best to tidy up. Evidence of Martin’s profession lay strewn across the dining table and sofas: guitars, notebooks, napkins covered in hieroglyphic scrawls, probably lyrics. The guitars had been proliferating since they’d had more cash. Martin claimed each instrument was special, offering a certain heft, tone, or length of finger board. She’d counseled financial restraint, but the guitars kept appearing, not to mention that flashy yellow car. She straightened the paper avalanche coating the piano, careful not to change the order of the papers. Such a relief that the lines on the paper had stopped undulating. But when she stroked a few piano keys, the notes lasted longer than usual, crystal clear dew drops, softly sparkling between her ears. She answered their call with a few notes of her own. The music danced in the soft afternoon light. Beautiful, but perhaps phoning Reema had been wise.

Coincidentally, the doorbell rang, and Reema, lightly perfumed and elegantly attired, glided into the apartment. Such a good friend and always ready to help her navigate this very peculiar world.

Lovely perfume, but surprising Reema had bothered with such an embellishment.

A recent addition, this scent. Chosen by Francoise. She dots me with it after I dress in the clothes she chooses. I appreciate her assistance with these matters. And the perfume is of interest. I have habituated to the scent, and now, it reminds me of my dwelling. Reema glanced around the lounge room. Do you enjoy this dwelling?

Oh, yes. Very much so. A significant upgrade over last year’s group house. Two bedrooms, one for us, one for Martin’s guitars, laundry facilities down the hall, no holes in the walls or roaches, and privacy. Well, at least privacy once we’ve run the gauntlet at the front door.

Who are those people, crowding the entrance?

Admirers, photographers, and journalists. Between the crowd and the doorman’s disapproval, gone were the days of throwing a jacket over pajamas and dashing out for the mail. And occasionally, one of these onlookers would sneak inside the building. But no need to burden Reema with negatives. By most measures, she and Martin were fortunate.

I’m surprised so many individuals are available to stand by a door. Reema lifted the burned orange lava lamp blurping quietly on an end table next to the couch. What is the purpose of this object?

Martin says it represents the safe space of our relationship. Which inspired Pam to wonder how his mind worked.

Hmm. And the carpet? These small clots resemble the wool of certain sheep.

A shag carpet. Quite stylish, according to Martin. Though I fear it may be a tripping hazard. But let me show you the best features.

Pam led Reema to the bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain and displayed the bathtub’s spray attachment. She clasped her hands. An import. A true luxury. Now I can rinse my hair with ease.

I revel in your good fortune.

In the kitchen, Pam rolled the dishwasher from its niche to the sink, attached the hose to the faucet, and inserted a glass into the top rack. You can’t imagine my joy after last year’s roach fest. Her ode to the dishwasher slipped from her throat, a song that’d come to her yesterday. And yes, she’d been so stoned she’d been singing to the appliances.

At the first golden note, a fleck of light twinkled from the glass’s rim, just like in a dishwasher magazine ad. Enthused, she sang of the splash of water, the sparkle of glass, food particles and germs swooshing down the drain, pure and clean. Melodic chimes and an ethereal ringing filled the kitchen, a lacework of sound which hung in the air then dissolved into the afternoon sunlight, leaving a peaceful silence, as if the song had chased away the city’s clamor and grime. Yow. And she’d thought the effects of that drug had dissipated.

The sound of Reema’s applause returned Pam to earth. Unusual for glassware to magnify the nodal patterns of a song.

Pam accepted Reema’s approval with a shallow bow. "You mean the chiming? I’m glad you heard it too. I thought I was still tripping along on that drug, a pharmaceutical adventure that blended my sensations, vision with sound and taste. And the