Known Entity; An Unauthorized History

By Phil Klahn

AP is an interesting guy. He'd spent half a lifetime touring the country with different bands and musical acts, as a roadie and a tech, and he has the stories to prove it. Near and dear to his heart is the band that started it all, Known Entity. AP's passion for Known Entity's music and band members unleashes a journey of discovery filled with moments of creativity, friendship, humor, tragedy, and reconciliation. AP is the ticket into the inner circle of the band, each member with their own dreams, struggles, and triumphs. Their shared history follows a group of friends on and off the stage, a roller coaster ride from novice musicians to the band's tragic end. As told by AP and other band members in their own words, Known Entity's music breathes life into their history as the story plays out, moving back and forth from past to present. Links to the actual songs let the reader listen to the band as their remarkable story unfolds. Known Entity - An Unauthorized History, received a Bronze Medal award in the 2019 Reader's Favorite International Book Award Contest in the Fiction - Realistic category! https://readersfavorite.com/2019-award-contest-winners.htm#known-entity

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781643005201

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Known Entity

An Unauthorized History

Phil Klahn

ISBN 978-1-64300-519-5 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64300-520-1 (Digital)

Copyright © 2018 Phil Klahn

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Prologue

Bands come and bands go. Some fade quietly, eroded by neglect or changing interests. Others are consumed in the fiery flames of clashing egos, personalities, and creative visions.

Known Entity was ending with its lead singer and lead guitarist literally at each other’s throats. The longtime friends and founding members of the band were trading blows on the side of a rural highway, as they rolled around through the dirt, gravel, and a stream of unknown liquid.

The lone observer and witness, AP, had watched this play out over the last few minutes. Or the last few years, depending on how he looked at it. Truthfully, it had been coming down the tracks for some time, like the proverbial slow train. They’d finally hit rock bottom, he thought to himself. It couldn’t get any worse than this.

He was wrong.

Chapter 1

Known Entity Flashback—Introductions

They arrived separately. AP first, then Brody. Both early. AP in his daily uniform; jeans and tour T-shirt from some obscure band. Oh, and sand-colored Crocs. Brody was his usual stylish self, a salmon collared shirt and tan khakis. I ushered both of them indoors and then, we waited. Plenty of time, according to the invitation I sent, for the others to be punctual or fashionably late. Half worry, half anticipation on my part. Would they come? It was a slight risk for them, but I tried to convince them it would be worth their while. That I’d do everything I could to keep things comfortable and light. I made no promises, just an assurance I would do my best.

Maybe I should have made promises . . .

They arrived as a couple, Steff and Mert, showing up at my door right on time. I greeted them warmly. I had talked with Steff on the phone, but this was my first face-to-face with them. Steff was light and breezy, outgoing, grateful for the invitation. She had a white, patterned blouse matched with dark blue slacks. Mert wore jeans and a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up at his wrists, perfect for this occasion or to fix the drain under my kitchen sink. He nodded, letting Steff do the talking. She supported him by the arm as he stepped up carefully from the front porch.

I played the good host, to the best of my ability. Snacks, water, pop, juice. Anything else was BYOB. Brody brought a bottle of wine, Mert a six-pack. I did a quick survey of the room. I had pulled a chair from the kitchen table and a small table from the den to hold my materials and my laptop. The computer audio output was connected to the stereo system in the room. I had everything set, audio cued up, and ready to play as our little get-together progressed. To my left, Steff and Mert sat hip to hip on a slightly beat-up blue sofa. Across from them, to my right, Brody was sitting upright and at attention in a wicker chair with a padded seat and backing. AP had settled into the brown faux leather recliner next to me. His hand played along the right side, searching for and finding the reclining mechanism. AP fiddled with it momentarily, as if all he wanted in the whole world was to lay back, put his feet up, and eventually drift off in the middle of things. Not on my watch, AP. We had important business to attend to. As they made themselves at home in my living room, the realization hit me. They were all here. Well, four of the five who were still around. All comfortably in their sixties and still kicking. The surviving members of the band, Known Entity. And an empty chair, in front of the gas fireplace. Mert had placed a beer on the empty chair seat. Thankfully, he’d left the cap on. The last thing I needed was beer spilled all over my carpet.

They were here for a listening session, to hear songs they created over their span of ten years as a band—four decades ago. I wanted them to focus on the music, at least at the beginning. Better to keep their minds off of their own personal history together until I got them in the door. I knew once the songs began, the memories would come flooding back. Then we would see where this goes. We would see. Time to get this listening party in gear.

Me: I can’t thank you all enough for being here today. As you know, I’ve been working on this for about nine months, and I’m happy to report that the end result has been worth the effort. We are here today to listen to your legacy. A series of unreleased songs, spanning the history of your band, Known Entity. I’m calling this Known Entity: Flashback!

I looked around at my guests. No response.

Me: Okay. We’ll hear the songs one at a time, in chronological order, then you’ll have a chance to comment and ask questions. Speaking of which, are there any questions before we start?

I scanned the half circle of band members, all sitting in silence, in anticipation.

Well, I had a question, floating around in my skull. How in the world did I get myself into this? Voluntarily, I recalled. It started with a chance meeting at a club, as I was walking my own jagged path of musical ambitions. In retrospect, I can’t remember how that particular gig was supposed further my own plans. Just another gig for the sake of gigging. Until I met AP.

Me: Well, I’ll get this thing moving. Or for you fans of old musicals, let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start . . .

Chapter 2

Meeting AP

It’s been a few years now, since I first met him. The man behind the band. Well, more accurately, the man with the story behind the band. I was playing guitar in a classic rock cover band, a gig at a local club. The club showed signs of its former life as a dance or strip club. The raised platform that acted as the stage was rimmed in black metal tube railing; originally installed as a barrier to separate the dancers from the audience, no doubt. We were having no such issues with the current patrons, who seemed content to give us an obligatory golf clap at the end of each song. Those who weren’t ignoring us completely.

At the end of the first set, I spent a few minutes adjusting settings on stage, then headed over to our table, where our singer was sitting with someone I did not recognize. As I sat down, I noted the canned music was booming. Loudly. Great, I said, we get lectured by the owner about our stage volume, and then he blasts everybody with the break music.

My band mate said, What?

Never mind, I mumbled, shaking my head.

He got up and shouted, This is my buddy, AP. I’ll be back in sec. He wandered off towards the men’s room.

I’m Phil, I said, trying to find the right volume to be heard without addressing the entire room. What was your name?

Thomas Andrews, but everyone calls me AP. Don’t ask. AP looked to be in his sixties. He had the stocky build of someone who hefted heavy objects for a living, and the tired, worn down look that comes from doing such things years beyond your prime. The lights of the bar glinted off his cleanly shaven head. Or maybe he was bald. I didn’t ask.

I absolutely hate trying to force conversation over loud music, but this AP guy seemed unfazed, determined to get his point across, willing to repeat himself no matter how many times I said, What? Amid the background of 80’s hair metal, AP and I shared guitar playing experiences and our favorite instruments and amps. As we talked, I learned that he had four plus decades in the music scene. AP tossed out names, one after the other, always punctuated with, Do you know him? Or Have you ever heard them? referring to the dozens of musical acts he’d worked. He’d been a tech and roadie for regional and national tours over the years. I was waiting for him to mention he once ran sound for Foghat. That was a familiar boast around here. I recognized a few of the names he provided. Very few.

Any overseas tours? I asked.

I toured all over the U.S., but the only overseas gig I did was a trip to Japan with a band called Madame Irony. You remember them? No, you probably wouldn’t. They did trippy psychedelic prog rock with an operatic singer. The saying was, ‘If Madame Butterfly and Iron Butterfly had a love child.’

Hmm, I said. I can’t imagine a lot of people would be into that.

AP shrugged. Well, no accounting for taste. Besides, it was a job. If you want to stay employed on the road, you can’t be too picky about whether you like the bands’ music. The busiest roadies and techs either have a wide range of musical interests or are very skilled at not having an opinion about any particular artist. Or both.

Sounds like you’ve been around the block a time or two.

Yeah. I’ve seen a lot of bands come and go, AP said with an air of worldly wisdom.

All right. What’s the worst band breakup you’ve ever seen? Some recent personal experiences were fresh on my mind.

AP frowned. I’ll tell you about the second worst. The worst is . . . personal.

Okay, I said, waving the fingers of both hands inward, the universal sign for Bring it on.

AP said, I’d been supporting a country band for over a year. No name, I’m not even going to try to change it to protect the innocent. For one thing, weren’t none of them innocent. AP rubbed the top of his head. They’d had some regional success and were certain they were going to break nationally at any time. The longer that didn’t happen, the more screwed up they got. It was the usual things: ego, drinking and drugs, sleeping around, cheating on wives and girlfriends. Success might have painted over some of those wounds, but success didn’t come.

AP took a drink from his cup. It’s ginger ale, by the way. He burped twice before continuing. Anyway, when things finally went south, the band split into two different factions. We all got together one more time to hash things out, and they ended up going their separate ways. Well, the band had pooled their money to buy a monitor mixer to use on stage. There was some nastiness about who got the mixer, and how were they going to deal with it so everyone got their share of whatever the value was, used.

The drummer and the bass, a guy named Greg, were on the same side of the split. The same faction, so to speak. Greg was storing the mixer in his garage. They got to drinking one night and the next thing you know, Greg is firing up his chainsaw, going to make sure everything was divided equally.

Uh-oh, I said.

Yep. He tried to split the baby, in the biblical sense.

Tried?

AP nodded. Yeah, the sides may have been wood, but the rest of the mixer was metal. When the chainsaw hit, it bucked back and strafed the area with a shower of shrapnel like a World War Two fighter plane. AP swept his arm across the table, nearly knocking over his drink.

What happened to Greg? I asked, fearing the worst.

Dude had one of them big rodeo belt buckles holding up his jeans. Miraculously, the chainsaw hit him square in the buckle. Any higher and it would have gutted him. Any lower and . . . Well, he’d be spending his Sundays singing soprano in the church choir.

Was he hurt?

AP grimaced. Of course! The drummer was standing back far enough that he escaped with some minor scrapes, so he drove Greg like a bat outta hell to the hospital. Nothing life-threatening, thank God, but . . . yeah, messed up his arm, his hand. AP pointed to the body parts as he talked. It was a while before he got back into the swing of things.

I thought for a moment. Okay, not to be insensitive, but what happened to the mixer?

The mixer? Oh, they all agreed to let him keep the mixer. We both laughed.

Curiosity got to me. I decided to pry a bit more on the subject. That was a pretty gruesome breakup. What in the world could be worse than that?

Like I said, it’s personal. I expected AP to be irritated with me for asking again. Instead, it appeared to be a light bulb moment for him. He sat stoically, in thought. Then I saw it. Eyebrows raised, eyes wider, mischievous grin poking through his beard. He looked me directly in the eyes and said, You ever heard of the band, Known Entity?

I shook my head, No.

Our lead singer was back at the table. I stood up. Time for the band to play. Break was over. AP shouted, We need to get together. I gotta tell you about these guys. I gave him a quick wave and headed to the stage, unaware that our two paths would soon cross again and merge over an obscure, under-appreciated band from the ’70s.

A few days later, AP and I met over coffee. It was a place where the cups are expensive, and conversation is quiet and relaxed. I shared my background, including my forays into mixing and producing, which greatly interested him.

So, what about this band? I inquired.

AP, simultaneously guarded and enthusiastic, spoke of a group of neighborhood friends caught up in the let’s form a band frenzy of the sixties. I suppose, fueled by various animated and live action TV shows and the elevated status of popular bands. I wasn’t sure. AP’s story skimped on details such as names and places, but his short vignettes showed a firsthand knowledge of certain events. The brief snippets left me with a vague impression of a band with a litany of bad breaks and poor choices, and a mysterious ill-fated road trip that all but erased their life’s work.

I pointed out