The Boy Who Cried Freebird (5 page)

I was strolling through Tower Records at Fourth and Broadway in Manhattan one night when the strangest thing happened. It was closing time and I was in search of a gift for my parents. I was the only one browsing the classical section and I guess the Tower employees were in a big hurry because before I could get out, they locked up the store and accidentally left me inside.

Now, you'd imagine that being trapped overnight in such a store would be a dream come true for a music fanatic, but I was stuck in the classical section and couldn't get anywhere near the stuff that I really liked.

There I was, sitting on the floor, surrounded by thousands of CDs. But instead of digging around the vintage reggae or sampling the latest jazz, I was forced to amuse myself by examining the works of Bach and Chopin.

Just as I was getting depressed and a little uncomfortable, I looked up at a wall display and couldn't believe my eyes. There, in the classical section, was a Sonic Youth album that I had never seen before. The cover was psychedelic and the words
Goodbye 20th Century
peeked
through a spiraling purple vortex. Upon closer examination, I saw that this double disc was on the band's own SYR label.

So, I snuggled up to one of the listening stations and put on the headphones. Then I closed my eyes and leaned back against a shelf filled with Beethoven's Ninth. “Finally,” I thought. “Some rocking entertainment to help me make it through the night.”

Well, I couldn't have been more wrong. The music didn't rock; as a matter of fact, it didn't roll, either. It turned out that Sonic Youth were paying tribute to the conceptualist avant-garde, and most of the tunes were “composed” during the 1960s.

I say “composed” because there's a lot of noise involved, and if not for the electric guitars, you wouldn't even know it was a rock band playing. Still, the night was passing slowly and I couldn't sleep, so I listened to the (misguided) Youth perform compositions by eccentric artists like John Cage and Yoko Ono.

Now here's the thing. Sonic Youth display a succinct understanding of the abstract artistry that emerged during the latter half of the twentieth century, and while the music doesn't have a real backbeat, it does contain some interesting textures and effects.

Using sampling, discordant guitar riffs, tape loops, and other electronic noises, Sonic Youth embrace the groundbreaking reconsiderations of the '60s avant-garde by way of intangible atmospherics, repetition-of-sound-as-art, atonal colorings, and white-noise-as-entertainment.

So, by the time Tower Records opened the following morning, I was a changed man.

You can imagine the staff 's surprise when their first customer of the day emerged from the classical section rather than the street. But there I was, standing at the checkout counter with a batch of CDs by
composers like Pauline Oliveros, Christian Wolff, Steve Reich, and James Tenney.

Now, don't tell anyone, but I kept a copy of
Goodbye 20th Century
in my pocket when I left the store. I mean, you've got to be a little bit of a rebel in this world, don't you?

It wasn't just another terrorist threat; this one had the country completely in its clutches. Aliens indistinguishable from humans were unleashing deadly clones into the population. The White House had reverted to a shadow government, sequestered in bunkers and communicating to the nation from undisclosed locations.

At first there was panic in the streets, but the president gave a speech insisting that people should go back to living their normal lives or else they'd be giving in to alien terrorism. The president reluctantly admitted that the nation's security forces were baffled as to how to identify the new enemy, but he vowed to find and destroy the alien terrorists by any means necessary.

The aliens' weakness might never have been discovered if not for a chance coincidence. The big break came at Forest View High School's reunion for the class of 1975 in Mount Prospect, a northwestern suburb of Chicago. A DJ was playing old vinyl albums at the reunion party.

Everyone was having a good time until the DJ put the needle down on “Paranoid” by Black Sabbath. Suddenly, class president Terry Diferio began shaking violently and changed form, revealing his identity as
a hideous alien before disintegrating into a bubbling mass of protoplasmic goo.

Authorities were on the scene within minutes. The police were there as well as the NSA, the FBI, the CIA, and several other secret service agencies. Witnesses were interviewed and media coverage was intense. It wasn't until the same thing happened a month later at another class reunion in Spokane, Washington, that scientists determined it was the
analog
version of the song “Paranoid” that turned the aliens into mush.

Despite the government's efforts to control this information for the sake of their covert war on alien terrorism, news of the discovery leaked onto the Internet and was picked up by the mainstream press.

People tried downloading “Paranoid” onto MP3s and began burning copies of Black Sabbath's famous second album, only to find that digitized reproductions of the original vinyl record were useless against the aliens.

It was then confirmed that first-generation analog copies recorded on old-fashioned audiocassettes could also be used to kill the alien enemy. The fading market for turntables and blank audiotapes surged, and the sales of outmoded tape recorders skyrocketed overnight.

It still hadn't been determined why the vibrations of Ozzy Osbourne's keening voice combined with Tony Iommi's scorching guitar, Geezer Butler's booming bass, and Bill Ward's tribal drumming were so deadly to the creatures from outer space. The fact that it was just the one song, “Paranoid,” and all the other Sabbath tunes were ineffective against the aliens provided some clues, but early tests on alien detainees proved to be tortuous and inconclusive.

The government began round-the-clock experiments, covert and otherwise. They commandeered hundreds of turntables and tape decks, and commissioned lucrative production contracts to favored stereo manufacturers.

Vigilantes began taking action. Some drove through city streets with their windows down, blasting “Paranoid” on tape decks at full volume in hopes of nailing a stray alien. Other concerned citizens fastened down turntables in rental trucks with speakers attached to the roofs, driving from town to town and playing the song nonstop. This “Paranoid” strategy actually worked in Cleveland when an off-duty cabdriver melted a couple of space geeks posing as street vendors.

By this time there was a mad rush for old copies of Black Sabbath vinyl. People were buying everything, not just the
Paranoid
album, but the entire Sabbath catalogue. Record collectors were forced to protect themselves from panicky neighbors who tried to steal their vintage Sabbath LPs. Domestic disputes erupted as family members turned on one another. In an ironic turn of events, teenagers begged parents to stop blasting loud music on their home stereos.

Industrious bootleggers began selling copies of the song on eBay at outrageous prices. The original album was soon worth $20,000 and first-generation audiocassettes went for as much as $1,000 apiece. DJs who owned the record were hired to spin it in public places to reassure patrons that various malls, restaurants, and sporting venues were alien-free zones. The
Paranoid
album was re-released on 180-gram virgin vinyl and went straight to the top of the charts.

Music once again became a high priority across the nation, and people began having anti-alien dance parties. Aging hipsters bonded at heavy metal raves and you couldn't go anywhere without hearing Black Sabbath. Mind-altering substances like marijuana, downers, and hallucinogens all became more fashionable than they'd been in decades.

Then, a grassroots movement began which accelerated the sense of urgency in America. It started when someone forwarded a joke e-mail saying that everyone in the country should play an analog version of
“Paranoid” at full volume on July 25, precisely at 12:00 midnight Eastern Time. In a matter of days, word had spread, and people began synchronizing their collective effort to destroy the alien terrorists.

The sonic countdown had begun.

Government officials initially discouraged the plan as dangerous and ill-conceived. But as public opinion polls displayed overwhelming support for the idea, as well as a mounting belief that the White House was soft on alien interests, politicians of all stripes came out in favor of the plan and rallied around the impending target date.

Radio and television pounced on the latest news craze; talk shows were filled with celebrities eager to prove that they were loyal humans. Leno and Letterman pandered to Middle America with humorous, anti-alien monologues.
Larry King Live
changed its opening theme to the Sabbath tune, and programs like the
O'Reilly Factor
explored conspiracy theories—blaming the alien problem on evildoers of earthly, liberal origins. Daytime television was just as bad, with Jerry Springer and his ilk preying on the fears of the simpleminded, pitting friends and loved ones against each other in every conceivable “Paranoid” combination.

VH1 quickly produced a
Behind the Music
episode of “The Making of ‘Paranoid,'” which they ran eight times a day.

Pat Robertson, accompanied by other leaders of the religious Right, held a press conference condemning the use of “Paranoid.” Robertson insisted that while Black Sabbath was known as a pop group, they were actually agents of the devil. He suggested that the public try alternative anthems by other color-coded heavy metal groups like Deep Purple or Blue Cheer. A protester unexpectedly disrupted the press conference with a portable cassette player blasting “Paranoid,” and Robertson, along with three of his aides, were exposed as aliens, dissolving into protoplasmic goo in a most repulsive fashion.

Other public figures were exposed as clones. The aliens had replaced politicians, business executives, movie stars, and game show hosts, but the tide was finally turning thanks to the “Paranoid” vigilantes. Two prominent members of the Catholic Church melted down after Sunday mass in Boston, finally distracting critics from the clergy's sexual abuse scandals.

Rumors that Tom Cruise and Michael Jackson were aliens had to be officially disproved after campaigns designed to discredit the pair were printed in the tabloids. A list of sports figures, including Barry Bonds and Tiger Woods, began circulating, challenging the athletes to publicly endure the Sabbath tune and authenticate their earthly status.

The nation had gone totally “Paranoid.” There were Paranoid T-shirts and Paranoid American flags. A lascivious beer commercial coined the phrase, “Dude! You're so paranoid!” Three Sabbath tribute discs were rush-released, as well as a collection of top electronic artists remixing “Paranoid.” Sabbath tribute bands were popping up everywhere and teenagers started dressing like '70s-era Ozzy. One married couple in Minneapolis even named their newborn baby “Geezer.”

People were putting “Paranoid” on their answering machines and businesses played Muzak versions for customers on hold. Only adamant protests prevented “Paranoid” from supplanting the national anthem before a Cubs game at Wrigley Field, and violence erupted at a synagogue in Cincinnati when it was decided
not
to play the tune through the intercom.

MTV brought back
The Osbournes
and the show's ratings were fantastic. Interest in the lives of Ozzy, Sharon, and their kids was unparalleled in the history of television. Black Sabbath and the Osbourne family were on thirty magazine covers in the same month as they all braved their way through the media frenzy.

The first episode of the show's new season was a two-hour special. The program featured Sharon Osbourne brutally negotiating with a group of millionaire baby boomers who'd formed a corporation in hopes of persuading Ozzy to play a special concert with Black Sabbath.

The consortium wanted the original Black Sabbath to perform on the same night as the Paranoid countdown (P-Day, they called it). In a gesture of on-camera solidarity, Tony Iommi, Bill Ward, and Geezer Butler were flown in, and the three publicly committed to perform if Ozzy agreed to the gig.

Just a week before P-Day, the deal was confirmed. Per Sharon Osbourne, a special summer concert would occur at Shea Stadium under the auspices of Ozzfest for the amount of fifty million dollars. While Tony, Bill, and Geezer were only getting a million apiece, they were contracted to receive backend money for the movie rights, as well as soundtrack royalties. The concert would feature Sabbath performing at midnight, timing its live version of “Paranoid” to coincide with the original recording being played across the nation.

Old heavy metal groups volunteered to appear on the second stage or open directly for Sabbath. Scheduled bands included AC/DC, Uriah Heep, Deep Purple, the Scorpions, Cream, and Blue Oyster Cult. Jimmy Page and Robert Plant promised to reunite with bassist John Paul Jones and perform as Led Zeppelin. Even Spinal Tap was booked to appear.

An unprecedented number of news conferences followed, and everyone involved with the show was pushed to the limits of their endurance. When Sharon and the members of Black Sabbath took turns fielding questions with “Paranoid” blasting in the background, Ozzy was a trembling mess who could barely speak.

The show was just four days away.

As P-Day loomed closer, an uncertain panic set in across America.
Airport security began guiding travelers past an imposing sound system before they were allowed to board their flights. Although “Paranoid” continued to destroy aliens, people were now deemed suspicious just for not liking Black Sabbath.

An elderly man got sick to his stomach after being exposed to “Paranoid” at extremely high volume and was beaten up by a group of skinheads. Talk-show host Bill Maher was attacked near his home after he insisted that aliens had civil rights and they deserved to be tried in a court of law.

With two days left, anyone who spoke out against P-Day was branded an alien sympathizer. Still, some experts predicted that the forthcoming decibel levels would cause earthquakes in California, and pediatricians were warning parents to keep their younger children away from the sonic assault.

These concerns were discounted by the “Paranoid” masses. Police chiefs and high-ranking representatives of the armed forces strongly suggested that all citizens should attend the countdown in public. Anyone declining to commit to one of the many “Paranoid” rallies was reported to the authorities. Informants were everywhere.

On the afternoon of P-Day, three self-confessed aliens ran into the Chinese Embassy begging to be given soundproofed asylum before the supersonic moment occurred. Media coverage was relentless from coast to coast, but especially surrounding the Ozzfest in Queens. Traffic was jammed all across New York, and there was pandemonium in the five boroughs. The entire country watched nervously, anticipating the night's earsplitting finale.

Monstrous sound systems had been set up in rural and urban settings alike. Free earplugs were handed out at banks, supermarkets, and gas stations. Nightclubs, neighborhood bars, and outdoor music venues had events planned for the countdown, as did community centers,
health clubs, and retirement homes. Stereo stores engaged in last-minute promotions, eager for recognition after the fact.

With only a few hours to go, sound levels were rapidly rising. People were testing their audio equipment and in some cities the noise was already overpowering. People who didn't own an analog version of “Paranoid” went to neighboring house parties or headed off to publicly sponsored events. Others just stayed home and listened to radio stations promising giveaways to the hundredth “Paranoid” caller. The bedridden, stranded in nursing homes and hospitals, cranked up portable boom boxes provided by absent relatives.

In an unusual alliance, Greenpeace and the Teamsters sponsored a massive function in Tucson, Arizona, featuring Courtney Love singing with the Foo Fighters. The president went down to Austin, Texas, for a “Paranoid” fund-raiser with five thousand wealthy GOP loyalists. Michael Bloomberg and Rudy Giuliani traveled in a motorcade to Shea Stadium with Hillary and Bill Clinton, Spike Lee, Barbra Streisand, and John McCain.

It was the eleventh hour and unprotected eardrums were bursting across the nation. There were hundreds of premature births and countless miscarriages. Hospital emergency rooms filled beyond capacity, and even the deaf were feeling deleterious effects from the mammoth volume.

Power companies sent out repeated requests for citizens to shut off all unnecessary electricity. Windowpanes cracked and old buildings shifted on their foundations. Aliens hiding in insulated basements wondered if they would survive the aural onslaught.

Meanwhile at Ozzfest, the Who had just finished a thunderous set and Pete Townsend lost what was left of his hearing. Security was tight, but the “Paranoid” crowd was uncommonly aggressive, and fights were breaking out all over.