The Lemon Herberts

THE LEMON HERBERTS

Edited by Jim Beard and Mark Beaulieu

Published by Pro Se Press

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

Copyright © 2015 Pro Se Productions

The Importance of Being Fab and Call to Arms © 2015 Jim Beard

The Night Travelin’ Hard Landing Blues © 2015 Nathan Meyer

Puzzle Pieces © 2015 M.H. Norris

Dragon Lady Island © 2015 Rocko Jerome

A Song of Spring © 2015 Sam Gafford

Contact High (Verse-Chorus-Verse) © 2015 Joseph Lamere

All rights reserved.

CONTENTS

Introduction: The Importance of Being Fab

by Jim Beard

Call to Arms

by Jim Beard

The Night Travelin’ Hard Landing Blues

by Nathan Meyer

Puzzle Pieces

by M.H. Norris

Dragon Lady Island

by Rocko Jerome

A Song of Spring

by Sam Gafford

Contact High (Verse-Chorus-Verse)

by Joseph Lamere

About The Authors

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING FAB

by

Jim Beard

—::—

Thanks for picking up this book and taking a look inside: you must be a very fab and gear person. Maybe even a little bit groovy. Whichever it is, I’d like to also think it’s because, like me, you’re a big fan of the Sixties.

Like other decades and eras, there’s a glorified, popularized vision of the Sixties that exists in our memories and, if you’re not old enough to have lived through it, in the collective conscious and unconscious. That hip, kicky, fab wonderland of the Sixties, that colorful playground of sights and sounds and clothes and music that may or may not have really happened is the setting of this collection of stories. And, boy is it fun.

The idea behind the Lemon Herberts is something that came together in my brain over time. I love the Sixties, and though I was born smack dab in the middle of it and have only a few solid memories of its tail end, it lives and breathes in me through its incredible impact on pop culture: Beatles, Bond, Batman… just to name a few juggernauts that helped create that idealized decade that we remember today. And that’s where the Lemon Herberts live and play.

I wanted to bring together different elements from those manic times and stir them up into a recipe for fun, adventurous fiction, and to create something that perhaps wasn’t being done by anyone else in New Pulp. Basically, I wanted to know what it would be like if the Beatles, as Sgt. Pepper’s band, had actual adventures across the globe, derring some do and defying danger and taking a break now and then to play some music for their fevered fans. Wouldn’t that be gear? I mean, to me, that would be just about the grooviest thing I could do as a writer. So, the Lemon Herberts were born.

Musically, their makeup is pretty straightforward: two guitars, a bass, a drum kit… and a singer. That last bit is very important, or at least it is to me. I knew that the majority of the Herberts would be guys, but the more I thought about a lightning rod of a character, one who’d take the stage and draw focus and offer up a bit more than just the lyrics to the songs, I knew that it would have to be a gorgeous girl. But not just any gorgeous girl—she’d have to be the smashing siren who’d singlehandedly represent the entire decade all in one curvy, cute, and crafty package. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Her Majesty. And the Sixties will never be the same.

This book will take you along with the Lemon Herberts, the greatest musical act of them all, as they head out on their very first world tour. You see, their new album is a huge hit, a real monster, and the Herberts are ready to take their sound to far-off countries… but will those countries be ready for them? Ah, ha: therein lies the six tales that make up this collection.

We begin with my own modest offering, Call to Arms. In it, the band prepare to jet off to their first tour stop outside the U.S., but certain forces conspire to hold them back and throw a psychedelic monkeywrench into the works. These things happen, and especially to the Lemon Herberts.

In Nathan Meyer’s The Night Travelin’ Hard Landing Blues, the group lands, yes, hard in the UK, where certain other forces decide to seek something that the Herberts’ manager, Brighton Hawks, has and they want. How can the band play music when they’re running around a dark, Scottish landscape while trying to dope out a mystery and keep their heads off the chopping block? Well, it ain’t easy, trust me. The story will give you all the deadly details, rest assured.

Mary-Helen Norris picks up the narrative after that, in Puzzle Pieces. After making ever-lovin’ landfall in Australia, the Herberts learn that along with their music, they’ve brought something else to the Land Down Under, something that they may not be terribly proud of. You see, their very name has been usurped and attached to one of the strangest puzzles they’ve ever had to solve, but if anyone can dope it out, its America’s swingin’ sensations. Just you watch.

From there the band makes their wild way to another island, this one decidedly more hostile than the previous. In Rocko Jerome’s Dragon Lady Island the Lemon Herberts lose their manager to the small nation’s wacky dictator, but also meet some new friends who might have a unique perspective on their current problems. This story has the requisite screaming fans, but when the Lady of the island rules that the Herberts are off-limits to their admirers, well, let’s just say that it doesn’t go over well with our lovable trouble-magnets.

A Song of Spring by Sam Gafford finds the group in exotic India, a land of much history and many pleasures, yes, but also one of peril for Her Majesty in particular. Seems someone’s taken quite a liking to our lovely little lady and wants her all for themselves. Meanwhile, roadblocks are set in front of the Herberts’ collective path, but those boys eat hurdles like they do guitar picks and drumsticks. If Her Majesty’s in danger, nothing will stop the band from stepping in and taking a hand to secure her freedom. Nothing.

That brings us up to Contact High by Joseph Lamere. No description I could write would ever prepare you for this, the wildest, wackiest, way-outiest Lemon Herberts adventure of them all. You should simply read it and let it all happen, man. It’s a real trip, the biggest of them all.

So, without further ado, dive in and soak up the scene!

The Lemon Herberts in three, two, one… go!

CALL TO ARMS

A Lemon Herberts Adventure

by

Jim Beard

—::—

ONE

Two men sat in a non-descript car on a side street just off of Times Square. Dressed almost identically in grey suits, black ties and dress hats, they stared out the windshield at the grimy, trash-strewn scene before them.

Did you listen to it? inquired the one behind the wheel as he reached behind him into the backseat and came back with the jacket of a record album in his hand.

The man beside him shook his head, his eyes never leaving the street.

No, he replied. "Why should I? It doesn’t matter to us what they sound like."

His companion nodded, biting into an apple he picked up off the seat beside him and gazing down at the back cover of the album. No, I guess not.

I hate all them damn kids, anyway, said the other man. Once we—

Hey! yelped the driver, Turn the radio on! Should be about now!

The other man grumbled as he reached out to twist the radio dial. This better be worth it…

* * *

"Beat it Beatles and move over Monkees! The new-est, swingin-est band on the scene’s right here, right now, and we’re poppin’ their disc on the ol’ turntable to groove to their sound!"

In his broadcast room at Station KFRK in midtown Manhattan, disc jockey Little Webster spun an LP on the pinky finger of his right hand and then plopped it down on the turntable in front of him. Smiling wildly at the small audience around him, he flipped the needle down on the record and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.

A faint hiss issued forth from the speakers up in the high corners of the room, followed by the sound of an electric guitar as if plucked underwater. It grew in prominence as did the periodic shimmer of cymbals and woodblock. Then, from behind the sounds stepped a voice.

Androgynous at first, the voice coalesced into first that of a female and then joined by a male’s. Weaving together through a series of call-and-response tones without words, the voice finally began to sing as drums and electric bass joined in.

"Come on, come on, come on, come on

And make a list

Of all the places that don’t exist

We’ll reach them all one by one

This is your call to arms

Come on, come on, come on, come on

And twist and twirl

In my arms you’ll see the world

From there then the universe

This is your call to arms"

Beautiful, baby, beautiful… murmured Little Webster, digging the sounds and began to twirl ’round and ’round in his chair to the song.

His audience, all six of them, looked at each other and smiled. If New York, New York’s most celebrated DJ liked them, the world was already theirs…

* * *

After the song ended, fading out as it had faded in, Little Webster flipped his microphone back on and centered himself in front of it, beaming like a schoolboy.

"That, my beautiful friends, was the dul-cette tones of the one, the only, the Lemon Herberts. The song was, as you well know, ‘Call to Arms’ and it’s the open-ning track, as you well know, on the very first and certainly not last long-player, en-titled, as you very well know, Redwing Blackbird’s Summer Solstice Tea Party. Now, before you all rush out in a fren-zy to buy your third or fourth copy, let me introduce you to the band!"

He silently pointed to a microphone that rested on the console near him. A young woman in a miniskirt, a flowery print sweater, and creamy red hair, leaned into it.

Ladies first, I always say, and so we have here Her Majesty. Say ’ello, my darling…

The girl smiled demurely. "Hello, dar-ling!" she sing-songed.

Then, said the DJ, snapping his fingers and pointing to the next member of the group, "we have Mr. Ellroy Monks, drummer extraordin-aire!"

A tall, muscular young man who had to bend over the microphone grinned at the DJ’s antics. Hello, world, he said.

Ally McAllister! shouted Webster all of a sudden. "Get thee to the micro-phone!" In response, a somber boy with dark hair and glasses leaned over and simply waved. The others clapped him on the back and laughed.

"Too busy stealin’ from Shake-speare again to bother with greetings, I guess. But, in his place, we have that ravishing raven of the guitar known as Honor Fortunato!"

The young black man who took up the microphone looked smart in his military-cut jacket, but somewhat silly for the bright red electric bass that hung from a strap around his neck. It clunked into the microphone stand and everyone chuckled.

"Never goes any-where without his Rickenbacher, I hear, announced the disc jockey, rolling his eyes. And last but certain-ly not least—the shy, retiring member of the Herberts, Dilly Button, Esquire!"

A wild flash of color leapt over to take the microphone from his bandmate. Smoothing down his brightly-hued jacket and doffing his plumed chapeau, the boy adopted a languid look on his face and breathed deeply.

Let me just say this, he drawled in a mock-British accent, "I have never, never seen such a gangly, grotty collection of hoodlums and hoodwinkers than are assembled in this esteemed chamber, and—"

Her Majesty jumped up, pulled Dilly’s hat down around his ears and pushed him back into his chair.

Now, Mr. Webster, she cooed while the others laughed uproariously, you were saying?

The disc jockey smiled slyly and pointed to his sixth guest, an older gentleman with a Roman nose and a dignified bearing. That personage moved himself closer to the microphone and straightened his necktie.

"Nothing much, m’dear—just gonna intro-duce your manager and chief bottle-washer, Mr. Brighton Hawks!"

* * *

Out on the streets, the two men in the car listened intently to the proceedings.

This is the limey, right? asked the man in the passenger seat.

The driver shushed him and fiddled with the volume knob. Static burst from the car’s speakers and both men grimaced. Then, a true British accent issued forth from the radio.

It’s very fine to be here today, Mr. Webster, and on behalf of the Lemon Herberts, we thank you for the time you’ve allowed us today on your program.

Keepin’ us off the streets, it is! said the voice of Dilly Button. He was then drowned out by a raucous series of raspberries from his confederates.

Brighton Hawks continued once the cacophony died down. "I have a very special announcement for your listeners—and for the Herberts themselves."

Silence. One could almost envision the surprised looks on the faces of the band and of Little Webster himself. Finally, the disc jockey broke the deadly absence of sound.

Do tell, m’man!

"Now that Redwing Blackbird’s Summer Solstice Tea Party has been certified gold in the few short months since its release, said Hawks, clearly relishing his news, I’m exceedingly happy to announce the Lemon Herberts’ very first world tour!"

Well, said the irritable man in the passenger seat of the car, there it is.

His companion pushed his hat back a bit from his forehead, scratching at one eyebrow. Certainly moves our timetable up. Wonder when they—

And it begins, continued the band’s manager, in one very, very short week, in my home country of England.

Yep, noted the driver, moves it up quite a bit, I’d say.

He turned the key in the ignition, slammed the car into gear and burned rubber away from the curb.

* * *

Less than two years before, they were the poster children for struggling musicians, unsure of where their next meal was coming from; today they stood as one of the most popular bands in the world. The Lemon Herberts had arrived.

Are we there yet? asked Honor, plucking a string on his guitar to the beat of their walking. Dilly and Ally chortled and slapped each other’s shoulders.

Quiet, you lot, warned their manager. We’ve a long way to go and a short time to get there. He swung around on his charges as they approached the lobby of the radio station, holding his hands up. The Herberts slipped, slided and screeched to a halt.

All right, here’s how it will be, he said, the stern father figure. "We leave in two days. That’s one more than one, eh, Monks?" Dilly snorted in mock mirth while the others rolled their eyes in unison.

Hawks continued. "I’ll put it plainly so even Mr. Button can understand: be at LaGuardia two days from now, at ten in the morning, and be ready to fly, eh? Questions, comments, concerns?"

The band looked at each other, shrugged, and looked back at Brighton Hawks with beatific smiles on their young faces.

"Good. Be off with you. And don’t forget your sunglasses! You’re stars now. Everybody wants your autographs!"

* * *

The Lemon Herberts, dark sunglasses firmly in place, left the radio station and made their way down Seventh Avenue toward Times Square. They’d barely cleared the shadow of the building when they all started talking at once. Big, tall Ellroy Monks held up his hands for their silence, not unlike his manager.

They all stopped talking. Ellroy was their de facto leader, though an election had never been held. The boy’s cool composure and baritone voice elicited their collective calm, though they’d really only been together as an act for a relatively short time.

Where the Lemon Herberts were now one, they once existed as two—two music groups brought together by Hawks, their unique individual sounds melded into a single force of tonal tornado. The result was a first gold record, global prominence and, in one week, a world tour.

The kids were gobsmacked.

Ellroy, cooed Her Majesty, a world tour? Are we ready, Freddy?

"I’m ready, luv! interjected Dilly Button in a ridiculous Cockney accent. Point me, and I’ll plunk away at me little six-string…"

The girl’s eyes flared, her perfect brows narrowing in consternation at her bandmate. "I’m sorry; I meant can we tour without a second guitar player?"

Ally, Honor and Ellroy grinned; Her Majesty and Dilly were old friends and had performed as a duo called the Museum Minstrels before Brighton Hawks heard their sound and saw something in it. The two sparred without end, but their history together was long.

I think, offered Ellroy, "that we’ll have a boss time jumping around the world, but I have to tell you—I think there’s still so much we can do here."

The Herberts looked past his outstretched hands and around the street on which they stood, at the squalor and the sadness. They all nodded in unison, even Ellroy.

Could bring a lot of love here, man, said Honor quietly. Our sound… could open some more eyes, you dig?

Yeah, agreed Ally, the poet among them.

Dilly, bright as a peacock and significantly more stunningly dressed, stepped forward and spun around on the group. "But, my people in Jolly ol’ England need us, too!"

Her Majesty, all of five-foot-two, stepped past him and reached up to crush his sartorially splendid chapeau down around the boy’s ears.

You were born in Milwaukee, ‘luv’, she snapped imperiously. Follow me, everyone—we’ve got just two days to get a few kicks in the Big Apple…

* * *

A slamming of brakes. A screech of tires. An opening of doors.

The band looked up to see a non-descript car had pulled up beside them at the curb and two non-descript men had jumped out and were approaching them.

It was like looking at twins, or mirror images.

Yeah, it’s them, they heard one man say to the others. You! Hold it! We want your autographs!

Can’t even walk down the street these days, noted Ellroy to Her Majesty, without some crazy kids demanding your John Hancock.

The big boy then turned on his bandmates. Herberts, scatter!

The two men produced pistols, began waving them about, yelling for the long-haired freaks to stop and submit.

Another car slammed to a stop next to the first. It too was non-descript, though painted black.

The two twins wheeled around to take in the newcomers, their eyes widening in recognition at the men who piled out of the second car.

No, no! screamed the more irritable of the first duo.

"They’re ours! We saw ’em first!"

TWO

A ray of sun shone brightly into the back seat of the car as it sped away from the scene.

Good morning, sunshine, murmured Her Majesty, finding herself slumped up against big boy Ellroy Monks.

Hi, whispered Ellroy with a shy smile. He yawned.

The driver of the car elbowed his companion, indicating that their guests were back in the land of the living. Both men were in ill-humor.

Hey, if it’s no trouble, can you just drop us off at the Flatiron Building? asked Ellroy. He turned to the girl and shrugged innocently. Always wanted to see it.

Think we’re being kidnapped or something, love, offered Her Majesty as she scooted forward to the edge of the seat and dipped her chin over the back of the driver’s seat. Right, guys?

The man in the passenger seat frowned. "Smart aleck kids—sit back!"

Her Majesty’s eyes flared. Ellroy laughed. They don’t know you, Queenie. Don’t hurt ’em too much.

What did you hit us with? asked the girl, undeterred. She took a plastic wand out of her very red hair and a vial of liquid out of one pocket of her very mod jacket. Within seconds the interior of the car was choked with a myriad bubbles.

The driver began to swerve, batting bubbles away from his face. Horns blared at him from other vehicles. He swore.

Something not near as bad as what I’m gonna clobber you with if you don’t stop doing that! shouted the man in the passenger seat, shaking a fist at the young people and snatching at the bubble wand. Her Majesty swatted at his hand and blew more bubbles.

Listen, said Ellroy, calmly, "you guys have got it all wrong. They won’t pay a ransom for us—ol’ Hawks’ been trying to get rid of us for ages."

Her Majesty snorted. Ellroy grinned. Did you know, he pointed out, that statistics show that people who dress alike have a shorter life expectancy than those who express their individuality?

Sure! enthused the girl, indicating her clothes. Look at us! We’re going to live forever!

Smart aleck kids, glowered the man in the passenger seat. Fumbling in his jacket, he produced a revolver from under his armpit and pointed at Ellroy and Her Majesty.

I see I got your attention, he said with a snaky smile. "Now, sit back, shut up, stop messin’ around, and we’ll get along just fine until this is all over. You comprende?"

Ellroy looked at his bandmate, cocking one eyebrow at her. The girl raised her chin and peered at the revolver, squinting at it through her long, lovely lashes. She reached forward, fingered the barrel and purred.

"Ah do declare—Ah just love a thug with a big gun…"

Smart aleck kids, groused the man.

Her Majesty leaned into Ellroy, whispering into his ear.

I hope the boys are making out okay without us.

Don’t worry, HM, insisted her muscular companion. You know them; they always land on their feet…

* * *

Honor, Dilly, and Ally picked themselves up off the cold, metal floor they’d found themselves sprawled upon after awakening from a dark, dreamless sleep.

’Ere’s another foin mess you’ve gotten us inta, mates, slurred Dilly, glancing around and