Trollheart

I: Fading Glories

It's like a different world out here.

As my own original journal, The Playlist of Life, is in such a ruin now that it mostly resembles what a quick-witted, obsequious realtor would call a “fixer-upper”, as she flashed a hopeful toothy grin and desperately prayed that the potential buyer had more money than sense, I really couldn't see presenting this review there. It's been something of a sad process; sobering in ways too, as I slowly remove precious items from the Playlist and transfer them to new homes, and I can be seen most evenings, a constant figure as I kick closed the door (which is hanging off its hinges anyway, so why I bother I don't quite know), burdened down with boxes piled so high that I'm navigating on instinct alone, trusting my feet to find their own way and not betray me without bothering to seek confirmation from my eyes. The place is a poor shadow of itself, its glories long faded, the sound of typing, my own grunts of approval or disapproval and the thumping beat of my old stereo now stilled, and as Shakespeare once wrote, the rest is silence.

But the work goes on, and my original small modest house in which I built and created what became, and still stands as, Music Banter's most viewed journal – with almost half a million views as I write – has been expanded into a series of smart new apartments – in the more fashionable uptown district, of course - where such things as Trollheart's History Project, Trollheart's Guide to the Galaxy and Trollheart Falls Into The Twilight Zone have been born, and continue to be worked on. Few if any of these projects however now centre around music – I have the odd one: Prince's life story, the History of Classical Music, Stranger in Town and of course my History of Progressive Rock – but by and large, music reviews have been shunted into the past, and, with my original home, once the focus of my, if you will, journal empire, left to fall apart (rather like me!) there was nowhere left to write when I promised to review Plankton's latest opus.

So the man very kindly offered me the use of his journal, and as I said at the start of this piece, it's like another world as leave the downtown slums I've been used to frequenting. I'm reminded of that opening scene from The Sopanos, where Tony starts off driving through the poorest part of Jersey and then the landscape changes as he heads out into the suburbs, the boarded-up shops and narrow streets and broken-down cars falling behind as he heads for his mansion. No more sitting on rickety boneshaker buses as I head to Wikipedia Central for my research, no waiting in the rain shivering as I eye the dark road for the faint glimmer of pale yellow which announces the arrival of the return bus – two hours late of course – having just missed the previous one by moments. No more uneasy grunted half-sentences and monosyllabic quasi-conversations with drunks and those after the ever-elusive-and-never-properly-defined “loose change” (despite this seeming to mean any loose coins that may be rattling about in my pocket, I've found those who you foolishly condescend to attempt to provide these coins to at their request will happily accept notes of any denomination or in any amount! Loose change indeed!) and no more eating a packet of half-empty crisps while dreaming of a home-cooked dinner I'm never going to get.

No, this guy does things in style! Smart, freshly-detailed SUV (not black; the FBI have cornered the market on them, but a nice strong steel-blue) with silver inlays of tastefully-drawn guitars and music notes on the doors. Comfortable leather seats, air-conditioning throughout. The top-of-the-range stereo hums Dvorak and Grieg while all my enquiries directed to the impeccably-dressed driver are met with a curt but polite “Yes, sir,” or “No sir” or any other short response, always appended by “sir”, and always without his taking his eyes one millimetre from the road. A small wire at the back of his thick neck reminds me of the Secret Service, as do his mirror shades, and I begin to entertain the notion that he may be communicating with someone else, and that those “sirs” are in fact not addressed to me.

Down a beautiful tree-lined avenue we go, the car completely silent (electric, I expect, unless Plankton has discovered a way of converting his guitar talent into a propulsion source? Wouldn't that be something?) and not a cigarette butt, crumped cup or even a piece of errant paper evident on the pristine streets we pass. A happy child goes by on the pavement riding a bicycle. She is the only living soul we encounter as we drive. My attempts to strike up a conversation with my driver continue to elicit the same non-committal responses - “Yes, sir.” Yes, sir?” “No, sir.” “Of course, sir.” “Really, sir?” And so on. So instead I lean back and let it all wash over me, enjoying the quiet but powerful strains of Edvard Grieg's “Morning” from Peer Gynt, and watch the clean, neat, whitewashed houses march past like soldiers at attention, the passing of the SUV creating what appears almost a sense of reverence, as people look out from their gardens, stand at their doors or gaze in silent admiration from their windows. For one mad moment, I consider waving, like the Queen of England or the President of the United States, but I restrain the impulse. I don't think my silent companion up front would approve, and he looks like the sort of individual who might explain to you his deep disapproval in quite certain terms, something I instinctively know I do not want to experience.

At length, we turn a corner and the tree-lined avenues begin to thin out until we're travelling past open fields, rolling hills and lowering sky, the only signs of life a solitary tractor or combine harvester in the distance, working away in the fields. In a short while we reach a high gate, pearly white (I know Plankton's been described as a guitar god, but come on: pearly gates dude?) before which the SUV stops. The metal has been cunningly twisted and shaped into letters that spell out the word SOUTHDORK. I smile inwardly; Plankton and I are of the same generation, and I get the joke, doubly so, given his involvement with computers. Hah! As long as we never have to ask "Who shot Plankton?" we'll be all right. A muttered word from my driver, clearly not for my ears, and the huge gates swing slowly inwards, whisper-quiet, and we drive in.

It's a long driveway – more a road really – and as we advance I see some of the most beautiful women I have ever seen by the sides, some playing volleyball, some trimming hedges, some just standing around and being beautiful, often the main and sometimes even only requirement for these sort of women. They watch the car as we glide by, but there is something hard in the brief glances they give us. Later I find out these are all part of Plankton's elite security force, all possessing PhDs in one discipline or another – multiple ones, in some cases– and each and every one of them knows at least sixteen ways to kill a man without leaving a mark. They gain new respect in my eyes, and I mentally counsel myself never to get on their bad side.

Peacocks patrol the grounds as we slide silently on up the perfectly-asphalted drive, and over to the left, flashes of pure white on the wide expanse of the lake are swans, leisurely traversing the water, in no hurry to go anywhere. I reach out and touch the almost flush stud at the base of the window and the glass slides downward an inch or so with a hum, precipitating the sharp turn of my driver's head, and even behind the mirror shades I see - no, I feel the look he gives me, as if he wants to snap my neck.

“If you please, sir.”

There's polite menace in those words, and I quickly thumb the window back up; it closes with a slight sigh, like two lips parting. Before it closes though I hear the sound of birds in the trees, some sort of faint animal noises (probably from his famous private zoo) and the sound I had expected, the low, muted roar of a guitar in the process of shredding the **** out of a tune. Unnerved by the sudden rebuke from the driver, I nevertheless smile.

He does not smile back.

I feel honoured to be able to review the new Plankton album. He's something of an enigma, a prodigy for certain, but one who shuns the limelight. It's very hard to get an audience with him, never mind be able to hear his music and review it, and he's only agreed to allow me because he was so pleased with my handling of his previous effort, Krill, which really, as they say, blew my mind. But now the car stops without so much as a jerk, the engine presumably dies (being electric I can't say, as it makes no sound) and we have finally arrived at our destination.

II: Inside the Sanctum

I convince myself I'm not annoyed, but I have been waiting for two hours now. The various Plankton tunes piped through the public address system have taken my mind off the delay, but I'm still anxious to get going. I have my notes on the previous album, but this will be the first time I've heard the new one, and I want to get to work as soon as I can, while ideas are fresh in my mind. Pictures of the man's heroes and influences hang on the walls – Hendrix, Page, Moore, Gallagher – all the greats of course, but one picture holds pride of place, and it's not of a guitarist. It's a beautiful young woman, with energy and imagination in her eyes, and I know, as does anyone who knows him, that this is a portrait, specially commissioned by him at great expense, of his only daughter, Hanna.

“Mr. Trollheart? Sorry for the delay.” The door has opened and a pretty young woman dressed in a business suit, glasses perched on a rather attractive if slightly sharp nose pokes her head into the room with that air of apology that people have who don't usually feel they should be apologising.

“Quite all right,” I tell her, getting up, but, moving the rest of her into the room, she waves me back down to my seat.

“Mr. P. sends his regrets,” she says, standing over me while trying not to look as if she's looking down on me, “but he's struggling with a particularly tricky middle eighth, and he can't be disturbed.” She grins, a little self-consciously. “I'm sure you understand.” Her eyes speak the silent words You know how he is and I nod. I am concerned though.

“Is it cancelled then?” I ask, disappointed. “Postponed?”

She laughs, a musical, tinkly laugh, like silver marbles in a champagne glass. “Goodness, no!” she exclaims. “If you'll just give me a few more minutes, I just want to make sure everything is set up to your satisfaction, and then you can proceed.”

Those preparations must have taken some time, because it's over an hour later when she returns and beckons me to follow her. We walk up three flights of marble stairs, my eyes taking in the vista below and above me as we proceed, but my head is full of anticipation for the music I'm about to hear and I ascend behind her almost in a trancelike state, like someone sleepwalking. It's the assistant's voice that brings me back to myself when she smiles “Here we are. I hope this will suit your needs?”

Suit.
My.
Needs?

The place is like a cavern, in terms of size, but not in terms of furnishings. There are four easy chairs positioned in front of a roaring fire – a real fire, not an electric one: I can hear the sticks and logs snap and the lumps of coal occasionally pop as the flames devour them – with over to one side a long sofa with many cushions. There's a fully-stocked fridge and a bar, and over the fireplace is a massive seventy-inch flatscreen, while placed at strategic intervals along the wall are massive speakers. On the sofa is a remote, and this is handed to me by the smiling assistant.

“I'm sure you can appreciate the impossibility of providing anyone,” she explains, “even you, with an actual copy of the album. Hasn't been released yet, and he is determined no pirate copies will make it onto the internet.” I nod in understanding. “This however,” she produces a copy of the case, which when I open it is of course empty, “is the original artwork, liner notes, all you'll need for your review. And the remote there will allow you to play, pause, rewind and so forth every track shown on the case, so it will be as if you had the album,” she winks, “apart from the very important fact that you don't. Not that,” she is quick to assure me, “Mr. P distrusts you; he knows you would never betray his faith in you, and you are his friend. But, well...” She spreads her hands in a helpless gesture, an apologetic smile on her perfectly-painted lips, “You know how it is.”

I do indeed. What I hold in my hand now, despite the fact that there is no physical copy, is musical dynamite, and should this missile somehow explode on the web, the results could be catastrophic for Plankton's sales and indeed for his reputation. So I thank her, tell her I understand fully, watch as she leaves and then make myself a sandwich and pop on the kettle before settling down to do what I came here to do.

It is, after all, and always has been, when all is said and done, all about the music.

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Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018