—Now, said Carter. Listen to this.
He leaned over the desk and pushed a fader. Suddenly the chess player’s vocal was laid over the guitar.
Believe I buy a graveyard of my own
Believe I buy me a graveyard of my own Put my enemies all down in the ground
Put me under a man they call Captain Jack Put me under a man they call Captain Jack Wrote his name all down my back
Went to the Captain with my hat in my hand Went to the Captain with my hat in my hand Said Captain have mercy on a long time man Well he look at me and he spit on the ground He look at me and he spit on the ground Says I’ll have mercy when I drive you down Don’t get mad at me woman if I kicks in my sleep Don’t get mad at me woman if I kicks in my sleep I may dream things cause your heart to weep
They fit together. In fact they were perfect, as if they were two halves of a single performance.
—What do you think of that?
What did I think? I was terrified. I felt dizzy. My hands were cold. If before my fears had been vague and inchoate, now they were definite. This was a message. Someone or something was addressing us.
—It’s like—I don’t know what to say. I don’t like it.
—But it sounds real, right?
—Yes. It sounds real.
—So go do your magic.
—What magic?
—Seth at the controls.
—No Carter.
—What are you talking about?
—I can’t. Not on this. I don’t want to work on this.
—Why not?
—What do you want me to do, anyway? Clean it up? It’s pretty clean already.
—No! Make it dirty. Drown it in hiss. I want it to sound like a record that’s been sitting under someone’s porch for fifty years.
He wanted me to do it and I couldn’t think of any reason to refuse, except that it scared me, and that didn’t seem good enough. I tried to tell him how I felt. I begged, but it was as if he couldn’t hear me. He kept on bullying me until finally, exhausted by his hectoring, I got to work. I played it out through a tinny little speaker salvaged from an old transistor radio, re-recorded it and buried it in crackle. By the time I’d finished, it sounded like a worn 78, the kind of recording that only exists in one poor copy, a thread on which time and memory hang.
Carter was ecstatic. He played it again and again.
—It’s perfect, he kept saying. It’s is the greatest thing we’ve ever done.
Slip, drop it, and that memory lies in pieces. Smashed, unrecoverable.
I DIDN’T KNOW Carter had put it on the internet, until he came into the control room and thrust a laptop in front of me. On the screen was a page from a file-sharing site, all penis enlargement ads and animations of girls taking off their tops.
KG 25806 Charlie Shaw Graveyard Blues
Type: Audio > Music
Files: 1
Size: 3.1 MiB (3250585 Bytes) Tag(s): 78rpm blues oldtime
Uploaded: 20—- 07-01 18:32:41 EST
By: Anan51
Seeders: 12
Leechers: 67
Comments: 27
Info Hash: 699D60E19FBA114E24798C15A588B44687559D0D
Above it was a scan of an authentic-looking label, scuffed and faded, informing me that the song was vocal with guitar accompaniment and the disk had been “electrically recorded in the USA.” The words “Key & Gate” appeared above an image of a pair of ornamental iron gates, half-open, with a key hovering above them like a UFO.
—What’s this?
—Look at how many seeds.
—But what is it?
—It’s our tune. The chess player’s blues. I made a label and everything.
—Right. I see that. Who’s Charlie Shaw?
—Just a name I made up.
—What the fuck, Carter. What are you doing?
—It just came to me. Looks authentic, right? I posted it to a couple blues sites too. Check out the comments. They’re losing their minds.
Sure enough, in the tiny confines of the prewar blues internet, it was like someone had dropped a bomb.
Hidden gem!!!
What about the b-side bw?
bw?
thanks op u rock
WHO POSTED THIS I HAVE TO KNOW
There were even offers to buy the record, sight unseen. One poster mentioned five thousand dollars. There were inquiries from Germany, Australia, a badly spelled one from Japan.
—Why would you do this?
—They believe in it. Isn’t that amazing? We made that and they believe it’s real.
—Is this really a wise idea?
—What do you mean? It’s the best idea! These fuckers think this music was made in 1928, but actually we made it. We made it, fools! We made that shit last week! So who’s the expert now? Who knows the tradition? We do! We own that shit!
Carter was so exultant that I began to get a contact high. Together we looked at the feverish discussion on the comment boards. It was amazing. No one had the slightest sense that it wasn’t a genuine recording. Not only that, but it was being hailed as a masterpiece. Words like feeling, artistry, classic were being used. Several collectors were trying to get in touch with Anan51, the account Carter had used to upload the file. One message caught my attention. The guy—had to be a guy—sounded like a lunatic, wrote in all caps:
JumpJim at 20—- 07-01 20:11 EST: WHO SOLD THIS TO YOU DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DO YOU YOU MUST CONTACT ME !!! IMMEDIATELY!!! VERY IMPORTANT INFORMATION WE HAVE TO TALK
—Who’s that?
—I don’t know. Some retard. Dude’s posted the same stuff everywhere I uploaded the song. Every single thread. He’s obsessed.
—What does he actually want?
—How should I know?
He smiled.
—Why don’t you ask him?
—Me?
I tapped out a question.
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-02 22:32 EST: what u want JumpJim?
He came back almost at once.
JumpJim at 20—- 07-02 22:34 EST:
WHO ARE YOU
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-02 22:35 EST: my record
JumpJim at 20—- 07-02 22:35 EST:
WHERE DID YOU GET IT
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-02 22:36 EST: thriftstore pls turn off all caps = shouting JumpJim at 20—- 07-02 22:36 EST: SOrry where?
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-02 22:36 EST: nyc ftw