Huntress
(Clipping from the New Yorker)
Tracy Bell Tour Set For Late Summer
The son of noted Chicago Bluesman Verden “Ring,” Bell, Tracy’s bluesy brand of funk has been largely ignored by the critics –on account, primarily, of his rather silly, salacious Prince-style lyrics. Lately, his egocentric eroticism laced with awkward mystical impulses seem to have made peace with a maturing sense of humor. Last year’s wildly successful tour was followed by the release of the winter’s sleeper album. A three-night stand at Madison Square Gardens in mid-July is the kick-off for an extended march across America. A spokesman at Warners says the band is planning back to back concerts in most major cities, in the largest arenas available as well as a few of the better halls with a view to a live album, to be released for Christmas.
Two new members, drummer Karl Reugger and bassman Toffer Woolcutt have revamped the previously unremarkable rhythm section into something utterly worthy of the sobriquet “Generator”; A massively rolling thunderous sound that should make a whole new group of friends for this band, and rid them of the “Bubblefunk,” reputation that has hugged them so tightly in the past, but don’t look for anything new in the way of fashion; The sartorially-minded will feel quite comfortable in the same old Prince-style duds they wore last summer, or of course, in that old standby black leather.
Supporting the tour will be Minneapolis based Prince-proteges Visage, who have their own album to promote…
**
Love came to me in L.A. Came looking for me, she told me so. She’s asleep right now, I’m sitting on her bed as I write. We’ve been together almost 4 days. She sleeps with her thumb to her lips. She speaks in a light contralto, what she says comes near to raping me. She knows me so well — from my songs, she says, but she sees behind them. Like that old _song, _Killing Me Softly’ and I feel like I’ve handed her the murder weapon. She bites her thumb when she’s thinking. She bites her lip when I do. She looks angry when she’s scared. She looks like a kid when she’s angry. I’ll never know what she looks like when she’s really frightened. Nothing frightens her, ever, nothing. In 24 hours I went past my limits I couldn’t reach hers. Even Nikki will stop somewhere, I called uncle first.
The record industry had taken over the small restaurant located along Highway One some seventy miles south of Los Angeles. The girl had to stop for a deep breath, and her tuxedo-ed escort flashed a conspiratorial grin as he pushed the doors open for her. The overheated room was crowded with the raucous energy of young men in the flush of success. Two bands on their first big tour. Visage had two tables filled with dark men and blond women. She made her way past them without being drawn into the vortex, there was nothing there she wanted. She felt feral, heavy with a hunter’s need for her quarry; the spoor ran before her, visible as a path of glimmering light. The ache she carried pulled her forward, to where the main part of the room was given over to the young king of funk, Tracy Bell, and his band, the Riddem Generators. Her goal was a long table full of industry suits and hopeful starlets, hungry for power. The competition made her want to go into a model’s glide.
–Stop that,– she commanded herself. –You know he’s had his fill of slick beauties, he’s probably fucked himself into boredom with blank-faced Vogue-ettes. Be vulgar.– The girl smoothed the skirt of her black velvet dress, with a hand that didn’t tremble nearly as much as it should have in the presence of fate. Her name at that moment was Karen, but that would soon change.
“Go on, sit down there,” Glenn murmured in her ear. Down at the very end of the table a waiter was pulling out a chair for her, waiting for her to come up to take it.
Three young men sat together there, like royalty at the head of the banquet. She felt their intense eager scrutiny, as palpably as a blow. Familiar faces; Toffer Woolcutt, bass, Tony Marks, lead guitar. And Tracy Bell, the golden boy, her prey. So close…
Tracy Bell, the God of Funk. Musical Genius, Pop God. Sex Freak, Pervert, the epithets went, Faggot, egotist, out-and-out liar. One day the gossip would have him bending over for it in leather bars, then he would be an ascetic monk, toiling for the good of music — and the next minute he would have been shut up for a week with three underage girls and a Great Dane. Whatever the spice of the moment was, rumor sprinkled it over Tracy Bell. Perhaps the rumors were true; it didn’t matter to the girl. Her idea was that this god needed her.
“Hey, Tone,” Tracy was saying; “The dame was a virgin, can you believe it?”
Tony grinned. “Bullshit,” he said in his soft rumble.
“No lie, man — I got the blood and everything,” Tracy insisted. “She said she saved herself for me, man…” He sighed. “Probably the first one in my life, too. And no time to do it right,” He stretched his long legs out under the table, remembering. Yeah… Fake your come, don’t let go of all that yin energy she gives up… Vampirism. You walk onstage with power in your hands and an ache in your balls. Tracy Bell, The God of Funk. It felt so fucking good when he thought about it. He looked up the table, surveying his domain, all the suits come to pay him homage, him and the money he was making them. His closest friends at his side, Tony, Toffer. Homegirl Gina, Marco and Karl just up the way. The show had been one of the best, too. Long Beach was bigger in some ways than L. A., the crowd funked down hard and solid. And the little peroxided Chicana he’d gotten before the show. She didn’t seem to care much about her maidenhead. Off she’d gone, cocky as hell with her autographed CD in her little purse. Some starfuckers must just be born to it-
“Oh, my lord!,” Tony’s voice; Tracy opened his eyes. Toffer chimed in; “Ooh-whee, man, ain’t that fearsome!,” A girl was walking towards them, and she was the reason they had saved a seat between them.
Tracy had noticed her, trapped in the V.I.P. lounge backstage, and had gone in search of his road manager. He’d found the man already listening to Tony, whom, it seemed was asking for the same thing;
“Didn’t you see her?” he was saying. “Oh, man, she’s the only one… You got to find that bitch, Jerry, I’ll never ask you for any more favors, man, I’ll sell you the yellow Strat — Jerry, please, Jerry, just this once…”
“Shut up, Tone!,” Tracy interrupted the tirade. Turning to the irritated man, he said quietly; “Listen, she’s wearing a black minidress, and she’s got this red scarf or something on her hair, you can’t miss her. Maybe you could just invite her to dinner tonight? She’s with a suit, ask _em both. That’s all. Please Jerry?
“Dig, man,” he added, watching Jerry move off on his errand. “He ain’t no pimp, man, don’t ask shit like that. It don’t fit his job description.”
Fiercely, Tony said; “Cousin, you can’t take this dame from me, I saw her first,” Getting no response from Tracy, he groaned. “Oh, man, there she goes… You talk faster’n me, you cocksucker, I ain’t gonna stand a chance. Look, send her to me when you’re done, okay? Sloppy seconds, I don’t care.”
“Listen, stud,” Tracy replied: “I’ll hook her for both of us, dig? Just let me have her in the limo and I’ll have her ready and willing for you by the time we get to the hotel,” and Tony had stalked off, muttering to himself.
But now, Tracy wasn’t so sure. Fearsome maybe was the right word for this girl. She was turning his bowels pleasurably to water. Her stockings glimmered so pale they were nearly white, and her legs reeked of promises. She walked with a heavy barefoot stride, even in high pumps. Women ain’t supposed to walk like that, these days. He watched her as she came near, the dark eyes in an alabaster face. Her full mouth painted the devil’s own red, the same color as the shoes, and the silk scarf that hooded her hair. Her dress was rich black velvet, no style he had ever seen before. Loose over her belly and extraordinarily tight over her hips. One strap had fallen down her shoulder… Toffer was laughing gleefully, while beside him, Tony crooned;
“Ooh-whee, baby, I got something for you, yes. Come an’ meet your maker, come on an’ get it, sweet thang… Yeah, you want what I got, you want it so bad…”
–Oh lord– Tracy thought. –If I don’t get her I’m gonna die, Tony’s gonna kill me,– Abruptly he changed his seat, closing the gap between him and Tony. And winced as a boot came down hard on his instep. But it was too late to move back now, the girl and her escort were on top of them and she was settling herself next to him.
“This is Karen,” her friend told the world in general. He went up the table, like a flunky who’d finished his task. “Karen’s a model,” he added from his seat. “She just got back from Japan,” –Karen, that ain’t her name,– Tracy was thinking. –Right woman with a wrong name. What is it?–
“Pictures! Oh, man, you really a model? I wanna see!,” Toffer Woolcutt chortled.
“I don’t carry them around with me,” she returned. Tracy liked the way her voice sounded, a little low, a little strident in the din. There was a faint inflection he thought might be foreign.
“Where you from?” he asked. She gazed at him blankly.
“I’m from L.A,” and then, in response to Toffer’s next question she said; “I’m not a model, okay? It’s just what I do for a living…”
“Come on… Was Japan cool? Who you take pictures for, anyways?” Toffer insisted, and now Tony added his soft bass; “Hey, you gonna model for us, baby?”
“No!,” she laughed. “I just came to see a concert…”
“Did you like it?” Tracy heard himself asking. “I sang every note just for you,” Oh lord, it might be true. He looked away, to avoid her eyes.
Karen glanced at him suspiciously. Sarcasm was a weapon she had no armor against. It takes so much courage to go after a pop star that she wasn’t sure if hers would hold out. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all… Tracy Bell turned towards her and said, devastatingly;
“Every note, no lie.”
“I happen to have your mini-book, Karen,” the suit announced smugly as she fought to regain her composure.
“You do, Glenn?” Karen said, startled. “Why?’
“Richards in casting wanted to see them,” He passed a small stack down the table. Toffer pounced excitedly, relinquished them to Tony. He threw a hand over his eyes, leaning around his mates; “Girl, you a star!”
–Star– Tracy thought. –Is that it?– He bent his head over the five-by-sevens Tony was sorting through.
“Cuz, she’s fine,” Tony whispered. The photos showed her hair as auburn, he noted. They were all fashion shots; she achieved that anonymous look regarded as beauty, and knew all the poses, but the woman seated next to him could hardly take this seriously… And one shot, what was that? She was running through mist. The only clear features were one eye and her mouth, soft red. Whatever she was wearing, it was not clothing, more like a loincloth. Tattered fringey suede cavegirl drag, and there were her strong thighs, undisguised by the mist, and a little curve of the side of her breast; “We keeping this one,” Tracy muttered, sliding it over.
“Yeah, the freaky one,” Tony slipped it into his pocket. The rest of the stack made its way back to its owner.
Karen knew which photo had been purloined. Maybe she had him. Or else why was she pinned down here, at the corner of the table? –Sweet Mother,– she thought in half-serious prayer; –I want this man. I’ll sacrifice to you if you give me him, I want his balls in my hand, his voice in my ears whispering passion until we’re both helpless. I want his come on my belly… And I don’t want to sit here and play the lady all night.–
Plates were being set down in front of the earlier arrivals. The wonderful garlicky smell of escargots filled the air, and Tracy Bell made a long arm and slid the plate away from her, where the waiter had deposited it.
“Sorry, that’s mine,” he said. “Do you mind? I gotta eat quick _cause of the show, you know, it really takes it out of you,” and he put a snail into his mouth, giving her a studied profile.
“Why ain’t her food here?” Tony demanded. “Waiter. Yo, waiter! Damn…” He scanned the room irritably, unavailingly.
“Hmmn,” Tracy said. “The lady will have to share with me,” and he raised the fork to her lips. “You hungry baby?” Karen opened her mouth and tried to ignore Tony, grinning as he watched, with his hand cradling his chin.
“Good, ain’t it?” Tracy purred. “Want more?” What an evil mouth she had, and that lipstick, she must have bought that at a drugstore in Hell. He made a note of the phrase, it might work in a song somewhere. He offered a second morsel, she taking in his double meanings right along with the food. If she opened her mouth that way, how fast would she open her legs?
“Tracy…” Her voice came to him; a platter of oysters had been set down in front of her and she was offering him one in her fingers –oh, lord,– “You must be so hungry,” she said and he let her slip it into his mouth, fingers sliding over his lips as she tilted the shell to let him drink the salt juice.
Karen leaned back in satisfaction; She’d managed to say his name without stammering and she’d touched him, his angel mouth and hadn’t fainted. –Mother, I’m dizzy enough,– He was studying her face. She forced herself to meet his gaze steadily, his eyes brown and cat-shaped. That is, almost round at the moment as he stared her down, but narrowed, half-lidded in sex, she was sure of that, how did she know so positively? What color is he? a rich, tawny copper. Straight nose with a shallow African bridge, strong full lips, a deep curve to his chin. His processed hair rippled over his scalp into a stiff ponytail. His ear carried a gold ring, and in the same hole, a carat diamond.
Memory ambushed her just then, carrying her three years into the past. Her old white Jeep was sunwarmed, dusty, and smelled of gasoline. The radio played a song by a new artist; the husky youthful tenor and the wishful words called to her heart. As if, after years of living away from home, someone spoke the little jokes and slang phrases that only a brother, perhaps, could know. The dust motes rose up into the sunlight as she brought the car to the curb to listen. Through her teared eyes they looked like the pathways of light that were her familiar vision. –And now I’m sitting next to him at a restaurant that I wish would disappear. I have to waste time eating food, just because I ordered it. How can I be this hungry in this crisis?–
She dove into the Fettuchine Alfredo. Tracy watched fascinated by the dainty, bloodthirsty way she ate. Fork in her left hand, she used her knife to load food onto it. European style, efficient. She must have to keep that body fed, the way she goes at it. The thing with the scarf, like Red Hot Riding Hood in those cartoons, oh yeah. Wonder what color her hair is… And how about those legs? He dropped a spoon on the floor and scrambled after it. A kid’s trick, but it always works. Ooh, how fine. And her white stockings were real silk, gartered, and the tops showed below the skirt hem. He clasped an ankle. –Express elevator, going up, wonder what her cooze looks like,–
Karen felt his hand travel swiftly up her leg, along her hemline into her lap, followed by the brush of his lips and his hot breath. It wasn’t fair, to be tantalized this way. He had no idea of what he was doing to her, she reminded herself; he was merely amusing himself before an easy conquest, but the heat traveled further than he could possibly know. The tight skirt kept her legs closed. Tracy resumed his seat and his meal, sedately, flashing one challenging glance. He leaned towards her;
“What perfume is that?”
“Seshiedo, I got it in Japan.”
“I like it,” he said with a worldly air. “Subtle but strong.”
She couldn’t stop herself from saying it; “Oh, that’s my pussy.”
Point to her, he turned back to her in delight. She bit her cheek, to preserve her own equanimity, and finished the last bite of steak.
“Oh, Karen…” Amid the blaring din, her name; By the look on his face, Glenn must have called her more than once. Karen stood up, leaning deliberately across Tracy’s plate to get closer to the conversation.
Tracy leaned back to give her room, although every cell of his body, it seemed, was in rebellion; he wanted to bite, rub his face into the plush, wallow in her. Tony, too, was grinning, the sweet innocent smile that meant the fires were consuming him.
“You tag her, Trace?” he whispered.
“She’s got, stud,” Tracy whispered back.
“Oh, man. I just know she’s gonna show me heaven…” His nostrils flaring, Tony leaned in towards the white-clad thighs, so close that Tracy imagined he could feel the heat that Tony’s face must feel emanating from her. She had no idea what was in store for her, tonight.
“Well, dear,” Glenn was saying, “Looks like you got what you wanted.”
“Do you think so? I can’t tell,” she said.
Glenn gave her a look. “Oh, please. Just call us tomorrow, or something, okay? Tim is going to worry himself sick about you. He says Tracy is a dangerous guy. And he’s just furious that you took his ticket.”
“Oh, Glenn. I owe you guys dinner. Give Tim a kiss from me, okay?”
She moved back to her seat; her hand, swinging around, was suddenly against bare skin, under Tracy’s jacket and loose shirt. Hot, and silky. She ran her hand up his side into his armpit, scraping at the wetness there and pulled away, quickly. She felt his startled jump, and he bit back a yelp. His fork dropped ringing onto his plate as he swung around to face her in disbelief. And his disbelief grew as he watched her rest her chin on that hand. And bring her fingers, wet with his sweat, over her mouth and nose, closing her eyes briefly. And smile at him, from behind the fingers, oh lord.
