Nocturnal Emissions (29 page)

“Oh, they’re very versatile! They can do just about any kind of genre.

Rockabilly, reggae, blues, punk…”

“Teddy! Teddy!” someone called. “It’s the boys!”

Egan and Winsome turned—Winsome with a brittle grin pinned onto his face—and the handheld camera that had been bobbing beside them, covering their conversation, whipped around woozily and settled on two figures as they approached the pair.

The figures couldn’t have been more different. One of them—Rake, I was to learn in a moment—was very tall and rail thin, appearing all the taller and thinner in his tight black jacket and tight black jeans. He wore black cowboy boots, and a bolo tie with a large turquoise stone offset by his black shirt. On his head, brim pulled low, was a black straw cowboy hat. It further shadowed eyes that were already deep-set in a gaunt, ashen face. His long sideburns, mustache and goatee were so black and geometrically trimmed that they looked like barely convincing theatrical appliances.

The documentary cut to a closeup of Egan, his eyes unreadable behind their dark lenses but his mouth hanging open a little, as he took in the smaller—much smaller—of the musical duo.

Widget had a waddling, floating sort of walk, his feet rising too high in an exaggerated simulation of walking. He was maybe thirty-five or forty inches tall, with the proportions of a child or dwarf, his stubby arms floating out to his sides. He wore a white, short-sleeved dress shirt under a green set of lederhosen with traditional suspenders and drop front flap. His glossy hair looked like a dollop of blood red ice cream atop his head, his bunched cheeks freckled and huge eyes emerald green. His jaw was hinged, and his limbs jointed, because Widget was a doll who moved as if suspended from wires—though I saw no wires, from where I sat. I even saw Egan look up at the ceiling of the sound-stage, as if he might find some puppeteers dressed in black hiding up in the rafters, but from the way he jerked his head this way, then that, and looked down again at Widget in incredulity, I assumed that he spotted no such puppeteers.

Rake continued forward until he stood beside, loomed over, the two men, but Widget had lagged behind, distracted by a pretty female crew member whose wrist he had taken in his articulated little fingers. When the camera turned his way again, Widget was heard saying to the woman in a lilting, high-pitched voice, “Oh come on, baby—once you go mannequin you’ll never go man again.”

“Widget,” Winsome called, “I want you to meet Walter Egan. Rake, meet Walter.”

“Sure is a pleasure, mm-hm,” the tall, black-clad figure drawled in a deep monotone, shaking Egan’s hand. Did the rock singer actually flinch at his grip? Was it that strong? Or that cold?

“Nice to meet you guys, too,” Egan said, squeezing circulation or warmth back into his right hand with his left.

At last Widget came walking over. It almost appeared that his feet didn’t always touch the ground as he moved. “Yeah, hi, Walter. So let’s get this road on the show, already. Where are those backup whores?” His head twisted 360 degrees, apparently in search of some women who would appear in the video, too.

Winsome said, “Widget, I was telling Walter that I had suggested getting his friend Stevie Nicks to do backing vocals for the song.”

“Fuck that,” Widget chirped, his voice sweeter than the sugared tears of angels. “But I wouldn’t mind slipping her my Louisville Slugger.”

Rake concurred, “She’s a fine lookin’ little filly, I’ll give you that, mm-hm.”Widget said, “I did give her a very
special
invitation to come down and watch us shoot the video, too, but she turned me down.” One of his eyes winked at Egan with a wooden click.

Egan just stared back at the doll for a few beats, his mouth leaning toward a scowl, but then he tried on a belated smile in an obvious attempt to keep things pleasant, and said, “Well, um, since I’m here maybe it would be fun for the video version if, I don’t know, I did some backing vocals for the chorus with the backup girls, or something.”

“A cameo!” Winsome said brightly, turning to Widget with a grin that seemed to quiver with pure dread.

Widget said in that angelic voice of his, “We’re Rake and Widget, not a fucking trio. Look, we just want to use your song—this isn’t like a fucking Walter Egan tribute album or anything.”

“Now, Widget,” Winsome said, wagging a gently scolding finger.

The puppet turned to Winsome and gave him an abrupt kick in the right shin, with a crack of wood against bone. The cause of the dark stains on the man’s pants suddenly became apparent. Winsome clenched his teeth and doubled over a little, but straightened up quickly, smiling again, his eyes tearing.

“Now
what?
” the puppet demanded of Winsome. His articulated eyebrows had turned down over his eyes in a look of cherubic fury.

“Hey, hey, come on now!” Egan said, taking a step forward as if to put himself between Winsome and the diminutive marionette, should Widget move to kick the man again. “What’s the problem here? You’re way out of line.”

“
I’m
out of line?” Widget said.

“Wait, wait, wait. Hold on, boys.” It was Winsome who stepped between Egan and Widget, chuckling as he said, “Let’s not get silly, here.” He took the rock singer’s arm and pulled him over to the side, out of earshot. In a hurried whisper teetering at the edge of panic, Winsome said, “Walter…
please
, now. Just hang in there, okay? Rake and Widget are visiting here from…somewhere else, and we just want to keep them happy.” His hand closed tightly on Egan’s wrist, and his tone became even more desperate. “We don’t want to make them angry!”

“Well I’m starting to get a little angry, here, myself, Teddy. Look at the way that thing kicked you, man!”

“Shhhhh!”
Winsome’s eyes bulged. “I’m okay, it doesn’t matter, just…play along please, will you? Look, I’m going to write you a check before you leave, for the use of your song and for…just being cool. It’ll be a very generous check, Walter. Just…stay cool.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. But you’re the one with the bloody shins, Teddy.”

“That a boy, Walter. Let’s get back in there and have some fun.” With his hand on Egan’s back, Winsome began steering the singer to rejoin the others, but Egan stopped and turned to the liaison again.

“Teddy…so is it Rake who controls Widget?”

Winsome looked utterly confused, as though he’d been addressed in a foreign language. “Controls?”

“I mean, who does his voice?”

Winsome laughed, as if Egan were pulling his leg. “Nobody
does
his voice, Walter. He does his own voice. This is Rake and Widget, not Milli Vanilli.”

Walter and Winsome stood off to one side as an opening shot for the video got underway. It wasn’t at first apparent what would appear behind Rake and Widget, later, in place of the greenscreen.

Here, between bits of the video shoot, shown from different angles, sections of the finished video were cut into the documentary. The background turned out to be a brightly-lit, tiled tunnel like one might find leading into a subway station, its ceiling arched, its walls and ceiling and even the floor painted glossy pink. All of it dripping wet, streams of moisture running down the wall tiles to join puddles on the floor.

Against this background, Rake and Widget appeared to be constantly walking toward the camera, as if through an endless tunnel. In reality, Rake and Widget were walking on a slowly moving treadmill on the sound-stage, Rake’s long legs working in easy strides, his upper body rigid, while Widget had assumed a kind of stomping rhythm that matched the song’s raunchy beat, his body moving side-to-side, his fists looking balled at his sides for trouble, his brows lowered in an expression apparently meant this time to look intense instead of furious. Had his hard wooden jaw been replaced at some point? His former sweetly smiling mouth was now more of a naughty pout.

First, Rake began singing. The deep monotone of his singing voice was little different from his speaking voice. His style was a little bit country, a little bit sepulchral. And his eyes never blinked.

Rake sang:

“Anytime you want me to do a little choreDon’t you know I’m waiting down at your back doorIndicate the feeling that you think is fineAnd you know your wish would soon be mine”

Now Widget took the chorus
.
In his seraphic, singsong singing voice, he tended to draw out certain words, making his voice even cuter. He sang:

“Tunnel of love, tunnel of love

Ooh, baby, take me for a ride

Tunnel of love, tunnel of love

Ooh, mama, take me inside”

“Inside” being delivered by Widget as, “Iiiiinsiiiiide.”

Now back to Rake, who sang:

“Ooh, you’re such a comfort, ooh, you’re such a thrillOoh, the way you hold me when you say you will”

And Widget took up:

“I’m like a volcano ready to erupt

Baby, when you treat me to your sweet, sweet stuff”

He stretched out this last as, “Sweeeeet,
sweeeeet
stuff.”

The camera cut to Egan’s face as he watched the shoot. The musician was shaking his head. Then an angle on Widget again, still stamping his feet as he marched, his intense expression making him resemble a baby trying to pass gas. He sang:

“Tunnel of love, tunnel of love

Ooh, baby, take me for a ride

Tunnel of love, tunnel of love

Ooh, mama, take me inside”

The chorus was also picked up this time by the backup singers, three attractive women—one white, one black, one Oriental—in skintight red rubber jumpsuits, who came crawling out of a sewer grate in the set’s floor. In the finished video, they writhed and contorted sensuously behind Rake and Widget, seemingly following them through that endless pink tunnel. Then, it was Rake’s turn again:

“Dancing down the street to the tune in my headThinking of the nights spent in your warm bedI’m anticipating, watching time go by”

And Widget delivered the line:

“It’s so stimulating between your thighs”

He sang it as, “Betweeeeen your thighs.” Then, his jaw opened and a hinged wooden tongue waggled out. He and the backup girls sang:

“Tunnel of love, tunnel of love

Ooh, baby, take me for a ride

Tunnel of love, tunnel of love

Ooh, mama, take me inside

Take me inside”

Somewhere above, something let go—buckets tipped or balloons were burst—and a cascade of water came crashing down on the backup singers, who turned their faces up to catch the sudden downpour. While they rubbed their hands over their wet chests and bellies, Rake droned:.

“Tunnel of love, tunnel of love

Ooh, baby, take me for a ride

Tunnel of love, tunnel of love

Pretty little filly, take me for a ride”

It would gradually become obvious, through the course of the documentary, that Rake managed to slip “pretty little filly” or “silly little filly” into every song they covered. Widget took over:

“Tunnel of love, tunnel of love

Ooh, baby, take me for a ride

Tunnel of love, tunnel of love

Ooh, mama, take me inside”

Camera on Egan again. He had turned his back and was walking away, still shaking his head. Noticing this, Winsome darted anxiously after him, trying to catch his arm. Against the diminished volume of the music, Winsome hissed, “Walter, please, please don’t go!”

Egan stopped and thrust a thumb in the direction of the shoot. “You know, Teddy, I think they just invited me here out of pure sadism, to make me suffer what they’re doing to my song.”