Traffic horns blare over civilian chatter, and the smell of food, weed, and piss hovers above Boston Common. It’s the 4th of July, and a large crowd has built around the local pop mainstay singing their patriotic songs under what is locally known as ‘The Smoking Gazebo’. To the singer’s dismay, a nearby ragtag band is also performing; their style, an unapologetically discordant twang, disturbing the pop singer and her fans. Over the singing about living free in “the big US of A”, the ragtag band’s lead, James Chance, lilts about catching jungle fever from hot voodoo coursing through his veins. A mother clamps her child’s ears, attempting to muffle James’s racial innuendos and still enjoy the innocuous pop songs. A man leaves, irritably swatting his hand at James and his riotous backing band.
Slowly but surely, however, much of the crowd abandons the pop singer in favor of dancing to James and his ragtag performers’ oddball music. James is a unique, confident performer, singer, and saxophonist; he alternates from dancing in strangely stilted motions, to shouting sexually charged or self-destructive proclamations, to producing sounds with his saxophone that mimic a dying animal’s wails. The crowd has now grown large and unruly, jostling and pushing each other to the music as James repeatedly shouts “I want you to KILL ME!”, accentuating the final words more each time. As the song builds into its wild climax, a large, flying bottle connects with James’s head. The music, and his life, stopped cold.
Detective Quick lies still in his office. His eyes are closed, head resting on his folded hands. His headphones have fallen out of his ears, softly trilling a no wave song. Photographs are strewn everywhere, connected by red thread. With all the commotion from Boston’s biggest night of the year, finding any evidence traceable to the killer is nearly impossible—even the bottle flung at James’s head was lost amongst the thousands of bottles scattered around the park after the celebration. Quick wants a promotion, though, so despite the lack of evidence, he intends to solve this case and tip his boss into yielding.
A knock at the door startles Quick awake. Shaking his head, Quick checks the time—it’s half past nine in the morning. Groaning, he stands to open the door for his partner, Detective Vernon. Vernon enters, inspecting Quick’s face, shaking his head at the dark circles under Quick’s eyes. “Go home and rest.” insists Vernon. Quick nods apathetically, rubbing his eyes and closing the door. Vernon places his hand on Quick’s shoulder, stopping his partner to look into his eyes. “You’re not listening are you?” asks Vernon. Quick tiredly shrugs away his partner’s hand and points at the scattered photographs. “I’m closing in on this case, Vernon. James’s band was defunct.” Vernon’s eyebrows arch. “I imagine they’re now without a lead singer?” he asks. Quick shakes his head and begins to pace, clarifying, “No. Their name was, ‘Defunkt’, spelled with a lowercase ‘k’, not ‘c’… They’re his backing band, founded by Joseph Bowie.” Pausing briefly to turn off his headphones, Quick adds, “They’re an incredible group, dirty grooves for days.” Quick resumes pacing, inspecting the ceiling fan as he walks, “They made some essential jazz dance bangers.” Tired of watching his pacing partner, Vernon wads and hurls paper at Quick, but Quick dodges the projectile, approaching the scattered photographs.
Pointing, Quick explains, “Observe these connections here and there,” his finger tracing along the red threads. “This is—” Quick corrects himself, “This was James’s stand-in bassist, George Scott—Bowie’s touring bassist from Defunkt was sick that night. George played in numerous no wave bands: the Contortionists, 8-Eyed Spy, the list goes on.” Quick points to another photograph, “Pat Irwin teamed up with George to make music as 8-Eyed Spy. I’m listening to their stuff non-stop now.” Vernon tries to follow his partner’s narrative, alternating between staring at him and the photographs. Quick says, while pointing at yet more interconnected pictures, “Irwin was good friends with Lydia Lunch, who joined a supremely underrated no wave band, Teenage Jesus and the Jerks. Ever heard of ‘em?” Without waiting, Quick replies for Vernon, ”I hadn’t either, but their stuff slaps hard. Like this.” Quick claps his hands at Vernon, whose face is frozen in a goofy open-mouthed expression. Quick points again, “Lunch met the The Bush Tetras’s lead singer, Adele Bertei. What a voice! I love her band’s song, ‘Too Many Creeps’, her voice sounds so cool over the beat. Did you know how they met? You’ll never guess. Bertei was Brian Eno’s personal assistant. You know Eno, right? Music For Airports? Eno wanted to feature Lydia’s band in his no wave compilation—” “Alright, stop!” Vernon barks while rubbing his eyes, “I need to go grab a coffee.” Briefly glancing at Quick, Vernon adds, “You don’t need one.”
After his warmup at the office, Quick is only more excited to talk about the music. “There’s so much good music out there, but I tell you, these bands are special—completely rejecting the times.” Vernon sighs and asks rhetorically while squinting at the sun, “Why’d he have to take this case?”, emphasizing the word ‘this’ by sizzling the ‘s’ a long while. Quick shrugs, “No one else’s working this week because of the 4th.” Vernon grumbles, swatting his hand at Quick before taking another giant glug from his coffee. “You should really check this group out, The Bush Tetras.” says Quick, ignoring Vernon’s glare before elaborating, “Their style is so cool and nonchalant, like you didn’t care about staying on pitch… or on tempo!” Vernon takes an unnecessarily large bite from his pastry “Way more experimental than your old band… Who was it?” Quick snaps his fingers, squinting at the sky. Vernon shakes his head as a garbage truck passes before answering, “The Trashmen.” Quick looks at the truck and laughs, repeating, “No really, what was the name?” Vernon tiredly insists, “That’s the group.” The trash truck stops to pick up nearby bins, its large mechanical arm whines as it struggles to lift another smelly load. “Now, The Bush Tetra’s drummer Dee Pop’s drumming is great! You gotta check out—” Quick looks up to see Vernon quickly walking away, towards the office.
Quick bursts into the office, exclaiming, “Hey! You didn’t let me finish!” Vernon responds without looking, “That’s because I’m—” Vernon pauses, struggling to control his frustration, then finishes “I’m tired of hearing about the music. OK?” Vernon asks, “Can we please assign someone else to this case? There’s no way we can crack this murder on the 4th.” Quick shakes his head, “You didn’t let me finish. Dee Pop later recorded with Michael Karoli, the founder of the German experimental krautrock band, Can. He wasn’t present on the fourth, but his connection to this case is meaningful.” Vernon gets up, attempting to leave, but Quick places himself squarely in front of the only exit. Vernon’s face hardens while he growls, “You’re just talking, too tired and personally invested in the music to care anymore about this case.” Vernon attempts to push by Quick, “I’ll request this case reassignment myself.” Quick ignores Vernon “You may know Michael as ‘Mike Karoli’.” Quick’s declaration is followed by a sharp click. Vernon stops and stares at his partner, all emotions draining from his expression; his arm is handcuffed to a nearby pole.
Quick backs away, “You’re not a big fan of James or his band, are you?” Quick picks up a magazine on Vernon’s desk, waving the cover, ”The Rolling Stone, they’re always celebrating the influence of some of these big no wave groups from New York: James White and the Blacks, Teenage Jesus, The Bush Tetras, 8-Eyed Spy, and—” Quick pauses for dramatic effect, “even your old pal Mike’s band, Can, who practically inspired the no wave movement.” Vernon states firmly, “You’re out of your goddamn mind. Get these fucking things off of me!” Quick ignores him, “I even remember pop singers discussing Brian Eno’s influential no wave documentary. It’s still making waves. Speaking of waves—” Quick snaps his fingers again, turning around, “Wasn’t that what your old band, The Trashmen, were known for? Some goofy surf rock song called, ‘Surfin Bird?’” Vernon is quiet and his face is pale. “I heard from a little bird that you were interested in joining Mike’s band? But they felt your Minnesotan roots and silly surfing songs just wouldn’t gel with their cool avant garde image.“
Vernon looks down and takes a ragged breath while Quick opens their fridge and cracks himself a beer. After taking a drink, Quick inspects the bottle, “I love this brand. Funny that it’s the same dark green glass we recovered from James’s scalp during the autopsy. You think that’s a coincidence?” Quick says matter-of-factly, “You’re still burnt from the no wave scene denying you entry—a goody two shoes, shiny face from Minnesota. Someone who wanted to experiment, but didn’t have the confidence to do it themselves.” After a long pause, Vernon looks up, but Quick is already gone. The police enter the office to collect the tethered culprit.