The club is hot and packed with angels. The Seraphs are ready to burn the place down, and the Elohim are drunk on ambrosia and smashing amphorae on the ichor-splattered floor. The bad vibes are only getting worse.
       Conditions are ideal for the best show in the history of the 77th Heaven.
       I jab Lou with a drumstick. He's motionless on a barstool clutching a half-empty Jeroboam of Moët, and there's no way to tell if he's asleep behind his wraparound shades.
       "Shouldn't we go on?" I say.
       "Nobody tells me when to go on in my joint."
       Lou is godfather of the scene in the 77th. He built the Glory Hole by converting a disused halo-wash business. There's plenty of concert halls and piano bars in this Heaven, but Lou's the only one putting on punk and metal shows. He's also our band leader, though he hates when I mention it.
       I tap nervously on the bar until Gabe takes my stick.
       "We should have booked an opener," I say.
       "Eternity isn't long enough for opening acts, luv."
       "But it gives the crowd something to yell at."
       Gabe sneers. He has the Cockney accent, the Johnny Rotten outfits, and the artfully arranged safety pins of a classic punk. Lou says he's not actually from that era, that he's much older. Possibly caveman old. Which might be something Lou imagined while high, but it would explain why Gabe gets confused by newer concepts like telephones and Italy.
       Another amphora explodes against the footlights. "Will the dust praise you?" screams an Elohim. The jukebox plays 'Heaven' by the Talking Heads, and the wings roar. There aren't many human punk fans in the 77th. The mosh pit is a crush of angels, Malachim contorting wildly as the shifting lion, human, and eagle faces of Cherubim dodge the flailing amber hooves of Chashmalim.
       Gabe crushes his cigarette and exhales a myrrh-scented cloud. "I hate this place."
       Lou bolts upright. "What the hell are we waiting for?"
       As we take the stage, Gabe whistles to summon Archie. The archon materializes behind its drum kit in a whirl of fur and feathers, pounding on the toms and letting out an inhuman howl.
       Gabe cradles the mic like a lit match. "You know who we are. One, two, fuck let's go."
       A wave of nausea rises in my throat. It's the same feeling as the very first time I took the middle school gymnasium stage with Nate and Kelly, the same as the hundreds of shows since.
       Tonight, though, is special. Tonight, we're playing the first song I've written since I died.
       Lou plays a laconic bass note, and then I hit a power chord. The heavenly host starts to thrash. Feathers are knocked loose as Seraphs toss each other into the air, wailing like sirens.
       We sound ragged as shit, butchering our cues, and I'm sweating way too much for this early in the set. But the energy is there, which is all that matters. We play 'Ever Fallen in Love,' a favorite of the Nephilim. Next up is my song.
       I cough into the mic. "Our next gig is at Elysian Fields." That gets an equal scattering of cheers and boos. "I thought I would try something new, so bear with me."
       I fiddle with a tuning peg as the crowd hushes. I suddenly miss the drunk guys who would stand in the back of the venue talking through the whole show. Angels pay too much attention.
       The song starts with a jagged, circular guitar pattern, a doubled riff that's murder to pick. Gabe moans the melody since I haven't written any words yet, like a ghost having a mediocre orgasm.
       When it ends I'm afraid to look up, staring at my fingers as the last few notes hang in the air. The only movement is Cherubim, floating in the ductwork, spinning to show their four faces: ox, man, lion, eagle. I have no idea what it means.

       Leaving the stage, I trip on a cord and nearly face-plant on a bass monitor. Gabe already has a beer and is bandaging his hand. "You alright?" I ask.
       He nods. "Some bossy Seraph looked at me right funny."
       I start to say that we won't have any fans left if he keeps punching them, but clearly that's not true. We've all been punched by Gabe a few times.
       "We sounded like shit tonight," Lou says. He means it as a compliment.
       "A lovely box o' toys indeed." Gabe spies me packing my case. "Oi, Ryan, you got somewhere to be?"
       "Brunch with my parents," I say, "every Sunday morning from now till the end of days."
       "Hold on," Lou raises his glasses, which is how you know he's getting serious. It's always a shock to see those wide brown eyes, the left one wandering lazily like it might vacate its socket. "Let's talk Elysian Fields."
       Archie leans in, nodding with blank enthusiasm. Archie is made up primarily of arms and positive vibes, making it the best drummer I've ever played with. Also it can't talk, at least not in human speech.
       "So. I was never good at band meetings." Lou searches his pockets for a while before finding a vial of white powder and a tiny spoon. "They call this angel dust. It hits like meth mixed with vitamins." He spoons himself a sniff and twitches like he's been electrocuted. "So what, I was starting to say. To say, is. Elysian Fields. Metatron is bumping up our set, primo slot. Opening for Sam Cooke and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir."
       Archie smiles wide and kisses Lou on the cheek with another mouth while Gabe whistles. "That's a bleeding opportunity, innit? Big crowds at Elysian, a sight better than this manky place."
       "He really likes us?" I ask. "Half our set is Hüsker Dü covers."
       "Apparently, he digs the 'formed after death' angle." Lou shrugs. "All the rest are reunion acts."
       "Which means we deffo need Ryan's song," Gabe says. "That's what sets us apart."
       "Cool, cool, sure. We gotta practice, get straight, eat right." Lou is already fading from the strain of stringing so many coherent sentences together.
       Gabe puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. "You know we need this. Don't let me down, mate."
       "There's so much still to do. Lyrics, a bridge, a name. I don't think I can get it done in a week."
       "Come on, a week is everything. I heard some toffer once made heaven and earth in only six days."

       For my first few months in the 77th Heaven, I felt like crap. I couldn't understand why I was in this place while Nate and Kelly weren't. Survivor's guilt, I guess, except whatever they call it when you don't survive.
       I started going to bars alone. I found that you could drink as much as you wanted here, bathtubs full, so long as you didn't mind collapsing in agony until an Ishim EMT showed up and gave you an injection that would grow you a new liver. So I did, over and over again.
       After a few months I ended up in the Hole. It had the type of smell that unearthed memories, which I was attempting to squash by drinking the well-stocked bar alphabetically, starting from Aalborg and getting as far as cachaça.
       I was yelling at Lou to change the music when a tall, surly guy with bleached spikes punched me fairly hard.
       "Oi. What's your problem with Chumbawamba?"
       I explained that my problem was more specifically with his face, and then I hit him back. We started to fight, though it was more like wrestling, knocking each other down and getting back up again till we were both battered and raw.
       "I'm not mopping that up," said Lou. He left two lagers on the bar, so after we crawled back up our stools, we talked.
       Gabe said, "I know you. The kid from RiffBomb? I heard a tour coach crash offed your whole band. A bit naff, that."
       I nodded and took a long drink of my beer.
       "Car crash ain't so bad. Preferable to napalm or starvation or a heart attack on the shitter."
       "I thought people in heaven didn't talk about how they died."
       Gabe smirked. "I'm not people."
       "So, how did you go?"
       "Sod that, let's not." Gabe scanned the empty bar. "So where's the rest at, then? RiffBomb."
       I tried to swing at him again but barely had the energy to wave my bottle. "Shut your damn mouth."
       "What was it, bad smash-up? Oh, ho ho, I see. The rest of your group went on down, but you're one of those rare rockers who ends up in the bleeding pearly hereafter. And now you're drinking here alone. Do I have it right?"
       I deflated into my chair, feeling the alcohol hit. "Nate, Kelly, and me. That's how it always was. I don't know what to do without them."
       Behind the counter Lou was polishing a glass that never seemed to get clean. "I couldn't help overhearing your predicament. You do realize no one actually knows how to live here? The mind can't cope with eternity, so we end up medicating with sex, meditation, macramé, self-harm, or shuffleboard. All compulsions standing in for withheld oblivion. For me, it's playing loud music, works like methadone."
       Gabe whistled. "Mates. This feels like kismet. Us three, all rockers. We need to form a band."
       I laughed. "Are you serious?"
       Lou nodded. "I do know where to find a drummer."
       "Not a good idea," I said. "You heard what happened to my last group."
       Gabe said, "Yeah, the lucky bastards."
       I didn't leave, which was as good as a yes. We drank many more beers, and Lou put on an 8-track of Richard Hell and the Voidoids so I could hear Gabe's crisp tenor yelling along to 'Blank Generation.' At some point in the night, I began to feel that it was good. It was very good.

       I keep practicing, even when my calluses scrape off like mold from cheese and my fingers bleed. I know they'll heal again in minutes, thanks to whatever magic is in the air of heaven. Soon all that's left are bloody prints on my beer bottle.
       We're in our rehearsal space, a run-down cottage Gabe painstakingly renovated by tearing out the carpets, sanding off paint, splashing malt liquor against the walls, and working the chenille with a cheese grater.
       Gabe has been screaming until his throat is raw, spitting out gobs of bloody saliva. Lou is napping on top of the amp. I've been trying for hours to compose a bridge melody for my song, but every time it comes out wrong. Once I thought I had it, before realizing I had written down the riff from the Replacements' 'I Will Dare,' and another time Fugazi's 'Life and Limb.' It feels like there's nothing original left in my head.
       Gabe takes a break to carve a dick into the wall with a steak knife. "Ryan, what's the best show you ever been to?"
       "Rage playing with Wu Tang. It was the loudest anything I had ever heard. This was before RiffBomb, before I knew anything. Shows hit different when you're thirteen." I realize my fingers have started playing the intro to 'Killing in the Name' and shake out my hands. "What was yours?"
       "The Fall. Bloody marvellous show."
       I'm about to ask him for his thoughts on Mark E. Smith when Lou sits up, wheezing through lungs full of sputum. "Are we on?" he asks.
       "Still Wednesday," says Gabe. "But Ryan still needs to write us some better bloody lyrics." He takes my journal without asking and tears out a page. "'Saint Peter reads the Bhagavad Gita / George W. Bush is playing Ibiza.' Proper rubbish that."
       "It's work in progress."
       "Three days left, mate. Best progress that Kathy Burke a mite quicker."
       Gabe puts a hand flat on my chest. It feels hot enough to burn through my clothes.
       "A song's not just words, it's emotion. Give this a go: think about the most horrorshow shit that ever happened to you, summat that has your heart all tangled up. Then cut those invisible strands and paste them on the page, yeah?"
       He takes his hand away, and I rub at my chest. "What ties you up inside?" I ask Gabe.
       "Lucy." For a moment Gabe's eyes look soft. Then he focuses on me again. "But I can't write her song. That's your gift, Ryan. I only sing what I'm told."

       "Lucy is his sister," Lou explains to me. "They had a fight, a long time ago, and they haven't seen each other since." We're walking back to the Hole alongside the crystal waters of the Gihon that flow from the base of the Tree of Life. Cherubim are skimming the surface of the water, pulling out cans and plastic bottles from the pond scum.
       "I've never seen Gabe in his feelings like that," I say. "He must really miss her. They don't even talk?"
       "Apparently, Gabe's father cut off any contact between them. It happened so long ago that now they can't bridge the gap." Lou slows his already methodical walking pace.
       "Maybe this is crazy, but do you think we could get ahold of her? Invite her to the show?"
       "You're a nice kid, Ryan." Lou opens a tin from his pocket containing a pink, viscous goo, which he rubs into his gums. "Hell, what's the worst that could happen."
       "I want to do something nice for Gabe. He's been so supportive about my song."
       "He believes in you, and he's right to. It's the first song written here in ages that's not crap."
       "We're about to play in a lineup with Robert Johnson and Steven Sondheim. I don't see how my song can rate."
       "None of those assholes have written a thing since they died. It's this place. It's almost impossible to make new art here; I've tried. In heaven the poets recite stale verses, the singers replay the old songs, and we all become immortal creatures with no spark of creativity, like the angels. The afterlife is a cover song, a play we know by heart."
       "So why does Gabe think mine is different?"
       "Because you want something. Because, unlike the rest of us, you haven't been dead long enough to realize you're a ghost."
       I stare at pillars of light in the distance, inner heaven, where sunset glints on spires of gold. "Is my song actually any good? What do you think?"
       "I try not to." Lou tosses his cigarette, and it's lost in the river's vermilion ripples.

       I was alive and it was night in an anonymous Ohio suburb, a stop-off between shows in Columbus and Cleveland where a fan liked us enough to set us up with a place to sleep. The night was a freeze-frame in a tour-long string of diners and slow conversations and cloves smoked under the warm haze of the streetlights, the night I realized I was in love with Kelly.
       She and I had taken a walk to avoid bothering the fan's elderly aunt, who owned the house. Nate had stayed behind, watching TV with the old lady and drinking her sambuca.
       Kelly sat on a stone wall, twisting her cigarette between her fingers, then effortlessly flipping it to her other hand. The glowing tip drew a halos in the air.
       "Tonight was a good one," I said. "We sold more than a dozen EPs."
       Kelly shrugged. "The way you and Nate obsess over that shit. Like it makes a difference if we move another ten dubbed cassettes. Do you think that's the point of all of it?"
       "Maybe we sold one to a label rep. Maybe they're listening to it right now, deciding whether to sign us."
       "Come on, Ryan. If you're fixated on the rewards, you won't last." The dancing smoke shadows gave Kelly's face the look of an oil painting.
       "So why do you do it?" I asked. "What's the point of being on tour? Those wild times we get a drink at the bar before we go to Waffle House?"
       Her smile was gentle. "I like the nights like this when it's quiet afterwards."
       I watched the way her cheeks pulled in as she smoked, and her dark bangs split in the middle of her wide forehead, and I felt a pang of love so intense that it startled me.
       Kelly stared into the dark. "I even like driving with you and Nate. Everything that should be horrible, the food, the boredom, sleeping in the car, it starts to feel like home."
       "Even when Nate does the hot dog thing?"
       "Yeah. Even the hot dogs." She flicked her cigarette away. "Do not tell him I said that. He'll be insufferable."
       "Insufferable? Could you be talking about moi?" Nate manifested, running down the street toward us, leaping up onto the wall and swaying dramatically.
       Kelly rolled her eyes. "It wouldn't matter if we were talking about you or not; you'd still think we were."
       "You may call me conceited, but you're still talking about me." Nate collapsed to sitting beside us, a jumble of limbs. I felt another pang. "I heard something about my very normal love of Oscar Mayer six packs."
       "Normal people cook them. Eating one after another for two hours straight is weird."
       As they fell back into the rhythms of an argument they'd had a dozen times before, the song inside of me was welling up, expanding, forcing its way to the surface. I realized suddenly that it wasn't just Kelly that I loved; if that was it, I would have felt jealousy, uncertainty among the wanting. What I really loved was this: me and the two of them together, in this moment, on this night, the rhythm of us as a group moving from chorus to verse, writing a song that I belonged in.

       Sweat runs in rivulets down Gabe's arms. He's kneeling and whispering to himself, and I move closer to hear.
       "And when he is commanded to leave his guard at the tree of life, the whole of creation will be consumed. And appear infinite. And holy."
       It's some kind of prayer. I feel almost sacrilegious interrupting him, so I speak gently. "They're ready for sound check."
       Gabe blows an enormous raspberry, then acts like nothing happened as we run through our checks, even when I plug into the wrong pickup and blast our ears with feedback.
       This is the biggest stage I've ever been on. Massive lights and stacks face a sloping field that could hold Coachella and Glastonbury tidily in opposite corners.
       Gabe twists the mic stand nearly hard enough to break it apart at the hinge.
       "Are you alright, man?" I ask.
       "Just make sure the damn song's ready. I'll take care of the rest."
       The Elysian fields sparkle in the sunlight as Metatron announces the opening of the festival. He's a strange vision, with lightning hair and glowing skin under his Canali suit. When he speaks there's always an accompanying trumpet fanfare.
       "At Elysian Fields we celebrate both the music of the spheres and the music of humanity. Prepare your ears for the finest and most soothing sounds of the last five thousand years."
       The first act is a medieval Polish choral group. A small crowd has trickled in, taking up picnic blankets in the grass. The group's music is haunting, but the energy level is lower than a ten-year-old's piano recital.
       I get my complimentary beer and settle in to listen. There's 10th-century Polynesian drumming, Harry Belafonte, and an icy aria from a Venetian castrato that moves me to tears. After an hour I feel overwhelmed, like my brain is blending this steady procession of beauty into soup.
       Backstage, Gabe paces wildly, muttering under his breath and punching the air. I head over to see if I can calm him down when a blinding white light fills the tent, so strong that it shines through my hand as I shield my eyes. When it dims, all I can see is an afterimage of feathers.
       A shining figure speaks to Gabe. "I come bearing a warning."
       I whisper to Lou, "Is that who I think it is?"
       Lou exhales a cloud of smoke that smells like vinegar and gasoline. "That depends. Do you think it's the Archangel Michael, Governor of the First Hundred Heavens, Lion of the Chayot Hakodesh, et cetera et cetera?"
       Even I recognize the Archangel Michael. They put his face on the banners hanging from the pearly gates, the ones that welcome you to your assigned heaven. "Should I kneel?" I ask, but Lou just laughs.
       "I don't know what you're on about," Gabe says. His tone is insouciant, rude even, for talking to the Taxiarch of the Heavenly Legion. It's actually quite punk.
       "Do not confuse my tolerance for approval." When Michael speaks it feels like the words are being printed on the air in bold text.
       "Say what you came to say, and then sod off and play your harp."
       Michael raises an arm like he's about to smite Gabe, and I gasp, but then he folds his wings to his hips as if he's mildly peeved. "Heed my words, little brother. I only wish to dissuade you from whatever folly you're considering this time."
       "Either put me in Azazel's ten-thousand-year column of fire or get the fuck out the way. We've got a show to play."
       "The attempt was made. I'll return when it all goes to... you know." Michael extends his shimmering wings and flies.
       "What was that?" I ask.
       Gabe shakes his head. "Archangels are unbearable pricks, the lot of them. No time to rabbit; we're on."
       We hustle through the curtains to polite scatter of applause. I try to ignore the sparse crowd. Archie appears to count us off, and we launch into 'Lust for Life.'
       All the practice has paid off. Lou, Archie, and I are warm and in sync. Gabe sounds off though. He skips a verse, then on "What Do I Get?" seems to make up lyrics as he goes.
       I pause for breath four songs in and I can hear someone cough. Birds twitter in the distance.
       Gabe is deep into some kind of mania, grinning wildly and occasionally pirouetting.
       "What are we doing here?" I say. "They hate us."
       "Don't think. Just play the next song." Gabe giggles. "We're almost to the big finish."
       I begin to strum, and then I hear a thudding sound rising over the grassy slope, heavier than Archie's kick. A rush of gray wings descends, filling every available space and covering the ground like locusts. Our fans have arrived: the Seraphim and Cherubim, the vicious Chashmalim and Elohim, the Ishim still in their work uniforms. They may never have known human life, but they can mosh and pogo and soar on fourfold wings.
       The angels howl. We kick into overdrive. I feel the music flowing into me and back out again like I am the amplifier, and I play with an intensity I've never known. The crowd is the engine and I am the fumes shooting out the back of the rocket.
       I find myself backstage before I can even process what has happened. My head pulses with adrenaline, and the lights are blinding. There's a throbbing that I realize is actually the crowd demanding more.
       "Ryan." Gabe holds both my shoulders as he yells. "It's your time."
       I feel outside myself like I'm floating. I see Archie blink its eyes in a coruscating pattern, and I see invisible strings of light pulling each of us, positioning the band. I feel it tugging at my song, pulling it out of me.
       "You have to play it." Gabe is dragging me forward. "This is the moment."
       "Why are you so obsessed with this song?"
       The light around him is blinding. "I need this to happen."
       I take a deep breath. "Gabe. Are you... an angel?"
       Gabe stops and stares at me. "Get off." A shadow passes over his face, then falls away. "How long have you known?"
       "A while, I suppose. You... wanted this so much. No one else has wanted anything from me, not since I died."
       "So." Gabe's voice changes, becomes deeper and bolder. "You've figured it all out. How I need your song to perform the ritual."
       "You could've asked me. I would have helped you."
       "Would you? Helped an archangel, the ultimate square? One of those who decided you belonged in this place?" Light is trying to come out through cracks in the skin of his face. "I've looked for centuries to find someone like you. A soul separated from its proper place, longing for it with a strength greater than all the inertia of Heaven. That's what I need to get Lucy back."
       "Your sister," I say, and Gabe nods. He looks older and angrier now, in a way I couldn't see before. "Even if I did help you, it doesn't matter. The song's not finished. I don't have words, only a melody."
       "Listen. Hear that?"
       The crowd is singing, inhuman voices joining in a prayer. I can't understand the language, Aramaic or something, but I can feel the meaning. It's a psalm of wanting, of demanding restoration. It says that once we were unified, but the heavens pulled us apart.
       "I'll try," I tell Gabe.
       I'm trembling as I grab the mic. "We have one last number to play." I can barely talk through the wind of so many wings flapping. "This is the last song. This is 'The #1 Punk Band in Heaven'."
       I start my riff. It's a small, flickering thing, a candle barely lit.
       Then Lou's bass thuds like stone. Archie falls into its seat, sticks pounding down. Finally Gabe walks out, echoing the soaring melody.
       I spin and slam the overdrive, feeling them follow. Bass, drums, guitar, and vocals are the most tedious possible combination, yet in a moment like this alchemy happens; our base elements come together into something new and altogether strange as the four of us sync into one.
       One of Archie's mouths opens wide enough to swallow a cymbal, but instead spits out a long gilded horn that Gabe catches. He plays six rumbling blasts on it, and then I sing.
       My words blow out, building the angels' prayer into a refrain of my own. I can feel my wanting in it, and Kelly and Nate are there, along with all my life and Gabe's sister too.
       "In time / I will find you again / in time."
       Gabe blasts again on his trumpet, then stage dives into the crowd, disappearing in the swell and then emerging as his jacket tears open and two huge golden wings unfold from his shoulders.
       Somehow, in the way of rituals, it all makes a kind of sense.
       The mosh pit erupts, Seraphs and Erelim flinging each other into the air as the ground shudders beneath. Holes begin to open with smoke pouring out, smelling like brimstone and sulfur. The crowd panics, people screaming and running from the creatures made of arms and gnashing teeth that start to emerge from the holes. Gouts of flame rise in the air, and the clarion alarms of heaven begin to sound.
       It is the most punk thing I have ever seen.
       "It's all happened before, and it will happen again," Lou shouts before leaping off stage himself.
       The Archangel Michael swoops past, bellowing instructions. Gabe flips him off and tackles him, trading punches while the enormous twisting wheels-in-wheels of the Ofanim descend from the sky.
       I'm standing on the edge of the stage, still playing my guitar, when she lands beside me.
       "So. You're Gabe's friend." Her voice is gentle and musical amidst the chaos and pounding drums. She has small, delicate white wings and horns on her head that twist in a sensuous curl.
       "What should I call you? Satan?"
       "That's more of a job title. It's after hours, so Lucy is fine."
       "Gabe really missed you, you know. He did a lot to get you here. I hope it was worth it."
       "Even what he did to you?" She smiles, then shrugs. When she looks at me, my soul feels warm. "This is heaven, Ryan. No one's dying here, and the only thing worse than death is boredom. The question I have is, what are you going to do?"
       "Me?" I look around in confusion. Demons are rising from the pits, battling Seraphs with flaming swords. "It feels like there's more important things going on. All I did was play a song."
       "You know as well as I do that one song is all it takes." Lucy laughs. "Plus, you helped me see my brother for the first time in fifty-eight hundred years. The least I can do is offer you a choice."
       "What am I choosing?"
       "You can stay here, or you can come back with me. Down."
       "Why would anyone choose that?"
       "I did." She smiles wistfully. "Gabe didn't. He still regrets that, I think."
       A hole has opened up right in front of the stage. I peer down, and I can feel gusts of heat and emotion rising from it. Anger, fear, heartbreak, despair, and joy. "What it's like?" I ask.
       "It's a place, like here. Maybe not as comfortable. People still struggle and get hurt there sometimes. But you can make things. Things can change."
       "And Nate and Kelly?"
       She nods.
       "It feels like something I'll regret."
       "I'm not here to give you the hard sell. It's your choice." She looks at the legion of angels headed towards us. "And you've got about twenty minutes to make it before they seal these holes back up. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to hug my brother."
       She flies into the fray, leaving me humming a song I only half know. I brace myself, count quickly to eternity, and get ready to jump.