I’ve had three CDs in rotation in my car for a few years: Billy Joel Greatest Hits, N.W.A.’s Straight Outta Compton, and Boys for Pele by Tori Amos. The Tori Amos is for whenever a broad is in the car with me and I want to casually show off my sensitive side. I got used to these albums, you know? There were times I was in the mood for “Fuck the police, coming straight from the underground” and sometimes for “in the middle of the night.” But just when routine takes roost among your bones, fate steps in.

I was investigating a story about this so-called drink called the “Slurpee." I reached for my car door handle and noticed the lack of a window. It had been replaced with glass shards strewn about my seat. Then I noticed my CDs had been stolen. They had not been replaced with anything.

I didn’t bother to call the police. I am a professional investigator, for Pete’s sake. I’d find out who was behind this before they ever could.

After dusting off my seat and wiping my bloody hands on my slacks, I was ready to ride. “Criminal, here I come.” I said that to the criminal if he or she was close enough to hear; if not, I was just saying it to myself. I cruised around the hood looking for clues, but something was missing.

There was no rock and roll, no synthesizer, no gratuitous use of the word, ‘”bitch,” no “Only the good die young, that’s what I say, yeah!” I turned on the radio. By accident it was tuned to AM, which I’d never heard before.

But let me tell you, readers, old and young, sick and well, I heard the most glorious sounds out of my speakers. There were no words -- neither sung, nor rapped, nor shouted. I didn’t hear a drum machine or drums or guitar or a hype man. Instead there were the swelling, rising, falling, dancing, and flying sounds of alien instruments. The DJ called this, “classical music.” I knew why right then. Every song was an instant classic. If Ice Cube thought he was coming straight from the underground, he was sadly mistaken; these AM bands were. Groups like Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven. How did bands this good go unnoticed? Why wasn’t I seeing them on MTV Cribs or TRL? How come they weren’t getting invited to Lollapalooza every single year?

I was going to change all that. When I was dead and gone, I’d not only be remembered as the man who brought truth in its purest form to the ignorant masses but also as the man who launched the greatest genre of music ever to exist. I called up the DJ and asked what labels these groups were on. After a little research, I had a bunch of numbers, an empty notepad, and an eager pen. I called the record company that put out Bach’s latest.

“Can you put me in touch with any of the members of Bach?”

They were elusive (and rude I might add), refusing to give me access to anybody. Not even a quick phone interview with the guy that plays the lovely high-pitched “nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh” thing. I’m going to call it a Winged Star.

“Okay then, can you at least tell me where they’ll be playing next?”

The man laughed. (That bastard.)

“Try an elevator,” he said.

A concert in an elevator? Who ever heard of that? And which one in which building? I had to take a wild guess, depending solely upon my incredible sense of hunch. So off I went to the Four Seasons and “hopped in a lift” as the limeys say. I didn’t see anybody from the band in there, much less any winged stars or hollow bridgeries or boom-boomers. (All these instruments will be copy written by yours truly.) There was just a woman in a teal pants suit, holding a briefcase, staring straight ahead. I was about to jump off and try another one when I heard it. It was an intense orgasm of melody and tone -- that honey dripping down from the heavens into my ear canal.

“Ma’am,” I said, “are you listening to an iPod or something?”

“No,” she said with a confused look.

“Then where is that king of all sounds coming from?”

She pointed the top of the elevator. I looked. There was nothing there. Nothing to the naked eye at least. Then I figured it out.

Bach and Strauss and all those guys are ghost bands. They were no doubt floating above my head and presenting me with their beautiful gift. My first thought was that it would be impossible to promote ghosts. Money didn’t mean anything to the undead. You couldn’t take their picture to put on shirts, and there’s a large segment of the population who would be more frightened than entertained by a band of musical wraiths.

I have to be content in knowing that they exist and hope I run into them every once in a while and clap and clap until my hands are raw.