A Mystical Encounter With Three Traveling Wilburys: Book Excerpt

What would you do if you found yourself suddenly standing in front of Tom Petty, Roy Orbison and George Harrison? As music fans, we think about fun time travel scenarios like this all of the time.

Because who wouldn’t want to find themselves hanging out with most of the Traveling Wilburys? It’s a pretty complicated journey, as it turns out. But sometimes, it happens as a result of an honest search, mixed in with a bit of dumb luck, as we learned while reading a new book, Langley Powell and the Society for the Defense of the Mundane.

The novel, written by culture writer and editor Jeff Giles (who has written for a number of outlets, including UCR), follows Powell as he finds himself surprisingly rescued from an unfortunate death. Brought right back to Earth, Langley is confronted with a new mission: to save the universe. Is he equipped for this unforeseen challenge? Good question. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s get back to hanging out with Petty, Orbison and Harrison. Our exclusive excerpt from the book will take us there now.

Frank and Langley crept around behind the house, where a swimming pool glinted silently in the sun. In front of them and past the pool, a short distance from the main structure, stood a cottage-sized building that could have been a pool house or a detached office — Langley wasn’t sure which. Off to their right, a giant sliding glass door offered entry into the mansion.

“Eenie meenie minie moe,” said Frank. “We may not have time to look inside both of these buildings. Which one do we trespass our way into first?”

“Hmm,” said Langley. “It’ll take less time to search the smaller one, but I think we stand a better chance of finding something that will lead us to Pemberton if we start with the house.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Frank. “But if you’re wrong, I’m still blaming you.”

“I’d expect no less,” said Langley, and tugged on the handle of the sliding glass door. It slid open easily on its track. After waiting a moment for the shrill cry of an alarm — or worse, a no-face ambush — they stepped inside.

“Looks like a regular old rich person home,” said Frank, and Langley offered a short nod of assent. He was right — as they made their way through, they saw that the place was tastefully designed and outfitted, with modern (but not too modern) art on the walls, glowing in the bright slants of morning sunlight that streamed through the many windows. The ceiling was high and vaulted, with exposed beams that added a rustic (but not too rustic) touch. The kitchen was well-appointed. Upstairs and downstairs, the whole thing had a floor plan that balanced distinctive architecture and sensible design. Just as he had outside, Langley found himself thinking that he’d been in countless celebrities’ houses that were more or less just like it.It offered, in other words, nothing at all that felt connected to Neville Pemberton in any way.

After methodically making their way through, around, and behind every drawer, sofa cushion, and nook or cranny they could find in the mansion’s many assorted rooms, Frank and Langley were almost ready to give up and head to the outbuilding near the pool, but as they made their way downstairs, Langley grabbed Frank’s arm.

“Wait,” he said. “Stop. Be still for a moment. Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Frank asked. “I don’t — oh.”

They looked at each other for a moment in wordless acknowledgment, both hearing a deep, rhythmic rumble coming from someplace in the house.

“What is that?” Frank wondered. “We’ve been through every inch of this house. How did we miss whatever’s making that noise?”

“The garage,” said Langley. “We forgot the garage, and it’s huge — it has to have room for at least five cars.” They descended the stairs and headed for the garage door, feeling the noise’s intensity increase as they got closer. It continued as they stood outside the door, each giving the other a questioning look.

“Keep that backpack handy,” said Frank. “We’re liable to need everything in it if Pemberton’s on the other side of this door.”

“I’m ready,” said Langley, although he didn’t fully believe that.

“Use the lunchbox first,” Frank continued. “Just keep throwing bologna sandwiches at him until he surrenders.”Suddenly, the rumbling stopped.

Langley took a deep breath as Frank grabbed the handle and opened the door.

They saw three men seated in a loose semi-circle on the other side — one blond, one dark-haired, and one graying. Two were wearing dark glasses, and they were all holding what looked like weapons.

Wait, no — those weren’t weapons at all. They were… guitars?

And didn’t he recognize those men?

“Hey, man,” said the blond one, lifting his glasses. “Didn’t I meet you at the Grammys or something one year?”

“Tom Petty?” Langley replied, dumbfounded. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my house,” laughed Tom Petty, strumming a chord on his guitar. “What are you doing here? And who’s the kid?”

“There must be some mistake,” said Langley. “I’m looking for the house where a man named Neville Pemberton once lived.”

READ MORE: Underrated Tom Petty Songs From Each Album

“You found it,” said Tom Petty. “I bought this place after his daughter died, and now we sort of share it. I think she might be around here somewhere. You want me to get her for you?”

“No, no, don’t get up,” said Langley. “I’m sorry to have interrupted you. This is terribly embarrassing.”

“I could use a time out anyway,” said the dark-haired man, who a still- reeling Langley suddenly realized was Roy Orbison. “Smoke break, George?” The gray-haired man, who Langley now recognized as George Harrison, nodded silently. They both placed their guitars on nearby stands.

“George Harrison, Roy Orbison, and Tom Petty,” Langley marveled quietly. “I’ve walked in on the middle of a Traveling Wilburys rehearsal.”

“Not quite,” said Tom Petty, shaking a disapproving finger. “We won’t be the Wilburys again until Dylan and Jeff Lynne get here. As long as it’s just the three of us, we’re something else. Of course, we can’t agree on a new band name, but that’s a different story.”

“This is all very interesting,” said Frank, clearly not meaning a word of it. “Did someone say ‘smoke break’?”

“Follow us, little fella,” said Roy Orbison, nodding toward the garage’s side door. Shooting Langley a brief warning glance, Frank followed him outside.

“It’s been a long time,” said Tom after the other three exited the garage, leaving them alone. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name. Wasn’t it Langston or Longmont or something?”

“Langley. Langley Powell. Again, I’m so sorry to have interrupted you.”

“Eh,” shrugged Tom. “The song we’re working on isn’t going anywhere. Besides, I bet Connie will be happy to see you. From what I’ve been told, this place used to get all kinds of attention from her dad’s fans, but it’s been years since anyone came around here looking for him.”

“He doesn’t live here, then?”

“Hasn’t lived here since he died,” said Tom. “I’ve never even met the guy. I don’t know where he is, either — all Connie’s ever told me is that he’s ‘away.’”

“When you bought the house,” Langley started uncertainly, “did you find any… personal effects of Neville’s?”

“Nah,” said Tom. “By the time I bought it, Connie had already been here on this plane for 20 years or so. No one was living here at all — when she died, the house and the land were controlled by a trust that kept it empty the whole time.”“Odd,” murmured Langley, slipping the backpack over a chair and sitting down.

“And a fat waste of money, too,” agreed Tom. “The only reason it ended up on the market at all was that the trust ran out and had to be dissolved. As soon as I heard it was on the market, I snapped it up, and I haven’t regretted it since. This is one of the best spots in Malibu.”

“It’s a beautiful home,” said Langley. “And you’re so close to the ocean, too.”

READ MORE: Why Tom Petty Refused to Release Some of His Best Songs

“More importantly, it’s a comfortable distance from Johnny Carson’s house,” said Tom. “He treats the entire town like it’s his personal golf course. Just goes around whacking golf balls wherever he wants — off roofs, through windows, whatever.”

“That sounds awful,” said Langley. “But back to — ”

“And he’s always got his eternal sidekick Ed McMahon with him,” continued Tom. “He has a voice like a foghorn and a laugh like an outboard motor that’s on its last few hundred miles, man. You hear ‘Fore,’ and you only have a few seconds to hit the deck before Johnny sends one sailing into your living room. It’s enough to make you want to move to Reseda.”

“Indeed,” said Langley. “Now about — ”

“But anyway, that’s for the folks in the other part of town to worry about. Like I said, this is one of the best spots in Malibu. The weather’s gorgeous, you’ve got the ocean breeze, and there are plenty of great restaurants nearby.”

“Perfect.”

“And no Johnny Carson.”

“Yes, and no Johnny Carson,” said Langley. “It’s just that I’m still wondering about this Connie person. You said she might be here?”“Oh, absolutely,” said Tom, grinning and waving. “She’s standing right behind you. Hey Connie, say hi to Langley Powell. He’s a fan of your dad’s.”

The above is just one part of the story. To find out where it goes and how it ends, get your own copy of Langley Powell and the Society for the Defense of the Mundane by Jeff Giles!