AN Abergavenny man who claims he has come “face to face with an ancient and terrible evil” is warning any aspiring musicians not to sell their souls to Satan in pursuit of fame and fortune.

From classical violin virtuosi Niccolo Paganini whose otherworldly technical ability led audiences to believe he had made a pact with the devil, to iconic bluesman Robert Johnson, who was rumoured to have signed away his soul at the crossroads in Rosedale, Mississippi in exchange for musical genius, history abounds with tales of musicians signing away their immortality for a spot in the limelight and an MTV documentary.

Although most modern audiences dismiss such stories as romantic nonsense, semi-professional paranormal investigator Johnny Turnip ploughs a different furrow. He believes the threat of a visit from the horned one to anyone seeking the chance to shine on Spotify is very real and quite common.

“I always wondered how the likes of Ed Sheeran became so successful.” Explained Turnip. “And the truth was finally revealed to me on New Year’s Eve not long after the incident with the Ouija board in the haunted house in Powys.”

Turnip told the Chronicle, “The booming knock at the door turned out to be a disgruntled-looking farmer. The guy had the sort of ruddy face and sideburns you wouldn’t think would be allowed to exist in the Insta age.

“From his red braces to his gingham shirt, tweed jacket, and green wellies, the lad was proper old school. He was puffing on a pipe furiously and just standing there like a scarecrow as the wind and rain lashed all around him but strangely, didn’t seem to touch him.

“He was kind of cool in a country bumpkin kind of way, but the thing is, like a lot of people in Powys, he didn’t seem to know how to communicate properly. He just stood there when we opened the door, looking a bit lost in the glow of electric light like he was a primal cave dweller and we were visitors from an advanced civilisation. Which I suppose in many ways, to the good people of that backward county, Monmouthshire actually is.

“‘Hello there fellow son of the soil!” I greeted him cheerfully. ‘What brings you to our door in such elemental conditions?’

“He just slowly took his pipe out of his mouth and growled, ‘Call me Ishmael.’

“‘Ok Ishmael’ I replied slowly in the deliberate and welcoming manner I often use with people of low intellect. ‘Why don’t you come in out of the storm? We’re not exactly having a whale of a time considering it’s New Year’s, but we’ve got whiskey and we’d never refuse a wandering wayfarer a warm welcome.”

Turnip added, “As Ishmael followed me into the lounge, Puerto Rico Paul was cradling Captain Cuddles in his arms like a baby and signing him Duran Duran songs, which the cat seemed to enjoy judging by the adoring way it was looking up at Paul’s face.

“While studying Paul’s pussy a thought suddenly flashed across my mind. I asked Ishmael, ‘You haven’t mislaid a cat have you?’

“‘No!’ He said. ‘I’ve come here to borrow a cup of sugar. I’ve run out and can’t drink my tea unless it's sweet. I’ll puke otherwise.’

“‘Fair enough!’ Mused Big Tony. ‘I’m the same with my cornflakes. I need lashings of the white powder on it otherwise Sunday Dinner is just not the same.’

“Realising that Big Tony’s gradual descent into the hell and horror of bachelorhood was a lot more profound than I thought. I turned to Ishmael and said, ‘Not sure if we’ve got any sugar, but there’s plenty of lager.’

“‘Don’t drink’ He said sullenly. ‘Not since Jimmy.’

“‘Whose Jimmy?’ Asked Big Tony.

“‘Jimmy D Baade!’ Said Ishmael. ‘Only the best guitarist you’ve never heard. Used to live in this house. Still does. Trapped by his own greed for the big time is our Johnny. Sometimes, when the moon is full, you can still hear him playing the blues.’

“What happened to him?’ I asked.

“‘He sold his soul to rock n’ roll!’ Explained Ishmael. ‘Except when he signed the contract, he didn’t read the small print. The devil promised him he’d be the greatest guitarist that ever lived, but only in Powys. Outside of the county, he wouldn’t be able to put three chords together without it sounding awful.’

“‘That’s pure evil!’ Hissed Puerto Rico Paul.

“‘Poor bastard!’ Sighed Big Tony.

“‘The Devil has all the best tunes and jokes’ I mused philosophically.

“‘As you can imagine’ Continued Ishmael. ‘The thought of playing the pub circuit in Powys for the rest of his days reduced him to a fit of despair. Jimmy wanted to play his own jazz-based material in front of thousands at Madison Square Garden not ‘Brown-eyed Girl’ to a bunch of bored farmers in a country pub.’

“Ishmael recalled, ‘The indignity of it was too much for him to bear. And so one night he filled the bathtub up with some whiskey and got in with his electric guitar which was plugged into an amp. He played the riff to ‘Smoke on the Water’, before pulling his beloved Gibson Les Paul into the booze-filled tub and that was the end of Jimmy and his dreams of being a rock god. It all went up in smoke.’

“Ishmael added, ‘I used to swing by every Wednesday evening with my mouth organ and we’d play some Bob Dylan and The Wurzels, so I was the one who found him in the tub like. He was led there quite peacefully, a bit like Jim Morrison from The Doors, but a sort of completely unknown version who ended his days in Powys rather than Paris.

“‘Anyhow, the overpowering smell of cheap supermarket whiskey combined with the even more unpleasant odours coming from the tub put me off booze for life. As I looked at Jimmy I just sighed, ‘Oh you silly thing, you’ve really gone and done it now.’ And then the strangest thing happened. I heard the best guitar solo I’ve ever heard in my life coming from thin air. And I knew Jimmy wasn’t dead. He was still playing the blues, somewhere in the ether!’”

Turnip told the Chronicle, “Once he had finished his story, Ishmael looked at his wellies as if in lost somewhere in the past before announcing, ‘Right then. I’ll be off. If you’ve got no sugar I’ll try the all-night garage in Crickhowell. It’s a bit of trek but’s what’s a sweet-toothed junkie to do!’

"He then smiled for the first time since we met him, showing us a mouthful of hideous and yellow teeth that looked like cracked and badly-weathered tombstones.

"As we gazed in disgust at his unsightly gnashers, he bid us a Happy New Year, and returned into the night.

“Once he was gone, we just all gazed vacantly into space and pondered on themes of immortality and what good it does for a man to gain the world if he loses his soul.

"However, our philosophical musings were soon interrupted by a haunting version of ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia.’And as Captain Cuddles shrieked like a barrel of drowning kittens and the music got louder we knew something big, supernatural, and badass was about to happen!”

To be continued…..