Johnny's Father
It wasn't twenty-four hours after we got back from Milwaukee when somebody rang the doorbell at the house, which was unusual. No one had done that since the first week I had rented the house. I would wake up at all hours to find one of the boys watching TV, smoking pot, or having a party with some friends, I'd also heard about a lot of parties that happened while I was gone, but no one rang the bell any more. I answered the door, standing there was a distinguished looking middle-aged man with short gray hair, in a three-piece suit.
"I'm William Rydel." He said, walking in, "Johnny's father." He surveyed the room with a look of disdain on his face.
"I'm glad to meet you." I said, holding out my hand.
"Why do you think I stopped giving my son money for a rehearsal space?" His condescending attitude took me aback momentarily.
"I don't know anything about their previous arrangements." I said.
"It was because I was trying to discourage him from such a risky career choice. I had them on the verge of breaking up. Ian graduated last spring. Without a band he was already looking for another band, or thinking about moving back home to find a job. Even Brian was at a loss as to what to do, and he's the one who usually pulls Johnny back into this fantasy."
"You forgot Mitchell in your little rendition." I said.
"He's useless. He'll do anything to avoid responsibility, just like you."
"Thanks for the recommendation."
"Then," his voice was stern, "you come along and get a tour for them. And the dreams and fly by night ambitions are back. Now, thanks to you I get to take a different tack. I get to be the hero with my son and the band when this all falls apart I get to pick up the pieces, I’m not the villan anymore. Do you know what I'm talking about?"
"Other than the band, no."
"I talked to my son about this situation last night."
"What situation would that be?" I asked.
"You’re making more money than my son and the rest of HIS band."
"It's fair," I said, "I'm not the only one who thinks so. The agent..."
"Be assured," he said, in a controlled voice, "that I will be contacting Mr. Leonard in this matter." He stared at me sternly, "but if my son wants to be in the music business he's going to have to learn it the hard way. And you're part of that lesson. Personally, I hope your deceit dissuades him from pursuing this career any further. I don't know where you get your sense of entitlement that you think you can..."
"It's not their band now," I said. "It's OUR band, it was my idea for the cover band. Before I found them they were just local wannabes. Without me they couldn't even get a gig."
"That may be true, but at least they would've succeeded or failed on the merits of their talents or lack thereof, without someone negotiating for them who only has his own self-interest at heart."
"That would make me laugh if I didn't know you were serious. Your son is old enough, he knows what he wants to do. He made a deal and he'll be held to it."
"I'm just letting you know I'm looking into smoothing out the inequities for my son and his band. If you try to take anymore unfair advantage of those boys; I will see to it there will be a day of reckoning for you."
"I know how to handle parents like you." I said.
"We'll see," was all he said as he walked out.
Calling Deidre
I turned the volume down on the TV, and fiddled nervously with the phone cord as the phone on the other end rang.
"Hello?" Deidre said, a little groggily.
"Guess where I am," I said.
"I couldn't guess." I could hear the exasperation in her voice when she recognized my voice.
"I started a band, we're going on tour. I just wanted to talk to you before I left."
"That's cool. I read the review in the paper. What did you want to talk to me about?"
"I miss you."
"Don't be doing this, Michael." She said.
"I'm doing this for you."
"You should be doing it for yourself, not me, and not us. I'm happy with my life and if you remember," her voice got a little harder, "it wasn't my choice, really."
"I'm going to make it big in this band."
"Just listen to yourself Michael, you sound like a gambler looking for the big score and you'll live happily ever after. But it never happens, the big score is always right around the next corner. I just hope you'll be happy with the life you've chosen."
"Aren't you even going to ask me what it's like on tour?"
"No."
"Oh." I said, disappointed, "I never knew what you wanted."
"I used to think you were going somewhere, Michael. At first I thought you were..."
"You thought I was your ticket out of town."
"Oh, Michael, all I ever wanted was you. Happy, sad, famous, a farmer, whatever. I think that'll be your downfall."
"I didn't want to hurt you. I was just doing what I thought was best for the both of us." There was a cold silence on the other end. "Well, good-bye." I whispered. I realized this was the end, this was the song, and I knew the finality of good-bye. I hung up.
(The Last Stage is available on Kindle, Nook Books, or if you would like a signed copy of The Last Stage they're available from my website (only $20!) at Jymsbooks via Paypal (jymwrite@aol.com, please don't forget your mailing address!)
Chapts 21 & 22: Hollywood Today! & Dream
Showing posts with label tribute bands. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tribute bands. Show all posts
Monday, May 3, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
The House
We stood on the lawn in front of the house I had rented. It was white and hadn't been lived in for some time, the paint was chipped and peeling in places, smudged and dirty in others, but the important thing was, it was far from any neighbors.
"It doesn't look like much." Johnny said.
"It's not supposed to, it’s a rehearsal space.” I said. "Come on, let me show you the inside." I led them up the stairs and into the house. "How do you like it?" My voice echoed in the empty rooms, "see, we can set up the equipment and practice down here in the living room, the kitchen's right over there." I said pointing, "and the dining room is adjacent to both." They wandered around the room in ever expanding circles, looking at everything and taking possession of it with their eyes, getting the feel of it with their bodies as they moved from room to room, "upstairs are some bedrooms. I'll be living up there, but we can throw some mattresses in the other rooms in case someone needs to crash here," I said.
"Where'd you get the money for this?" Johnny asked.
"I sold my trailer." I said, "to show you how serious I am, and to show you how much I believe in this." Everyone was quiet at this realization, it grew awkward, so I hastily started talking again, "and I've put all my bootlegs and books over here. I spent the morning setting up my stereo, and TV and VCR," I said going over to a bookcase built into the wall, "so we can have an instant reference library. Feel free to look through these at your convenience they might give you some insight into the whole thing we're trying to do. Oh, yeah, there's a basement if we want to have a party or something and come over here, look at this." I said, rushing over to the kitchen just off the living room and opened the refrigerator, "have a beer," I'd filled it with beer.
"Pretty cool." They said.
"Looks like a good place to bring pussy!" Ian's voice echoed down from one of the upstairs rooms. We laughed.
"That's real classy." Johnny said.
"It's always the drummer." Brian said, nodding his head. We spent the rest of the afternoon moving in their equipment and drinking beer. We had our first party in honor of the house. We'd start to work out the music and our hangovers with a real practice the next day.
(The Last Stage is available on Kindle, Nook Books, or if you would like a signed copy of The Last Stage they're available from my website (only $20!) at Jymsbooks via Paypal (jymwrite@aol.com, please don't forget your mailing address!)
Chapter 13: Metamorphosis
"It doesn't look like much." Johnny said.
"It's not supposed to, it’s a rehearsal space.” I said. "Come on, let me show you the inside." I led them up the stairs and into the house. "How do you like it?" My voice echoed in the empty rooms, "see, we can set up the equipment and practice down here in the living room, the kitchen's right over there." I said pointing, "and the dining room is adjacent to both." They wandered around the room in ever expanding circles, looking at everything and taking possession of it with their eyes, getting the feel of it with their bodies as they moved from room to room, "upstairs are some bedrooms. I'll be living up there, but we can throw some mattresses in the other rooms in case someone needs to crash here," I said.
"Where'd you get the money for this?" Johnny asked.
"I sold my trailer." I said, "to show you how serious I am, and to show you how much I believe in this." Everyone was quiet at this realization, it grew awkward, so I hastily started talking again, "and I've put all my bootlegs and books over here. I spent the morning setting up my stereo, and TV and VCR," I said going over to a bookcase built into the wall, "so we can have an instant reference library. Feel free to look through these at your convenience they might give you some insight into the whole thing we're trying to do. Oh, yeah, there's a basement if we want to have a party or something and come over here, look at this." I said, rushing over to the kitchen just off the living room and opened the refrigerator, "have a beer," I'd filled it with beer.
"Pretty cool." They said.
"Looks like a good place to bring pussy!" Ian's voice echoed down from one of the upstairs rooms. We laughed.
"That's real classy." Johnny said.
"It's always the drummer." Brian said, nodding his head. We spent the rest of the afternoon moving in their equipment and drinking beer. We had our first party in honor of the house. We'd start to work out the music and our hangovers with a real practice the next day.
(The Last Stage is available on Kindle, Nook Books, or if you would like a signed copy of The Last Stage they're available from my website (only $20!) at Jymsbooks via Paypal (jymwrite@aol.com, please don't forget your mailing address!)
Chapter 13: Metamorphosis
Monday, March 15, 2010
RS Article
Former Cover Band Has Break Through Album
Ghost Dance's self-titled debut album is a curious mix of influences that strangely enough work. With songs like 'Testament' and 'Last Stage' to their hit 'Girl Wild' which is currently racing up the charts, Ghost Dance demonstrates a hard rock base with punk influences. Leanings, that give them a different and wildly original sound from their contemporaries. While they're young and new to being recording artists they're old hands at touring, having paid their dues, crossing the country playing small clubs and bars.
"Ghost Dance very clearly has its origins in classic rock."
"Yeah, we all grew up listening to the radio when rock from the seventies was played a lot, Springsteen, Aerosmith, The Stones, but we also have a punk element that we're trying to expand on all the time."
"Where did you guys get the name Ghost Dance?"
"We grew up in the Madison, Wisconsin area," lead singer Johnny Rydel answered. "There are still some tribal remnants up there. I visited a reservation quite a few times with my parents when I was a kid and I always thought these trips were the greatest things in the world. Once I kind of had a mystical experience on the reservation, so I became interested in Indian things. And I thought the name was different and cool sounding."
"A mystical experience?"
"Let's just say I thought I had discovered a new science." He said chuckling.
“Kind of like Jim Morrison.”
“Kind of.” He smiled, wanly, “but Jim Morrison doesn’t have a monopoly on mystical experiences.”
“The reason I mention this…”
"The time we toured as a classic rock band." Lead guitarist Brian Leto cuts in.
"I read somewhere you guys got started playing in a tribute band."
"Not exactly, we were already a band, we just couldn't get a gig, and one day we met up with this guy. We grew up in Madison and he went to school there or something. We'd seen him around town when we were growing up. We considered him something of a weirdo, a dude who wanted to be young so he hung around the college years after he graduated. He had this idea for a cover band. We couldn't get a gig, so we did it to keep the band together and be able to practice without having to work some lame day jobs.”
“Of course we admired The Doors and their accomplishments, we just didn’t want to be forever tied to them.”
“Forever a tribute band.”
“We knew we always had something to say and we wanted that voice.”
“Well, he did manage to unite us as a band."
"Yeah, he gave us a common enemy."
(The Last Stage is available on Kindle, Nook Books, or if you would like a signed copy of The Last Stage they're available from my website (only $20!) at Jymsbooks via Paypal (jymwrite@aol.com, please don't forget your mailing address!)
Chapter XII: The House
Ghost Dance's self-titled debut album is a curious mix of influences that strangely enough work. With songs like 'Testament' and 'Last Stage' to their hit 'Girl Wild' which is currently racing up the charts, Ghost Dance demonstrates a hard rock base with punk influences. Leanings, that give them a different and wildly original sound from their contemporaries. While they're young and new to being recording artists they're old hands at touring, having paid their dues, crossing the country playing small clubs and bars.
"Ghost Dance very clearly has its origins in classic rock."
"Yeah, we all grew up listening to the radio when rock from the seventies was played a lot, Springsteen, Aerosmith, The Stones, but we also have a punk element that we're trying to expand on all the time."
"Where did you guys get the name Ghost Dance?"
"We grew up in the Madison, Wisconsin area," lead singer Johnny Rydel answered. "There are still some tribal remnants up there. I visited a reservation quite a few times with my parents when I was a kid and I always thought these trips were the greatest things in the world. Once I kind of had a mystical experience on the reservation, so I became interested in Indian things. And I thought the name was different and cool sounding."
"A mystical experience?"
"Let's just say I thought I had discovered a new science." He said chuckling.
“Kind of like Jim Morrison.”
“Kind of.” He smiled, wanly, “but Jim Morrison doesn’t have a monopoly on mystical experiences.”
“The reason I mention this…”
"The time we toured as a classic rock band." Lead guitarist Brian Leto cuts in.
"I read somewhere you guys got started playing in a tribute band."
"Not exactly, we were already a band, we just couldn't get a gig, and one day we met up with this guy. We grew up in Madison and he went to school there or something. We'd seen him around town when we were growing up. We considered him something of a weirdo, a dude who wanted to be young so he hung around the college years after he graduated. He had this idea for a cover band. We couldn't get a gig, so we did it to keep the band together and be able to practice without having to work some lame day jobs.”
“Of course we admired The Doors and their accomplishments, we just didn’t want to be forever tied to them.”
“Forever a tribute band.”
“We knew we always had something to say and we wanted that voice.”
“Well, he did manage to unite us as a band."
"Yeah, he gave us a common enemy."
(The Last Stage is available on Kindle, Nook Books, or if you would like a signed copy of The Last Stage they're available from my website (only $20!) at Jymsbooks via Paypal (jymwrite@aol.com, please don't forget your mailing address!)
Chapter XII: The House
Monday, March 8, 2010
The Deal
I hadn't heard from Johnny and the band for a month or so, but I knew sooner or later that I would. They had fairly reeked of desperation that night in my trailer, and I knew sooner or later that some vicissitude of life would send them my way.
While I hadn't known any of them before I met them, at heart Madison was a small town, so I knew some of their stories, gleaned from the information that floats around any small town. They were small town boys trying to escape the inertia of the college town they grew up in with the velocity of Rock 'n' Roll, but they had neither the inclination nor the desire to use the college they had so readily available. After I got to know them I found they were well versed in the history and lore of Rock 'n' Roll, they talked endlessly about it when they were moving their equipment, and in the car on the ride over to my trailer. They knew what their instruments could do and what sounds they could get out of them, but about the rest of the world, general knowledge was lacking.
Johnny's family was fairly well off. Even though he wore ripped jeans, they were fashionably faded and ripped jeans. His father was a vice president of some corporation, and active in the community. By Johnny's comments and demeanor I assumed his musical aspirations clashed with his family's wishes. He could play guitar, but he looked a little grungy and had little or no charisma. Brian was the good looking one and probably got most of the girls. Mitchell was the punk rocker dressed in the most outrageous combinations of clothes. In such a small town, it was outrageous and probably meant to offend the prevailing standards. It's somewhat of a myth that college towns are liberal bastions. A facile observation of parents as they visit the campus, they see the experimental idealism of the students, and the insulated radicalism of the professors. But the real town, the town where people have lived for generations without a thought of leaving, the town which the college itself grew around, the town where once their children reach eighteen, they buy a trailer, get married, and live quite different lives and values than the artificial society of the college. I met plenty of them in the barrooms. And Ian, well, Ian was the drummer. Most people don't give drummers enough credit. They have to carry the tempo of the band and most of the time they get written off. Read any rock biography, drummers are the quirky ones, or an after thought.
Then one afternoon my phone rang.
"Hi, it's Johnny, um.. can I talk to you?" His voice quavered and sounded hesitant, and I knew I had a band.
"What can I do for you?" I asked.
"Well, it's like this...uh, are you still interested in doing The Doors cover band thing?"
"Yeah."
"It's like this, uh, ...we lost our rehearsal space and we don't have any money for a new one and umm... well, we'll do your Doors thing if you can provide money for a rehearsal space. The band will still be ours, but we'll do the Doors thing. We'll be able to play a couple of our original songs every gig, right?"
(The Last Stage is available on Kindle, Nook Books, or if you would like a signed copy of The Last Stage they're available from my website (only $20!) at Jymsbooks via Paypal (jymwrite@aol.com, please don't forget your mailing address!)
Chapter XI: RS Interview
While I hadn't known any of them before I met them, at heart Madison was a small town, so I knew some of their stories, gleaned from the information that floats around any small town. They were small town boys trying to escape the inertia of the college town they grew up in with the velocity of Rock 'n' Roll, but they had neither the inclination nor the desire to use the college they had so readily available. After I got to know them I found they were well versed in the history and lore of Rock 'n' Roll, they talked endlessly about it when they were moving their equipment, and in the car on the ride over to my trailer. They knew what their instruments could do and what sounds they could get out of them, but about the rest of the world, general knowledge was lacking.
Johnny's family was fairly well off. Even though he wore ripped jeans, they were fashionably faded and ripped jeans. His father was a vice president of some corporation, and active in the community. By Johnny's comments and demeanor I assumed his musical aspirations clashed with his family's wishes. He could play guitar, but he looked a little grungy and had little or no charisma. Brian was the good looking one and probably got most of the girls. Mitchell was the punk rocker dressed in the most outrageous combinations of clothes. In such a small town, it was outrageous and probably meant to offend the prevailing standards. It's somewhat of a myth that college towns are liberal bastions. A facile observation of parents as they visit the campus, they see the experimental idealism of the students, and the insulated radicalism of the professors. But the real town, the town where people have lived for generations without a thought of leaving, the town which the college itself grew around, the town where once their children reach eighteen, they buy a trailer, get married, and live quite different lives and values than the artificial society of the college. I met plenty of them in the barrooms. And Ian, well, Ian was the drummer. Most people don't give drummers enough credit. They have to carry the tempo of the band and most of the time they get written off. Read any rock biography, drummers are the quirky ones, or an after thought.
Then one afternoon my phone rang.
"Hi, it's Johnny, um.. can I talk to you?" His voice quavered and sounded hesitant, and I knew I had a band.
"What can I do for you?" I asked.
"Well, it's like this...uh, are you still interested in doing The Doors cover band thing?"
"Yeah."
"It's like this, uh, ...we lost our rehearsal space and we don't have any money for a new one and umm... well, we'll do your Doors thing if you can provide money for a rehearsal space. The band will still be ours, but we'll do the Doors thing. We'll be able to play a couple of our original songs every gig, right?"
(The Last Stage is available on Kindle, Nook Books, or if you would like a signed copy of The Last Stage they're available from my website (only $20!) at Jymsbooks via Paypal (jymwrite@aol.com, please don't forget your mailing address!)
Chapter XI: RS Interview
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
The Trailer
My trailer was outside of town on a small piece of land I rented from a farmer. The trailer had been used for hunting, but the farmer needed some extra money so I bought it. Since the farmer had run a phone line and electric out to the trailer, I left it where it was and rented the land. We walked along the path through the weeds to the trailer. I really hadn't been planning on bringing anyone over, between Deidre leaving, and running around looking at bands, the trailer, which had already been cramped with books, records and tapes, had a layer of empty beer cans and days old pizza leftovers covering and overlapping each other from every flat surface available. I quickly tossed some things off the couch, pushed others to the side, and there was enough room for everyone to sit down. The next step was to feel these guys out, and see if they were interested in my cover band idea.
"You guys want a beer?" I asked, taking five out of the refrigerator and putting them on a table. As they settled in, each nervously surveying the surroundings, I sat down, and pulled a joint out of the chaos of the table, lit it, sucking on it hard, before blowing out the smoke and handing it to Johnny. I sat back letting the smoke emanate through my body. I didn't say anything until they each took a hit off the joint. "I noticed when Reggie asked you guys to play a cover tune, you played Light My Fire. Do you guys like The Doors?"
"Sure." They all nodded, "we use it at practice to warm up."
"Here, listen to this." I said, jumping out of my chair. I pulled a record off a shelf and put it on the turntable. "I collect Doors bootlegs. You know, concerts people taped, soundboard recordings." I dropped the needle on the record. There was a pop and a hiss, and the sounds of long ago concert goers flitted around the room. Then the dark, pulsing beat of Ray Manzarek's organ came on, the first tentative twangings of Robby Krieger's guitar, the boom-ka-boom-boom of John Densmore's punctuating drums, and finally the scream of Jim Morrison filled the trailer. I looked at their uncomprehending eyes, I hoped the music would provide the soundtrack to sway them. I tried to sense their mood, but couldn't. I was nervous and tried to hide it by acting cool, but it only added to my nervousness. I was all nerves and energy, I couldn't stop, I plowed into the proposal I had gone over and given time after time in my head. "I have a proposition for you guys." I said, my voice wavering and cracking from the strain.
"I knew it! We're so out of here." Brian said.
"No, no!" I said, settling them back into their seats, "it's an idea I have about a band."
"It better be man."
“What kind of an idea?” Johnny asked.
"It is, listen. A while ago I saw a show called Beatlemania, and I thought somebody should do that for The Doors."
"That was a play, right? With guys pretending to be The Beatles, and doing the songs?"
"Yeah, it was, but my idea is simpler, just a band playing the songs and a guy 'being' Morrison, doing his antics." They didn't seem to be following me so I launched into my sales pitch, "Morrison was completely spontaneous, he acted out the songs, he recited poems, he fell, he dived off the stage into the audience."
"You mean like an Elvis impersonator?"
"Yeah."
"Man, that's a bad example, those guys are a joke."
"What's the show gonna' be? A casket on-stage, you open it and out falls a skeleton dressed in leather pants?" Mitchell said, laughing.
"But it doesn't have to be, we do it in clubs, the same environment The Doors preferred. We play it straight, no camp, no winking, and no making it seem like a joke."
"And who would the guy 'being' Morrison be?" Johnny asked.
"Me."
"And who would the band be?"
"You guys." They looked at each other with varying degrees of shock, skepticism, or amusement. The pot must have been kicking in because the moment seemed to freeze momentarily in a tableau reminiscent of The Last Supper.
"Excuse me,” Ian said, “but Johnny is the lead singer of this band." they all nodded in agreement.
"Sure, sure," I said, "you guys have your band, but we can do this until your band is getting gigs, making a demo, gets a contract, whatever you want. This way you're performing in front of an audience, getting paid, and you can do a couple of your songs each set."
"What do you get out of it?"
"The reason Morrison said he started writing songs was because he said he 'was taking notes at a concert in his head.' Well, I'm hearing a Doors concert in my head, with me singing. I want to know what it feels like to be up on stage, I want to know what it would be like to be Morrison."
"You should see a doctor about that."
"So, why would people pay to hear a band play a bunch of old songs they can buy on an album?"
"Or hear on the radio."
"Aren't you listening? Listen to the bootleg I have on. We can give people something they can't buy, that they can't get anywhere else."
"Which is?"
“Something real. The hair bands are all hype, drinking tea out of Jack Daniels bottles, the rock stars themselves were getting old. Mick Jagger looks like a freeze-dried version of his younger self, Dylan, a jowly legend.” I stopped, a little exasperated. "People want something real again. I was born at the tail end of the baby boom. By the time I got old enough, it was like I could hear the sound of receding thunder. And I was asking 'what was that?' While everybody else was saying wasn't that cool."
"So?"
"I remember hearing their songs when I was a kid, but I was too young to do anything about it."
"What're you talking about?"
"The sixties, there are a lot of people out there just like me who were too young to be part of the sixties. The younger brothers and sisters who raided their older siblings record albums, and could only listen to their stories. Or those more your age who weren't there at all and want to experience some part of the whole thing. It's like our mythic age of heros and gods."
"What thing?"
"The experience of seeing a Doors concert live. They never played a song the same way twice, they did medleys, solos, and long jams. They were like The Dead only Morrison was wilder. I'm just saying I know more about The Doors than just about anyone else, I've read everything about them, I have all the bootlegs," I said, I hung my head in exasperation, I didn’t know how many more ways I could explain it, "I've thought about this for a long time. I've thought it all the way through, the band will be called The Unknown Soldiers, after one of their songs, right," I looked nervously between them trying to gauge how it was going, all their faces registered skepticism, but I couldn't stop, I was too far in, "and people have been telling me all my life I look like Morrison." I saw smiles of an in joke cross their lips again. So, I decided to throw in a little flattery "I know you guys are going to be successful, you know how I know that?"
They all looked at each other, "no, how?"
"Because of that right there, that silent almost psychic communication you guys seem to have with one another. It's the same camaraderie The Doors had."
"You think so?" Johnny asked with as much false modesty as he could muster. I could tell he was proud of the band.
"Oh, yeah." That got them to relax, and they at least seemed to be considering the proposition.
"Can you sing?" Johnny asked.
"Why is that the first question everyone asks?" I said, "no."
"Awww, man...."
"But neither could Morrison at first. Here, look at this." I grabbed my well read, dogged eared copy of No One Here Gets Out Alive from somewhere out of the rubble of the table, it was like a bible well thumbed through and highlighted. I tossed it to Johnny. "Read it. Morrison couldn't sing either." Johnny held it up looking at it before handing it to one of the other guys.
"I've read it," he said. "So, the idea is we play the songs and you sing and act like Morrison, right?"
"Yeah, and dress like him. I'll wear a pair of leather pants, and grow my hair out."
"How old are you?" Johnny asked.
"Thirty-one."
"That's four years older than Morrison was when he died." Johnny said, "and Morrison was ten years younger when they started The Doors.”
"It's not that much that anyone will notice, a little make-up and stage lighting, and no one will even notice."
“Dude, it’s getting to be a forced perspective." Ian said.
Everyone was quiet. “And you have me.” I added.
“What does that give us?” Brian asked.
“I have what Morrison had, a philosophy.”
“So?”
“It makes me dangerous.” I watched the silent deliberations and decided to add a closing argument, "c'mon, Reggie was right, people want to hear something familiar, it’s comforting, it’s something they can identify with, then when you have them, you can spring the originals on them and they’re more receptive to them. “What‘d ya say?" They all looked at each other registering their votes with their different reactions, then deferring to Johnny.
"Nah, man," Johnny said, "we're a band, we got our own songs we wanna do."
"I've had this idea a long time, and looked at a lot of bands. You're the first band I've asked. This can work to your advantage. People will hear your band, you can play your songs, we'll tour all over the country like a real band. Think of the exposure. We can become rich, and famous, it'll be great! We'll split everything fifty-fifty like The Doors, we'll share all the expenses, we'll share any profits, and any offers we receive."
"That's cool, but fifty percent of nothing is nothing." Mitchell said, "and that's what I already earn."
"But a cover band is guaranteed. There aren't many bands out there doing this, so it's a niche waiting to be filled. Club owners will love it because they're hiring bands that play proven hits without having to pay the bands with the hits."
"Haven't you heard man, punk is the new music." Brian said.
"Morrison practically invented punk!" I said, "the leather pants, the slouch, the attitude, confronting the audience, the poses in the publicity stills, it's all Morrison!"
"You think so?" He asked thinking it over, "how do you know people want to hear a band that plays Doors' songs?"
"Because, I just do." I said, "there are books coming out. There's even talk of a movie coming out, probably with John Travolta or Tom Cruise."
"No, man," Johnny laughed, "that's way too screwy, we gotta go."
(The Last Stage is available on Kindle, Nook Books, or if you would like a signed copy of The Last Stage they're available from my website (only $20!) at Jymsbooks via Paypal (jymwrite@aol.com, please don't forget your mailing address!)
Chapter X: The Deal
"You guys want a beer?" I asked, taking five out of the refrigerator and putting them on a table. As they settled in, each nervously surveying the surroundings, I sat down, and pulled a joint out of the chaos of the table, lit it, sucking on it hard, before blowing out the smoke and handing it to Johnny. I sat back letting the smoke emanate through my body. I didn't say anything until they each took a hit off the joint. "I noticed when Reggie asked you guys to play a cover tune, you played Light My Fire. Do you guys like The Doors?"
"Sure." They all nodded, "we use it at practice to warm up."
"Here, listen to this." I said, jumping out of my chair. I pulled a record off a shelf and put it on the turntable. "I collect Doors bootlegs. You know, concerts people taped, soundboard recordings." I dropped the needle on the record. There was a pop and a hiss, and the sounds of long ago concert goers flitted around the room. Then the dark, pulsing beat of Ray Manzarek's organ came on, the first tentative twangings of Robby Krieger's guitar, the boom-ka-boom-boom of John Densmore's punctuating drums, and finally the scream of Jim Morrison filled the trailer. I looked at their uncomprehending eyes, I hoped the music would provide the soundtrack to sway them. I tried to sense their mood, but couldn't. I was nervous and tried to hide it by acting cool, but it only added to my nervousness. I was all nerves and energy, I couldn't stop, I plowed into the proposal I had gone over and given time after time in my head. "I have a proposition for you guys." I said, my voice wavering and cracking from the strain.
"I knew it! We're so out of here." Brian said.
"No, no!" I said, settling them back into their seats, "it's an idea I have about a band."
"It better be man."
“What kind of an idea?” Johnny asked.
"It is, listen. A while ago I saw a show called Beatlemania, and I thought somebody should do that for The Doors."
"That was a play, right? With guys pretending to be The Beatles, and doing the songs?"
"Yeah, it was, but my idea is simpler, just a band playing the songs and a guy 'being' Morrison, doing his antics." They didn't seem to be following me so I launched into my sales pitch, "Morrison was completely spontaneous, he acted out the songs, he recited poems, he fell, he dived off the stage into the audience."
"You mean like an Elvis impersonator?"
"Yeah."
"Man, that's a bad example, those guys are a joke."
"What's the show gonna' be? A casket on-stage, you open it and out falls a skeleton dressed in leather pants?" Mitchell said, laughing.
"But it doesn't have to be, we do it in clubs, the same environment The Doors preferred. We play it straight, no camp, no winking, and no making it seem like a joke."
"And who would the guy 'being' Morrison be?" Johnny asked.
"Me."
"And who would the band be?"
"You guys." They looked at each other with varying degrees of shock, skepticism, or amusement. The pot must have been kicking in because the moment seemed to freeze momentarily in a tableau reminiscent of The Last Supper.
"Excuse me,” Ian said, “but Johnny is the lead singer of this band." they all nodded in agreement.
"Sure, sure," I said, "you guys have your band, but we can do this until your band is getting gigs, making a demo, gets a contract, whatever you want. This way you're performing in front of an audience, getting paid, and you can do a couple of your songs each set."
"What do you get out of it?"
"The reason Morrison said he started writing songs was because he said he 'was taking notes at a concert in his head.' Well, I'm hearing a Doors concert in my head, with me singing. I want to know what it feels like to be up on stage, I want to know what it would be like to be Morrison."
"You should see a doctor about that."
"So, why would people pay to hear a band play a bunch of old songs they can buy on an album?"
"Or hear on the radio."
"Aren't you listening? Listen to the bootleg I have on. We can give people something they can't buy, that they can't get anywhere else."
"Which is?"
“Something real. The hair bands are all hype, drinking tea out of Jack Daniels bottles, the rock stars themselves were getting old. Mick Jagger looks like a freeze-dried version of his younger self, Dylan, a jowly legend.” I stopped, a little exasperated. "People want something real again. I was born at the tail end of the baby boom. By the time I got old enough, it was like I could hear the sound of receding thunder. And I was asking 'what was that?' While everybody else was saying wasn't that cool."
"So?"
"I remember hearing their songs when I was a kid, but I was too young to do anything about it."
"What're you talking about?"
"The sixties, there are a lot of people out there just like me who were too young to be part of the sixties. The younger brothers and sisters who raided their older siblings record albums, and could only listen to their stories. Or those more your age who weren't there at all and want to experience some part of the whole thing. It's like our mythic age of heros and gods."
"What thing?"
"The experience of seeing a Doors concert live. They never played a song the same way twice, they did medleys, solos, and long jams. They were like The Dead only Morrison was wilder. I'm just saying I know more about The Doors than just about anyone else, I've read everything about them, I have all the bootlegs," I said, I hung my head in exasperation, I didn’t know how many more ways I could explain it, "I've thought about this for a long time. I've thought it all the way through, the band will be called The Unknown Soldiers, after one of their songs, right," I looked nervously between them trying to gauge how it was going, all their faces registered skepticism, but I couldn't stop, I was too far in, "and people have been telling me all my life I look like Morrison." I saw smiles of an in joke cross their lips again. So, I decided to throw in a little flattery "I know you guys are going to be successful, you know how I know that?"
They all looked at each other, "no, how?"
"Because of that right there, that silent almost psychic communication you guys seem to have with one another. It's the same camaraderie The Doors had."
"You think so?" Johnny asked with as much false modesty as he could muster. I could tell he was proud of the band.
"Oh, yeah." That got them to relax, and they at least seemed to be considering the proposition.
"Can you sing?" Johnny asked.
"Why is that the first question everyone asks?" I said, "no."
"Awww, man...."
"But neither could Morrison at first. Here, look at this." I grabbed my well read, dogged eared copy of No One Here Gets Out Alive from somewhere out of the rubble of the table, it was like a bible well thumbed through and highlighted. I tossed it to Johnny. "Read it. Morrison couldn't sing either." Johnny held it up looking at it before handing it to one of the other guys.
"I've read it," he said. "So, the idea is we play the songs and you sing and act like Morrison, right?"
"Yeah, and dress like him. I'll wear a pair of leather pants, and grow my hair out."
"How old are you?" Johnny asked.
"Thirty-one."
"That's four years older than Morrison was when he died." Johnny said, "and Morrison was ten years younger when they started The Doors.”
"It's not that much that anyone will notice, a little make-up and stage lighting, and no one will even notice."
“Dude, it’s getting to be a forced perspective." Ian said.
Everyone was quiet. “And you have me.” I added.
“What does that give us?” Brian asked.
“I have what Morrison had, a philosophy.”
“So?”
“It makes me dangerous.” I watched the silent deliberations and decided to add a closing argument, "c'mon, Reggie was right, people want to hear something familiar, it’s comforting, it’s something they can identify with, then when you have them, you can spring the originals on them and they’re more receptive to them. “What‘d ya say?" They all looked at each other registering their votes with their different reactions, then deferring to Johnny.
"Nah, man," Johnny said, "we're a band, we got our own songs we wanna do."
"I've had this idea a long time, and looked at a lot of bands. You're the first band I've asked. This can work to your advantage. People will hear your band, you can play your songs, we'll tour all over the country like a real band. Think of the exposure. We can become rich, and famous, it'll be great! We'll split everything fifty-fifty like The Doors, we'll share all the expenses, we'll share any profits, and any offers we receive."
"That's cool, but fifty percent of nothing is nothing." Mitchell said, "and that's what I already earn."
"But a cover band is guaranteed. There aren't many bands out there doing this, so it's a niche waiting to be filled. Club owners will love it because they're hiring bands that play proven hits without having to pay the bands with the hits."
"Haven't you heard man, punk is the new music." Brian said.
"Morrison practically invented punk!" I said, "the leather pants, the slouch, the attitude, confronting the audience, the poses in the publicity stills, it's all Morrison!"
"You think so?" He asked thinking it over, "how do you know people want to hear a band that plays Doors' songs?"
"Because, I just do." I said, "there are books coming out. There's even talk of a movie coming out, probably with John Travolta or Tom Cruise."
"No, man," Johnny laughed, "that's way too screwy, we gotta go."
(The Last Stage is available on Kindle, Nook Books, or if you would like a signed copy of The Last Stage they're available from my website (only $20!) at Jymsbooks via Paypal (jymwrite@aol.com, please don't forget your mailing address!)
Chapter X: The Deal
Post Graduate Work
I lived simply to keep my freedom intact. I bought a trailer outside of town picking up jobs as I needed them, janitor, convenience store clerk, telemarketer, gas station attendant, everything except Indian Chief. I only took the jobs to finance the buying of bootlegs and books. I wanted but didn’t want the things that my contemporaries sought out, a kick ass stereo, a hot car, a big house, those things that salved their conscious of abandoning their dreams. I wanted more. If a job started to last too long, or started making too many demands on me, I quit. I wanted to be free.
I found the buying of bootleg concerts provided the same thrill as scoring dope. You had to know someone, who knew someone who was "dealing". Connections were loose, people tenuous. On the way to a "score" I'd look over my shoulder to make sure I wasn't being followed, and that no one suspected what I was up to, which may have lead people to suspect I was up to something much more illegal. And you had to be wary of new people. Were they trying to rip you off? Were they trying to sell you a commonplace concert that everyone has and they just added on some songs from another concert or cut a tape short? Were they "narcs" from the RIAA's police, or cool like you, just trying to score some stuff? And once you got your "stuff'' you ran off to the secrecy of your own pad to ingest the substance. In this case, listening to your contraband concert. A totally furtive lifestyle.
In a college town there's a new influx of excitement and adventure every fall, in the form of a new class, especially the girls. My brother and sister always teased me, asking if my girlfriends were at least eighteen, it was just that as I got older, my girlfriends didn't. Most of the girls thought I was a local and didn't fit their definition of success. They were unimpressed with my dreams, and they would soon be off to trendy careers and successful husbands anyway. They were interested in one thing, and it wasn't the one thing I was interested in. The girls I did interest ran from the neo-hippie chicks who loved to wear tie-dye and have sex, which they considered a form of rebellion, but as their graduation loomed and their rebellion came to an end, so did our relationships. Then there were the girls I always seemed to fall for, the girls with purple hair and problems. They were the wildest. But I was saving myself, not from sex, they were the type of girls that you could take to the bars and concerts, but I was looking for someone more in line with my ambitions. I started to see the passage of classes as the passing of seasons, one piling upon the other. First there were a few, then a handful, then more and more, until I became worried the passage of seasons was becoming too many.
I had just broken up with my last girlfriend, Deidre. We'd had an on again, off again relationship for about a year. Whenever we had a fight, or she was acting like she wanted something more from the relationship, I sent her home. She wasn't beautiful, but she wasn’t ugly either, and there was something latently sexual about her. She was twenty-one to my thirty, and I liked her because she wore low cut blouses, short skirts. I guess I wasn’t very good on waiting for all the rewards later, there were other benefits to be had, namely blow jobs, I knew the luxuries would come later. The ironic thing was she turned out to be a local, and not from the college. She was a Rock 'n' Roll chick through and through. She had a collection of black concert T-shirts from the 70's, which in some kind of relativistic universe should have made them antiques. The glass of her vanity mirror was almost obliterated by the ticket stubs of every concert she'd ever been to. She was not quite a groupie, and something more than a fan. It was like she lacked the imagination or perhaps the ambition to be a groupie, I knew almost from the start it wasn't going to work out. I met her at a party. I didn’t notice her until she came up to me.
“You look like Jim Morrison!” She shouted above the music. I was already drunk and being complemented by a pretty girl added to my euphoria. We started talking, she agreed with everything I said.
“I want to move to Los Angeles.”
“Me too!” She enthused.
“What you going to do there?” She asked.
“I don’t know, see what comes up.”
“Me too!” I couldn’t believe how much we had in common, she was infectious and I was enthralled. She was also lying about everything, but I didn’t notice until later when we had nothing in common. She was a neo-hippie chick who had never met a hippie, or a counter-cultural thought, break the skin and she was like the surrounding town, conservative. I knew from almost the beginning that it wouldn’t work out but she came along at a time in my life when I was feeling particularly vulnerable, and didn't want to be alone, I should have known better, but I consoled myself with a steady supply of sex until she discovered the truth. There are times of our lives when the answers to our problems seems to be to bury our flesh in that of others. And what happens when you make compromises? You end up compromising yourself.
As time went by I felt trapped with her at the trailer, like any good college town Madison has its own strip of bars. So, to avoid the realization of the inevitable, I'd taken to spending afternoons in the various bars, alongside the locals avoiding wives, girlfriends, and responsibilities. Whenever the phone rang someone invariably yelled across the room to the bartender,
"Hey, Sue, if it's my wife I'm not here." I was avoiding going back to my trailer, dreading one of those crushing relationship ambushes when the other person is there at an unexpected time, and you know you're in for one of those heavy talks about the relationship that you usually experience right before you break up. The death of our relationship was my ambition, and hers was to be married. It was beginning to look like any other relationship, I was beginning to look like any other resident. I was looking for a new world of thought and feeling.
(The Last Stage is available on Kindle, Nook Books, or if you would like a signed copy of The Last Stage they're available from my website (only $20!) at Jymsbooks via Paypal, please don't forget your mailing address!)
Chapter IV: The View From The Audience
I found the buying of bootleg concerts provided the same thrill as scoring dope. You had to know someone, who knew someone who was "dealing". Connections were loose, people tenuous. On the way to a "score" I'd look over my shoulder to make sure I wasn't being followed, and that no one suspected what I was up to, which may have lead people to suspect I was up to something much more illegal. And you had to be wary of new people. Were they trying to rip you off? Were they trying to sell you a commonplace concert that everyone has and they just added on some songs from another concert or cut a tape short? Were they "narcs" from the RIAA's police, or cool like you, just trying to score some stuff? And once you got your "stuff'' you ran off to the secrecy of your own pad to ingest the substance. In this case, listening to your contraband concert. A totally furtive lifestyle.
In a college town there's a new influx of excitement and adventure every fall, in the form of a new class, especially the girls. My brother and sister always teased me, asking if my girlfriends were at least eighteen, it was just that as I got older, my girlfriends didn't. Most of the girls thought I was a local and didn't fit their definition of success. They were unimpressed with my dreams, and they would soon be off to trendy careers and successful husbands anyway. They were interested in one thing, and it wasn't the one thing I was interested in. The girls I did interest ran from the neo-hippie chicks who loved to wear tie-dye and have sex, which they considered a form of rebellion, but as their graduation loomed and their rebellion came to an end, so did our relationships. Then there were the girls I always seemed to fall for, the girls with purple hair and problems. They were the wildest. But I was saving myself, not from sex, they were the type of girls that you could take to the bars and concerts, but I was looking for someone more in line with my ambitions. I started to see the passage of classes as the passing of seasons, one piling upon the other. First there were a few, then a handful, then more and more, until I became worried the passage of seasons was becoming too many.
I had just broken up with my last girlfriend, Deidre. We'd had an on again, off again relationship for about a year. Whenever we had a fight, or she was acting like she wanted something more from the relationship, I sent her home. She wasn't beautiful, but she wasn’t ugly either, and there was something latently sexual about her. She was twenty-one to my thirty, and I liked her because she wore low cut blouses, short skirts. I guess I wasn’t very good on waiting for all the rewards later, there were other benefits to be had, namely blow jobs, I knew the luxuries would come later. The ironic thing was she turned out to be a local, and not from the college. She was a Rock 'n' Roll chick through and through. She had a collection of black concert T-shirts from the 70's, which in some kind of relativistic universe should have made them antiques. The glass of her vanity mirror was almost obliterated by the ticket stubs of every concert she'd ever been to. She was not quite a groupie, and something more than a fan. It was like she lacked the imagination or perhaps the ambition to be a groupie, I knew almost from the start it wasn't going to work out. I met her at a party. I didn’t notice her until she came up to me.
“You look like Jim Morrison!” She shouted above the music. I was already drunk and being complemented by a pretty girl added to my euphoria. We started talking, she agreed with everything I said.
“I want to move to Los Angeles.”
“Me too!” She enthused.
“What you going to do there?” She asked.
“I don’t know, see what comes up.”
“Me too!” I couldn’t believe how much we had in common, she was infectious and I was enthralled. She was also lying about everything, but I didn’t notice until later when we had nothing in common. She was a neo-hippie chick who had never met a hippie, or a counter-cultural thought, break the skin and she was like the surrounding town, conservative. I knew from almost the beginning that it wouldn’t work out but she came along at a time in my life when I was feeling particularly vulnerable, and didn't want to be alone, I should have known better, but I consoled myself with a steady supply of sex until she discovered the truth. There are times of our lives when the answers to our problems seems to be to bury our flesh in that of others. And what happens when you make compromises? You end up compromising yourself.
As time went by I felt trapped with her at the trailer, like any good college town Madison has its own strip of bars. So, to avoid the realization of the inevitable, I'd taken to spending afternoons in the various bars, alongside the locals avoiding wives, girlfriends, and responsibilities. Whenever the phone rang someone invariably yelled across the room to the bartender,
"Hey, Sue, if it's my wife I'm not here." I was avoiding going back to my trailer, dreading one of those crushing relationship ambushes when the other person is there at an unexpected time, and you know you're in for one of those heavy talks about the relationship that you usually experience right before you break up. The death of our relationship was my ambition, and hers was to be married. It was beginning to look like any other relationship, I was beginning to look like any other resident. I was looking for a new world of thought and feeling.
(The Last Stage is available on Kindle, Nook Books, or if you would like a signed copy of The Last Stage they're available from my website (only $20!) at Jymsbooks via Paypal, please don't forget your mailing address!)
Chapter IV: The View From The Audience
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