by P G Loiselle
“Uh yeah, well, uh, you said I can’t say no. So, I guess I need to say, YES.” After a small pause, I continued, “Craig, I know you’re not dicking me around, so tell me you’re not dicking me around. Fast.Fun! is kind of big time”
“Why would I dick you around? Luke, you, Stevie and the band always kill around here. This is your home turf and you rule. But this is not only kind of big time, it is big time. Fast.Fun!’s LP Hole and Shovel is on the charts, and you’ll be sharing the stage with them.”
I tinged inside. My whole life I’ve been waiting for something like this and all the pieces seem to be falling into place. We chatted a while, and upon my request, Craig, being an experienced promoter and all, agreed to handle some of the particulars, such as negotiating the fee.
“Oh, one more thing” Craig said. “Saturday will be here in no time, so let’s talk logistics. How you guys want to get up to Boston?”
“Like a star,” I said without hesitation. I reclined in my chair, gazing happily into nothingness, and pictured myself pulling into Beantown in a stretch limo while thousands of star-struck fans screamed for my attention. The door would open, and countless arms would be flailing, like branches in a willow grove caught in a squall…
“Luke, Luke, earth to Luke. Speak to me.”
“Uh sorry, yeah.”
“Not sure what you have in mind with ‘like a star’, so work it out with Ronnie yourself. I’ll tell him to call you. See you soon, Champ.” He hung up before I could react.
I dropped the phone and yahooed myself hoarse before calling the others for an emergency meeting at The Corner, my favorite local hangout. Being too anxious to stay put, I left right away.
I entered the locale and slinked by the pool table on the right, along the photo-wall of Rhode Island notables, to look for a chum or two. A pair of strangers were duking it out on the eight-ball, so I shifted direction at the neon-lit beer sign, headed towards the room-length, cherrywood bar and perched myself up onto my usual stool. Although the floors were sticky and fixtures old and cruddy, the place always felt like an extension of home.
Don lumbered over. “Evenin’ Luke, you looking fine tonight.” Without me even realizing it, a bottle of Bud was set down in front of me.
Don’s the bartender, owner and overall spirit of The Corner. He’s a portly old Southerner with buggy eyes, doughy features and a soul full of joy. Without him, that old watering hole would be like any other normal space barricaded within four walls.
“Thanks for the beer, Don. I’ll have a shot of Jack too. Yep, got a call to play a big concert in Boston, this weekend.” I grinned. “A gig to sell your soul for.”
“Well, ain’t that lovely. Hold onto that there soul of yours, though. That all you got be worth a thing.” He brought over the shot and had to tend to some other guests who sat down at the other end of the bar.
The rest of the band showed up soon after, and we celebrated again, the second time this week. Four-n-Moore’s been around for a couple of years now, and lately we were all convinced that we’d go down in the books as local could-have-beens, a band with promise held back by the imaginary borders that prevented us from breaking out onto the national scene. After Jake talked us up big on the recording side and now this top gig in Boston, who knows what could happen next. Everyone slashed any plans they had for Saturday and it was a done deal. We drank to our triumph and were home by midnight. I can’t wait to tell Amy. She’s been out sick for the last two days. Hopefully she’ll be back in the office tomorrow. I do miss her.
Friday, June 26, 1987
It’s all going down tomorrow. Friday’s usually a good drinking night, but we all made a pact to stay dry so we can be at our best for the concert. We had a long practice yesterday, which means nothing since we always go off on rants and unplanned tangents during our typical performance. If tomorrow’s show is even half as good as yesterday’s practice, we’ll certainly win over some hearts and ears.
Craig negotiated a fee of $1,500 for us to play, and I talked to Ronnie’s secretary from Crown Entertainment about some of the other logistical issues. As headliners, she offered us the VIP package, which includes a pick up and return. She also arranged for a roadie, drum tech and guitar tech to bring the gear, set it up, tear it down, return it all back to the practice room and set it up again. Yes siree Bob. We’re totally going to be rock stars. And as icing on the cake, Amy’s riding shotgun and will be right by my side the whole time.
I wrote this song last night in the wee hours and couldn’t have put it better.
“Hit the Road”
Maybe fourteen miles to Boston / Three-thousand cross to sunny LA
Put all my wares behind me / Just a looking for a brighter escape
Still hungry but I’m shaking / Got the wind against my nose
When I get tired of spinning my wheels / Then it’s time that I hit the road
Chorus
Hit the road, hit the road / Not sure where I’m heading today
Going to find my own revolution / And wrangle my worries away
Hit the road, hit the road / Gotta bury my burdenous ways
When I get tired of spinning my wheels / Then it’s time that I hit the road
Spent all my money on nothing / Spent all my time in vain
When I’m spent from living the doldrums / I’m going to hop a right on that train
Out of boredom or adventure / Always busy looking for something new
When I get tired of spinning my wheels / Then it’s time that I hit the road
I’ll hit the road when I’m lonely / Hit the road when I’m high I’ll hit the road and you’ll come with me / So we don’t need to say goodbye
[Repeat Chorus]
The first time I played to an audience, I was sixteen. The event, a church youth organization dance, took place in the rectory basement of Saint Aidan’s Parish. It was only a couple months before that debut performance when I finally got up the nerve to ask Stevie to form a band with me. The name Equinox came to mind because I felt like it could be the dawn of something big. I didn’t know squat about music but made it up as I went along. Being the more extroverted one, I was dubbed front man and de facto bassist for lack of someone else.
We only found out about that life-changing gig a couple days before it took place, and I was scared shitless from the second I got word of the show all the way up to when we got up in front of those Catholic teens and started to bang away. We killed it and almost showed up the main act. From then on, my confidence as a musician has never faltered. Ever since Craig called me, for the second time in my musical career, I’m scared shitless.
Sunday, June 28, 1987
Now, I know why I want it. Now I want it even more. And now I may get it.
A picture may tell a thousand words, but a feeling…a feeling contains thousands of pictures…and colors…and a rush of emotions, and hotness and wetness and smells and hollers and much more. While witnessing it, I couldn’t wait to write it down. Sitting here, I realize there’s no way to write it down, what I was feeling anyway. I can only describe the events as they happened and try to interweave the memory of the feelings throughout the events. But the actual feelings, the essence of the feelings, I lived them, and they’re gone.
Since that first gig in the rectory basement, I’ve played more shows than I can recall, many of them incredible. So far, no show was like Boston. The gods favored us last night, and we took advantage. The people loved us, adored us, they cheered us on, we were stars. Most of them didn’t even know our music or our name and didn’t need to. They jumped on for the ride and held on tight until the very end. I can babble like this for the next eight hours until it’s time for work, so I need to let it all unravel, moment by moment.
It started at noon when we met at the practice place. Piano Mike got there first, then Stevie, followed by the rest of us. The roadies arrived shortly thereafter, tore down the eq
uipment and packed it up in minutes. We weren’t heavy hitting big leaguers and didn’t have the large amount of gear they were used to handling.
Once the roadies left, it seemed to be the right time for a pep talk. I’d never consider Stevie less than my equal in the band. If he wanted to rally the troops, I’d be glad to hand him the reigns. With his guitar, Stevie could move planets, but with his words, he’s lucky if he could move his own bowels. That’s why he usually leaves the talking to me. Everyone appeared to be in top shape except for Mike. He looked nervous, like I felt, but couldn’t hide it like me. We were casually busting each other’s balls like all Cumberland boys do when I started my rallying cry.
“Hey guys. Quiet a minute. I got something to say.”
There was still some jostling and clowning around, but it petered out, and they turned their attention to me. My twinkling eyes must have radiated a look of madness, like that of a cult leader about to send his followers on a mission of doom. I moved my gaze along the line of curious faces, wondering what to say, until my mouth opened and out it poured.
“Why’re you all here?”
Dale chuckled. “To catch a ride.”
“No, smartass. I mean in general. Why spend so many nights painstakingly working through each song, trying to be perfect when nobody cares about perfection?” My body pivoted side-to-side in short strides, but my vision stayed glued to the four. “And when we’re not together, you’re working on your chops, maybe learning new stuff. Christ, all that time you put into music, you could be in bars picking up chicks, getting laid. Right now, the only way some of you could get laid is by crawling up a chicken’s ass.”
“What’s wrong with a chicken’s ass?” Dale asked, spurring on a domino trail of one-liners.
“I’m into breast myself,” Tommy announced.
“Thigh’s good too,” Stevie added.
“Well, I like the giblets.”
“You’re a giblet, Mike,” Dale said, and another short bout of horseplay broke out.
“Ha ha, you guys,” I said, shutting them down. “I mean really. Who’s got time for girls? When I’m not slaving away at Far Out to pay the stupid bills, I’m either jamming with you, writing songs, getting gigs or scoring record deals.” I scanned their expressions and felt I was about to lose them for good, so I piled on the goo.
“I live, and I die for music. When I’m in front of that audience, it feels like everything’s standing still. Head’s swirling but I have total clarity. Like I’m soaring at warp speed through some sort of energy field, so fast that the lights are bright lines streaking by, and I think I must be approaching the almighty.”
The others stood expressionless. My own imagery excited me, and I continued.
“Then, my voice directs the onlookers to synch up to our groove, while with my guitar, I gun them down with waves of raw electric sound. And the crowd’s absorbing it all, lusting after it.”
“That’s some weird shit,” Dale said. “What’ve you been smoking?”
“Normal people don’t speak that way, Luke,” Mike said.
“Pretty wacko, you ask me,” Tommy added.
“Listen, will you? At the last Showroom gig, we proved what we can do. That’s only the beginning. We can take it to the top. It’s our time. Jake from Free Range says so, Craig from the Showroom says so, I say so, and Stevie…” I shot him a look.
“Yeah?”
“You say?”
“Oh, uh yeah.” His eyes implored me to forge ahead.
“See. And once we’ve made it, we can tell our bosses to go screw. You ask me, though, it’s not even about the money. It’s about the moment…us, together with our fans. Being elevated on stage and showering the audience with everything they need, at that moment. And the audience reflecting everything back a zillion-fold. The moment, the only thing that counts. The past is history and the future, who knows. Tonight, we’re going to take this moment, and show the world what we’re made of.” I was pumped, reeling like a megalomaniac. “LET’S START THE BUZZ BEYOND LITTLE EFFIN RHODY and KICK SOME BOSTON BUTT…”
They gaped at me, speechless, and the pause I began with in the prologue, they continued in the epilogue. I was about to break the silence when Dale stuck out his perfectly chiseled nose and sniffed wildly into the air. His burning, earthy eyes gave off a puzzled look.
“You guys smell cheese? I smell cheese. Smells real cheesy.”
“Smells more corny,” Tommy said. “Corn dogs maybe. Corn on the cob. Corn fritters, whatever the hell them things are.”
“How about corn holes, which is what you are,” I said to them.
They started goofing off and busting balls again, ending my pep talk for me. Once they simmered down, we got back to business, discussing the song list, where the jams would be and what signals we’d give so everyone would know when to transition into which parts. Even Piano Mike looked more relaxed now. Maybe all the proverbial bullshit I told them was indeed what they needed to hear despite their rampant mockery of me.
The last person to arrive was Amy, the ‘official’ photographer for the day. She couldn’t take a great picture, but as long as she was along for the ride, I didn’t care what she did. Besides being wicked hot, she fits right in and is as funny as a duck with three legs. God, I love her.
“Amy,” I called out and ran right up to her as she got out of her car. The rest followed, except Mike, who being timid stayed behind.
“Back off, fellas. I’m not here for a gang bang.” In the same breath, she eyed Stevie and got all flirty. “I’ll take you on, guitar boy.” She locked him up into her arms, and he turned grenadine red. After releasing him, she examined the rest of us. “Ok boys, you get hugs too. Get in line, and don’t squeeze hard just to cop a cheap feel, like of my boobs.”
Dale grabbed both butt cheeks instead. “See,” he said. “I didn’t feel your boobs.”
Amy shoved him so hard, he almost fell. “You want to feel a boob, go fiddle around with your boyfriend over there.” She was referring to Piano Mike and yelled over to him. “What about you, Michael? Don’t like girls?”
“No, just girls like you,” he said, throwing it back at her.
At first, he looked totally earnest. Amy too. Neither of them could hold it in very long and started cracking up. Amy charged him and put him in a headlock. He escaped but not so easily, which seemed to frustrate him.
We all hung out and waited for our ride. Ronnie’ secretary from Crown said VIP package, but I thought that a retired school bus driver trying to make a few bucks would show up in a minivan. That’s why I could hardly believe it when an extra-long stretch limousine pulled up and a sexy chauffeur with snow white gloves and teeth to match, an adorable coffee-colored birthmark on her chin and hair pinned up in a black cap, stepped out of the driver’s side with her five-inch stilettos and greeted us London style, as though we were dignitaries.
“Mister Moore, I presume, I’m utterly pleased to make you acquaintance and be of service to you. My name is Ashley White, and I’ll be taking you and the other artists in your group to the festival”.
“Yes, I’m Mister Moore,” I said, almost assuming her same Queens-English-like inflection. “Uh, Luke, Miss White. You can call me Luke.” I stood there like an awkward teen not knowing what else to say.
“And I’m Dale,” he said, bumping me to the side. He was practically slobbering over himself as his eyes popped out of their sockets.
“And uh, that’s Stevie,” I said, sidestepping in front of Dale. “There’s Tommy and right over here is, um, Piano Mike.” Still feeling uneasy, I let my sights wander, smiling excessively, and spotted Amy. “Oh, and this is Amy, Lynch.”
The chauffeur inspected her up and down. “Hello, Mrs. Lynch.”
“I’m not Mrs. Lynch, lady. My name is Amy.”
“Pardon me, Amy. I did not mean to be rude. It was my pure int
ention…
“Well, I meant to be rude,” Amy said, interrupting her and slipped into the back of the limo.
“I’m so sorry about…,” our chauffer started to say.
“Don’t worry about it, Miss White, uh… Ashley” I said. “Somehow you two got off to a rocky start. She’ll get over it.”
The white toothed, white gloved Miss White with her coffee-colored chin and five-inch stilettos proceeded to open all the doors, and we piled in. Once situated in the driver’s seat, she let down the divider to explain to us all the comforts of home. It was like driving around in a living room, a fancy living room. Besides the fully stocked bar and delicacy type food products waiting for us to indulge in, there was a pristine-sounding entertainment system, heat and massage seating and a makeup station with a fake diamond studded mirror perfectly suited for a wicked queen or any pop diva. We were in heaven, and as soon as Amy sucked down some Bloody Marys and hit the hors d’oeuvres, she softened up too.
The agreement was to stay sober until after the concert. We needed to be on top of our game, and that wasn’t going to happen if we got sloshed on the road up to Boston. One cocktail was allowed for the ride, so we could relish in the rock star lifestyle. After that, it was Shirley Temples and Cream Soda.
The drive wasn’t long, less than an hour, but felt like forever. Most of the time, someone was blurting out an unnecessary comment. The rare holes of silence, however, were filled with being lost in the passing landscape while daydreaming about the coming evening.
