by P G Loiselle
“We’ll see who’s going to waste who,” Fango said, pulling himself together. “And don’t think that this is over once we’re crowned champions, pal. You need to learn to keep your big, fat mouth shut.” His teeth were clenched as he snarled at Dale.
“I’m so scared,” Dale said without flinching. “I’ll get in any ring with you any day of the week. Let’s start with tonight. You’re going down, buddy, and I’ll be the first one sprinkling earth on your musical fade-out.”
“As if,” Fango said.
Carolyn took over after too much dead air, and they cut both bands out of the mix.
“Rudy…”
“Yeah, Carolyn?”
“These guys are serious and hilarious at the same time. If they can walk the walk, this is going to be the battle of the bands to top all battles.”
“I’m excited, Carolyn. It’s sure to be a nail biter. And guess what?”
“Yeah, Rudy?”
“I haven’t heard a note from either of the bands but already have my favorite.”
“Me too, and I’m not giving it away.”
“That makes the both of us, Carolyn. Even with a favorite, after that exchange, I can only say…let the best band win.”
“My thoughts exactly, Rudy. Good luck, guys. Now go to your corners and get ready to rumble. And to all you folks out there in Radioland, if you can’t make it here to catch this in person, stay tuned to the home of rock and roll for live coverage from the summer of ‘87, Rocky Point fun park Battle of the Bands, coming up shortly.”
It wasn’t quite the crowd we had in Boston, but Rocky Point was still packed, and spectators were getting riled up in anticipation of the duel. Not only was the exchange between us and Fast.Fun! transmitted over the airwaves, it was also broadcasted over the PA for all the concert goers in the park. Moreover, the radio booth, located in the middle of the grandstands, was visible for everyone to see, as evidenced by the hoots and hollers that could be heard when Fango became extra animated during the interview.
After that shouting match, the place felt electrified. Soon it would be showtime and the pressure-slap of the pre-concert music magnified with each new beat as guitars rang out and the deep vibrations of a thumping kick drum could be felt from the massive speaker columns. We found a spot at the far edge of the stage area where we could check out the action on the outside and not be noticed by any intruders. Mike took along a boom box and taped the live show direct from the radio. We wanted to hear it like the listeners heard it without missing any details, especially the commentary.
The background music faded, the curtains drew back, and the lights and other visual effects came on in full force. Carolyn Fox and Rudy Cheeks entered onto the stage floor and gave a short introduction, which ended with, “and now ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, Fast.Fun!.”
Fango and company were already in their places and initiated their set with a quick and familiar sounding, post punk number. The scene ignited with a fresh burst of energy. They must have recruited many of their hardcore followers to aid in their cause since a large enclave of fans thrashed about in front and mouthed all the lyrics. The opener was over in less than three minutes, and without ado, they launched one popish, punk song after another.
They didn’t sound like the same group we saw in Boston. The music was still on the heavy side but came across quirky and Top 40ish, sounding like an amalgamation of every other combo heard on New Wave stations like WBRU. They must have been trying to appeal to a broader audience. Can you call that selling out? Besides Fango, I didn’t recognize any of the other musicians, something I realized during the interview. Each player in Fango’s unit mastered his instrument and didn’t only make a bunch of depressing noise like when I first saw the band perform. They were styled and rather slick, probably hired hands from the Berkeley School of Music.
Based on the radio commentary after each song, Rudy seemed to enjoy what they were doing, though, it didn’t seem to be Carolyn’s thing. It’s not like she seemed partial to either of the bands. She only mentioned not digging the style. It was too polished, too plastic, not enough raw edge to lift her off her seat. “Not the type of music that would give her an eargasm,” she said.
After three quarters of an hour, it was over, and I couldn’t say that we’d be a shoo in. They were professional and tight, had a slew of catchy tunes and based on their cheers, the vast number of people seemed to get into them.
“Not half bad,” Dale said. “If I hadn’t known, I wouldn’t have thought it was Fast.Fun!. We’ll still mash them to pieces.”
“Hope so, Dale. I really hope so.” I looked over at Stevie as he watched the gathering bodies, most notably a certain group of individuals in a special section of the grandstands. That section, evidently for the VIPs, was roped off and it looked as if there was a sacred feast going on in the middle of the show.
“There he is,” Stevie said, not taking his eyes off the spot.
“There who is?”
“Stone...and Ronnie, sitting at his side.” Stone must have come out of Friday’s incident with Amy unscathed, I thought.
I casted a glance in their direction and spotted the two prominent figures and their entourage right away. The area had been transformed into a pleasure zone for the notoriety attending the event. I peered through some binoculars that Tommy had brought and was amazed at the decadence. The spread that they had made our backstage catering look like moldy cheese, stale crackers and piss-warm beer. Bottle after bottle of exquisite bubbly and tantalizing wines; an overflow of fine spirits and uncountable carafes of undefined brightly colored liquids; platter upon platter of Chateau Briand, Prime Rib and all sorts of the finest meats money can buy; edible treasures from the sea such as oysters Rockefeller, clams casino and lobster tails; large gold bowls full of exotic fruits; sweets galore and any other type of delicacy imaginable belonging to such a feast, designed to show off one’s riches, was on display at the thirty foot long table. A multitude of servants rushed to and fro, trying to please the twenty or so lucky guests. In the middle was Stone, in an oversized armchair as if perched on a throne. The only thing missing was a scepter demonstrating without a doubt that he was indeed King.
“That’s him alright, and it must be his half-brother too,” I said. “I also see Herbie and Rodney. Shit, they’re all up there.”
“Assholes,” Stevie muttered with contempt, still not looking away.
“Sure are,” I said and kept glancing over to see if I could recognize anyone else. “Who’s that girl up there? Could it be that English limo driver? You know, the one who brought us to Boston. I can’t tell with the hat and shades.”
“Could be,” Stevie said. “Works for Ronnie, doesn’t she? Probably in bed with all of them slimebags.”
“She seemed too proper to stoop down that low. If it is her, I bet she’s only carting them around. Think Stone knows we’re here?” I asked, worried for a second.
“Probably not. Just came to see Faggo.” The nickname Dale made up for him seemed to have stuck, even with Stevie, who usually takes the high road.
Right then, the stage crew entered our space and told us we needed to do a quick sound check. We’d be live in eight minutes. Not wasting a single moment, we dashed off to our stations and tuned the instruments. The plan was to play for fifteen minutes, a third through our allotted slot, and only then show our true identities. Those that knew our music would realize straight away that it was us, and the word could spread fast. Once Stone and the gang find out too, who knows how they’d react. It was a hectic eight minutes and by the time Carolyn Fox and Rudy Cheeks announced us as Equinox and the curtains flew open, we were ready to kill.
The first song, a six-minute mega opener, made the usual fans and other onlookers go berserk. Dale’s drums, like a battery of percussive firebombs, laid down the rhythm for Tommy’s thumping bass, Mike’s slamming piano and our d
ouble guitar power chords to rock out on. Stevie broke into some ass-kicking licks that left everyone wide-eyed and open-mouthed. The clever folding in of the vocals, easing from the deep feeling verse all the way up to the soaring hymn-like chorus and back down again was the cream on the cake. By the end, everyone looked hooked.
For the next number, we broke out “Alive” and the force of the crowd didn’t waver for even a second. Stevie’s soloing was amazing, the best I’ve heard to date, and we could literally see the thrill seekers, who were only there for the rides and other amusements, flood into the concert area so they wouldn’t miss a show that was sure to be the talk of the town.
On nights like these, when the stars align and our musical instincts as a band perfectly mesh, I look out towards the audience and there’s a sea of individual faces, but it’s like one living mass, flowing and ebbing to the pulse of our beat. Like my head’s an airport control tower, and I’m inside, peering out, taking command of all that moves. And simultaneously, I’m above, witnessing myself perform on a pedestal for all to see, like another angle of the same scene displayed on a mental split screen. And I expect to wake up from this parallel reality because it must be a dream, but the film keeps rolling until the curtains close for good. Except for tonight, during the battle to win a chance to tour with Aerosmith, when it all came to a crashing halt.
Before we even got to number four, “Born Star”, the song during which we’d toss the disguises, it was already too late. Everyone already knew our true identities. Carolyn Fox and Rudy Cheeks announced it during “Alive” and were singing along on the radio during the chorus. Once it got back to Fango, he must have had a tizzy fit. Manned with a small army of Stone’s foot soldiers, Fango took over the soundboard and began destroying our mix. The drums were sent into ear piercing overload and then disintegrated altogether; the guitars squealed like plummeting airplanes and bounced erratically between speakers; the bass was muddied into a dark blob of mind-shattering turbulence; the keys, like supersonic pins and needles could have straightened out my cochleae; the vocals were morphed to sound like Mickey Mouse on uppers.
It was obvious to everyone what was going on. They could see the chaos taking place at the soundboard and knew who was behind it. Fango’s troops had to hold back many of our supporters from ripping Fango away from the mixer. We didn’t stop playing, though, and didn’t care how it sounded. The audience kept egging us on. We broke right into “Born Star” as planned, threw off our masks and wigs and the crowd went psycho.
At the pinnacle of the mayhem, the electricity was shut off, and WHJY cut into normal programming. Fango and his friends started marching towards us. What were they going to do? What were we going to do? We decided it best to make a quick getaway. There’d be other opportunities to duel with Fango, and we were outnumbered. We left everything behind for our two roadies to deal with and ran for the VW bus. Uncle Rick was in the driver’s seat, revving the accelerator. As soon as the last one of us was in, he gunned it, and we putt-putted away in our Teutonic hippie machine. The gate opened without us even needing to stop, and we were out of there as stealth as we came.
The whole lot of us lay sprawled out in the back, erupting in fits of rib-stabbing laughter as we recounted all the majestic moments we experienced. Whether we won or lost didn’t matter at that point. We still felt triumphant.
“See Faggo’s face as he was trying to find the right dials to shut us down?” Dale said.
“What a frickin’ nutjob,” Tommy said. “Catch those veins sticking out of the dude’s temples? I thought he’d drop dead of a heart attack. Would have served him right.”
“It did look pretty crazy,” Mike said. “I’ve never seen someone get so unnecessarily violent.”
“There’s no way we’re not disqualified after bailing like that,” I said. “Seeing how much we pissed off him and his family, it was all worth it.”
“What’d it bring us though?” Stevie asked, gazing out of the window. “Tour with Aerosmith? Doubt it. And next time they catch us, there will be no mercy. None.”
“Stevie, we can’t run from these people for the rest of our lives,” I said. “Amy wouldn’t want that either. We took a good whack at their hive. That’s all. And they’re probably buzzing around, mad as hell. That’s the only way to get to the honey.”
“Sounds easy, but I’m not buying it, Luke, especially with the danger we’re now in.”
“Who knows how this is going to pan out?” I said, “but can we afford to sit back and take their shit? If they get bored with us, they might whack us out for no other reason than being pains in their asses. If they think we still have something they want, we may be safer.”
“Hey, you bunch of party poopers,” Dale interrupted. “Let’s forget about those losers for now. I just want to say how incredible it felt to be with you on stage tonight. With all the crap we got to go through, I always wonder why I do it. After nights like tonight, I know why.”
“What a pile of sloppy mush,” I said. “It’s probably something I’d say.”
“I’m with you, Dale,” Mike said. “100%.”
Tommy nodded in agreement. All eyes moved in Stevie’s direction.
“What are you looking at me for?” Stevie said.
“You know why,” Dale said. “Because you’re being such a downer. Tonight was the absolute bomb and next week we’re taking off with Aerosmith. I can feel it. I know we’re dealing with a lot right now, but isn’t it worth it to you?”
Stevie’s face contorted, expressing his uneasiness of being put on the spot. After a few long seconds, he succumbed to our pleadings and lightened up. “Ok. Just don’t get huggy on me.”
“Fine,” Dale said as he put Stevie in a headlock and gave him some nuggies, the deep rubbing kind.
Once Stevie was able to free his slight neck and curly top from Dale’s masculine grasp, we all joined in the tomfoolery. While we were joking around, Uncle Rick turned on the radio, set the station to WHJY and cranked it up. Carolyn Fox and Rudy Cheeks were still raving about the battle.
“Who knows where they are, Carolyn? Since Fast.Fun!’s disqualified after that stunt they pulled, Four-n-Moore are the de facto champions of the summer of ‘87 Rocky Point Fun Park Battle of the Bands.”
“Really, Rudy, I knew Four-n-Moore would win hands down even after their first song. They played so hot, I had to break out the Powder Fresh Secret stick three times during their set, and they only played for twenty minutes. Guys, if you’re out there listening, congratulations. You’ve not only proved that you know how to rock in Rhode Island, you also get the chance to jump on the bus next Sunday with none other than Boston’s bad boys of rock and roll, Aerosmith. Then, guys, you get to rock the whole damn East Coast.”
“And to send them off, Carolyn, they’ll get to play an exclusive WHJY pre-tour bon voyage party next Saturday night.”
“And it’s going to be a doozy, Rudy, with special guests and lots of surprises that we don’t want to give away. There are only two-hundred golden tickets for this extravaganza to send off the band, and you fans have the chance to win them…all week long. Stay tuned for more. Four-n-Moore. You know what, after all this crazy excitement, we need to get this party rolling again. What do you say? Time to get a little Led out?”
Without delay, the unmistaken tribal riff from Led Zeppelin’s “The Immigrant Song” shook the van speakers, and we all started doing the familiar ‘ah ah ahhhh…ah’ scream of that masterpiece. Uncle Rick stuck tissue in both ears and smiled as much as we did, the whole way home. We were so inebriated from the news of our upcoming road trip with Aerosmith, I floated to bed that night as if carried off and tucked in by my parents. I was dead to the world for a good ten hours without even needing to pee once. When I awoke, it was as if my crust-enclosed lids had to be pried open to let in the late morning sunshine.
Considering yesterday’s events, today was surp
risingly mundane, and everyone stayed to themselves. There was so much to think of, and plan, and work out, and work on, yet we all seemed to crave the break: maybe to bask in the fact that we were possibly on the cusp of fulfilling our wildest of dreams, or maybe to contemplate whether this was what each of us really wanted. The only contact I had was with Amy and Mike. Amy buzzed me on the walkie talkie to congratulate me for the win. She said she had calmed down and agreed it’s wise not to take any rash actions. We should start planning anew after the tour, she said. Mike called to give me the news that the equipment was safely back in the practice room and told me of Fango’s near arrest and the chaos following in the wake of his torrents against us.
This should be one of the best days of my life. So, why am I still wide-eyed at 4:00 a.m. instead of enjoying the precious slumber that befriended me every single night this past week? I’m full of worry, that’s why. Yesterday, I was flying too high to think straight, but reality gave me a good hard smack. Was it really destiny and Fango’s stupidity that led to our win and national tour with Aerosmith? Or is it all a ploy to get us far away, out of the state, so that Stone can have free reign to hunt down Amy without our interference? After all, Amy’s scent was fresh after almost breaking Stone’s bones in Carney’s office. And now, we royally teed off Fango and the rest of the family, and they have even one more reason for retaliation and to find her and their cash. Can we really leave her alone for two weeks? What if she’s gone by the time we get back, disappeared without a trace? How could we forgive ourselves for abandoning her for a pubescent pipe dream? If we decide not to go because of her, she wouldn’t have it. We can’t take her with us either. So, what are we to do? Stevie and I have been living on different planes lately, but he’d understand my concerns and where I’m coming from. I desperately need to talk to him, and to Amy. Maybe one of them has an ace up their sleeve? I certainly don’t. How did life ever get this complicated? And how can we get things back to normal? I never thought I’d think this, but that’s all I want right now: to live a boring, ordinary life.
