Life on Planet Rock

by Lonn Friend

  In 1968, Mick and Keith composed the anthem “Sympathy for the Devil.” Some have theorized that the song reflected the artist’s classic Faustian moment where souls were exchanged for fame, fortune, and eternal life. How else can you explain men in their sixties still delivering the goods like troubadours half their age? I’m telling you now that this theory is poppycock, folklore, nothing more than the meanderings of the jaded and jealous purveyors of rock culture that do not possess a proper understanding of what’s really been going on under the big top. How do I know the truth? The ringleader is a friend of mine.

  The Kelly/Baruck Pebble Beach Golf Classic is a private and privileged tournament hosted annually by Grammy-winning songwriter Tom Kelly and veteran artist manager John Baruck. What started as a Labor Day gathering of two foursomes thirty years ago grew into the most iconoclastic links confab in the entertainment industry. When RIP was roaring in 1991, I got invited. During that debut week of golf and male bonding, I met many fascinating and successful “players,” including the bearded Canadian concert promoter named Michael Cohl.

  Michael was president of the BCL Group (Ballard Cohl La-batt). He’d made his reputation two years earlier by buying the concert, sponsorship, merchandising, radio, television, and film rights to the Rolling Stones’ Steel Wheels tour, which was the most financially successful rock tour in history. That virgin trek at Pebble, I played a round with the man whose professional journey began in 1971 after seeing Genesis perform in a club of three hundred. Cohl was easy to talk to because he was a fan with a reverent love for rock ‘n’ roll.

  When the Voodoo Lounge tour came through Los Angeles in 1994, Michael provided me and mine with killer seats and VIP laminates. Joyce was a Stones fan of the first order, so the no-holds-barred access made the experience even more enjoyable.

  Later, in 1997, the Bridges to Babylon campaign was taking flight at Soldier Field in Chicago. I watched from the soundboard with my cousin J. J., one of many Windy City Friends. There was an elderly fellow standing in front of me wearing a scarf and leaning on a wooden cane. He had a look about him like he’d been around the block, seen some things, and survived with most of his faculties intact. When Michael came up to the board to visit his guests, I asked him who that man was. “That’s Keith’s father,” he replied nonchalantly. “Or more importantly, Keith’s best drinking buddy when Ronnie’s on the wagon.”

  On May 10, 2005, the Stones announced their Bigger Bang tour. The world was once again both stunned and elated that entropy had not yet derailed the rock-’n’-roll circus. In September, they released the A Bigger Bang LP to rave reviews, and on November 6, 2005, I took my ex-wife and daughter to see them perform at the Hollywood Bowl. We had a wonderful, healing evening. Since the last time I’d seen the Stones live, my entire world had changed. I was divorced and lived in Vegas, though I was now a part-time resident in my hometown, working to mend the relationships damaged by my departure two years before. As it turns out, a Stones concert was the perfect medicine.

  Having spent the past year pouring my life and career out onto the pages of this book, I didn’t know where or how to wrap it up. Some days I felt like I’d seen too much for just a couple hundred pages—how can a single volume express the power and beauty of even one perfect moment, let alone a lifetime’s and career’s worth? And then, just days after seeing the Stones with my ex-wife and daughter, I found myself headed to San Francisco, a long and lonely drive from Los Angeles. I felt like the midnight rambler, rambling my way up desolate Highway 5 armed with a hallowed all-access pass to the most enduring and untouchable rock-’n’-roll circus of them all, on a mission of connection and closure—out to prove that sometimes you can always get what you want.

  I made that drive on November 14, a week after seeing the Stones in L.A., a night after the first Stones/Metallica gig in San Francisco, and one day before I’d see the mythical double bill at SBC Park. I stayed with my childhood pal Mark Henteleff, who lives in San Francisco’s Potrero Hill neighborhood, about three miles from where Barry Bonds has been making baseball history. “I heard the concert last night—from here!” he proclaimed. “They’ve had shows at the park before but this was unbelievable. So loud, I’ll bet half of San Francisco heard it.”

  The next day, I met Michael Cohl at the Four Seasons on Market Street and rode with him to the venue. After catching up with Metallica, I remained Cohl’s shadow for the evening, and we caught each other up on our respective lives. Talking to Michael about the music, about his experiences, and about his relationships with the artists he works with never fails to remind me of why I love rock ‘n’ roll. And there’s no other group on the planet that gets him as fired up as the Rolling Stones. He’s not only the CEO of the circus, he’s also one of their biggest and most sincere fans, and his love for the band makes you take your own deeper look at this crazy, amazing, seemingly immortal group.

  Keith Richards’ face resembles the floor of Death Valley. Every crack and crease illustrates a life lived and rocked with ineffable authenticity. Ronnie Wood has seen more rehabs than Robert Downey Jr. and Courtney Love combined, but he always bounces back and his sobriety on this tour makes him absolutely radiant. Charlie Watts battled cancer while Mick and Keith were holed up like old-school glimmer twins, tracking A Bigger Bang. On the stage in front of fifty thousand, the quiet and distinguished Mr. Watts keeps the syncopated beat behind every immortal song like a human metronome.

  “Charlie said something to me on the last tour, and I’ll never forget it because it defines the true greatness of the Stones,” explained Michael. “He said, ‘I can’t believe that people still want to come and see us. But because they do, we have an obligation to those fans.’ ”

  And there is no one with a more intense sense of commitment than Mick Jagger. Michael has known the legendary lead singer for almost twenty years, and he remains in absolute awe of his ability to dazzle and constantly raise the bar of his own performance. “Mick’s got the groove this tour,” he quipped. “Last tour, it was Keith. One before that, Charlie. But this one, this one is all about Mick. He’s operating on a different plane.”

  I’ve seen front men half Jagger’s age mail it in because they just weren’t feeling it. Michael insists that after forty years at the top of the heap, what gets Mick going is what always got him going: the show and the fans who come to see it.

  “He used to be uncomfortable with stardom and the lack of privacy but not anymore. He’s been rich since the late sixties, seen everything, and been everywhere and has nothing left to prove. So why does he train so hard, stay so fit, work on his vocals, and refuse to give a half-assed performance?”

  “He gets off on the rush,” I ventured. “The crowd, the buzz when the connection is made—he still feels it. His mojo is mythical.”

  And Michael smiled, nodded his head, and said, “You got it! It’s that simple. And if anyone thinks that we keep touring for the fame or fortune, well, fuck off. We do this because it’s life force.”

  That same force unites the rock star, rock musician, and the rock fan. Whether you’re Metallica, the Rolling Stones, the White Stripes, or that unsigned rockabilly outfit jamming on Friday nights at the local bar, you do what you do because you love it. The inexplicable high from a crowd in the throes of connection cannot be underestimated.

  In knowing, befriending, and traveling with rockers as varied as Axl, Steven Tyler, the Mighty H, and Jon Bon Jovi, it’s become crystal clear to me that the fans are as critical to the musicians as the musicians are to the fans. Axl could be crushed by a bad show or negative review. Tyler and Jagger deliver some of the most dynamic live performances because they get off on the energy of a full, happy, ecstatic crowd. James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich have had to work through countless obstacles, including changes in the lineup, drug and alcohol problems, and interpersonal issues because they can’t see themselves doing anything other than what they’ve loved doing for the past twenty years. And you, you and me, writer and reader, we kn
ow it’s only rock ‘n’ roll, but we like it, love it—yes, we do.

  I’ve been a friend to rock and rocker, but ultimately I’m just a fan, and in the end, having the music in my head and in my heart means more to me than all the sex, drugs, fame, fortune, or any other trappings the devil can offer here on Planet Rock.

  And for the moment, this moment, that’s all I have to say. My loving cup runneth over.

  Acknowledgments

  There was time long ago in a land far away when the first thing I did when I got a new CD was turn to the liner notes and see if I was thanked. And I would say, “Wow, that’s cool!” or “Hey, where’s my name?” It’s obvious that there’s no way to get this right. With that being said, here goes, and please, if I forgot anyone, forgive me, Father, for I know not what I do.

  Thanks to my literary agents Joelle Delbourgo and Jennifer “What’s the Theme?” Repo (the first believer); to “Guru” Amy Hertz, thank you for seeing the spirit in the rock (and the rocker), for helping me transform a bunch of fanecdotes into a memoir— next to the Dalai Lama, I am your biggest fan! Tremendous gratitude to Nate Brown, copy editor, confidant, closet president of my fan club, and relentless source of guidance and inspiration; ditto to Chicago’s indefatigable Tony Kuzminski, my journalistic Jedi, fact checker, savant compendium of metal minutiae, and the most passionate music fan walking Planet Rock; and to Julie Miesionczek and everyone at Morgan Road, I am holding the miracle in my hands, so God bless you one and all.

  To my yogi and shaman, Guru Singh at Yoga West, who taught me the poses and supposes, tossed a rope down the whale’s gullet, found me at the other end, and didn’t stop pulling until I was out, my infinite blessings and gratitude. Sat Nam, music man!

  Profound love to the Fantastic Friends, far and near: my dad, the piano man, finest musician and truest “friend” I’ve ever known, and his muse, Sherry; my courageous and brilliant mother, Queen of Jeopardy! and she who reflects that which is me like no other; my brother Rick, since birth we have rocked and till death we shall roll; my sister-in-law, Lynda, brave and delicate; my nephews Sam and Aaron (carry that torch!); my brother Michael, a blood fan of the highest order; my sister, Michelle, and her man of golden heart, Travis; Marsha, Howie, and Carolyn and all the cousins of Chi Town (home of the world-champion White Sox—yes, miracles abound!); my divine Aunt Esther; cousin Marc—the world’s greatest Yankee fan—brother Bruce and sister Jill Russell, and Chrissie and all those who hold even the slightest strand of similar DNA, I love you one and all.

  Infinite appreciation to the Fellowship: to my longest-running mate, archetype Deadhead and balladeer extraordinaire, Mark Henteleff (the year of the Deer is here!); Mike Ross, my Kabbalah brotha and L.A. landlord; to eternal soul mates Peter Weiss, Neal Zamil, and Jeff Gelb (and his divine other, Terry Gladstone), thanks for never being too far away; to Nick Ip-polito (the real King of Las Vegas); the life-affirming Les “Gar-man” Garland; Rob “Andy Dufresne” Hill (you gave me Tropic of Cancer, it’s all your fault!); “Rabbi” Rex Carpenter (you have carried my cross and our friendship is rock solid); “Godfather” Bruce Patron, Chef Ben Ford, Danny Zelisko, Tom, and John and the entire Kelly/Baruck Pebble Beach fraternity (help me make this book a hit so I can actually afford to play in the tourney again!); Jason Flom and Doc McGhee for their longstanding support and stipend when I hit the deep end. To Dr. Joan Mardell, thank you for the push into the place of least comfort. And to Ron Meyers, goo goo ga joob, wherever you are, my friend.

  My deep appreciation to Larry Flynt, the man who set my foot on journalistic turf with no strings attached; to Jim Kohls, Tom Candy, and, above all, the staff, writers, and photographers of RIP magazine, without whom this book would have been considerably thinner—most notably Richard Lange, Kristina Estlund, Stella, Janiss Garza, Katherine Turman, Craig “Purple Reign” Jones, Peter Soikeilli, Del James, Steffan Chirazi, Judy Weider, Laurel Fishman, Don Kaye, Adrianne Stone, Mike Git-ter, Jon Sutherland, Bruce Duff, Mick Wall, Mark Putterford, Glen LaFerman, Ross Halfin, Neil Zlozower, Robert John, Gene Kirkland, Mark Leialoha, Neal Preston, Annamaria DiSanto, Lisa Johnson, Marty Temme, Gene Ambo, Joe Giron, Eddie Malluk, Alex Solca, and the rest of the humanary stew that helped make hard-rock publishing history “back in the day.”

  Thanks to my radio mentors, Norm Pattiz, Thom Ferro, Marcia Hrichison, and Jamie Osborn (I want the airwaves again!), and to the most brilliant high-tech headbanger, Rob Jones, along with Long Paul, Bill Hein, Michael Abrams, and Bob “From Hero to Brother” Ezrin, and all the characters who made the Enigma Digital experience so rewarding.

  Heartfelt props to those who’ve stayed human in the often inhuman music biz: Michele Anthony, John Kalodner, Jay Krugman, Roy Lott, Tom Ennis, Richard Sanders, Steve Ralbovksy, Kurt St. Thomas, Mark DaDia, Bob Chiappardi, Janie Hoffman, Kathy Acquaviva, Kevin Lyman, Tom Whalley, and Melanie Meyer. To Rod Smallwood and Merck Mercuriadis, thank you for giving me Sanctuary when I needed it. To the only attorneys I’ve ever called friend—Peter Paterno, Eric Greenspan, Ron Wilcox, Larry Blenden, and Henry Root—the Bard never met you beautiful cats or he wouldn’t have asked for your heads. And to Professor Clive “Faust” Davis, your class kicked my ass, but the lesson shall live till the end of my days.

  Massive shout-outs to Jeff Ressner, my “Christian brother” Mark Joseph, Big Ed Bunker, Todd Singerman, Peter Baron, Doug Goldstein, Forrest Reda, Doug Khoblauch, Miguel Ferrer, Ingrid Earle, Steve Hochman, Biff Malibu, Shep Gordon, Toby Mamis, Brian Nelson. And to the rockers who still picked up the phone when I lost my juice, Steve Lukather, Les Claypool, Nuno Bettencourt, Rex Brown, “Snake” Sabo, Derek “Fish” Dick, Lemmy Kilmister, Scott Ian, Charlie Benante, Joe Elliot, Rick Savage, and damn there might be one or two others, thanks for remaining down-to-earth blokes and true friends.

  To the tribal troubadours Andy Ward and Warren Cann— the first stickmen I ever called “friend”—your beats remain in heart and mind. And to the mighty man on the kit who delivered those humbling words in the front of this book—Lars, dude, your foreword knocked me backward. It’s no coincidence that you and Henry Miller share the same birthday.

  Exaltations to Jack Black for incarnating Danny Z in celluloid as Dewey Finn, and Richard Linklater for School of Rock and the other film that spoke to my insides at a most essential time, Waking Life; Tim Burton for catching the Big Fish when I was starving in the desert. To Harry Shearer, Howard Stern, Joe Frank, Jim Ladd, Terry Gross, NPR, Lee Abrams, and XM Radio (fuck, yeah!), Art Bell, George Noory, and Coast to Coast AM—we got the airwaves back, Joey, rest in peace and be thankful you got out before the Illuminati got us. Or thought they did.

  Hearty recognition to the unheralded queen of QPrime, Sue Tropio; Captain Dave Adelson, Roy Trakin, Jaclyn Matfus, Nancy McDonald, Denise Korycki, Dave Weiderman, Scott Kamins, Jessica and Deb (the courageous Metalli-sisters of Havasu), Joe Romersa, Rachael Snyder, Isle Baca, Frank Meyer, David Konow, Mike Schnapp, Michelle Ozbourn, Jason Markey Suzanne Chancellor, Steve Woolard, Record Surplus, Alana Sweetwater, and the great Harvey Kubernik; Mario, Michael, Tony, and the Rainbow Bar and Grill, keeping my table reserved even in absentia; and all my friends at VH1 who kept my profile alive whilst I was splashing in the belly; yo, Dime Bag, what’s it like jammin’ with Jimi?

  Thanks to Billy Campion, Bill Ryan, Brendon Ryan, P. J. O’Connor, Clive Tucker, and Mark Wike, collectively known at one time as the Bogmen and still the greatest band no one ever heard; and huge respect to the crew guys from across the globe, one and all, you are the muscle behind the hustle and without you there is NO rock ‘n’ roll… period.

  Thank you, Ray Bradbury, around the corner for ten years but an eternity in my writer’s soul; Henry Miller, I shall not give up your ghost, not ever! Eckhart Tolle, you saved me from jumping in Spalding’s river—how can I ever repay you? Aldous Huxley, Carlos Castaneda, Wayne Dyer, M. Scott Peck, John Grisham (my hero of fiction), Dan Millman, Krishnamurti, Joseph Campbell, Rumi, the miraculous mantras of Thomas Ashle
y Farand, poets and seers past, present, and future, I hail you all! Hey, Cameron—my greatest literary inspiration of all—I did it! Better late than never, eh, brother? Hailing!

  Thank you, desert compatriots: Judy Alberti; Mike Love Jr.; Kurt Lambeth; Leah Burlington; the Las Vegas media folks who helped pay my rent and child support—Jack Sheehan, Phil Ha-gen, Pat Kelly, Valery Behr, and Scott Dickensheets. Thank you, Matthew Hanson, for the “readings,” and Dr. Randall Robirds for your prog-rock alien psychic healing, muscle testing, magic, and friendship; and to all the brave souls struggling to find the spirit in Sin City, stay the course for the shift IS on! God Bless Red Rock Canyon, my personal Sinai and antediluvian meditation room. And to my hometown, the City of Angels, lonely as I am, together we cry … forever we’re one.

  To Joyce, who rocked the cradle while I rocked the planet, what Gibran and Sting said was true: If you love someone, set them free. Thank you for our remarkable daughter and eighteen excellent years. And to Chris, Matt, Phil, and the entire amazing Blue Man Group organization, thank you for nurturing the angel Carrie Ann, the biggest heart in a five-foot frame Creation ever fashioned and the life force that showed me how astounding life could be when it wasn’t forced. Thank you, beautiful, for scraping me up off the sand and making me believe I could not just walk, but fly again. And to Megan Rose, who never ceases blooming nor escapes my thoughts for a moment. I am honored to be—as John Mayer sang—“the God and the weight of your world.”

  And to whoever, whatever, or whyever YOU are up there, out there, in there, around there, making me crazy, lazy, hazy, and dazy … I PRAISE thee from the bottom of my worn-out wandering sandals to the top of my kundalini crown. Fade to black and grab my things, they’ve come to take me home.

  About the Author

  LONN FRIEND is a music journalist and multimedia personality who lives in his hometown, Los Angeles. He was executive editor of the iconoclastic hard-rock magazine RIP, and hosted his own spot, “Friend at Large,” on MTV’s Headbangers Ball, as well as the weekly syndicated Westwood One radio program Pirate Radio Saturday Night. He composed the liner notes for Mötley Crüe’s Decade of Decadence, Bon Jovi’s One Wild Night, Dio’s Stand Up and Shout: The Dio Anthology, and Iron Maiden’s The Essential Iron Maiden. He is a frequent contributor to VH1, having appeared in several Behind the Music episodes, including “Metallica,” “Bon Jovi,” “The Year 1987,” “Red Hot Chili Peppers (Ultimate Albums: Blood Sugar Sex Magik),” “Mötley Crüe,” “Anthrax,” and “When Metal Ruled the World.” He is a veteran insider and confidant to artists and executives alike. He and his teenage daughter, Megan, have watched Almost Famous and School of Rock at least a dozen times … apiece. Life on Planet Rock is his first book.