Several rungs down the status ladder from even washed-up touring bands are so-called “tribute bands.” Tribute bands (read: copycats) are local bands that play the music and ape the trappings of a famous group. Heavy metal as a genre afforded ample opportunities for easy imitation. To the extent that a national act’s fame results more from its stagecraft than from its musicianship, impersonators have a field day. KISS, alone, has probably spawned a hundred tribute bands. Conversely, and not surprisingly, there are precious few good Aerosmith or Heart tribute bands. It’s one thing to don greasepaint and costumes; another entirely to convincingly duplicate Steven Tyler’s or Ann Wilson’s vocal licks.
In addition to the costumes and pyrotechnics favored by metal bands, horror motifs are common. Skulls, blood, barbed wire, and flames are often depicted. One such band, Firehouse, which played The Station not long before Great White’s own fiery appearance there, had as its logo a skull wearing a fireman’s helmet, over a guitar and flames. Even equipment manufacturers cash in on faux horror themes. One instrument-case maker sells coffin-shaped guitar cases for rock bands. (A “Coffin Case” was found among the charred debris of The Station.)
Of course, faux horror themes are easily copied. Bands like Megadeth, Slayer, KISS, and Poison were all imitated. And if the famous bands also used pyrotechnics to shock and awe, so would their low-budget tribute bands.
But why do people spend hard-earned cash to hear the vocal stylings of a Michael Mikutowicz? “Mickey” Mikutowicz is a landscaper and snowboard instructor by day, who pretends to be Ozzy Osbourne by night. He has done it for years. And the crowds keep coming out. As Mikutowicz explains, “Tickets to a Black Sabbath concert start at $100. The average working stiff can’t afford that. But for $15 and the price of a few beers, he can convince himself for a little while that he’s seeing a rock star playing his local bar. It works out well for everybody.”
Mikutowicz’s Black Sabbath tribute band, Believer, played The Station three or four times a year from 1996 through 2002. In fact, it was scheduled to appear at the club in February 2003, eight days after Great White. Over those years, Mikutowicz came to realize that safety often yielded to spectacle there. One night at The Station, before the Derderians owned the club, Believer’s bass player, Steve Lewis, walked into the band room and observed a member of another band, Holy Diver (a Dio tribute band), pouring explosive powder into a flashpot device with a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. Mikutowicz complained to the club’s manager, who reprimanded the smoker. After that incident, Believer’s contract, rather then demanding champagne and peanut butter, forbade any club from having pyrotechnics in the band room.
Believer’s front man was as frugal as he was careful. In the summer of 1996, while his band packed up after playing a gig at The Station (then owned by Howard Julian), Mikutowicz noticed a stack of discarded white plastic foam blocks, approximately two inches thick and seventeen inches square, near the band door. Figuring he could use them to pad instrument cases, he threw several in his van and returned home to western Massachusetts, where he cut them up and used them over the years. A scrounger by nature, Mikutowicz did not give the recycled foam blocks a second thought until 2003 when he saw news accounts of the Station fire.
Holy Diver was not the only local band to bring pyrotechnics into The Station. Rev Tyler’s now-defunct Massachusetts band, Lovin’ Kry, opened for W.A.S.P. at the March 8, 2000, concert marking the transition of club ownership from Julian to the Derderian brothers. A videotape from that night shows Lovin’ Kry using white-sparking pyrotechnic gerbs. Nor was that the only time Lovin’ Kry used pyro at The Station. “We did it every time, and every time they invited us back. They loved us there,” said Tyler. Explaining that The Station not only permitted pyro, but encouraged it, Tyler added, “They knew they’d get a better show every time we used it — a lot of tickets sold; a lot of booze sold.”
Other bands using pyro at The Station included the ironically named Hotter Than Hell, Looks That Kill, and Destroyer. They joined the ranks of just-plain-stupidly-named non-pyro bands at The Station like Mutha Ugly and Wet Her Belly, as well as the marginally witty Shirley Temple of Doom.
Pyrotechnics and marginal economics can sometimes intersect in dangerous ways. Nathan Conti ran sound for Dirty Deeds, an AC/DC tribute band that occasionally appeared at The Station. His father was Dirty Deeds’ lead singer, and, in true Rhode Island two-degrees-of-separation fashion, his sister was Station manager Kevin Beese’s girlfriend. Nathan was no musician, but he used his electronics training from New England Tech to save the band some money. AC/DC used flame-shooting flashpots in its stadium act, and Dirty Deeds wanted to look just like the real thing. But flashpots and a controller cost over a thousand dollars. Ever resourceful, Nathan built his own pyro apparatus from tomato-juice cans, switches, and four model airplane glow plugs for $150. He’d fill each can with a shot-glass of gunpowder (obtained using his mother’s firearms permit), then energize its glow plug to spark a flame six feet high. Nathan used his apparatus twelve times per show, on at least five occasions at The Station. Sometimes the club’s soundman, Paul Vanner, would provide cables and help him wire it. Conti signaled the band with a high-pitched tone through the sound system (presumably, not detracting much from the musicianship) before firing the flashpots, so that his father and the other musicians could first step forward on The Station’s small stage. Then the flames would erupt vertically between them and their drummer, a few feet from the club’s foam-covered walls. Nothing to it. And a bargain, too.
Some pyro bands at The Station eschewed equipment altogether. Forty-year-old Edward Ducharme did “theatrical stunts” for the Halloween-themed band 10/31. His main stunt was a party trick involving a can of butane fuel and a cigarette lighter. He’d fill his mouth with butane gas, expel it toward the ceiling, and light the plume with his lighter. One time at The Station he performed his fire-breathing trick a little too close to the band’s wheelchair-bound bass player, Chad Custodio, setting the musician’s hair on fire. Custodio’s brother, Jack, took a break from his lead guitar duties to pat out the flames. “The guys in the band are pretty much expendable,” joked Ducharme afterward. Two days before that gig, Ducharme had shown Station soundman Vanner a videotape of his fire-breathing stunt being performed at another club. Vanner’s only comment was, “Keep it away from the walls.”
One user of pyrotechnics at The Station should have known better. Frank Davidson grew up in Rhode Island and had run lighting at The Station during the club’s prior lives under previous owners. He was a regular there until 1996, when he moved to Florida. There, he found work as a licensed pyrotechnician for a company called Beyond Belief Productions. Among other assignments, Davidson handled pyro displays for TNN’s World Championship Wrestling at venues around the country. Millions of Americans watched his work on TNN’s Monday Night Nitro and Thursday Thunder wrestling programs. He well knew the dangers of pyro and the permitting requirements of every state, including Rhode Island. Specifically, he understood that every state required that a licensed pyrotechnician obtain a local permit before shooting gerbs or flashpots. Issuance of a permit usually required a preshow safety demonstration for local officials and poised extinguishers at showtime.
When Davidson, who went by the nickname “Grimace,” returned to New England, he brought with him several gerbs and flashpots liberated from his Florida employer. He agreed to do pyro for Human Clay (a Creed tribute band), which was scheduled to appear at The Station in November 2001, and again on New Year’s Eve 2002. Several days before the November gig, Davidson demonstrated a gerb in The Station for the club’s manager, Kevin Beese, and light man David “Scooter” Stone. He shot a twelve-foot (spark distance) gerb with twenty-second duration, and it hit the roof above the stage area. Then Davidson shot a ten-foot gerb without complication. “Grimace” was assisted in the demo by Scott Gorman, a Cumberland, Rhode Island, volunteer firefighter, who stood by with fire extinguisher at the ready.
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sp; After the demonstration, Beese approved the pyro, so “Grimace” Davidson used it for Human Clay’s November Station gig, as well as the New Year’s Eve bash. Station regular Cliff Koehler clearly recalls that Jeff Derderian was on hand for Human Clay’s New Year’s pyro show.
Shortly thereafter, Beese scheduled Davidson to do a pyrotechnic display at The Station during the week of February 24, 2003, as part of a promotional video shoot for a band called Super Unknown. In that same conversation Beese offered him a position handling pyro and lighting at The Station on a regular basis. Davidson replied, “We’d have to do things the right way. You know. Permits, insurance.” Beese immediately balked, rescinding the employment offer.
Davidson’s February Station gig for the promotional video did not take place as scheduled. Three days earlier, someone else’s pyro reduced the club to ashes.
As Mickey Mikutowicz had noticed, The Station had long been less than vigilant about fire safety. Alfred Gomes noticed, too. Gomes promoted a few bands that appeared at The Station. In August of 2000, six months after the Derderians took over (and a few weeks before Mick Taylor’s stay at the West Warwick Super 8), he watched as a band packed up its gear. When one of its members absentmindedly flicked a lit cigarette to the floor of the drummer’s alcove, it came to rest against a foam-covered wall — which immediately began to burn. The musician hurriedly stomped it out, then looked to see if the club’s soundman had noticed. He hadn’t. When Gomes approached the soundman and said, “I think that guy over there just ignited your wall with a cigarette,” he was told “in a nice way” to mind his own business. “The club gets inspected all the time. That stuff is perfectly safe,” was the response.
CHAPTER 6
LUCKY DAY
IT WASN’T OFTEN THAT ROCK IDOLS, even past-their-prime players like Great White front man Jack Russell, graced the streets of West Warwick. So when his tour bus rolled into town, the locals were starstruck — even if they weren’t quite sure who he was. But they could see from his high-mileage face and full-sleeve tattoos that he lived a life the average Rhode Island warehouseman or carpenter could only dream of. He was very, very cool.
At least that’s what crossed Tina Ayer’s mind as she peered over the small bottles of shampoo and conditioner on her supply cart at the guy stepping out of room 210. The Fairfield Inn motel, where she worked as a housekeeper, had its share of lonely salesmen, lost tourists, and trysting couples, but this guy was different. He wore a bandanna pirate-style over his chin-length, dirty-blond hair and exuded the confidence of someone who was used to being recognized. He looked familiar to Ayer, though perhaps older and jowlier than she could place.
Tina Ayer had done the ’80s heavy-metal thing. But now a thirty-three-year-old single mother, she confined her metal trappings to rings on almost every finger (some multiple) and blond highlights in her black hair. Early mornings, Tina was responsible for cleaning guest rooms at the Fairfield Inn; the rest of the time, for raising her son, Danny, and daughter, Kayla. The burdens of adulthood left her little time or money for the concert scene. So, when small talk with the mysterious man in the hallway gave way to introductions and an autograph, Tina couldn’t believe her good fortune. Jack Russell. Great White. Oh, my God. He’d be appearing at The Station the next night, and Russell told Ayer she could go as his guest.
Tina’s best friend, Jackie Bernard, also cleaned rooms at the motel. “Can she come, too?” pleaded the chatty Ayer. “Sure,” said Russell, and he placed a call on his cell phone to Dan Biechele, who kept a notebook page for this very purpose. Under a handwritten heading, “Guest List,” Biechele printed the names “Tina Ayer” and “Jackie Bernard.” Given The Station’s history of overselling and overcrowding, Tina and Jackie were lucky to get in.
Luckier still would be those who got out. Some would escape the club with their lives. Others, whose interest in The Station was more business than pleasure, would be lucky to get out with their fortunes. By November 2002 the Derderian brothers had tired of running the club. Michael Derderian was in the middle of a bitter divorce, and his wife was seeking a court order that he sell The Station. The brothers placed an ad in the Providence Journal offering to sell the business for $199,000. One interested reader was Armando Machado. Machado had been a building contractor for years, and he and his wife, Nancy, were looking for a side business they could both run to “help them get ahead.” Machado saw the newspaper ad, called the number in it, and spoke with Jeff Derderian. A visit to The Station soon followed.
The Machados were shown into the club by Jeff and Michael Derderian, who chatted with them on the dance floor for about a half hour. The brothers explained that they’d been in the club business for three years and “were moving on to bigger and better things in the real estate field.” (Presumably, in their next venture they would stay current on water charges, sewer charges, and rent — always bones of contention with their Station landlord.) The group then adjourned to the club’s back office to talk terms. Michael Derderian did most of the talking.
When the Machados inquired about the finances of the club, they were told that a deposit of $20,000 was required “to prove they were interested” before the Derderians would show them the books. Mike Derderian told them this was because “two other parties were interested in purchasing the club.”
The Machados were serious about their bid for financial independence, so they took out a home equity loan to finance their deposit. Once they handed over the $20,000, the sellers showed them a handwritten book listing daily cash receipts for the club — nothing about profit or loss. On November 24, Armando Machado signed a purchase-and-sale agreement for “The Station Rock Club.” Only thereafter did he learn of one small problem: the Derderians didn’t own the building.
When Armando Machado checked with the West Warwick Town Hall he learned that the building at 211 Cowesett Avenue belonged to Triton Realty, Ray Villanova’s company. Machado arranged to meet with Villanova (himself unaware that the Derderians were trying to sell the club), who told him that the brothers were locked into a five-year lease, and Villanova wouldn’t let them assign it to the Machados without the Derderians’ remaining on the hook for its final two years.
When Machado told Mike Derderian that he’d spoken with Villanova, Derderian became incensed, fuming, “I wish you hadn’t done that!” With the deal dead, Machado pleaded for his $20,000 deposit back, because “they couldn’t sell something they had no right to sell,” and because “the business was worth nothing without the real estate.” The Derderians told Machado that the deposit was nonrefundable, but they would return it “when they got another buyer.”
If Machado thought himself ill-used, he would thank his lucky stars only a short time later.
The Derderians’ “other two buyers” were not exactly waiting in the wings, because the next person to show serious interest in the club didn’t call until January 27, 2003. He was Michael O’Connor. More sophisticated than Machado, O’Connor and a partner, Dan Gormley, arranged to meet with Michael Derderian at the club on January 28. The pair took the tour, checking out the stage area with its unusual egg-crate foam walls, the blacked-out atrium windows (“too dark for a lunch crowd,” thought O’Connor), and the polished horseshoe bar. They discussed the equipment that would be included in the sale — sound system, stage lighting, furniture.
Mike Derderian explained to O’Connor how they’d book national acts “four or five times a year” but use “cover” bands Thursdays through Saturdays. He pointed to the rock-themed mural they’d commissioned from Anthony Baldino as a valuable property improvement. O’Connor was impressed at how positively Derderian spoke of his employees’ teamwork.
Derderian also spoke of the club’s “very good” relationship with its residential neighbors. He told about giving them Jeff ’s cell phone number to call if things got too loud. They never discussed buying soundproofing materials from Barry Warner. Asked about permitted occupancy, the club owners told O’Connor they were “never r
eally given an occupancy limit.”
Five days later, buyers and sellers negotiated terms. Derderian asked for $195,000. O’Connor countered with 165. They settled on 190, but there remained issues of the lease assignment to work out. Nevertheless, they inked a “pre-purchase agreement” on February 7, and the buyers handed the Derderians a $19,000 deposit. The plan was for O’Connor to return on the twentieth, to see the club in operation when a national act — Great White — was appearing. Then they would close on the deal.
Around 9 o’clock on the morning of February 20, Jack Russell and the band headed to Denny’s restaurant for breakfast. Russell hardly had time to order the Grand Slam Breakfast when a tradesman in dusty work boots approached from a nearby table. “You guys have got to be a rock band,” declared Richard “Rick” Sanetti. Sanetti had been working with a crew installing flooring at the Hampton Inn then under construction in nearby Coventry, Rhode Island. That same crew was now working on some serious breakfast at Denny’s.
Sanetti could not believe it. Back in the ’80s he had bought Great White CDS. He had once cribbed lyrics from the band’s “Save Your Love” for a note he wrote to his then girlfriend, now wife. And here he was, twenty years later, with only a plate of hash browns standing between him and the great Jack Russell. Life was good.
Russell, the gracious celebrity, invited Sanetti and friends to The Station as his guests the following night. He told them that the Station concert would be a “killer show,” complete with pyrotechnics. They accepted in a heartbeat.
Great White road manager Dan Biechele added Sanetti and friends to the guest-list page in his notebook, penning a special reminder for Russell to dedicate “Save Your Love” to Rick’s wife, Patty. It would be a night to remember. In addition to his friends from work, Rick Sanetti planned to bring his wife and their beloved niece, Bridget Sanetti. Bridget was only twenty-five and knew little of Great White. But she had lived with Sanetti and his wife the last three years while working as a career counselor with at-risk kids. Bridget was responsible beyond her years, but Richard knew that her fun-loving side would not let her miss a chance to see an ’80s band so dear to her old aunt and uncle.
Killer Show Page 5
