I moved against him, his voice a low dark encouragement going through me. “That’s it. Lils. Use me, use me.” His kiss was becoming more intense now, and his head slipped down to my neck, biting the skin where it joined my shoulder.
“Tristan…” I breathed.
We were lost in each other. The heat of his skin, his hands on me, his mouth was relentless, moving first with delicate care, then letting the intensity rise between us, until we were both breathless. His mouth moved to my ear. His voice was ragged and deep. “Lily. Lily. Make me come.” He looked around. “Touch me. No one is around, for now. I’m so close…” And he took my hand and pressed against him. “I’ll keep watch.” He laughed, brokenly. “I’ll try.”
I didn’t even question it. I knew it was crazy and I didn’t care. I unzipped his jeans, and gripped him firmly. He gasped. “That’s it, like that.” It was easy to make him slick. He was wet and hard, and I knew we had moments before someone would come along. I wanted nothing more to take him in my mouth, but we needed all the cover that two bodies could provide. His breathing grew more erratic and I could feel him tightening up. The heat coming off him was incredible. His mouth was against mine, but more for appearances than anything else. His eyes were tightly shut. And he suddenly gripped my arm, and pulled me to him, his head falling on my shoulder, as his body tensed up. His voice was broken. “Yes, fuck yes, yes,” Tristan hissed, a flood of warmth erupting over my hand as I tried to catch all of it.
A truck rumbled past behind us. Two lovers, holding each other. Having a moment. Nothing to see.
Tristan took his shirt and wiped us off, before flinging it into the marshy wasteland on the other side of the fence. He shrugged on his leather jacket over his bare chest, and throwing an arm around me, started walking us off back in the direction of civilization. His eyes were unfocused and he didn’t say anything as we went past the warehouses, putting space between us and what had happened back there. When we were nearly back to the main road, he stopped, and held me to him closely. Only I could hear what he said.
“We’re mad, Lily. Mad. But I love it. And I love you.”
chapter nine
Cleveland
Our arrival in Cleveland was uninspiring. It hadn’t been a long drive from Detroit, only around three hours, but we’d left around 4 a.m., so it had the feel of an overnight. Seeing the sign for I-90 as we came in made me irrationally wish we could stay on it, go east, and get the hell out of here. A light drizzle was falling. It was early, I needed a coffee, and the excitement of showtime seemed a long way off. Tristan went in to check on a few things and even James had actually gone inside and done some work, checking on the softgoods, and arranging for our new backdrop to go up. Finally, a couple of vans came to take us to the hotel from the bus, which was going to stay parked out by the venue.
A few days in and the routine of dealing with the public had already become just that—routine. Emerging from vans to the disorientating strobe effect of repeated bursts of flash going off, whether it was from a camera belonging to professional paparazzi or a hopeful fan’s cell phone, there was a sense that you had to make it past a gauntlet of excited people. They were all very close. Very close. I felt grateful for the large bodyguards that eased our way through in each place. Tristan didn’t like them as much, but he recognized it was a necessary evil. “Sometimes the protection can get a little carried away. You should be able to tell the difference between an excited fan and someone dangerous, and not all of them can, or do,” he had said as we were getting ready to emerge to this new group of waiting fans.
“How do they know we’re going to be here?” It seemed to me that the fans knew our schedule better than we did. “I never managed to get this close to people back in the day.”
Tristan smiled. “It doesn’t take much. One person mentions it casually to a friend—usually it’s hotel staff. Once the information is out there, pretty easy for it to spread.” He looked out the window at the small crowd. “Could be worse, really.”
We watched as James emerged from the car ahead of us, and came over to the van. The bodyguard moved through the crowd from the hotel, and James nodded to him. Once he had made a small path, James turned to the crowd and said something.
Tristan looked at me. “Autographs. Why don’t you go first, and I’ll follow.”
I nodded. “I’ll wait for you at the door.”
Tristan frowned. “You don’t have to do that.”
“No, I want to see how these people ask for autographs. Besides,” I teased him, “only one bodyguard.”
“True,” Tristan nodded. “James definitely doesn’t count.”
The bodyguard pulled open the long door to the van, and instantly the crowd surged forward, phones up, already beginning to take pictures. I came out first, and they still took pictures. I turned to look for Tristan, and watched him emerge from the van. A little cheer went up from the crowd, and as all eyes were now on Tristan, who was adjusting his sunglasses with a big smile, his hand raised in a wave, I managed to slip through and wait by the doormen, who were looking on, somewhat bemused. We were staying overnight in one of the better hotels here, so they must have seen this kind of thing before. But I had the impression that they were wondering what about this particular man, however striking he might be, was drawing this kind of attention. It was a fair question. If I was unable to answer it in a detached way, I could still see how this world of musicians, autographs, and crowds must look to the outside world, even though I was part of it in my very own way. When I watched a young woman go up to him, and let out a little shriek as he took her hand, I could understand it. There was just something about Tristan that made you want to let go, with an almost painful burst of energy.
You could spot the slightly obsessed, wearing the latest t-shirt, holding up a poster or a CD cover, nearly crying when Tristan looked their way. The guys were the same, without the shrieks. But they wanted to be noticed, singled out, just the same, and go home and tell everyone about the day they shook Tristan Hunter’s hand and got his autograph. Tristan wasn’t stupid. He knew how important this was to people, and he made a real effort to be as positive as possible whenever he had to interact with the fans. That didn’t stop him always approaching the crowds a bit gingerly, as if they were each made of possible explosive materials. The fans, for their part, were thrilled, but manically determined, pushing various pieces of paraphernalia to sign at him that could include, like that fan back in NYC, arms and breasts. Part of the process was that Tristan never had a pen. One of the fans always handed him a Sharpie, like a little ritual. He always tried to hand it back, but sometimes with the movement of the crowd and the need to keep moving, it wasn’t possible. He’d sign, then sign again, sometimes looking up, asking a question, otherwise fairly methodical, almost businesslike, with the intent of getting to as many people as possible in a short time. He smiled, that guarded but beautiful smile. But it was important to limit exposure. After about 10 people had various CDs and body parts signed, the bodyguard moved between Tristan and the crowd and herded him up to the hotel. He nodded to me, and I went in. There were enough photos of me out there already. Tristan had reminded me, “Be careful Lily. Keep your eyes open. Most people are ok, but those who are not, can be actually very dangerous.” I had shivered when he said that, and he’d pulled me close to him. “It’s fine, Lils. We are always surrounded by people. But best be careful, yeah?” He didn’t need to add that I was probably not everyone’s favorite person, for obvious reasons.
The check-in was smooth and the room was nice. I walked around the suite, and wound up in front of the window. It was a view from above, rather than a view of anything in particular. It conferred superiority, but over nothing. I opened the minibar, and shut it again. Too early to start on the little bottles, cute as they were. I sat down on the bed, which was hard, and listened to the sound of the shower coming from the bathroom. Tristan wan
ted to clean up and rest before the soundcheck. Today was a day without interviews, as he’d done a brief promo over the phone from Detroit. I wondered if I should call for some food for him from room service. I jumped up again and walked to the window. That’s where Tristan found me when he emerged from the shower, in one of the hotel bathrobes.
He glanced over, questioningly. “Not tired?”
I sighed, and hugged him. He smelled of soap and shampoo. “I am, but. I don’t know. I think I need some air.”
Tristan nodded and gave me a kiss. “Sure, go ahead. Go out. I’d go with you, but I really want some down time. Anywhere in particular?”
“I thought maybe I’d go visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.” I kissed Tristan softly on the mouth. “You have sound check. Besides, Dave suggested I could mention it in one of the blog pieces.”
Tristan grimaced. “Dave. Yeah, well, he knows his business. Have you ever been there?”
I shook my head.
“It’s ok. Looks better on TV. Don’t we all?” He held my hand and walked me over to the bed. “I’m exhausted. Think I’m coming down with something. Already.” He pulled down the ugly bedspread and climbed in. “Wait. Have you got money? Take a cab for fuck’s sake. Maybe I’ll see you at sound check. I don’t want to see myself at sound check.” He pulled the covers up and I kissed his forehead. He was a bit hot.
“I can stay…” I started. “I’d like to see it though. But if you want me here, I’m here.”
Tristan held me to him, and kissed the top of my head. “Rock music’s not a religion, you know. It doesn’t have to be a pilgrimage. You could just stay here, order up some room service, get a massage…” He trailed off as he caught my eye. “Go on then. You will be disappointed.”
I laughed. “I’m frequently disappointed. But that doesn’t mean I need to rush there.”
“No, doll. I need sleep and you’re jumping out of your skin. Don’t need a nursemaid, just some sleep in a bed. That doesn’t move. Text me if you need me.” He leaned back against the pillows and shut his eyes. I switched off the table lamp by the bed and walked out to the front door of the suite, grabbing my jacket. I felt a bit guilty, but it wouldn’t make him sleep better if I watched. I shut the door as carefully as I could and put on the Do Not Disturb sign.
The doorman got me a cab. I didn’t think he even remembered me as a part of the crowd scene in front of the hotel not more than an hour or so ago. That wasn’t a bad thing, but it did remind me how easily I could slip back into obscurity. Tristan didn’t have that luxury, or curse, depending on how you looked at it.
We crossed over the Cleveland Memorial Shoreway, which seemed a grand name for an urban throughway, and the train tracks, and approached the lake. The taxi made some turns and there we were—in front of a gaudy glass pyramid. I paid the driver and got out, taking some pictures. A group of tourists were standing in front of a state historical sign, and I went over to have a look. I took out the small notebook I always carried from my bag, and I wrote down the words on the sign:
“Birthplace of Rock ’n’ Roll”
When radio station WJW disc jockey Alan Freed (1921–1965) used the term “rock and roll” to describe the uptempo black rhythm and blues records he played beginning in 1951, he named a new genre of popular music that appealed to audiences on both sides of 1950s American racial boundaries—and dominated American culture for the rest of the 20th century. The popularity of Freed’s nightly “Moon Dog House Rock and Roll Party” radio show encouraged him to organize the Moondog Coronation Ball—the first rock concert. Held at the Cleveland Arena on March 21, 1952, the oversold show was beset by a riot during the first set. Freed, a charter inductee into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, moved to WINS in New York City in 1954 and continued to promote rock music through radio, television, movies, and live performances.
It was just a small sign. But it ended on a high note. No mention of the controversy that dogged his last years. The irony of “payola”—considering that now every awards show, every blog with a budget, every record company gave away swag in large amounts. Seemed a bit unfair, I thought. It was something that he was acknowledged at all, but with members of the Beatles crediting you for introducing them to rhythm and blues, it was a little tricky to sink him into obscurity. Anyway, his legacy was why this was here, and why I was here. I paid for my ticket and went in.
There were some interesting exhibits, but everything seemed a bit dead and pinned down, like a butterfly on display paper. It was odd, for a cultural phenomenon this vibrant, this diverse, that it all seemed lifeless, behind glass. In many ways, it represented the uneasy relationship between music and sponsorship, the top of the charts and the genuine groundbreaking acts. There were some interesting curatorial choices. I wasn’t really certain that Janis Joplin was best represented by the R. Crumb drawing of her that was due to be a blotter sheet for acid, but it was curious. Women didn’t really get much of a look in. They were there, but generally in ones and twos alongside a list of men. 1986, the first year, there were none at all. Then it began. Maybe someone had said something. 1987—Aretha Franklin. 1988—The Supremes. 1989—Bessie Smith. 1990—Ma Rainey. 1991 had Tina Turner—with Ike. Ruth Brown and Dinah Washington in 1993, more “early influences.” Then Janis in 1995 with Martha and the Vandellas. Gladys Knight and the Pips and The Shirelles in 1996. Joni Mitchell and Mahalia Jackson in 1997. 1998 had Fleetwood Mac and the Mamas and the Papas. No one on their own. Dusty Springfield and The Staple Singers in 1999. Billie Holiday and Bonnie Raitt in 2000. Brenda Lee and the Talking Heads in 2002. After that, women had to wait until 2005 and the Pretenders. And although I knew that Chrissie Hynde had always talked about being part of the band, seeing as it was her band, and she was possibly the most important member, certainly the survivor, made it slightly less significant than it could have been. They hit Blondie in 2006, and finally made it to Patti Smith in 2007, along with the Ronettes. Madonna in 2008. Wanda Jackson in 2009. 2010 had Abba. And two songwriting teams—Ellie Greenwich and Jeff Barry, and Cynthia Weil and Barry Mann. I stopped then. All very worthy individuals, but I felt there was so many more that could and should be mentioned. If the Sex Pistols made it in, why not Siouxsie Sioux? Part of the quote about her from Rolling Stone came back to me: “But only one woman had the style…and she spelled her name with an X.” Why had that lodged in the memory banks? Maybe it was the Native American reference that threw them. Carole King presented awards, but where was she in their lists? Doubtless faceless executives could come up with “reasons,” but whose reasons? How about The Runaways? Joan Jett? Groundbreaking. And for everyone I could think of, there were certainly others who were loved and respected. What about The Slits? The Pixies? PJ Harvey? The Cocteau Twins? Annie Lennox? Portishead? Suzi Quatro? Kaki King? Guesch Patti—French, obscure, amazing. Bjork. Shit. Kate Bush. Where was fucking Kate Bush?
I stomped out, past the families and the aging former high school band members in their pressed light blue jeans, and grabbed a cab. Was I any better? Writing about Tristan? Hanging around like some lovesick puppy? The “Jonah”? The “girlfriend”? I got the cab driver to stop as soon as I spotted the hotel, so I could walk around a little. After a couple of blocks, I stopped and looked around. It struck me suddenly that all of Cleveland seemed to be sculpted in different tones of beige. Light beige, dirt beige, orange beige, yellow beige, reddish beige. A range of non-choices. I was sure that there was character somewhere, but I couldn’t see it and I didn’t feel like looking. I took a picture, curious how all the non-colors would show up on a photo. Fuck, I did not want to be here. I marched over to the clichéd blue awning in front of our supposedly nice hotel and pushed open the side door without waiting for the revolving door. Almost immediately, a hotel employee was at my side.
“May I be of some assistance?” he intoned, while looking me up and down. I followed his eyes, and looked at myself and my outfit.
Black leather jacket, boots, short skirt in geometric print, silky t-shirt. Hair messy. Bag, also black leather.
I looked back up at him. “Yes, thank you. Could you direct me to the hotel bar?”
His face tightened, his mouth thinning into a line of displeasure. “Are you a guest here?”
That confirmed my suspicions. I decided to run with it. “Isn’t the bar open to all potential customers?”
He looked as though he was about to call for backup. “In theory yes, and in practice we do all we can to insure a calming atmosphere for our hotel guests.”
I smiled. “Excellent. That’s what I’m looking for. A calm atmosphere. And a drink. So I can write my article on discrimination against women in public spaces.” He looked alarmed. “But perhaps, just to be on the safe side, so you’re sure I’m not a sex worker, you’d like to see my room key?”
He paled slightly, but recovered. “Is it madam’s key, or did a guest give it to you?”
I was bored with him. It wasn’t worth it to wind him up, but it was tempting. Ah, why not. “It is madam’s key. Perhaps you saw madam arrive this morning. Does Tristan Hunter, the musician madam is following on tour and about whom she is writing an article for The Core magazine, ring a bell? Unless it’s a policy decision you’ve just taken on your own to insure no future musicians stay here, or women, which I have to say, is a brave judgment that is bound to merit some kind of future reward. Otherwise, I think showing me where the bar is would be a good idea at this point.” I smiled at him.
He nodded, and mumbled, “Right this way.” When we reached the bar, he escorted me to one of the booths, and mumbled an apology. On his way out, he exchanged a few words with the bartender. I got out my iPad and keyboard and wasn’t very surprised to see a server approaching with a bowl of different salty snacks and an ingratiating manner. “Your first drink is compliments of the Manager. We hope you are enjoying your stay here in Cleveland.” You could hear the capital letters in his voice.
Access Unlimited Page 7
