It’s the last date of my tour. I’m playing in Perth, the most remote major city in the universe. It is staggeringly beautiful: an ocean-side city where women have that lean, willowy beach look, sunburned men drink and fight, and sharks take the lonely swimmer. It is 3,000 miles from the nearest large city. And who lives here now? Hank B. fucking Marvin, the man who inspired me, as well as a legion of British guitarists that you know and love, and the original owner of the very first REDFENDERSTRAT!!! The man I first idolized as a twelve-year-old weasely would-be guitar player back in sweet, dying England of the very early 1960s. This man was the first-ever English-born guitar hero.
Up until Hank, it had been the Eddie Cochrans, the Duane Eddys, and the Scotty Moores who had the monopoly on the guitar-star thing. Hank and his band the Shadows became superstars throughout Europe, Asia, Africa, and Australia in the late ’50s and early ’60s, though they were never able to crack the U.S.—and that was just the way it was. Back then (before the Beatles) there was only one way for music to travel across the Atlantic—from the U.S. to Europe. It simply did not go the other way. If you weren’t American, you had a hard time getting any music played in the States. And we knew it and felt humbled and a little intimidated by that fact. Occasionally a British or Australian song would be a U.S. hit for a few weeks, but it never amounted to anything lasting or any real American career for the artist.
Hank suddenly made being a homegrown star cool. He was cool. He looked like Buddy Holly and played an American guitar—the only Fender guitar on this side of the Atlantic at the time. He inspired all of us snotty-nosed English kids (yep, at this point I still considered myself a Limey) and made it seem possible for all us non-Americans to aspire to something magic. And he was and is a brilliant player, with a tone that guitar players still refer to as the “Shadows” or the “Hank Marvin” sound. He was a veritable giant in 1961. Now in 2007 I have been e-mailing him for a few months prior to the tour, and I finally call him when I get to Perth. He is gracious, and we arrange to meet at a restaurant in the part of Perth where he now lives. (Maybe being able to meet your childhood idol is the third good thing about being a celebrity. Remember? First, getting good restaurant reservations and second, occasionally helping your kids in their school life. I’m pretty sure there is no fourth thing.)
Now, honestly, think of the person you believed was a god when you were a little kid. The artist/singer/actor/writer/cartoon character who you would have given anything just for the privilege of lying down upon the street in the rain so they wouldn’t have to get their celestial feet wet … now invite them to dinner and have them accept—that’s how I feel about the prospect of getting together with Hank. Every English guitar player owes an allegiance to Hank B. Marvin: Eric Clapton, George Harrison, Jimmy Page, Jeff Beck, Brian May—truly, the list is endless.
I’ve reconnected with my old school mate John Kennedy in the intervening years and am pleased to find that he has not ended up in prison. In fact, he has a good life and a great family. And because he and I became friends over our shared love of the Shadows and specifically Hank B. Marvin, I invite John to Perth on this day so we can both be fourteen-year-olds together again while we pretend we are adults and chat jovially with Hank B. It is a stunning moment in time, and dear Jesus I wish we could have somehow known this was going to happen when we were little tiny “nuts haven’t fully dropped yet” boys and longing to be guitar stars ourselves. I wish for anyone who is a fan of someone to have such a meaningful meeting with their life hero. It is everything fourteen-year-old Ricky and fourteen-year-old Johnny could have ever dreamed of. And God bless Hank for being such a stand-up human being to see the love and fandom blazing pathetically in our eyes but still carry on a conversation as if we were all equals. It’s not very often that our heroes measure up to our expectations, which is why I usually don’t like to meet people I am a fan of. And we are all fans of someone.
I return to my home in the U.S. of A. with a guitar signed to me from “Hank B.” Gomer doesn’t care much about the guitar, but he is real happy to see me. And I, him. My girl B has a question in her eyes. It’s the result of me being away from home for so long, and I tell her I am hers now. I know you may be thinking that I am a dickhead to ever have given her cause to doubt me in the first place, but let me just say in my own defense … you are correct: I am a dickhead. It is behind us now and I intend to never have it be a question in her eyes again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
IN OVERDRIVE
HOME
2010
The first song I complete when I get home is to my girl B: “Venus in Overdrive.” The goddess of love in full force. A metaphor for Barbara herself and the constant love she has brought into my life. I am a lucky son of a bitch.
Here’s me thinking love can never survive
You showed up Venus in Overdrive
Sex just got me buried alive
Turn on
Venus in Overdrive
I begin recording my new album, having written all the songs with my band’s bass player, Matt Bissonette. This is the first time I’ve ever collaborated on the writing of a whole record. It’s something I’ve resisted previously on the grounds that if you write a song with another person it becomes a “song by committee” and therefore loses some of its personal charm and depth. I’ll add a caveat here and say that the great songwriting partnerships of the world—Lennon and McCartney, Rodgers and Hammerstein, etc.—defy this concern, but they’re pretty rare. The kind of connection they achieved doesn’t happen very often.
I’ve heard some songs Matt has written and I like them. Because we’re around each other so much on the road, we just gravitate toward this songwriting partnership, and I’m excited by the results. Something happens with our songwriting together that maybe wouldn’t have happened if we’d written separately. Matt is one of the most brilliant musicians I’ve ever met (Matt, send the check to my home address), and we have a mutual respect of each other’s strong points as far as the craft of writing a song goes. Plus he’s possibly more driven than even I am when it comes to getting a song finished. Matt has just lost his mom, and we are in similar places in our lives with regard to family relationships, things we no longer want to be involved in, things we hope to achieve, dreams we hope to fulfill. And we are both deeply affected by Sahara’s death. The album we write is full of her soul.
We record Venus in Overdrive in less than thirty days at my cool new “no drummers allowed” studio, the Black Lagoon. This is a far cry from the almost eleven months I labored over Shock, Denial, Anger, Acceptance. Gomer has a bed under the console and another one in the corner of the control room. There’s his water dish and a bowl for the special “people” food that Matty Spindel, my studio engineer, brings in fresh every morning. The backyard is just beyond the studio door so “the Gome” has ready access to a place where he can stretch his legs, check for bastard squirrels, and pee and poop in close proximity to his main man, me. I’ll know I’ve truly beaten my demons in this life when I come back in my next life as my own dog.
This time the songs we record are more along the lines of Working Class Dog: power pop with strong hooks and most no longer than three minutes. We cut two more new songs about Sahara—“Oblivious” and “God Blinked.”
But there is a short break while we conduct the annual Malibu “pack-up-your-real-important-shit-and-run-for-your-fucking-lives” fire drill. I wake up one morning ready to head to the studio when Barbara comes rushing into the bedroom to tell me there’s a big fire and it’s headed our way (not good). I have just bought one of those gasoline-powered water-pumps (good) that you drop one end of into the pool and hose down the house with the other, but I’ve neglected to read the directions on how to operate it (not good). So with the fire storming over a ridge of the not-too-distant mountain (really not good), I fill the pump with gas, find all the right connections for the hoses and get it running (good). I toss all the outdoor furniture into the pool (which makes i
t look like the aftermath of the Titanic sinking), then grab some of my vintage guitars and put them in my car (also good) before realizing that I now have a half-container of gasoline sitting by the house (not good), so I figure I’ll put it in my car, since the car is filled with gas anyway, so how much worse could it be? (good?) and then remember I’ve just put some of my treasured vintage guitars in that car (really not good), so I unload the guitars from the car and put them into my son Liam’s car (good), but he says, “I’m not leaving. I’m staying with you to fight the fire” (not good).
All this time, B and my old mum (who is visiting us from Australia for a few months of recreational fire drills and shopping) are loading the dogs, photos, and home videos into her car and getting ready to head for the hills—at least those that aren’t on fire (good)—while the cops are driving up and down the neighborhood broadcasting, “This is a mandatory evacuation!” (not good). But then I realize that there is no such thing, because they can’t force you to leave your home (good … I guess). I then run into the house and grab some of my more valuable Star Wars figures (extremely geeky) and put them in Barbara’s car. When she comes out, she asks me what’s in the big box that’s taking up all the room in her backseat (could go either way). I say “It’s my Star Wars stuff.” She rolls her eyes and goes back into the house for more photos of loved ones (okay, good). Then she grabs my old mum and they head off to the local safe place. I crank up the pool-pump thing and start hosing down Liam’s car (with my cool guitars inside it) and he says, “Dad, what are you doing? Spray the HOUSE!” (smarter), so I do. And when I walk out into the street again it is eerily quiet. A few neighbors are standing beside loaded cars and trucks and we all look at each other and offer tight, strained smiles. It’s kind of like we’re waiting for the flesh-eating zombies to come, as monstrous billows of dark-gray smoke suffocate the horizon.
Eventually the capricious winds change, the fire heads the other way, and we’re all spared again (really good). My lovely mother and the very patient B drive back home, and we unload Gomer and his two sisters Molly Moleskin (a schnoodle) and Piggy the incredibly pudgy pug, plus all the crap we loaded into the car in the first place at the onset of this yearly oh-my-God-we’re-all-gonna-die ritual. We’re all tired, happy, and in need of a big, fat glass of red wine. Later, I drive around town. There are blackened mountains everywhere, and it seems like we live on the moon (but a moon with a really nice beach). Thankfully the ocean won’t burn. Well, maybe after a few more oil spills it might.
I have an uncomfortable suspicion that my Star Wars stuff may secretly be sold online in the coming weeks, so I go to my website and alert certain fans to watch eBay and make sure my super-neato space toys are not heartlessly sold off. There are some really commando, hard-core superfans who will watch my ass on this and alert me if certain very, very, VERY rare one-of-a-kind Star Wars 3½-inch plastic figures show up online. I have paid some serious money for these really badly molded and painted, dopey, cheesy plastic figures, and I do not intend to lose them, goddammit! Yes, that is the Star Wars toy–obsessed part of me that still lives in my mum’s basement and hasn’t kissed a girl yet.
Soon of course the rains will come, now that the fires are gone, and acres and acres of newly denuded, precious topsoil will be washed into the ocean to choke the fish. I’m pretty sure that somewhere in Malibu, a new-money numb-nuts asshole has built himself a big fancy house on top of Chumash Indian burial grounds. How else do you explain all the fires, mudslides, floods, and earthquakes? There are even too many fucking frogs here! Pestilence, anyone?
We get back to finishing the new album. I send Amy the three tracks about her girl to get the okay. She leaves a sweet and tearful message on my cell phone that they are all good with her and Shannon. I’m glad. The monument is built, and we release the album Venus in Overdrive. It debuts on the U.S. charts higher than any album of my career. And the first single, “What’s Victoria’s Secret?” gets more attention than my last three albums combined. We hit the TV and press circuit and then take the new album on the road. In my hotel room again, late at night, I realize I am doing this for the right reasons now. I’m not purging myself of guilt or having to own up to any bad conduct in these songs. They are all basically positive and about the true and good side of my love and passion. I am playing and performing for the absolute joy of transmitting this new music. It’s a powerful feeling.
B and I are closer than we have ever been and the bottom line is, we still turn each other on. She is more crucial to my existence than ever. I am never more content than when I am at home, feeling safe, and she is busy moving around the kitchen, cooking something brilliant for her family. She has become my spiritual center, my soul-compass: the one who keeps me turning in the right direction. Her love for me has been strong enough to keep her by me while I worked through my shit and tried to be better for her. She, more than anyone on the planet, understands me and has given me room to write publicly about our life in song and in prose. She makes it work. She is the reason we are together. She is also the best person I have ever known. And we have built a life together that continues to grow.
Mr. D is still with me, of course, and he chimes in now and then. “Hey, Sport. You’re just one slipup away from this all turning to shit, y’know?” And I do know. He’s right. So I meditate. I pray. I focus on my work. I give thanks for my girl B and my family, and I occasionally go on vitamin P when the Darkness gets too in-my-face. It’s not a perfect solution, but I’m still very much a work in progress. I feel kind of like an idiot savant sometimes: pieces of me are really messed up, but there’s a part that has a gift. A glimmer of potential and promise amidst the flaws.
I record a CD of the lullabies I wrote for my sons when they were born almost twenty-five years ago. We rent a cruise ship and begin the annual Rick Springfield and Friends Cruise, playing and partying down to Key West, Cozumel, and back to Miami. Eventually, in our third year, our cruise goes to the Bahamas. We head to Japan again and again with no dark shit at all, and Mr. D is pretty bored and pissed off about that. Suck it, fucker! We go to Europe for the first time in years and play outdoor festivals.
I’m determined to get back into my acting career as well, and I am cast in a four-episode arc on the TV show Californication. This is a very risqué show about sexual addictions (typecasting?), and it’s the first show for which I’ve ever had to sign a “nudity and simulated sex” waiver (where you agree that you are okay with indulging in simulated carnal perversion on cable television) before beginning work. Now, hold on a second here. Did I just say “nudity, sex, and work” in the same sentence? Well yes, I did. And halfway through the filming of these shows, which are brilliantly written and a blast to do, I drop my pants and have “sex” with a young stripper. And I don’t have to get a divorce, I don’t end up on the evening news, my kids aren’t ashamed of me (in fact, they’re quite proud), and I get paid for doing it! Maybe this is the direction I should have been going in all along—acting all this crazy shit out! Acting is much more fun and a greater reward for me since I’m older and have a certain amount of life experience under my belt. I’m turned on by it now like I am by music, and I look forward to playing more sexual deviants.
Okay. I’m going to drop one final name here, so watch your toes. I’m a music fan first and foremost, so consequently I’m a fan of other musicians. When I was in my teens, Paul McCartney became the guy. Seeing the Beatles was a life changer and Paulie was the one I singled out. He was the one I most wanted to be like. His were the songs I dissected and tried to emulate. His hair was the style I tried to comb my unruly mass into a sad simulation of. I had such a boy crush on him. I kept his photo in a notebook otherwise reserved for my sacred but quite dopey poems, atrocious song lyrics, amateurish drawings, and other artsy-fartsy stuff. At some point I left the notebook behind, but my fanship of Paulie has only grown. It’s been a lifelong dream to meet the man who was the object of my teen worship. I get my chance early in 2010 at a pre
-party for the Golden Globes. I know he’ll be there and, in truth, it’s the only reason I attend. A mutual friend has arranged an introduction. In my mind, it’s just Paulie and me. Mano a mano. I step up to the meeting and I’m shaking like a little girl. Paul eyes me warily, perhaps trying to decide if I’m a stalker or just another avid fan. (I’m the latter, but I probably come across as the former.) And of course I’m sure it’s a thrill for him to meet yet another Beatle freak, but it all goes swimmingly. Afterward I send the resulting photo of the two of us to everyone in my e-mail address book with the advisory that they “suck it … hahahahha … here is a photo of me with my new BFF Paulie.” And in some bizarre way, my life now seems oddly complete. I love being a fan. It puts life in perspective and there is always more to aspire to when you’re looking up. And everyone is a fan of someone. Paul is a fan of someone, I am a fan of Paul’s, and someone else is a fan of mine.
I love music and being a musician. For all the poor choices I’ve made in my life, I’ve made some very right ones. I’m glad I took the chance and bailed on school when I did (Liam and Josh, if you’re reading this, it’s all bullshit). I’m glad that I decided to travel and play and write. I love guitars. I have them all over my house: on walls, in stands and corners, everywhere I look. They’re beautiful, individual works of art, and each one has as much soul dripping from it as Howlin’ Wolf’s sweaty brow on a hot night at Silvio’s Lounge on Chicago’s West Side.
Late, Late at Night Page 35
