One of the many teen fans that passed through the dressing room area that night had swiped one of Rob’s favorite hats. It was shaped like the one Dr. Seuss’ Cat in the Hat wears, but it had a rainbow of colors. He was furious, and he called for a meeting of all the people who pretty much were associated with him: tour manager, production manager, wardrobe, a couple of others, including me and L.C., the drivers.
I was in the back of the room with L.C. listening to Rob chew everyone out about the missing hat. He and I hid behind the others. Rob had a plan.
“I want a helicopter!” he screamed.
What? Everyone just sort of looked at each other.
“I want a helicopter that will fly me back to Arkansas. I want a car that will take me to this girl’s address. I have her address. I am going to kick in that front door and get my hat back. Then I’m going to fly back to Shreveport and do the show tonight.”
I laughed envisioning that happing in Conway, Arkansas, where apparently the thief lived. Unfortunately, when I laughed out loud, Rob got the crazy eyes, the “I’ll kill you, motherfucker!” look. L.C. and I have had a good laugh about that one a time or two.
Maybe if Rob had known how their careers would come crashing down in a few months, he may have not worried about a hat. They did entertain the masses, but everyone behind the curtain, including me, yeah, we knew.
Chapter 8 The Short Strange Trip
Not only did 1988 provide me the chance to work with Van Halen, the Rock ’n’ Roll kings to me at the time, but the year gave me the chance to work with the jamband kings, the Grateful Dead.
I knew who they were. I enjoyed their music, but they weren’t in the forefront of my musical tastes at the time. I’d heard it was one of the best tours to be on. When I got the assignment, I was looking forward to the run. I didn’t care if they played polkas. A good tour is a good tour.
I arrived in Bloomington, Minnesota, the day before the show. First days are always crazy with everyone doing his or her best to get started on the right track. The Dead had many of the same crew for years, so everyone was comfortable with their jobs. Just like the band, they were easy going and laid back.
I was assigned to drive Robbie Taylor, the Dead’s production manager. Robbie’s regular driver wasn’t available for some reason, so I was assigned the seat. Robbie is well known throughout the industry and has years of touring experience. We left Bloomington after midnight and headed for Alpine Valley, Wisconsin. Once we got out on the highway, Robbie came up to the jump seat with his glass of wine and stretched out. The jump seat in a Florida Coach Eagle was very large and designed in such a way that you could stretch your legs across the entryway. The windshields on the Model 10 Eagles were large, but overhead cabinets blocked the sky from the passenger’s seat. He leaned back, drank his wine and observed my driving skills. By now, I was starting to notice the Deadheads en route to the next gig. I had passed enough of them to figure it out – hippies in beaten-up cars and vans weighed down with camping gear. I brought it up to Robbie, but it seemed to be an old hat for him. He started sharing the history of everything and everyone involving the Grateful Dead as he drank his wine. I asked him a few questions on things I’d heard over the years and drove on into the night passing Deadheads along the way.
Bob Dylan was already at Alpine doing a three-night stand. The Dead was then moving in for three nights. It was craziness like I have never seen at Alpine compared to the many times I’ve been there since. Thousands of people were camping in the parking lots. The roads getting into the venue were being closed for long periods of time to allow traffic to use both lanes going the same direction. It was a nightmare getting in and getting out. During our four days there, The Dead used a helicopter to fly the band and crew out to Lake Geneva Airport. From there we used cars to get to the hotel.
In 1988, the backstage area at Alpine was a bit of a pain. The load-in area has a steep ascent, which makes it tough on the trucks and buses to get to their positions. And it was all dirt at that time. But once you get the production in, everything is worth the effort. Alpine is a great place to see a show, and recent years have seen improvements to the venue.
The bus company whose bus I was driving also had the buses on the Dylan tour. The daughter of the owner was one of the drivers, and as we arrived, she was getting her golf clubs out and ready. You have to drive across the Alpine Valley Golf Course to get to the backstage area of the amphitheater. Several other people were following her lead and heading out to the course. I had yet to take up the game. Several other drivers didn’t go, so I followed them around for a few minutes before heading out on my own to investigate the masses.
After the first show, we stayed over at the gig and slept in the buses. Sometime late in the night, Robbie and several others decided to head out to Barter Town. They named the camping area, where all the Deadheads camped, after the city in the Mad Max movie. We took golf carts out for fun and headed out to the camping area. It was easy to understand where the Barter Town name came from. Besides the constant roar of music on stereos and from people playing their own instruments, many of the Deadheads made things to sell to support their travels following the band. There was everything from food to shirts to jewelry and hats. And of course drugs. There was alcohol, acid, mushrooms, marijuana and almost anything else you could think of. The rumors were true.
There were Deadheads everywhere, and at two or three in the morning, the parties seemed to be peaking. Many were tripping on drugs and booze. It looked like a party from a ’70s movie scene. As we rode around, many of the people recognized Robbie and some of the crew guys. We stopped at various parties and wheeled and dealed with the partygoers, getting our favors and trinkets. Girls seemed interested in our positions with the band. It was easy to strike up conversations with just about anyone. I watched all four of the shows at Alpine and got hooked on the jam sessions the band performed that weekend.
We went to Buckeye Lake after Alpine, and the convoy of Deadheads went with us. I passed many of the same ones remembering their vehicles. Some were very unique – converted buses and campers and many loaded down cars with supplies and people. After the Buckeye Lake show, we went to Pittsburgh, Saratoga, New York, Rochester, New York, and we finished out in Oxford Plains Raceway in Oxford, Maine.
At that time, I couldn’t remember a tour that I had ever done that was more organized than the Grateful Dead, or more fun for that matter. I learned a few new approaches to touring, and it made the gigs after that easier to accept. The entire time was perfect. The crew, the catering, and the crowds were all just an amazing thing to be a part of. I learned to appreciate the spontaneity of a jam band compared to the rehearsed and canned shows from factory bands. It’s music for the moment, not for the masses. This Jerry says thanks to that Jerry.
Another Jerry Story
Traveling with Bruce Hornsby, a jamband musician in his own right, was a really good time. Throughout his stellar career, he has had some of the best musicians in the business in his band. Of course, Bruce is an incredible one himself.
I’ve been privileged to work on two Hornsby tours. On one, Bruce was opening for Bonnie Raitt, and the other one was a headlining tour. John Dearth and Bobby Reed, two great players from Charlottesville, Virginia, played with Bruce, with John Molo doing drums. Debbie Henry was singing background on the tour. I knew her from some of the Patty Labelle shows I had worked. Jimmy Haslip, an incredible bass player, well known for his work with the jazz-fusion group, the Yellow Jackets, did a series of shows with Bruce. Several other bass players sat in after Jimmy left. Bruce and the band rode on my bus.
It kind of worries me when passengers won’t sleep in their bunk, especially when it gets late. Some are like that, though. I feel like they don’t trust me doing my job. The way I see it, if we crash, you’ll be hurt either way.
Jimmy wouldn’t spend time in his bunk, instead opting for a seat on the couch right behind the wall that separated my driving area from the front lounge
area. He would play his bass all night long, jamming on things I had never heard a bass player play. He can play like no other. It may seem strange, but just about every musician or band I’ve ever worked with that came out of Virginia are what I call “real musicians.” These are people who can play and read music, and just about all of them have a music degree of some form. Many bands out of the big coastal cities, where the star canning factories reside, can hardly read a book much less read notes on a page.
One night at a show in North Carolina, I had walked up to the side of the stage in a theater where Bruce was playing. I was standing behind the curtain watching the show. I was facing Bruce but standing in the shadows a bit in an area where I thought he, the other musicians or the crowd wouldn’t see me.
When he finished a song the lights grew brighter before the next one as he sat at his piano. He was making small talk to the crowd of 3,000 or so in the sold-out theater. I couldn’t make out too much of what he was saying. Voices can sound muffled when all the musicians are playing and you’re standing behind the speakers. Then he looked right at me and said to the crowd, “Hey, guess what? Jerry is here tonight.”
Bruce had a long association with the Grateful Dead, even having played many shows with them over the years. The crowd started yelling and screaming and showing their love. They thought that’s what he meant, and they knew who Jerry was. Even I started looking around for Jerry Garcia, thinking I hadn’t heard that he was sitting in tonight.
After a minute or so, it got quiet. Then Bruce leaned into his microphone and said, “Jerry Fitzpatrick … my bus driver.” Everyone laughed, me included.
Chapter 9 Tricks Of The Trade
As a younger driver, sometimes you want to drive for certain celebrities, and sometimes you may want to drive certain buses. I had a chance to drive a 1990 Marathon Coach for a bus broker. It really didn’t matter who would be on it, the chance to drive a Marathon was special. Marathon builds incredible coaches with plush interiors, and when this one was new, it was one of the nicest lease buses in the industry.
Like so many other opportunities that came to me by chance, so did the one to drive this top-notch bus. But by the time I got behind the wheel, this particular Marathon already had half a dozen drivers who had improperly operated it. There were dents and scratches, and many of the interior functions... well, they didn’t function. Most of the bus owners I have dealt with through the years know that I take “pride in their ride,” and I will keep things in top shape. I will even try to fix things. I might have a run-in with an owner who whines about the expense of fixing things, but I usually just take care of it and worry later. No matter what breaks or doesn’t work on a bus, it reflects on me in most cases. Most passengers don’t know the bus owner and expect the driver to work like they are the owner of the equipment. This particular Marathon I volunteered to drive was owned by Robert Van Winkle, better known as Vanilla Ice. When Mr. Ice wasn’t using the bus, a bus broker leased it out to other entertainers.
A promoter in Texas booked it for a weekend to use as his office while he managed the entertainment for the KSCS Country Fair. KSCS was and is one of the largest country music radio stations in the United States. They promoted an annual event known as the Country Fair. It grew and grew over the years until finally, it was placed in and around Texas Stadium in Irving, Texas, where the Dallas Cowboys used to play. The carnival rides were placed out in the parking lot, and it resembled a midway at your standard county fair. But inside the stadium was a 40 x 40 stage that was placed on the 50-yard line facing the south seats. They would do everything in their power not to damage the field that the Cowboys played on, so you would routinely see large sheets of plywood laid out across the field from the access tunnel to the stage for equipment to drive on.
I knew the promoter, Glen Smith of Glen Smith Presents, from my staging days. GSP had rented from Concert Staging Services where I had worked as a stagehand. GSP mainly promoted country shows in Texas. My first contact with GSP was when I worked some shows at a new venue called The Oil Palace in Tyler, Texas. Jimmy, a GSP assistant, and I had become good friends. Jimmy was the one who did the work in the trenches for the promoter, and I think Jimmy was the one who came up with the idea of parking a coach behind the stage to use for an office.
The fair was Saturday and Sunday, so I took off from my Arkansas home Friday for a leisurely five-hour drive to Dallas. To a bus driver, five hours is a breeze. My plan was to arrive in Dallas, get the bus washed up and looking good just before I drove it to the field next to the stage. The tens of thousands of people probably weren’t there to see a bus, but for those who would notice, I wanted it to glow. At least they would think, “I wonder who is in that beautiful thing?” The way the stairs were positioned on the stage, I knew it would look like every star on the bill would be coming out of my bus. This would be an easy gig – set up shop, enjoy the show, and head back home to be with the family. For the time involved, it was to be a profitable run.
Dwight Yoakam, one of my favorite singers, was on the bill as was Mary Chapin Carpenter, another singer I admired. I enjoy country music, and yet, I don’t care for working in the country music touring business. I have avoided it whenever possible. Nashville accountants are scrooges, and Nashville wages don’t compete with pop, rock and other tours where pay scales for skilled tradesmen are much better. With Nashville acts returning home every week, accountants consider it a benefit for you to return home every week. But I’ve never lived in Nashville. I have, however, driven Nashville acts on short three-day runs and have had to wait two weeks or more to be paid for those three days of work. The pay scale for those three days only equaled two thirds of a pop or rock tour pay scale.
But, like I said, that weekend in Texas, I had a Marathon custom coach rented to a country music festival. The weekend looked promising, and I skipped into the Dallas area by 8 p.m. I figured I would grab some dinner and head to the stadium by 10.
Finding the right gate was not a problem at Texas Stadium nor was maneuvering the parking lot or reaching the service entrance ramp. I parked the bus and walked down to the field. It was an impressive sight seeing where the Dallas Cowboys played ball. A lot of heroes on this field. I wandered to the stage and announced my presence. We figured out where the bus should go, and I planned on washing her up, driving her on the field and then taking a nap. Everyone else was heading out to the hotels.
I was impressed with the layout. I had worked in stadiums before, and I knew exactly where to find water to clean my bus. Halfway through the tunnel headed for the field is a level where all the big service trucks can enter and bring their beer and sodas and everything else sold at a stadium. Garbage bins are in these areas too. And next to any garbage bin is usually a water connection. This time was no different. I had my own hoses and tools of the trade. No big deal. Everyone has his own way of taking care of equipment, and I have argued with other drivers about various products, ideas and techniques to get the best shine on chrome. Anything works if you have enough elbow grease. I stuck that bus in the tunnel and worked it over, washing and drying it by hand in about three hours. By 2 a.m., I had everything put away and slid into the driver’s seat to move the coach onto the field.
Then I noticed some water had pooled on top of the shift pad. It had dripped in because the seal around the window was leaking. I grabbed a towel and soaked up everything I could. When everything appeared dry, I turned the switch. All the proper lights came on. I then turned the motor over. The computer did its check, and I figured there was no damage. All buses with Detroit motors and transmissions have a computer that checks fluid levels and other key components for the bus when you turn on the key. All appeared safe.
I put the bus in reverse so I could back up enough to pull forward through the tunnel and onto the field. As I started to move, the transmission slipped out of reverse and jammed into first. Then it slid back to reverse and back to first. I tried to push the keypad to get it into neutral, but it was not work
ing. I killed the engine. After jerking back and forth, the bus sat across the tunnel in such a way that I was blocking everything. No one would be able to get through the main ramp to the field as long as the bus was sitting there. My one saving grace was that it was 3 a.m. and there was not a soul around.
With necessity being the mother of invention, I grabbed a hair dryer — didn’t everyone have a hair dryer in the ’80s? — and started blowing as much hot air as I could on the keypad. I tried that angle for over an hour. I just wanted to get it out of the tunnel so I could fulfill my rental obligation. There was also the embarrassing factor of blocking every other single vehicle and possibly shutting down the entire fair.
After drying the keypad with a hair dryer, I was able to move the bus to the bottom of the ramp where the field was before the transmission started to act up again. I was still blocking the tunnel when I spotted a forklift driver. Frazzled, I convinced him to pull the bus into its designated position before anyone else got there.
I slept until noon, and when I woke up, the gates had opened, and the first acts were about to take the stage. The bus was filled with production people from various bands. The bus was in place, and no one needed to know how it got there. I took the opportunity to slip out and grab a shower in the Cowboy locker room. I called a local repair shop that came out before the show and fixed the bus as good as new.
When I walked back and entered the bus, I heard Jimmy say my name.
Tales from the Trails of a Rock ’n’ Roll Bus Driver Page 8
