Tales from the Trails of a Rock ’n’ Roll Bus Driver

by Jerry Fitzpatrick

  “Well, there he is now,” Jimmy said. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  I walked in. “Ask me what?”

  “Is this coach for lease?” said a woman sitting at the table inside the bus. She was blonde and was wearing a gray college sweatshirt and some baggy sweatpants. I figured she was someone’s assistant. Didn’t feel like the glamour of a superstar.

  “It sure is,” I responded.

  “How much?”

  “Depends on who wants it and for how long. Who would it be for?”

  “Mary Chapin Carpenter.”

  “Awesome,” I said. “Has she seen it yet?”

  “She sure has. I is her.”

  I was obviously embarrassed, but I didn’t care and showed her around. The coach was mauve and purple inside and out... girl colors, I guess. I gave her some details about the bus owner and my card.

  At that point, I was allowed to hang out all afternoon to watch the show and the country stars milling around backstage. There was one guy on the bill named Toby Keith. He had one hit on the radio, “Should Have Been A Cowboy.” It was catchy. I could relate. I know I should have been a cowboy. Toby only sang about four or five songs that day. He was on early, and the announcer proclaimed, “Here is the next Garth Brooks, ladies and gentlemen... Toby Keith!” Next Garth Brooks? I guess if the radio man says so.

  When he came off stage, I was standing next to some road cases where water and towels were available. He walked over to me, alone, with no extra pampering that you might see with bigger stars. He picked up a towel and wiped his face when he looked up at me.

  “Good job today, Mr. Keith,” I said with a smile. He smiled back.

  “Thanks.”

  “I drive this bus here.”

  Without looking at it, he said, “Yeah nice bus.” He then caught those girly colors, and his face changed. I could tell he wasn’t that impressed. The man had just walked off stage, and he was still sweating and flustered, but I didn’t care. I handed him one of my cards.

  “If you ever make it to the big time, call me, and I’ll be your driver.”

  He gave me that “you must be the dumbest person in the stadium if you think I am getting on that pink bus” look. Then he turned and walked away. It seems he did make it big, real big. I saw him a few years later at Farm Aid. A great guy helping a great cause. Haven’t gotten a call from him yet, though.

  Chapter 10 Americans Vs. Russians

  In the 1980s, the record companies, or the canning factories as I like to call them, were investing money in promising new bands. After each newly discovered band recorded an album, companies would invest thousands of dollars for the up-and-comers to tour the American bar circuit. I had my share of driving these types of bands during that time. One of the fun ones I traveled with was a group from the San Francisco Bay area, named Vain. The band and the crew all jumped into my bus with a trailer behind it, and we hit the road promoting their new album, “No Respect.”

  This was the height of the hair band genre, led by mega groups such as Bon Jovi, Def Leppard, Cinderella, Poison and Motley Crue. It was hard rock but with a bit of sheen to it. The musicians wore makeup and of course carried blow dryers, but they still attracted the ladies … lots of them. Maybe it was the makeup they wore.

  I picked Vain up in San Francisco on the first day, and we headed to the first show at University of California at Davis with several other bands, one being Drop Dead Gorgeous, also from the Bay area. The Drop Dead singer had a ring through his nose and a chain attached to it that led to another ring in his ear. He had a Clockwork Orange style hat and tattoos everywhere. I remember thinking he was beating himself up as he jumped around singing, more like screaming, with that chain hitting him in the face. It wasn’t a fad that caught on with me. After the show, we headed east toward Chicago and on to the East Coast bars.

  When we got under way and had a few shows behind us, everyone came together in a nice team fashion. Every day we were getting the word out and selling a few records. It felt like a nice underground movement. Our tour manager, Frogmore, had toured with Engelbert Humperdinck and was a pro at his job. He was easy going and knew how to keep everyone motivated and everything going smoothly. Vain shot several videos that climbed the MTV ladder. When we were in New York, the band made the rounds including some of the MTV shows. In 1989, that was a big deal. Does music television play music anymore?

  After several months of touring, there was a small break of a week or so between Minneapolis, Minnesota, and Austin, Texas. Once we hit Austin, it would be back to the grind – six shows a week. Sell, sell, sell. The original idea was to go to Texas, have some days off lying around, and wait for the next dates. I had been on the road for months before picking up Vain, and then we had been at it for several months with several more to go. I heard the tour manager talking about what the band was making for small club shows, and at the time it was less than a thousand dollars with the promoters covering production costs, hotel rooms and amenities.

  I talked to my wife about us promoting a show in Little Rock with Vain so I could come home for a few days and still make a buck. It took some talking, but she got behind the idea, and we started putting the wheels in motion to make it happen three and a half weeks before the break. I booked the show through the agency and paid the deposits. While I was still out on the road, Michelle put together a little army of kids and got a local radio disc jockey named Carol Kramer on our side to help promote the show. Working for Magic 105, the biggest rock station in town, Carol was instrumental in promoting new Rock ’n’ Roll in Little Rock. At the time, it seemed the Arkansas station didn’t care about promoting new Rock ’n’ Roll. Songs like “Freebrid” were in the rotation every hour. She worked tirelessly for the station. Some days she didn’t even go to bed, she worked so hard. In those days, Little Rock wasn’t a regular stop. The scene was passing our city by. There wasn’t even a descent club for a band to perform in.

  Michelle made flyers and tickets and secured the building. We decided to have the show at Rick’s Armory, a National Guard facility located in the War Memorial park area of Little Rock. The building had a round glass room that gets rented for just about anything you can think of. We hired local sound and lighting companies, hired off-duty police for security and planned to have a concert in the “megadome” as we called it. Safely, the place can hold about a thousand people.

  The group my wife recruited to pull off the show helped her find an opening act by hosting a battle of the bands the week before our show was to take place. Stacie “Mack” McIntosh, a young black girl who loved (and still loves) rock music, befriended Michelle and assisted her in putting the show on with a local rock band named Onyx, who won the competition. Stacie helped do it all – passing out flyers and using her connections to get the word out. The McIntosh family was well known in Little Rock. Stacie’s uncle, Robert “Say” McIntosh, was a popular political activist who challenged many of the local officials, including Bill Clinton.

  Vain continued to travel the country doing shows while all this was going on, and the tour manager just added the Little Rock date into the schedule. I had become good friends with the guys in the bus, and they did their part helping with newspaper and radio interviews.

  When we arrived in Little Rock from Minneapolis, we had a day off and the guys staggered off into a hotel that Michelle and I had secured for them. My wife and the team she had assembled all worked hard to make the event a reality, but before the show happened, we had $8,000 on the line. The show went off as planned for the most part, with a good walk up on the day of the event. Carol Kramer came through like a champ, getting away with everything she could at the radio station to help promote the show. Carol was on top of it all and her help made our show a success.

  When the bills were paid and everything was covered, my wife and I made $43. Everyone had a great time, and I made some new friends in the process. I also learned some fun lessons about being a promoter.

  After the show
was over, we packed it all up, I kissed the family and headed to Texas for the next Vain show. A few days later we were in Dallas where Vain had been booked for a show at a club named City Limits. Also on the bill was a band from Russia by the name of Gorky Park. The Russian act apparently was big in the Eastern Block and was trying to break ground in America as one of the first Russian bands touring in the U.S. after the wall came down. The morning we arrived at the club, the Russians showed up about the same time. From just about the time both doors opened on the buses, one group was arguing with the other. I don’t think anybody even shook hands. The main tension of the day centered on who was the headliner and who would play first. Then there were disagreements about gear placement. Who’s using what microphones and anything else you could think of … just a bunch of bullshit. I heard them yapping about it, figured they would work it out, so I went to the hotel once the disagreement over who was parking their bus closest to the door was settled. There was no chance of working it out with their bus driver. I didn’t know him.

  The show wasn’t until eight or nine that night, and around seven the tour manager called and asked me to come back because tension was escalating enough for a fight, and he wanted me near the bus in case some kind of trouble erupted. I got over to the bar 15 minutes before the show started and wandered out to the front of the house to see what was about to go down. The Russian band ended up playing first, which they were not happy about. They felt they were a bigger act than Vain.

  Sure enough, “shit happened.”

  One of the Russian guys threw his bass guitar through Vain’s bass drum, and the war was on. All of our band and crew hit the stage, along with their crew. There were 20-plus men on stage under spotlights and everyone was throwing punches, hits and kicks. Guys at the soundboard were pushing and shoving, trying to save the gear. It was mega chaos for more than a few minutes.

  The crowd didn’t have a clue what was going on or why. It turned into a mess, and a lot of equipment got damaged and a little blood got spilled. When it was over and the paperwork was done with the police, we took off for El Paso for a show and headed west to California with the camaraderie among us tighter than ever.

  In the Rock ’n’ Roll world, at least for one night, the Cold War heated up.

  No Packing For Me

  I’m not a big gun advocate. I certainly support the right to have them, but cognizant of the damage guns can do, I just don’t participate much in activities involving guns. I’m not saying ever.

  While en route with a famous rock star on a day off, it was arranged to stop at a ranch and visit some friends who were visiting friends who knew somebody. I drove all night after the show and arrived at the designated rendezvous point in the middle of nowhere in Colorado. Around 8 a.m. someone came down and met us and we went another 30-plus miles off the main highway, traveling on small country roads and finally came to a dirt road. I might mention I hate dirt roads or any road that gets my bus dirty.

  We pulled through the gate of this secluded ranch and a half dozen people were there to greet us. The ranch was spectacular with incredible views of the wilderness, mountains and endless sky. We all joined in on a big breakfast laughing and getting to know the crowd that was expanding because word spread quickly that my star was at the ranch. Several of us then went out on horseback for a couple of hours riding through the countryside. A good time and the weather was perfect. (Weather always stands out to me, because knowing the weather is knowing everything that could affect the drive, the day or the show.)

  When we returned to the main house, a ranch hand took the horses from us and we hopped on four-wheelers and rode to a gully where everyone had gathered with a large collection of guns and ammunition. There was everything, from large caliber hunting guns to military-styled weapons like M-16s and even pistols of every shape and size, some with scopes. A couple of machine guns were also in the pile. It was an incredible arsenal of over 50 weapons. Across the small valley were several things that had been placed on the side of the hill like a bell and other metal objects in various distances with several really far away. The owner of the ranch gave us free range to shoot anything except each other, which made everyone laugh as we started heading over to the table to choose weapons. We spent the next couple of hours blowing the crap out of the side of the hill and the targets. At one point there was more than a dozen people firing different types of weapons.

  It was loud and obnoxious, sounded like war but fun as all get out. We broke for a short period when some of the ranch hands showed up with some incredible food in a chuck wagon pulled by horses. After food and a ton of laughs, we went back at it until the sun was starting to set over the mountains, and I started encouraging us to get out of the country and back on the highway before dark. We still had miles of travel to our destination. We said our goodbyes, and as we were pulling back onto the dirt road, my rock star was sitting in the jump seat excited about the awesome day we just shared.

  As we pulled out he said, “I hate guns and everything they stand for but GOD DAMN I LOVE TO SHOOT THEM.” I could feel the logic in that.

  Chapter 11 Breaking In The New Guys

  You sometimes come in contact with a band that gets its breaks because of being at the right place at the right time. Breaks are a part of the business.

  I got a call to drive a band named Dada from Los Angeles. I thought they might be up-and-comers touring in clubs and bars, but these guys had secured the opening slot for a Sting tour. Dada had signed with IRS Records, which was owned by Miles Copeland. Miles’ brother is Stewart Copeland. Stewart was the drummer for The Police, whose lead singer was Sting. There you go. Easy to see how they got the slot. Good for them.

  I was married backstage on a bus during Sting’s 1988 Nothing Like The Sun tour, so I knew I would be around friends.

  I was excited about the run and headed out a day early, aiming for the desert and eventually the West Coast. I drove to Pasadena to visit some in-laws, rest and freshen up after the long drive across country. I was told by the production manager in a phone conversation a week before to contact the band’s manager at the record company when I arrived in the L.A. area. I obliged and called him when I got to my in-laws’ home. He wanted to see the bus right away. He’s in Burbank. I’m in Pasadena.

  “No problem,” I tell him. “Come on over” and I gave him directions.

  So he shows up at my in-laws’ zipping up in a convertible sports car. Seemed like a nice enough guy, and his low-down on the band made it seem like they were good guys too. He wanted to see their bus first and tell me their big secret... they hadn’t ever ridden in a bus.

  “Any of them?” I asked.

  “All of them,” he said. “They’ve never toured in their lives.”

  That can be a good thing, I thought. Blank slates can be wonderful in my hands. I had a chance to convince these guys about the way “real rock stars do it,” at least in my eyes. My only worry was that they would have some preconceived notion on how to act when traveling on a bus.

  “No problem,” I assured him. “I will take care of them. I guarantee it.” After some discussion, the plan was I would grab the guys the next day at a sound studio in downtown L.A. I spent the rest of the night relaxing with family.

  I found the pickup location easy enough by my designated time. That’s what I do, I find places. They were on time, which surprised me because who is ever on time? I spent the next few minutes packing the bus and meeting the band and crew. These were all L.A. guys. They didn’t have an overboard sense of flash. They didn’t look like they were trying to be rock stars. They looked like excited kids going on a field trip. They got on the bus with Mr. Manager following them on. When everyone was settled, Mr. Manager went into a speech.

  This guy went on for 20 minutes, preaching the pitfalls of life on the road, the temptations, the horrible people. I’m surprised he didn’t cast a glance my way. He talked about the young girls and how those harlots would be after them. “Don’t give in!”
he exclaimed.

  “Preach it,” I thought.

  He talked about drinking. No drinking on workdays... better yet, no drinking at all!

  “This gig is important,” he said constantly. Then he started into the drugs... yada, yada, yada. I sat in my seat and had never heard anything like it before. I looked out on these kids, and I thought, “Overprotected.” They had to be. This manager had to be working on orders from this group’s parents. That was the only conclusion I could come to.

  I will say this about them, they listened. They didn’t roll their eyes or pretend to fall asleep. And I listened. I waited for him to wrap it up, and then I escorted him off the bus. He was shaking my hand, and I almost thought he was going to cry. He really seemed to like these guys, or maybe he wanted to be on the road with them. Either way, it was a big moment for him. I understood, but all I could think about was the traffic building. I didn’t want to get trapped inside the L.A. rush-hour bubble.

  He stepped out of the bus and as I walked with him to his car, he had one more request of me. He wanted me to drive them by the IRS Records office. Of course, that meant doubling back and dealing with more traffic, but you do what you are told to do.

  I closed the door and turned to face everyone. They were quiet as could be, maybe thinking they were going to get another lecture from me. I surveyed the crowd and said the first thing that came to mind.

  “Man, I’m glad that jerk isn’t going with us.”

  They were stone-faced. I continued.

  “Chop ’em out, fire ’em up, crack ’em open. I know where the girls are in North Hollywood. What kind of fucking rock band are you?”

  I think they got the joke, and laughter started building. I slid into my seat and kept mocking the things he said. At least they knew when a guy was making a joke.

  That was me trying to have fun at his expense.