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

by Jerry Fitzpatrick

  I don’t know if the passing truck clipped the other one’s mirror, but they were extremely close. I pulled over as far to the right as I could. I know I could have reached my hand out and pulled a strip of dirt off his trailer with my finger. I could hear the bus grab the gravel on my right side and then slip. In a split second, I pulled it back, and I found my bearings as I pulled back on the road. What they say is true. Things go in slow motion when you are on the verge of an accident. I saw a highway sign jiggle in the rearview mirror where I clipped it, and I saw dust flying off in the air as if in some Western, all of it in the span of a half second that seemed to last a lifetime.

  As soon as I got straight, I reached for my CB radio. I was ready to curse the guy out, but as those words met my lips, I changed my mind. It didn’t matter, and I rolled down the hill. A few seconds later, my right leg started shaking uncontrollably, and I burst out crying. The adrenaline of all types of feelings after a truly near-death experience was something I had never experienced before or since. All I could think was, “At least I didn’t shit my pants.”

  The sun came up, and I got my composure back. Then the girls woke up.

  I can’t remember which one talked to me, but I heard, “Did we hit a bump back there? I felt us jerk around.” She didn’t say anything else. I don’t think they ever realized how close they came to being two more Rock ’n’ Roll legends. In fact, I don’t think any rock star, cozy on the bus, is aware of the dangerous situations around him or her. If that’s the case, it’s a job well done for me.

  Chapter 20 Wrong Number

  Just about every day when I’m working, I am around rock stars with fans who would do just about anything to get close to their favorite entertainer. They practically melt at the sight of their celebrity, and rules get tossed aside when they are trying to reach out and touch their rock star, if even for a second. Rules of the road tend to go out the window for them as well. Road rules are number one in my book. Mix that with securing the safety of my precious cargo, and infatuated fans sometimes give me a run for my money.

  Along with roadblocks and potholes, I have to constantly watch out for starry-eyed fans whose desire to see their rock star up close could result in injury. Fortunately, their actions mostly just produce smiles and giggles.

  One day I picked up singer and guitarist Dave Matthews in Seattle for a drive to the Gorge Amphitheatre where Matthews and his band were doing a three-day run of shows over Labor Day weekend. We were traveling on I-90 eastbound and passing through Ellensburg, Washington. I was cruising along when I passed a car that had five women in it. When they saw me passing and (more important) saw Dave sitting in the jump seat they all started yelling and waving and the worst of it all, they started driving like ding dongs. They sided me for a couple of miles; Dave had waved back a couple of times. They were snapping pictures and screaming when one of the girls had recorded her phone number on a piece of paper and held it up. I dialed the digits on my phone. The girls’ squealing outside the bus and on the phone were like sounds blasting through the stereo. I handed the phone over to the boss, and he chatted with them a minute. We learned they all were in the Army and stationed at Fort Lewis, Washington. Of course, they needed a ticket or two. We got their names for the tickets and said goodbye.

  We arrived safely at the gig, and it was a great weekend. The Gorge is one of the most beautiful places on earth to host a musical event. It’s a well-known facility, and you’re lucky if the job takes you there. Surrounded by campsites and nature, fans are more relaxed than the rock-out scene in big city arena shows while they enjoy the electric energy created by the music.

  I never saw any of the screaming girls or talked to them again until January the following year. I was home lying on my couch on a cold, wet Sunday afternoon watching a football game when the phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway and a girl’s voice on the other end said, “Hi Dave, how are you today?” Me, being old school, said, “Dave’s not home, man” like Cheech and Chong said in their Dave’s Not Home skit. The girl laughed and said, “You’re so funny, Dave.”

  I told her I was not Dave Matthews. We debated my identity for a good while. I didn’t mind, the football game was lousy, and I was having a giggle waiting on the next one to kick off. She said she knew I was Dave because she had seen Dave dial her number, and she had kept the number of the incoming call all this time. She had even had the number tattooed on her arm. I said, “YOU DID WHAT?” She repeated that she had my number tattooed on her arm, and she said it was OK we were talking, because she wouldn’t tell anyone that she had spoken to Dave. It took another bout of banter to explain to her whose number had called her that day and why it was mine. We had a good laugh about it once she believed my identity.

  In our conversation, she explained she was heading to Iraq or Afghanistan for a tour. God Bless that child. Another young brave American following government orders. More than a year passed when one night the phone rang. When I answered, someone said, “Hi Dave!” It was a different girl, so I went through the spiel again: “Dave’s not home, man.” We bantered about it for some time when she tells me she is at a tattoo parlor in Washington. It was the same tattoo parlor where the other girl had my number imprinted on her arm.

  She knew the soldier who will never forget my number. We had some more good laughs about the whole thing. Most important to me is I found out that the girl had returned safely to America from her tour of duty with, hopefully, only the mental scars to heal, and of course, my phone number on her arm.

  Chapter 21 Love And Lewd

  There’s no telling what the world thinks of Courtney Love. Even those who haven’t listened to a note of her music or seen one frame of her film work have an opinion on the brash and brazen diva. She is what some would consider a “real” rock star. Or at least a stereotypical one.

  I spent a few weeks driving her in the Baby Bus, and during that time I came to admire her. In my opinion she is genuine, and I admire that in a person. No bullshit with Courtney... or maybe all bullshit, who knows?

  In rock circles, she was a musician and an actress, but most people will always remember her as the wife of Nirvana’s front man, Kurt Cobain. Rolling Stone magazine even dubbed her “the most controversial woman in the history of rock.” That, my friends, is saying a lot. When Cobain committed suicide, Courtney was on her way to rock stardom in her own right, recording the album “Live Through This” with her band, Hole. The title couldn’t have been eerier.

  Unlike other assignments where I had just wanted to drive in the most professional manner possible, this seemed a little different. I was excited about being able to work for a well-known, hard-to-deal-with rock star and completing the mission where others had failed. I had worked with many in the industry whose public persona is not the same as how they are in private. Maybe I wanted to see what made her tick. Having witnessed much of the crap tossed her way, especially in the media, it was easy to see her struggles with life. When I got the assignment, I was a little cautious, but the tour manager, Nick C., is one of the best in the business and that comforted me. Also, my friend Gaylon was driving the band, so I knew I wouldn’t head down this unknown trek alone.

  The first day I met Courtney, she was late getting to the bus. I’m sure she was playing rock star or something, but it had me waiting for an endless amount of time blocking a main thoroughfare during rush-hour traffic and dealing with the police threatening me with jail if I didn’t move. She came through the door of the coach and shot me a weird look. I had nothing to lose. I figured I’d play the game and shot her the same look right back. She was wearing this pink... thing... and the first thought that entered my mind was if she turned out to be as bad as everyone had said she was, I would just leave her ass on the side of the road somewhere, maybe a truck stop. I had already been out for a year, and some time off was looking better and better. Heck, maybe kicking her ass out in Nebraska would give me 15 minutes of fame. Probably no money, though.
<
br />   It never came to that, and actually, I came to respect her, although she was as predictable a rock star as they come. There has to be a book somewhere that gets passed around to all the wannabes telling them all the stupid things they are supposed to do instead of concentrating on music.

  Because of her habit of being late, we were late pulling into Seattle one night. The fans were still there at the back of the Four Seasons hotel, where I had driven to try and avoid them. Some were tried and true fans, but a few were pros looking for autographs to sell. So in addition to driving the bus, sometimes I assist with playing part-time bodyguard. Usually it’s just blocking the adoring fans while the star can get into the hotel. I look at it this way: That’s my paycheck. If she gets hurt, especially when I am there to prevent it, I gotta look for another paycheck.

  So we were pushing our way to the hotel when one of the pros — wearing a flannel shirt in Seattle no less — sticks out a guitar in one hand and a black marker in the other. Courtney lived up to her rude rock star role. My girl snorted up a loogie as well as any man could muster and sends it hooting right at the man’s cheek. It hits the bull’s eye and drips down his perfect grunge shirt. But she ain’t done.

  “The grunge era is over, and I ain’t signing some cheap-ass guitar for you to sell,” she screamed.

  He was stone-faced when a voice yelled out, “Save it!” I think they were referring to Courtney’s snot rocket. At 4 a.m., she was right on her mark acting the way everyone thought she would, and she pushed her way into the hotel, not missing a beat. I had only known this woman for a few days, but I instinctively yelled out, “That’s my girl!” I then helped usher everyone else into the hotel.

  On her first night performing, I checked out the show. It didn’t seem to be more than fifth-generation punk. They knew what they were doing. As was the case, she played the evil rocker to the hilt. She bared her breasts a couple of times, pulled on her panties while she straddled the stage barrier, and yelled a barrage of “Fuck Yous” to the crowd. Yeah, it was punk. It gets kind of boring after a while, a lot of people out there trying to imitate the original sound. But one thing I can spot is musicianship, and her back-up group, Hole, was really good. Eric Erlandson was the guitarist, Samantha Maloney played drums, and Melissa Auf der Maur played bass and backing vocals, what vocals there are in a punk-type band. Samantha was one of the best rock women drummers I have ever seen. She even took Tommy Lee’s place in Motley Crue for the “New Tattoo” tour in 2000.

  But while Courtney was doing what she was supposed to do on stage, she did that same type of stuff off stage. I walked onto the bus one night when she was throwing food at her traveling chef. I think she complained that something in her sandwich was not fresh. The chef felt terrible, but so did I. I knew I would be the one cleaning it up the next day. The chef cried, and of course Courtney was rude to her, but hey, that’s the way it is. We are all paid to do a job and do it right. I tried to do mine right so she wouldn’t throw a bus at me.

  Hole was touring with Marilyn Manson, so I was interested in seeing both bands perform. I was so busy after Hole’s set on opening night that I missed out on the main act. That didn’t happen the next night. The Beautiful Animals Tour, which was the name of Manson’s tour in 1998, was one of the most amazing shows I have ever seen. Say what you will about his antics, his anti-religion bent, his bizarre look... the man puts on a captivating theatrical event. That didn’t stop the two most polarizing figures in rock at the time from coming to blows. Having Courtney and Marilyn on the same tour was like throwing two fighters in the Octagon. After antagonizing each other, sooner or later they are gonna go at each other.

  It happened in Nampa, Idaho, just outside of Boise. Courtney rushed the stage during Marilyn’s show and attacked him. Each night on the tour, they both had made crass remarks about the other. Each night the rhetoric escalated. At this particular venue, the Idaho Center, the dressing rooms have speakers where you can hear what’s going on from the stage. Not even into their first song, Marilyn made a crack about Courtney. This time she was ready to put up a fight.

  I was standing in the hallway with one of her bodyguards wondering when I could start moving things out of her dressing room to the bus. That was when she stormed out and started a full sprint to the stage, the whole time screaming, “Motherfucker! Motherfucker!” In a flash she was trailed by nearly everyone else in the hall with me bringing up the rear. Needless to say, by the time I got to the stage, she was already being carried off, a couple of guys on both ends, carrying her while she was in full crazy mode. The crowd was screaming — maybe they thought it was part of the act — and Marilyn was standing there dumbstruck trying to regain his composure. They let Courtney down as she continued her fit away from the stage, and once again, as if by instinct I said, “That’s my girl!”

  Although there were more obligations, Hole was asked to leave the tour after the Nampa event. Due to contractual duties, we headed to San Francisco and Sacramento to finish, during which time plans were already being made to send Courtney and her band out as a headliner. After Nampa, Gaylon and I made our journey to California, during which I almost witnessed my friend’s death.

  Pulling out of Sierra Sid’s Truck Stop in Sparks, Nevada, where we topped off our fuel tanks, an 18-wheeler almost crushed Gaylon. A construction zone was at the end of the on-ramp to the freeway and the speed limit was 35 mph. A trucker must have been doing 70 or more as he swerved into the zone where we were getting on the freeway. He locked his brakes, and I could tell that the truck was fully loaded from the sound and the smoke and the way the truck was tilting. I can hear it all if I think about it enough. I don’t see how the guy missed Gaylon. He would have plowed right into the left front driver’s side of the bus, right where Gaylon was sitting. As the truck approached Gaylon, I was warning him over the CB radio. He was braking and nearly scraping the barrier wall. His expert driving abilities saved the day. So goes the occupational hazards on the road. We headed on to San Francisco for a day off.

  San Francisco has so many great concert venues, and I’ve been to them all. Meeting Bill Graham at the Shoreline Amphitheatre was one of the highlights of my life. The man was the best promoter in the business, and every time I was at a venue in the bay area, I would almost always catch a glimpse of him — at the Fillmore, the Warfield, the Fox in Oakland and the Greek in Berkeley.

  The Cow Palace is another great one, and the final show of the Marilyn Manson/Hole partnership was probably one of the best concerts there. I just didn’t know about it. Being the driver for the band kicked off the tour, secured areas once granted access to become restricted. There was a short break for production coordination and time for ticket sales, and then we took off on the Celebrity Skin Tour. The new headlining tour was smaller with the group Imperial Teen as opening act. The tour really started to find its groove, especially without another Alpha Dog around to push Courtney’s buttons.

  The first week of April, someone associated with Courtney flew to our locations and brought her some personal belongings. A few days later, I took her to the Detroit airport from where she flew to Seattle with the items. I arrived at the airport early and parked in the Bob Evans Restaurant lot just outside of the airport so that folks awoke to coffee or eats before the early flight. Courtney was very quiet and mellow that morning as I dropped her off. She even gave me a concerned smile as she departed for the plane. A couple more days passed, and I picked her back up at another airport in another town. She seemed to be her old self as we finished the tour. She was back to typical Courtney antics.

  A year or two later, I was driving for another band and staying in a Hollywood hotel on Sunset Boulevard. The Hyatt is a hotel where many road crews stay. Hollywood is a pain in the ass for bus drivers. Parking is always an issue, having to unload in the street and blocking traffic. While we were there, one of the roadies riding my coach called and said Courtney was in the Star Bar across the street in the La Mondrian Hotel.

  I wen
t over and flashed my pass to get in the door. As I approached where she, Drew Barrymore and another actress were sitting, a bodyguard stopped me from getting close. When I explained who I was and how I knew Courtney, he went over and spoke into her ear. She looked over at me and gave me this little wave and then turned away. That was the end of the relationship.

  “Ah! That’s my girl,” I thought. I wouldn’t expect anything more or less from Courtney Love.

  The Back Of The Bus

  Some fans can go to extremes to meet their favorite stars. I’ve met many groupies of bands and entertainers along the way. These women have walked through the door of tour buses I’ve driven, waved at me and headed straight to the back of the bus. Ziggy in the Midwest, Caroline in Texas, girls from Florida to California, most of them have reputations with roadies and musicians.

  During a chance meeting with Pamela Des Barres, a popular West Coast groupie from the ’70s, I found myself listening intently to her stories. By this time, she had written multiple books about her experiences as a groupie. I enjoyed hearing firsthand how her stories came to light.

  There are so many groupies in the Northeast. There’s no way to remember all their names.

  Certainly, one of the most famous groupies in America is Sweet Connie (Connie Hamzy) who is from my hometown. In Grand Funk Railroad’s song, “We’re an American Band,” there is a verse that refers to Connie working the band over backstage in Little Rock. I’ve known Connie many years but never had the pleasure. She is a friend, and I admire her for being real to who she is, living the way she wants.