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

by Jerry Fitzpatrick

  Connie’s not afraid to speak her mind and challenge the status quo. She’s even stuck her neck out there and run for local political office. She’s a person not afraid to tell the truth. Her boldness may be shocking to many people, but having known her for many years, she’s probably one of the most real and honest people I know. What you see is what you get.

  There were even reported antics with Arkansas’s former governor and our nation’s President Bill Clinton. I know she has no reason to invent any of her stories, and I admire people who can walk the walk.

  In the 1980s, Connie was well known with bands and roadies. Her memorabilia is fascinating to go along with stories of Jon Bonham, Led Zeppelin and dozens of others. Just about anyone who rode on my bus and asked where I was from would follow up with a question as to whether I knew Connie. Many a jaw would drop when I would say, “Of course, I live next door to her.” Well, not really next door to her, but close enough.

  Chapter 22 Sex Show After The Rock Show

  It was always interesting to me that for many rock stars, Rock ’n’ Roll took third place behind those other two vices, sex and drugs. But when you’re on tour, the music is only part of the experience. And the band members usually aren’t the craziest ones around.

  The characters you meet on tour vary in extremes from normal working types to the absolutely insane. Don’t get me wrong. Everyone does his job, but it’s what goes on after the jobs get done that always pique the interest of the concertgoers. So when you run across those insane types, you just have to understand that if you respect the job they do, you can tolerate the insanity... a bit.

  A typical crew bus might have up to 12 people on board, all with different personalities, religious beliefs, and approaches to fashion, sexuality, hygiene and ways to self medicate. Throw them into 300 square feet of living space and see how it goes. That’s the unique thing about touring: When it all works, everyone pulls together as a team and you march across the country. It reminds me of the TV show M*A*S*H. When it’s time to work, you go to work. The rest of the time, you just have to laugh.

  Someone I laughed a lot with was Biker Bob, a Rock ’n’ Roll truck driver. Bob was a scruff individual who always wore scruffy jeans and scruffy white T-shirts with riding boots – usually scruffy. His normal attire included several jackets with bike patches and emblems on them. Bob never really supported any one motorcycle group’s colors. He was a friend to them all.

  He was really a friend to the ladies. As rough looking as he was, he always knew which buttons to push to get the girls. Almost every night I would see Bob with a different woman, many just drop-dead gorgeous. Heck, sometimes there was more than one, and they swooned all over him. I never understood it. The rest of us would just give him a look every now and again saying, “Let us have your extras, please.” I remember a night in St. Louis where Bob got on a roll. He already had three in his truck as I was coming back during the gig to get ready for the night run. I walked by his truck, and as the curtain opened ever so slightly, I could spy a large-breasted woman standing up in the sleeper area trying to get her bra back on. There were two more girls in the front. All of a sudden, all three caught my eye, and as is the custom, either in New Orleans or any rock show, they gave me a flash. I have seen a gazillion breasts in my day, but it’s always nice to admire. I paused, looked, smiled, waved and went on my way. Bob was the master.

  Many times, names are changed to protect the innocent. In this case, I need to change the names to protect the guilty. But the next story, with slight changes, has probably happened thousands of times to hundreds of bands. I have a feeling Bob was involved with a lot of them.

  After arriving at a gig, a bus driver always has a few chores to batten down the hatches before rolling to the next city. Empty the day’s trash, clean up the day’s drinks and do paperwork. Once in a while, I get my stuff done and head in to catch some of the show. This was one of those nights. I love standing to the side, hearing the music and catching the energy of the crowd. Most amphitheaters are the same. There is a long hall that leads to the stage and along those hallways sit different rooms, some for business, others for pleasure. While walking down the hall this particular night, I passed Bob, made my standard comment about his haul of women and started to move by. He stopped me.

  “Fitz, you might want to be close to the dressing rooms when the show goes down.”

  I knew this was one of Bob’s shenanigans, and I knew to always be around if invited for Bob’s shenanigans. I raced back to the bus, got my work done and headed back to the dressing room area. As I got there, the hallway was a mess with people, band members and crew, all sweaty, most dirty, trying to get where they needed to be. I was just trying to figure out where I needed to be. That’s when I saw Bob.

  “Get to the opening act dressing room now.” No need for further explanation. I headed down the hall and saw more people slipping into the room. Inside were about seven crew members. “Aren’t they supposed to be working right now?” I thought. They were just standing around.

  They were waiting for Bob when he burst into the room with this... well, to say she was a nine would be a bit of an injustice. She had on tight blue jeans and a leather halter-top. No matter how good looking she was, she still looked like Bob’s type. He led her to a table toward the back wall of the room and zipped back out again. Seconds later, he came in with another girl, this one just as good looking, and brought her to the table. Just about that time, the lead singer of the night’s main act walked in. He was joined by a couple of other band members, and the sight of him made these girls melt. It was almost as if they would do anything for him. And then they did.

  There was a table in the room normally used for catering, but the food was gone. There was a blanket that was draped over it, and Bob came toward them. He pulled them close, whispered in both their ears and backed away. They started to undress each other. The second girl pulled the other one’s halter top down and started kissing her breast. Then they paused, got naked, climbed onto the table, looked in each other’s eyes for a second and got after it. It was something like I had never seen.

  One moved down between the other’s legs and started kissing while the first girl moaned and moaned. The rest of us stood there watching. Of course with this crew, there was plenty of grunting and comments, but for the most part we just quietly enjoyed the show as the room seemed to warm up. The girl getting serviced was leaning on her elbows and making more noise, shaking and sweating. When it seemed over, they switched positions, and the other one got to do her moaning. This caused more catcalls from the peanut gallery, and after a few minutes, it was over.

  The lead singer then casually walked up to the girls and thanked them for the show.

  “That was great, but did you know that I have never seen two girls actually 69 each other?”

  He then smiled and stepped back. They looked at each other, got in position, and went at it again. This brought the room to a frenzy. Guys hooting and hollering like they had money on the outcome or something.

  Then it was over. The girls slowly dressed when one of them casually asked one of the band members what time it was.

  “11:45”

  “Shit! I know my husband’s trying to find me!” She took off down the hall.

  The other girl stayed for a moment longer, enough to get teased by the stragglers. She got up and departed a different way than the first girl. Bob just smiled.

  “Those two didn’t even know each other. They didn’t even know each other’s names.”

  My eyebrows rose. “What?”

  “Yeah. I just pulled them out of the crowd during the show.” Bob grinned as he remarked on another achievement.

  For this night at least, sex trumped drugs and Rock ’n’ Roll.

  Chapter 23 A Hero Breaks His Sword

  In America, we had Superman and Batman and the Green Hornet. In the United Kingdom, they had Captain Scarlet.

  Captain Scarlet was in reality a puppet, not much mor
e than wood and paint and strings, but he was a superhero to British kids in the late 1960s. He was the star of a science fiction show called “Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons.” The short story about his character is that he possessed a strange ability to return to life after suffering a fatal injury. It made Captain Scarlet virtually indestructible. Also, he looked a little like my friend.

  Our Captain Scarlet was a hero among men — one of the strangest, most entertaining self-destructive men I had ever met. He was talented. He was misunderstood. He was usually in a state of inebriation, be it through alcohol or crystal meth. He was a self-burning and branding, self-piercing, tattooed, never-washing, charming, lovable, hugely irritating, perpetually drugged-up and drunken lunatic – a typical roadie of the ’80s. But most of all he subscribed to his look-a-like’s mentality of invincibility.

  And, despite all that he was still a hero. To me anyway.

  We were sitting a room in the La Mandarin Hotel on Sunset in Hollywood one night in 1986 or ’87. There were about six or seven of us in the room along with several groupies. It was the roadies for this popular punkish band and me — the truck driver. We were passing around some English bullshit beer and some assorted hard liquor. There was a big pile of blow on the table. There was pot, cigarettes and spliffs everywhere. No worries for these guys. They weren’t even afraid of the cops.

  I was the only American in the room and was doing my level best to defend my country. These English roadie fucks can tell you everything that’s wrong with America.

  “You know what’s wrong with America?” That’s how it always started. And it never got solved. These guys come over here to earn a living year after year with band after band. And every year it’s the same for me... Oh Joy! Another English invasion! Fun for me! And the same complaints roll around year after year.

  I’m sure another argument was cropping up when we heard a knock on the door. Nobody moved too fast. The drugs were everywhere. Nothing was hidden. Like I said, these guys didn’t care. They figured since they’re foreign roadies they can get away with this type of thing. Cops are supposed to bust the bad guys. No bad guys here, right? Just English roadies.

  So one of them — Pete — saunters over to the door and opens it — doesn’t check the peephole, doesn’t ask who it is, just opens it — and there stood good ol’ Captain Scarlet.

  The Captain stands about 6’2” and wears all black – black pants stuffed into his black boots, black belt around those black pants and a black buttoned shirt, usually with the sleeves cut out. He also cut out the black shirt to exposes his nipples, mainly to show off his piercings. And on top, he wore an airline pilot’s hat.

  His fingernails were painted black, and he was a fan of eye shadow. His head was shaved except for a yarmulke-sized, Rastafarian-style hairdo that sprouted and came down toward his back. There were tattoos around his ears and down his neck highlighting flames like sideburns. He had dozens of piercings: eyes, ears, nose, nipples and many, many other parts.

  This man attracted the best-looking women around, most of them pierced like him.

  So Pete opens the door, and Captain Scarlet is standing there casually... with his dong in his hand. Not only is it in his hand, but it’s also shooting out blood at an enormous rate. At this point, Scarlet announced, “O’we mates, I’e pierced me knob.”

  These guys who were so nonchalant before suddenly bursting into action. They dragged Scarlet into the room. Someone grabbed a white towel while blood flowed faster than a tapped keg. After a couple of minutes of chaos, it calmed down, and then we started to laugh. And we laughed and laughed and laughed. This nut job tried to drive a nail through his dick! Who would do that? Well invincible, indestructible Captain Scarlet, that’s who. It was one of the weirdest things I have seen in my life.

  A few days later, after a drive from Los Angeles to Salt Lake City, Scarlet got sick. He was really, really sick. He was turning all sorts of colors, so he headed to a doctor in Utah. The doctor took one look in disbelief.

  “I’ve never in my life met anyone like you, let alone anyone with this sort of... problem,” he said as he put Scarlet back together. After the SLC show, Scarlet spent the night in the bunk and hit another hospital in Denver. He stayed there for a couple of days before rejoining the tour.

  It was a little dicey for a while, but Captain Scarlet really is invincible.

  Chapter 24 Home Away From Home

  Any entertainer who’s anybody has to go through New York City with his or her show. It’s a given. In any year, I have averaged 30 to 45 days in a small town outside the city called Secaucus in New Jersey. I should have bought a home there on my first visit.

  Parking for custom coaches is very limited in NYC, so after dropping off passengers at their designated city hotels, most drivers head over to Harmon Meadows Plaza in Secaucus where there is ample parking, dozens of hotels and amenities. Food, drink, laundry facilities, movie theaters and shopping are all right there within walking distance. On any given day, coaches fill the parking lots and it’s a place to meet old and new friends with something in common. I have spent some memorable evenings with a bunch of buses corralled with dozens of drivers and friends cooking on grills and sharing stories of the trade.

  Secaucus is a neat little town just out of the Lincoln Tunnel west of Hoboken on Route 3 at the end of the New Jersey Turnpike. I have come to know a few of the residents and established some nice friendships where we all smile when I come in the door. The little town has grown in various ways since the first time I visited in 1985. For years, there was a great laundromat where several women worked and would take a load of bus laundry in the morning and get it all done by mid-day. One year, it closed and the building became the Bagel Buffet. Not as useful as a place to do laundry, but hey, bus drivers eat bagels, too.

  On the early coach models everyone who rode the bus had to have a key. After every tour new keys had to be made since most people kept theirs when they left. Generally, the key is kept on the lanyard next to your laminated backstage pass. They are equally important. Newer coach models now have coded door locks and the driver changes the code after each tour to ensure security. On Paterson Plank Road just before County Line Road in Secaucus there is a locksmith who has cut hundreds of keys for the many buses I have driven. It’s always a fun time to spend a few minutes with them joking about various lifestyles. Two bus companies on County Line Road provide drivers a place to dump and clean their equipment. For many years a 24-hour diner on the intersection of Charlie’s Corner and Paterson Plank was a great place to get breakfast after a long night of travel. It was also a great place to be alone or visit with other bus drivers about schedules and share road stories. After many years in business the old diner closed down and another one opened on County Line Road. It’s a nice place. It’s not open 24 hours. It will take some years to get use to it. A hardware store for parts is close by and Prevost Car, the bus manufacturer, had a large repair facility nearby. It’s all there in Secaucus, and Secaucus is a great American town.

  Secaucus is always a comfort. The other hundreds of days spent on the road have me checking in and out of hotels. Hotels are a circus. Some care about your comfort, others could care less.

  I’m no hotel genius, but I’ve had years of over 300 nights spent in a different hotel every night. Depending on the entertainer’s budget and who you’re driving on a tour, you might stay at a Ritz Carlton or a Four Seasons and it may seem like you’re living life as a king. Or you may end up in a run-down cheap downtown motel where prostitutes and drug dealers sell their wares. I’ve stayed at motels and hotels in every state and all the providences of Canada, and I will tell you they are all the same once your eyes are closed after driving 10 hours or more and spending another four or five servicing the bus and getting it ready for the next run.

  Finding a place to park always takes time if it hasn’t been arranged. Interior cleaning, exterior washing, generator servicing, repairing anything that may not be working, it’s a
ll part of the job – keeping the passenger comfortable at all costs.

  I’ve told many that the only reason I’m in this business is for the endless supply of hot water. Getting rest in a bed and a hot shower and a warm meal prepares one much better for a long drive than waking up in the back of a semi-truck sleeper, pissing between the fuel tanks and wheels and driving on till you drop again. When you wake up, order room service, take a hot shower and get a ride to wherever your bus is parked, you can drive longer, be more alert and be prepared for any situation that might occur.

  I’ve met some of the least concerning, rudest people at the front desk of hotels whose corporate policy is 3 p.m. check-in. I, and many folks I’ve transported, have spent hours in hotel lobbies waiting for a reserved room to rest in or to freshen up in so we could then enjoy the town, go shopping for necessities or find restaurants. Many times the corporate hotel rules don’t fit into my schedule, so I’ve had to argue for a room to get my rest. Try stopping at a hotel near the highway and checking in at 10 a.m. after driving all night, needing some sleep before having to drive all night again, only to hear, “Sorry sir, no check-in until three.” It ain’t a good feeling.

  Some groups and band parties I’ve traveled with book their rooms the night before, so when we arrive at six, seven or eight in the morning everyone can go directly to their rooms. Not every group can afford to do this but some can. Some hotel sales agents will work with the entertainment travel agents when they want the business. Most hotel employees are only concerned when they can go home. They could care less about a weary traveler thousands of miles from home. Sometimes they can’t even tell you how to get to the hotel. It’s always confused me when I call a hotel in a big city and realize that the person answering the phone can’t tell you directions to the hotel they work in. I’ve always wondered how these people get to work if they can’t tell someone else how to get there.