by Louise Voss
Unload the van, sound-check, go and eat.
Come back, watch everyone arrive, play our set, leave again. We’re first on the bill every night, so it’s not really surprising that people pretty much stay at the bar. Willie told us not to mind about this–until our single’s out, no one will have heard of us anyway, so we should just be looking at these first few weeks as warm-ups, “for the cohesiveness of the band.”
Anyway, that’s all for now, folks! Tune in again for the next thrilling installment of “Blue Idea on the Road”!
Bye from all of us,
xxx
Three months later we made our first album. The studio was in Manhattan, so we mostly commuted back and forth by train from Freehold, although occasionally, when we worked late into the night, we got a cab back to Joe’s aunt Sandi’s place (where we’d stayed after our historic first meeting with Ringside) and crashed there instead.
The weeks we spent recording were a revelation in every way: from the infinitely superior studio gear we had on loan (my borrowed bass was so easy to play, notes dripped from its neck like honey off a spoon), to the pressure we felt to finish the record on schedule, to the huge amounts of pot smoked continually by everyone—except myself. I thought all drugs were evil.
People from Ringside were always dropping by to see how we were getting on, although I started to realize that they mostly did so as an excuse for an afternoon off work and a share of a large joint. I felt really frustrated and left out when they all spliffed up—people got so boring when they were stoned, and it made the chances of our finishing on schedule diminish even further. I just wanted to be getting on with the task at hand, but if I tried to bully the boys when they were high, they brushed me away like an annoying little fly, and settled further down into their exclusive catatonia.
Willy had booked Dean Barnes to produce our record. He was a well-respected and talented East Coast indie producer, whose mellow manner and quiet good nature belied his absolute perfectionism. My only problem with him was that he was the biggest stoner out of everyone, but Willy assured me that being permanently wasted was pretty much endemic among producers, and not to worry about it.
It was, however, a miracle that we as a band survived the discipline of the studio. Dean would regularly make us repeat a few lines of a song about thirty times in a row, without raising his voice or sounding remotely disappointed in us, until we were all fit to be tied.
“Come on, guys, better. And again.”
“Concentrate, David, you’re tailing off at the end.”
“Justin, you’re too pitchy on those high notes. Breathe.”
“Nearly there. Keep going. One more time …”
Once after Dean had said “one more time” nine times in succession, after we’d already been playing the same song for two days, Justin threw down his guitar and stormed out of the studio, punching and kicking the doorframe in fury on his way out. I sat down in despair, thinking that we would never get the bloody record made—we’d been working for a week already and had finished only three songs. I had no idea that it took so long. I’d believed we would just breeze in there and do the whole lot in a couple of takes, and that would be that. Joe echoed my thoughts.
“I thought we just recorded, then it was Dean’s job to fix it afterward,” he grumbled.
Dean just looked up from the mixing desk, through the glass that separated him from us, and said over the intercom, “Okay, let’s take a break.”
Slowly and painfully, however, the album came together. We argued about everything, from artwork to liner notes to sequencing, but with guidance and a lot of hard work from Willy, Dean, and Mickey, somehow the day came when we received a box from Ringside full of pristine shiny vinyl copies of Switch On by Blue Idea. Suddenly the hard work seemed worth it, and we all stood around like new parents, grinning stupidly and proudly at one another.
The tour continued into the spring of 1984, on a considerably larger scale. The album was sent to college radio stations in towns all over the country, the plan being that we should play as many of those towns as possible. We played five shows a week, and by the third week we had moved through Florida and Louisiana, into Texas, and then across to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Our audiences got marginally bigger (about forty-five people had signed our fan-base sheets), but still regularly comprised the afternoon drinkers too inebriated to get off their bar stools and go home when we came onstage; or worse, the frat boys who thought that they were above us.
Some nights they would just stand there, swaying, swigging crosseyed from their beers, and yelling insults at me.
“Hey! It’s Chubby Checker on bass!” someone shouted when I wore a checked shirt onstage. “Play some Fats Domino!”
“Yeah, anything but this faggy shit!” an answering shout came from across the room. It was occasionally assumed that because Justin was pretty and wore makeup he was gay, although our music was hardly faggy. That particular day I happened to be riddled with PMS and had started to cry then and there. I’d wanted to walk off the stage, but there was nowhere to go except past our tormentors and out into the parking lot, and I was afraid to go and sit in the van on my own.
The comments, and my reaction, had pushed Justin’s buttons so far in that they were jammed. He shoved his mike stand over, jumped down into the crowd of approximately fourteen people, and socked one of the offenders hard in the stomach. The rest of us stopped playing and stared aghast as a big fight broke out. Then Joe and David leapt into the fray, which, after several bloody noses and a big black eye (Justin’s), was broken up by the barman and the club’s owner. We were instantly banned from ever coming back, and Mickey was furious with us.
But thankfully that happened only once. Both Justin and I eventually learned to ignore any derogatory comments that flew up to us onstage, telling ourselves that they were only made out of jealousy.
In the case of the women who insulted me, I think that was true. They had a way, those college girls, of looking me scornfully up and down, then leaning across and saying something in a friend’s ear. The friend would look at me with the same expression of disgust, and they would both collapse in peals of sorority laughter. I tried to remember to “love thine enemy,” and to “turn the other cheek,” and a few times I even tried to go and make friends with them afterward. It was a naive fantasy I had, that maybe I could somehow win them over and become a member of a girly clique like that myself. But it never worked—they’d look at me as if I was something they had found on the bottom of their shoe, and then hustle off to the restrooms, giggling, to apply more lip gloss.
I hated them and their smug catalog outfits and stiff humorless hair.
You won’t be laughing when we’re famous and earning even more money than your daddy does, I’d think.
Justin, moody though he was, was usually very loyal, too. If he spotted any girls being snotty to me, he would wait until they inevitably approached him after the set, simpering and sidling, then he’d take my arm and say, “Come on, Helena, let’s go—don’t you think the trash stinks around here?” (Unless, of course, he fancied them, in which case I was on my own.)
David, who was by nature gentlemanly, and Joe, in his own way, looked out for me, too. Despite our incessant bickering, and my occasional yearning for female companionship, I began to feel protected and safe in the company of all three of them. We were in it together. It was like having a new family, and it lessened the sting—if not the guilt—of exchanging my hymn sheet for a fanzine, and my Communion wine for an illegal after-show beer.
MARCH 1984
Hi, Music Lovers!
I can’t believe we’re so far into 1984 already—and what a year it’s been, even if it’s only a quarter done!
BLUE IDEA is back on the road again. (Hence the new issue of Bluezine. Do you like the change of title? David thought it sounded better than the boring old Blue Idea Fanzine. We all agreed, so Bluezine it is!) We’re three weeks into our spring tour, but hold on to your hats, there�
�s more: Our first album, Switch On, is in a record shop near you!!
We had a fantastic time in the studio; boy, what a learning curve that was! The record was produced by Dean Barnes, who has also worked with the Mai-Tai Micromen and R.E.M. (he coproduced their first release, “Chronic Town,” with Mitch Easter).
So if you haven’t already done so, haul your butts down to your nearest Music Emporium and treat yourselves … you won’t be disappointed, we promise!
Also, if you’re in a college town, call up your local college radio station. They should have copies of the record by now, so why not request us? Chances are we’ll be swinging by there in the near future.
Here are some pictures of us onstage at the Kactus Klub in Albuquerque, at the start of our set. Don’t we look miserable? Trouble is, these are the only snaps I have so far, since we all forgot to bring our cameras. It’s hard enough to try and remember our instruments, let alone anything else!
(By the way, I HATE that plaid shirt I’m wearing. You won’t be seeing that again.)
As you’ll see from the tour itinerary, it’s been a pretty heavy three weeks, with five shows a week. We’re working our way around the country in two giant loops, starting out with the Southeast and Southwestern states. Then a break (PHEW), then back out to do the top half.
Our audiences are getting bigger all the time, and more of you wonderful folk are signing my fan-base lists every night! Keep it up, and tell your friends! We love you all!!
NEWS FLASH FROM FLAGSTAFF, AZ!!
I just phoned the record company and guess what, our album has shot up to NUMBER THREE on the college radio charts! You guys are fantastic, you really have been requesting us. It seems that “This Is Your Blue Idea” is the track that gets the most requests, and so Ringside is going to release it as a single to commercial radio, too!
We can’t tell you how exciting this is!
Thank you!
Come the fall, we were still driving. We were on the second stretch of the tour, and had driven up the Northeast coast for a brief stint in Canada, and a long jaunt across the northern states of the U.S. to do Washington State, Oregon, California, then across the Rockies, Kansas, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and home via New England to New Jersey.
While we were driving through some godforsaken part of the Midwest, which having been summarily christened by Justin was henceforth known as Buttfuck, Ohio, the alternator on the van suddenly went. We knew we were near a town by its prominent landmark—not a church tower or town hall, or even a water tower, but a fifty-foot mast with a large revolving sign on top of it, bearing the words ADULT BOOKS. It was lucky, we supposed, that in addition to the adult books, Buttfuck also offered a garage and a tow truck, but we had to cancel our show that night and stay over while a replacement alternator was installed.
The lugubrious garage owner, whose name was Leland, dropped us off in his pickup at the town’s only motel, after taking what must have been a lengthy detour to a farm where, he said, he had to “git his baby boy.” A two-hundred-pound acne-ridden youth about our age lumbered out in dungarees and a checked shirt, and sat in the back of the truck with us and as much of our gear as we’d been able to carry. He said nothing, but glared suspiciously at each of us as though he’d like to bash all our heads in with a pitchfork handle. We were very relieved to arrive at the motel, where we booked one room and bad-temperedly resigned ourselves to a night in what was possibly the weirdest place on earth.
“There’s only one thing for it,” said Justin. “We have to get drunk. All of us, including you, Miss Goody Two-Shoes.”
I wasn’t having any of it, but at that point I thought it best not to argue. “Whatever,” I said, bagging one of the small twin beds. Both beds had yellow nylon bedspreads that looked and smelled like old curry. “Whose turn is it to be on the floor tonight?”
“I’d rather sleep on the floor than share with Joe,” said David, hurling himself onto the damp cot under the window.
Joe made smoochy faces at a glowering Justin. “It’s you and me, then, honey.”
“I’m definitely getting drunk,” Justin grumbled. “Let’s go. This room stinks.”
After a plate of limp pot roast in a deserted diner, which doubled as the town’s pharmacy and general store, we found the local bar. It was as empty as the rest of the town, apart from a boot-faced barmaid on the wrong side of thirty with an enormous chest. Justin and Joe cheered up a bit, and I saw money change hands as they very unsubtly placed their bets on her.
“God, they’re so juvenile,” said David to me. “As if either of them stand a chance with her. And why would they want to? She’s awful.”
I agreed. On a whim, I also agreed to have a beer from the boys’ first pitcher. I’d decided some months ago that I didn’t like the taste of beer at all, and fully intended to have just a few sips before moving on to Cokes. But to my surprise, this beer tasted delicious, cold and refreshing, making me want more. Before I knew it, I was on my third glass.
I talked mostly to David, as the other two were doggedly vying for the waitress’s attentions, and we decided to start a list of the top ten weirdest things about Buttfuck. It got more and more riotous. After a while, Justin and Joe joined in, and someone decreed that each good suggestion merited a shot of tequila. It was an easy game, and we all managed to have five or six shots. I began to understand exactly why people enjoyed getting drunk so much. Tequila, which I hadn’t tried before, turned out to be delicious, too.
“Leland’s baby boy!” A shot for Justin.
“That Adult Book pole!” A shot for David.
“The way that no one seems to live here!” Another for Justin.
“The vending machine in the motel lobby—did you see it? It sold driving gloves and jewelry!”
I hadn’t been able to get over this, and was very tempted to buy a cheap gold locket to have with the dubious-looking sandwich in the next compartment, just so I could tell people where I’d gotten it from.
“That’s a great one—a double for Helena!” cried David, clapping me on the back.
“Uh … I saw a license plate on a truck that said ‘I’m So Horny I Get Excited at the Crack of Dawn’—does that count? It was kinda neat; there was a little cartoon guy in the background with his hand down the front of his pants, and the sun coming up,” Joe contributed.
I laughed so hard that I didn’t notice that there were two more tequilas in front of me in place of the two I’d just downed.
Sometime later I realized I was very drunk. Squinting at my watch, I saw that it was past midnight. “Don’t you think we should get shome shleep?” I suggested hazily. “We gotta long drive tomorra.… ”
David stood up, swaying. “Yeah, guess we’d better make a move. I feel kinda wrecked, too. Come on, guys.”
Justin looked at Joe and then at the barmaid, who was bending over putting mixers on the bottom shelf.
“I think we’ll stay here a while longer, yeah, Joe?” Joe nodded in assent, his eyes glazed with lust.
David and I staggered out of the bar to the sound of Joe telling a very unimpressed barmaid that we were all a famous rock band, and could get her backstage passes to our next gig.
Back at the motel, our room still smelled like damp cumin. It was extremely chilly, but I was too drunk to notice. Uninhibited for once, I yanked off my clothes, stumbled into my pajamas, and collapsed into bed. A few minutes later I heard a small voice from by the window.
“H, I’m cold.”
“Put some more clothes on, then,” I mumbled groggily.
“I’m already wearing all the ones I have with me. Can’t I share with you?”
“No way, David. Go to sleep.”
“Oh, purlease, Helena, pleeeeease. I’m frozen. This mattress is all lumpy, too.”
“So’s mine. Get over it.”
“Oh, come on, H, don’t be so mean.”
Being the only girl meant that, even though we had to share rooms, I always got my own bed. And drunk or not, I would
never have let Joe or Justin anywhere near me. I didn’t fancy David either, but I was more fond of him than I was of the others; he was much less sex-obsessed than they were, and he changed his underwear more often, too.
“Oh, all right. Just this once.”
David rolled off his mattress and into bed with me in one fluid movement. He was still fully dressed, and even had his glasses on. In a moment of inebriated tenderness I pulled them off his nose and put them down by the side of the bed, folding their arms together over the frames. He looked so sweet and vulnerable without them that I couldn’t resist giving him a little kiss on the forehead, and pulling his shivering body toward my chest. I must have fallen asleep like that, for a short time later I was awakened by someone prodding me in the thigh.
“Wassamarrer? Are they back yet?” I opened my eyes and looked into David’s face. He was gazing at me intently. We were still alone.
“Helena,” he whispered. “Have you ever done it before?”
“Done what?” I asked. At that point I realized that David had taken all his clothes off and was lying naked, still in my arms. He was warm now, and smooth. I yelped and scuttled over to the edge of the bed like a sand crab.
“You know what. Have you?” He reached over and stroked my face. I debated jumping out of bed and going to sleep on the floor, but decided I was too drunk and comfortable to move.
“No. Have you?”
“Sure!” he replied indignantly. “I dated Courtney Norman for ages, you knew that.”
“Well, I didn’t know if you two had done it or not.”
“Oh, get real, Helena, of course we did! I can’t believe you haven’t, though. Is it because of your religion?”
Admitting it wasn’t as embarrassing as I’d feared. “Yeah, I guess so. And to be honest, well, I’ve never had a boyfriend.”
