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They take you out for lunch
You sign the record deal
They take your picture having fun ha! ha! ha!
You’re off to some big city
Where they make you look real pretty
You have to thank them, though it’s hard
And when they’ve made your album
When they’ve made it sound like pablum
They want to see it top the charts
You meet the agency
They send you town to town
You know you can’t come back
Until the record sells around a million billion
But no one out there buys it
And the critics call it dog shit
And all your friends think you’re uncool
Now you’ve got new words and music
And you know they’re less than perfect
But it’s good enough for what you do
MARY THE FAN
Hey John-O!
Good to see you.
Been a long time, eh?
Five years?
Wow!
Joe!
You guys sound great.
Better than ever.
That new song,
about the dead guy
in jail?
A classic.
Is that Pipe?
Last time I saw Pipe
he had a pig-shave.
I wish my hair
would grow that fast.
Oh, Billy!
Gimme a hug.
Mmmmm-mm
Oooo, honey,
how’d you get that nasty
scar on your hand?
THE SCAR ON BILLY’S PALM
I was walking home
drunk one night
when I fell
on a case of empties.
THE SCAR ON BILLY’S PALM
(JOHN’S VERSION)
Our last gig in L.A.
was at Madame Wong’s on Wilshire.
The upstairs where we played was packed,
and we got eighty percent of the door.
We had three days off
before Phoenix,
so we drove all night for Baja.
We were itchin’ to blow some money.
We pulled into a place called Sol,
which means sun in Spanish,
and ordered five bottles of mescal.
Man, there were whores everywhere!
And the kids! Totally pathetic.
They’re supposedly maimed at birth
for careers as professional beggars.
This girl with no arms
comes up to us with a basket
attached to her chest.
And the sign above it reads:
AMERICAN DOLLARS ONLY.
Anyway, we got pissed silly.
And we were kinda weirded out,
so we got set to leave
when this guy named Hey-Zeus
walks in with this bass.
A great, big mariachi bass.
Billy sat down with it
and played “Smoke on the Water.”
Hey-Zeus sold it to Billy for twenty bucks.
We finished the tour just before Christmas,
with the bass riding shotgun
all the way home.
We dropped Billy off
at his parents’ in Mission;
then they had us all back
for this huge turkey dinner.
At the end of the night
Billy got the bass
to play “Silent Night”
for his nieces and nephews.
He got halfway through
when the damn thing exploded.
Unacclimatized to our weather, I guess.
PIPE DEMOS THE ENTIRE DELI-TRAY
INTO ONE SANDWICH
The trick here is to work sideways.
I’m using the two Coke pitchers
as bookends as I go.
Bread, cheese, meat, bread,
lettuce, cheese, bread, pickles,
meat, bread, lettuce, cheese,
bread, cheese, meat, bread.
I guess you’re wondering how
I’m gonna stand this up, right?
Bread, cheese, meat, bread,
lettuce, cheese, bread, pickles,
meat, bread, lettuce, cheese,
bread, cheese, meat, bread.
Why stand it up
when it’s gonna be eaten?
Bread, cheese, meat, bread,
lettuce, cheese, bread, pickles,
meat, bread, lettuce . . .
BILLY BY THE FIRE EXIT
Touring sure has changed. I remember when there were at least a dozen girls waiting around for us backstage. It used to be a whole new show after the last encore.
Mary used to be some girl. I remember when she had purple hair and wore nothing but black leather. Now she shows up with her lawyer husband and their eight-year-old daughter.
Joe never seemed to pay much attention to the girls. He was always too busy running the show. Pipe met his ex-wife in Thunder Bay; and John spent six years with a girl he met in Montreal. I wish I kept in touch with some of the girls I met. Some of them were real nice.
JOE GETS PAID
Okay.
Twenty.
Forty.
Sixty.
Eighty.
One.
Twenty.
Forty.
Sixty.
Eighty.
Two.
Twenty.
Forty.
Sixty.
Eighty.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Great Show.
A NOTE FOR THE BAND
JOHN’S TOUR DIARY
May 15 (a.m.)
Just got in from a party upstairs. A bunch of kids from high school were having a pre-grad bash. Somebody was loading up cannisters with nitrous oxide, turning everyone into children again. Got out of there just in time. The cops passed me on the way down.
Tonight’s show was much better than the Westward gig— despite the fact that we didn’t get a sound-check. When we went on stage there were maybe twenty people in the building; but as soon as we started playing, the place filled up. We sold ninety-seven tapes and fifty-five t-shirts. That’s almost three times what we did in Calgary.
Joe was furious that the Winnipeg date was cancelled, although I suspect he’s relieved we don’t have to travel all day and back for bad money. Joe’s going to phone Bruce tomorrow and get the whole story.
Since we have the day off today, Joe suggested we stop off on the way to Saskatoon and visit Bucky Haight. The last time we saw Bucky was five years ago at CBGB’s in New York City. He had just finished producing an album that never got released. We were on our way to Boston, to a gig we never got paid for.
SEVEN
Bucky Got Drunk,
Told Stories
JOHN’S TOUR DIARY
May 15 (a.m.) continued
I awoke to Joe screaming into the telephone. He was standing by the window, the morning sun a spotlight on the boner in his briefs, livid that our gig got cancelled. Joe’s mad vein, the vein running up the side of his forehead, was in full bloom. This is a bad sign. Joe’s mad vein has been known to foreshadow severe changes in the weather. I haven’t seen Joe pop a mad vein since the day Ed Festus ran off with our bank account.
Anyway, we’re out of a gig. Seems like no one was interested. How do you argue with that one? I can’t say I blame people. We seem to represent everyone’s worst vices. And despite the young blood at our Calgary show, our audience is getting older: if they haven’t indulged themselves to death already, then they’ve probably gone on to safer things, right? I’ll have to put that one to Bucky. He’ll know.
We had breakfast at a truck stop north of Lumsden. Everyone sat together for th
e first time on the tour. Billy had a funny joke about a tractor and a sheep. He got Pipe laughing so hard a piece of bacon shot out of his nostril and landed on top of Joe’s pancakes. And Joe, instead of going nuts, ate it. So far, so good.
JOE SETS THE COURSE
A few hundred k
up #11 to Davidson.
Another forty to #19,
then twenty to Elbow.
That’s where Bucky’s living.
In a big, black barn
on Diefenbaker Lake.
BUCKY GOT DRUNK, TOLD STORIES
I
New York City.
When I first got there
I knew one person.
Johnny Thunders.
I knew Johnny Thunders.
A friend of his, Nate,
picked me up at the airport.
He took me by cab
to the Lower Eastside,
up two flights of stairs
to this eight-by-eight room.
He told me to wait there,
that Johnny’d be calling,
then he left me
with two hundred dollars.
The room overlooked
this alleyway.
A greasy-brown trench
where hookers checked in
with their pimp
for injections.
They’d lift up their skirts
and stick out their butts,
at the same time counting
his money.
Pieces of paint
hung from the ceiling.
A dirty green foam
covered most of the floor.
There never was a telephone.
Like, you can’t take calls
if there ain’t no phone,
right?
So I make for the door.
But it’s locked and I’m shittin’.
Thunders, man, he set me up!
I begin to envision
the Globe and Mail:
CANADIAN PUNK DIES
IN NEW YORK CITY.
All of a sudden
the door flies open.
These two big dudes
in black leather jackets
toss me a baggy
of fine white powder.
They demand four hundred
and fifty-five dollars.
I only had three hundred,
so I make up the difference
with the money from Nate.
I give them the money
and they give me this card:
SEVEN PERCENT
OFF YOUR NEXT TRANSACTION
PEACE IN THE BIG HEREAFTER
I could hear their laugh
all the way outside.
I felt like such a fuckin’ jerk.
Here I am in New York City
and first thing I do
is get stuck for a mark.
Another stupid tourist story.
II
I never did see Thunders.
When I began my meetings
with the record company
the mere mention of his name
brought everyone down.
And after my meetings
I got so involved
in what I was up to
that I didn’t have time
for anything other
than what I was doing.
III
I signed a deal
to make an album.
A world-wide release,
then options to follow.
They advanced me a cheque
for two hundred grand
and I gave them back
1) a chunk of the publishing
2) huge points on sales
3) and all but a penny
on t-shirts, posters,
stickers, and buttons
When I got up to leave
they held out their hands
to say that a deal
is only as good
as the handshake it’s made on.
And now, looking back, I remember
the look on the president’s face
when he told me “carte blanche”
when I wanted “good luck.”
IV
I’ve never hired management.
I’ve never hired a lawyer.
I’d always felt that
I’d know best when someone’s
gonna rip me off.
My father had a saying once
that’s crippled me for life:
“Never trust those close to you.”
So no one’s ever gotten close.
V
So there I was in N.Y.C.,
happy as a gnat in shit,
a ton-o-bucks in my pocket,
with no place to live,
no friends to call up,
and no idea how I was
gonna make my album.
I leased a warehouse space
just off the Hudson River,
rented a sixteen channel board,
ten mikes, a tape deck,
then checked out the clubs
for some decent musicians.
The punk rock players
were the absolute shits,
so I had this notion
to hire some jazz guys.
The two guys I hired,
the Del Rio brothers,
had a fern bar gig
near N.Y.U.
Vitto on drums, Carmine on bass.
They came from a family
of red-hot musicians;
their uncle or something
knew Brian Wilson
and did some work
on the Pet Sounds record.
Anyway, they sounded smart
so I advanced them two grand
to start the next day.
My engineer was a Nashville-type
who couldn’t work in Nashville.
I met him at a Chris Hillman gig
and he told me the story
of how he voted McGovern
and happened to tell a few people
and the next thing he knew
he was kicked out of Nashville
and, anyway, he liked me so . . .
It’s ten o’clock the next morning.
The Del Rios arrive, set up,
and my engineer, Rudy,
is ready to roll.
We decide to run each tune once,
then lay down a couple of takes;
and we did it this way
’til we finished five songs.
We took a break at four
and listened back.
VI
And it was perfect!
Exactly what I wanted.
Kind of a cross
between Mingus and the Buzzcocks.
So we ran five more
and it just got better.
I called up a limo
to take us to dinner.
Some dump in Queens
recommended by Carmine.
We ate and we drank
and took more limos
and drank more booze
and bought some good blow
and took more limos
and drank more booze
and the next thing I know
I’m waking up in Central Park
with the light in my eyes
and two guys trying
to yank off my boots.
I’d been picked over all night,
and the boots were the last
of the meat, so to speak,
off my bones.
I got up
and watched as they ran
past the nannies, the joggers,
to the edge of the park,
where they fought over who
got to take home the pair.
No money. No boots.
It’s the middle of winter
and it takes me three hours
to make my way back.
And it just gets worse.
Everything in the space
had been stolen.
I phone up Rudy.
No answer.
I phone the Del Rios
and the line is busy.
I grabbed some money
I’d stashed in the closet
and hailed a cab downstairs.
I was so pissed I was shitting.
I kicked in the Del Rios’ door
and the first thing I saw
was the phone off the hook;
then a melted candle,
a burnt spoon,
and the sound of a shower
by that time colder
than my bare feet.
VII
The Del Rios o.d.’ed.
Rudy was caught in New Jersey
with everything but the masters,
which he’d dumped in The Hudson.
And I was back to square one.
I’d never been that mad,
that happy, that sad,
and that scared
as I had been in less than one day.
VIII
For the next three weeks
I sat in my warehouse,
eating Kraft Dinner,
picking my nose.
IX
My first nervous breakdown.
I spent two months
in a halfway house,
and when I got out
I called up a meeting.
I told the record company
that the project was finished,
and that I needed a rest
’til I started the mixing.
They all agreed
it was a great idea.
Then they asked me
to do them
a really big favour:
to fly to L.A.
and produce them a band.
X
They had this band.
A band with no name,
no songs, no talent.
But, god, they were beautiful!
The most beautiful boys
in the world.
And they knew who I was!
They heard a bootleg
of my show in Miami
and they called A&R
to demand I produce them.
It didn’t matter that they were assholes.
They wanted to make beautiful music.
Music that was soft and beautiful
played hard and ugly.
This was their idea:
Bacharach and David
turned upside down.
We spent three weeks
in a drug-induced blur.
I made a deal
with the company weasels
not to come ’round
’til the record was done.
We’d go in at five
and record off-the-floor,
cranking out tunes like
“Walk On By”
“Blue on Blue”
“What’s New, Pussycat?”
“Here I Am”