Cooter Time
“Is he dead?” I could hear the rather reasonable question, but I couldn’t render a response. “No. He’s breathing,” another voice offered.
It was the summer of 1997 and my new band, a hillbilly-type, southern rock-inspired glam combo called Glitterhick boldly was taking the debauchery I’d experienced in Dead Serios to a whole new level. On this particular afternoon I had succumbed to the effects of an all-day binger with my newfound bandmates. Our guitarist and ringleader, Moe Cooter, had just broken his leg jumping off the roof “golden god-style” into the pool, while I was passed out, naked, floating on a raft.
Probably our favorite word in the Glitterhick vernacular was “more.” More girls, more booze, more drugs, more brazen cock-rock swagger, more, more, more! Despite wearing little more than T-backs and cowboy hats during our live performances, we somehow managed to cultivate a huge following among the local bikers and our shows were more a means of executing organized sex parties than they were music events.
We quickly became THE band of choice for the hometown nudist club. I doubt whether club members had any true affection for our music, but we were the only band in the area with enough chutzpah to perform in the nude when booked to play at their monthly get-togethers.
We formed in 1997 and gave it our best until 2001. In that time we played seemingly countless shows on both coasts and released one full-length, self-produced CD.
Glitterhick in 1999. Bobby Lee, upper left / Moe Cooter, upper right / Scooter Greenbud, bottom left / that’s me sporting the black cowboy hat.
(Photo: Kevin Roberts)
It was while performing in Los Angeles in 1997 that Glitterhick earned its most dubious distinction – we got banned for life from The Chateau Marmont.
Located on Sunset Boulevard, The Chateau Marmont is no $75 a night Hollywood dump. Referred to as the “great castle on the hill,” The Chateau Marmont is truly a legendary Hollywood landmark – an elegant, luxurious getaway with a tarnished past. Jim Morrison reportedly injured his back while attempting to swing in through the window of his room via a dangling drain pipe. It was reported that the members of Led Zeppelin rode motorcycles through the hotel. And it was in a Chateau Marmont bungalow that actor John Belushi died of a drug overdose in 1982. So a reasonable question might be, “how on earth do you get banned from the Chateau Marmont?”
I knew Glitterhick was likely to run into trouble when I entered our room at The Chateau Marmont following that night’s show at the Coconut Teaszer and immediately tripped over one of our crew members snorting drugs off the carpet. I had already been spotted earlier that day hanging out our room window, which began to raise concerns and subsequent guest complaints to hotel management regarding the volume of our post-show partying didn’t help matters.“Sir, you and your entourage will have to leave the hotel, AT ONCE!” ordered a rather annoyed security guard when he caught up with Moe Cooter at 6AM as the obliterated guitarist was urinating on a BMW in the hotel’s parking garage.
A few days after returning to Florida following our West Coast jaunt, Moe Cooter’s brother, who had booked the room on his credit card, received an official letter from The Chateau Marmont, clearly stating that were no longer welcome at the hotel – ever again!
My Glitterhick experience also led me to my discovery of Jagermeister in 1998. “It’s sweet and warm, just like cough syrup,” I was told by our drummer, Scooter Greenbud as he handed me my first shot of the tonic. Mmm, he was right! My dysfunctional connection to Jagermeister would endure for the next several years.
‘Til Death Do Us Part?
Be sure that I don’t claim to be a psychologist or a professional marriage counselor. I’m just a guy who’s offering a little personal commentary about surviving a particularly painful disease – a disease known as divorce.
I vividly recall the minister who married Trish and I confronting me in a back room of the church just minutes before our wedding ceremony in April 1985. He bent over, lifted his robe slightly, removed one of his shoes and shoved it in my face. “If I ever find out that you screwed this up, I’ll come find you and stick this shoe up your ass,” he warned me with considerable conviction. I assured him that he had no reason for concern – or so I thought.
Trish and I were high school sweethearts. We dated off and on for more than four years prior to my popping the question in 1983. And although our engagement lasted a year and a half, we were still quite young at the time of our nuptials. In fact, I was twenty-two and Trish was just twenty. But at the time, we’d already been involved with each other for six years and we knew that we were meant to be together. We were the rock and roll “Ken and Barbie.” We loved the fast-paced party lifestyle – jet setting to L.A., hanging out backstage at major concert events and basking in our local notoriety. We hit several rocky spots in our relationship along the way, but we always managed to rebound – that is until the late ‘90s when everything just went crazy.
There was plenty of blame to go around regarding our split and the fact that we were becoming consumed by partying didn’t help. I could easily offer half a dozen reasons why everything was all Trish’s fault. But truth be told, I can come up with twice as many examples of how I blew it. Marriage is often fragile and it requires constant care and attention. And I lost it all while my back was turned – running around trying to play rock star.
Me and Trish backstage with REO Speedwagon’s Gary Richrath in 1990.
We had been fostering a questionable environment for years and consequently we now were surrounded by people of dubious character. My perception was that our relationship had spun out of control and had simply become unfixable. FYI – it’s always fixable. But my pride kept me from recognizing that, and in the summer of 1998, I split – losing everything I had in the process – most importantly, losing out on half of my son’s life. Jesse had nothing to do with the garbage that Trish and I were dealing with and he certainly didn’t deserve to have his family torn apart – especially at age four. But that’s how divorce works. Its repercussions are far reaching – it’s ugly and painful. Divorce is a disease that affects many – especially the innocent little ones.
I was determined that no judge would dictate when I could see my son – he was all I cared about. But with my tattoos, piercings and shoulder-length hair, my appearance was hardly an asset. Plus, I worked in the nightclub business and played in a band that was better known for its carnal escapades than for creating music. Conversely, Trish’s appearance was always polished and proper. She looked like actress Heather Locklear and had a respectable career in banking. Plus, we lived in Florida, which typically means, that in divorce proceedings, if you have a penis, YOU LOSE! Consequently, it was imperative that Trish and I work out our differences privately and avoid a potentially nasty and costly court battle. In the end, we agreed on a 50/50 custody arrangement – something that no judge likely would have allowed. And with nothing more than my car, my DJ gear, a few Kiss collectibles, some clothing and less than $100 cash, I started life all over at age thirty-five. If it’s true that time does heal all wounds, I’m still waiting.
Fly to the Angels
In the early ‘90s I had never heard of multiple myeloma. However, by the mid ‘90s, I’d become all too familiar with this form of cancer that affects the plasma cells in bone marrow – causing bone pain and breakage, particularly in the back and ribs.
I recall my mother first complaining of broken ribs while picking up laundry or simply rolling over in bed. Yet it took doctors a couple of years properly to diagnose her illness. It was multiple myeloma.
Upon finally receiving an accurate diagnosis, the cancer was spreading rapidly throughout my mom’s body and she was expected to only live a short time. However, with the news of Trish’s pregnancy in 1993, my mom seemed to harness an intense will to survive. She was clearly committed to being around to welcome her new grandchild into the world. I believe God timed Jesse’s birth perfectly for that very reason. Mom did live to exp
erience Jesse’s arrival, as well as his first, second, third and fourth birthdays! And the relationship they shared was amazing.
By the summer of 1998, Trish and I officially had split up and Jesse and I briefly were attending weekly church services with my parents – which meant a lot to my mom. Then, one Sunday morning in September, I overheard her mention to another woman at the service that she was once again breaking bones. I was shocked, as she’d been in remission for some time and I for one thought that she had won the battle. A few days later, her doctor informed her that she had at best, only a few months to live.
By the spring of 1999, my mom was clearly losing the fight. The medications were taking a noticeable toll on her and she was becoming extremely weak, yet I remained ever hopeful that she would make a recovery. Then one Sunday afternoon in March, she couldn’t even get out of bed when my then-girlfriend Karen, Jesse and I came over to visit. This had never happened before. Consequently, we didn’t stay long. Mom needed to rest.
My mom and dad in the‘90s.
So we visited briefly with my dad in the living room and then made an early exit. Just before we left, I went to the back bedroom to say goodbye to my mom. She seemed disoriented and kept saying that she was cold. I covered her in an extra blanket, told her, “I love you Mom,” and went on my way. Those were the last words I ever spoke to the best friend I’ve ever had. Within twenty-four hours, I received a call from my dad telling me that my mother couldn’t be revived and that an ambulance was on the way to rush her to the hospital.
Mom wasn’t allowed to receive visitors until Tuesday. When Jesse and I arrived at the hospital, she had been unresponsive for some time. Not fully grasping what was happening, Jesse made his way to my mom’s bedside, reached up and held her hand. At that moment, my mom’s eyes opened. Immediately recognizing the face of her five-year-old grandson, she squeezed his hand tightly for a second or two and then slipped into a final coma.
With the aid of life support, my mom hung on for more than a week, during which time my family kept an around-the-clock vigil. I visited my mom at the hospital every day and then returned late each night when I got off work from the local nightclub where I was DJ-ing. The sound of my mother gagging and gasping for breath, echoing throughout the quiet hospital halls at 3AM, was agonizing. I’ll forever remember the moment I walked into my parent’s house that afternoon in late March. I was greeted at the front door by my brother’s wife, Beth, with the words, “Mom’s gone.”
The day of my mother’s funeral was a particularly painful one. As I stood next to the casket following the service, I was approached by a deacon from my parent’s church – a guy named Dick. “Your mother wants you to join her in heaven,” Dick told me. “But if you don’t change your ways, you’re not going to make it,” he added. Really? This was the single worst moment of my life. I was saying goodbye for the last time to my best friend and that was what this guy wanted to say to me? Dick knew my family. He knew me from attending his church for several months with my parents – and those were the words he chose to offer. Needless to say, Dick’s words offered little comfort and I once again felt dragged back fifteen yards by a member of my own team.
Coke Chaser
I was now in my late thirties by the end of the ‘90s. My life as I had known it for years had recently come to a crashing end. My mom’s death a few months earlier and my 1998 divorce created the first of several layers of darkness that would hover over me for the next decade.
I quickly turned to alcohol as a means of numbing my pain. After my introduction to that elixir called Jagermeister during my tenure with Glitterhick in 1998, I was guzzling the stuff at an alarming rate by 2000. At the time, I was DJ-ing at a local nightclub owned by the Kimple brothers’ youngest sibling, Scott. A shrewd businessman, Scott surmised that it would make better economic sense for both of us if he offered me an unlimited bar tab as part of my nightly wage. After noticing the unbelievable amount of Jagermeister he now continually had to restock, he soon opted to pay me in straight cash.
I also developed a similar reputation at another venue where I frequently DJ’d – a local hot spot called Siggy’s. In 2000 I had become quite tight with one of Siggy’s nighttime bartenders, a crackerjack pro named Patti. Siggy’s entire storefront is glass, and from her position behind the bar, Patti could see my van coming through the parking lot as I arrived at work each night. By the time I could drive around back, park my vehicle and make my way into the club, she’d already have a monstrous-size shot of Jagermeister with a Coke chaser and an ice-cold Heineken on the side, waiting for me in the DJ booth. Hence, I’d begin my night of drinking before even powering up my DJ amplifiers. By the end of the night I’d be stumbling through the bar and screaming profanities over the microphone. On several occasions, I don’t know how I even made it home. But I do recall regaining consciousness one night, sitting at the wheel of my car, which was facing the wrong direction on a major thoroughfare. That’s right, I was now driving drunk on a near-nightly basis.
I was clearly out of control and I had to get sober. But I worked fulltime in the bar business. I really loved to drink – I needed to drink. Plus, I reveled in being the life of the party. I would continue drinking for another four years.
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CHAPTER EIGHT
Game Changer
At the stroke of midnight on January 1, 2000, the new millennium officially was ushered in. Despite rampant Y2K conspiracies, the world (obviously) did not come to an end. And I welcomed the perceived promise of a fresh start that accompanies a new decade – not to mention, a new century.
Now approaching forty, I was focusing on new endeavors. I was establishing myself as a popular area events DJ and I also recently had been hired to write record reviews for Florida’s east coast entertainment magazine, Brevard Live. Although I had contributed extensively to such Florida-based publications as The Buzz and Jam throughout the ‘90s, my gig with Brevard Live offered me an opportunity to develop my writing skills and reputation on a greater level. In fact, it was a total game changer.
I quickly became bored with merely writing record reviews and I soon began seeking out national recording artists whom I could interview for Brevard Live in conjunction with feature stories regarding their upcoming Florida concert appearances. And with the growing popularity of hip-hop and electronic dance music, rock artists were now becoming quite accessible to the press – even to a small-timer like me. And before long, I was conducting phoners (telephone interviews) with members of many of my all-time favorite bands such as Poison, Cinderella, Stryper and Quiet Riot.
Yes, the new decade would offer me numerous industry-related experiences. Some were more positive than others. But overall, I thoroughly was enjoying my newfound “insider” role in the early 2000s.
Heads Are Gonna Roll
As a writer, I successfully gained access to rock artists, but I still needed to navigate through the obligatory line of managers, press agents and handlers to set up many of my interviews. And I quickly discovered that even once arrangements were made, things often would change at the last minute. Phoners that were to take place on Tuesday would be rescheduled for Wednesday, 3PM would become 5PM and sometimes I’d wind up interviewing the drummer or guitarist of a particular band instead of the prearranged frontman or bassist. However, some of my most memorable rock and roll experiences would play out by complete accident. And a complete accident perfectly describes the chain of events that led to my personal encounter with the iconic heavy metal band, Judas Priest.
Initially, I hadn’t planned to attend the Judas Priest concert at Club Ovation in Boynton Beach, Florida on Super Bowl Sunday, February 3, 2002. The band had achieved legendary status during the 1980s, releasing a string of chartbusting records such as British Steel, Screaming for Vengeance and Defenders of the Faith, and I was one of their most devout followers. However, my enthusiasm for their music had waned since the 1992 departure of original frontman, Rob Halford. In 1982 I would have
killed to see Judas Priest live, but in 2002 they had become less appealing.
I began having second thoughts about attending the concert after speaking to my old friend, David Thornquest, on the morning of the show. David had heard some buzz on a local radio program regarding the event and he surmised that it would be a must-see performance.
I already was scheduled to make a half-time personal appearance that night at Siggy’s Super Bowl party. But because the Judas Priest show was taking place in a nightclub, I hoped that it would start late enough for me to make the two-hour journey to Boynton Beach after my own gig before the band hit the stage.
Another concern was whether or not tickets were even still available – after all, it was the day of the show. So I called the Club Ovation box office and to my surprise, the owner, John Gracey, personally was manning the phones that morning. Gracey turned out to be quite personable. He informed me that tickets were, in fact, still available and that the band wouldn’t be taking the stage until 10:30PM. Perfect!
During our conversation, Gracey revealed that he recently had spent close to a million dollars renovating the 3,000 person capacity venue and he was thrilled to be booking such top-name acts as Judas Priest. I mentioned my interest in doing a feature on the club for Brevard Live and that I’d bring a camera to the show and take a few pictures of the venue to coincide with the story. My offer was music to Gracey’s ears. He graciously invited me and my girlfriend Vicki to be his personal guests that evening, offering us free tickets, a VIP table, after-show passes and an opportunity to meet and perhaps even interview the band.
C’MON! – My Story of Rock, Ruin and Revelation Page 10
