I guess this is the time he and his wife were splitting. It was hypnotic, soulful, and hopelessly sad.
I got into punk-yeah, well, we all make mistakes-then came out of it and my dad died soon after. Otis Barnes released an album of soulful, jazzy, polyrhythmic stuff, all held together with that breathy, growling vocal. He did covers of a couple of swoony old fifties songs that got him in the charts as a late night lover man.
I bought the albums through the eighties, interviewed him a couple of times when I first started out as a music journalist. He had a couple more chart hits, especially with his ballads. Performed live with a great brass section.
Then his second wife left him-rumors of more brutality at home-and he kind of fell apart. He was in such agony-self pity sure but still tragic to see-that making his next album he kept breaking down. It was such a sorrowful experience and such a sorrowful album the record label boss who was his friend refused to release it. Barnes was a complex character-the depth of his tenderness in his love songs was intimately related to his capacity for violence.
The album, brilliant, unremitting, sorrowful remained on the shelf for two years. It was finally released and produced a mega-hit single with "Never Leave Your Lover Man" but Otis was in no condition to tour or promote either the single of the album. He still found it too painful to sing the stuff. So, he missed the boat.
Since then Otis Barnes had been losing his battle with drugs and booze whilst producing the odd album with a couple of good tracks and the rest fillers. He'd switched record labels a few times, presumably because his reputation for being more difficult than brilliant these days (the delicate balance had tilted the other way) made him more of a liability than an asset.
Then, almost miraculously, he turned himself around. Maybe it was the love of a new woman, maybe it was that he finally exorcised his demons by facing them.
For years he'd had a morbid obsession with James Hogg's novel, Confessions of A Justified Sinner, in which the devil in human guise, the guise of a friend, lures the main protagonist into committing more and more lurid crimes.
The two outstanding tracks were both inspired by the James Hogg book-a self loathing song called "Sinner Man" and one about betrayal called "Dark Friend."
They were the best songs based on a book since Sting was inspired by Anne Rice's Interview With A Vampire to write "Moon Over Bourbon Street." But they might not have reached a wider audience had they not come to the attention of film director Julian Parkinson who was making Confessions, a Hollywood version of the book, starring Alice Denver, trying to prove she could act.
Julian used both tracks, one to open, one to close the film. The soundtrack album was released long before the film as part of the marketing plan. The film bombed-nobody wanted to see an unsmiling Alice Denver-but the soundtrack album was a big success. Suddenly Otis Barnes had himself a best-selling album and a number one hit with "Sinner Man."
And this time he had his shit together. He went into some expensive detox place in Sussex, got off the drugs and booze, shed a couple of stone, and, age fifty, became a fervent and outspoken anti-drugs guy, roped in to head the Rock Against Drugs tour, cleaned up, in love, on form, the bad living a thing of the past.
Which is why it had come as a bit of a surprise to see him dead drunk at the hotel. And to see that he didn't look much better at the subsequent press conference.
The room was full of journalists, a couple of TV crews, and a heavy swathe of security people. I sat off to one side with a view down the corridor along which the rock stars would come.
So it was that I saw them advance, surrounded by yes-men, assistants, agents, and managers. I saw Richard whispering urgently in Otis Barnes's ear, Otis thickly nod, Otis lean on Richard as he tried not to stagger.
He was a big guy and, apart from the fact he couldn't stand up straight, in good shape. He'd obviously been working out. He looked trim-and tough. He had black tousled hair and a full black beard. There was a coarseness to his face and something dangerous about him. Not the kind of guy you'd want to cross-I'd heard stories of him holding bookers up by their ankles to shake the money out of them when they tried to get away without paying him.
Slumped behind the desk and its jumble of microphones, his eyes hidden behind wraparound shades, Otis could get away with it for a while. Occasionally, his head swivelled slowly from side to side, a benevolent smile on his face, as if he were blessing the assembled throng. I half expected him to stretch out his hands in a benediction.
After the preliminary statements by the representatives of Green Power, the rock stars were introduced-aside from Otis they included the lead performers from the jazz sextet The Joe Blows and the hippy-dippy Fertile Lands.
On the whole, the journalists' grasp of English was very good-more foreign educated kidnap risks presumably. There first few questions were about drugs then a plump woman in stiletto heels sitting in the front row put up her hand.
"I have a question for Otis Barnes" She had a lot of teeth and long crimson nails. Otis moved his head a fraction, possibly in response, possibly not.
"When last did you cry-and why?"
There were smiles, a little tittering from the stage and the journalists in the body of the room. All eyes were on Otis. Was he awake behind those glasses? Functioning? I saw Richard's smile become a rictus as the seconds ticked by and Otis made no response. Eventually, cautiously, Otis leaned towards the microphone. He smiled benignly.
"When I got my last bank statement," he growled. Everyone laughed. Richard looked relieved but it was clear the woman was waiting for a proper answer. Otis was aware of it, too.
"Getting off the drugs was pretty horrendous for me," he continued. "I certainly cried then. I raved, raged, and ranted, yeah, but I cried, too."
"Was it cold turkey?" the woman said, delivering the phrase hesitantly.
"More cold chicken, actually," Otis said. "It was a place in the Home Counties and they were very good on using leftovers."
This passed the South Americans by, although the other musicians had a quick snigger. The questions rolled away-the usual what are your songs about stuff. Otis hadn't sounded particularly drunk, given that he was known for slurring his words anyway.
Another journalist asked him a question.
"You want your album to say something?"
"Yeah, I want it to say, `Here's the money for that yacht you wanted."'
People laughed.The woman in the front row, a flirtatious lilt to her voice, said:
"I have another question for Otis. What does he think of South American women?"
Otis sat back in his chair and spread his hands out.
"I would have thought that was obvious since for the past three months I've been shagging the arse off your Queen of Salsa."
"Shagging?" the woman said to her nextdoor neighbor. "Come shagging?"
Conchita Esperanza, the Queen of Salsa, was Colombia's most popular singer, danced to in salsa clubs around the world. If the British tabloids were to be believed-no sniggering at the back there-Otis and Conchita had indeed been making the beast with two backs of late.
Richard was still grinning his shit-eating grin. Definitely a rictus. There was some embarrassed laughter then a kind of hiss and a stamping of feet started at the back of the room and carried in a wave through to the front.
The first death threat arrived within the hour.
"Richard!"
"Nick!"
"Richard!"
"Nick!"
We both stood grinning, expectant, each waiting for the other to progress the conversation since with many PRs that exchange is the conversation (with, if you want to get flowery, the occasional "How are you?" "Fine how are you?" added).
Richard was ten years younger than me, a beefy good looking longhaired man brimming with confidence-on occasion too loud, great singing voice, big hit with the women. In Riga he made even Bridget seem staid. He was pushy and he was a success at what he did.This tour was probably the biggest of
his career, since he had the dual role of PR guy and tour manager.
We were standing in the bar of the hotel an hour or so after the press conference.
"So how's it going? Had a bit of a shock at the press conference seeing the state of Otis."
"Yeah you thought he was drunk right. No fucking way Can you believe this bloody altitude. Christ I walk ten yards I got to stop for breath."
"Nice attitude to women," I said. "Very chivalrous."
"He was under the weather."
"He was almost under the table-he was drunk, Richard."
"Strike that. He had altitude sickness. He wasn't aware of what he was saying. He was misquoted" Richard sighed, a sigh far too worldly for one so young. "Whatever excuse you want."
"Why'd he fall off the wagon?"
"Conchita tried to chop off his
"Wha-"
"Not for the first time."
"Because?"
"He'd slept with some ambitious female music journalist."
Richard looked at me and grinned.
"Not for the first time," we said together.
"So how is it going?" I repeated.
"You mean aside from the usual horrors of dealing with rock stars, rock stars managers, groupies, roadies, all the paraphernalia of a major tour, and my giant ego? Like a dream."
He chuckled.
"Course there are one or two slight hiccups but thank the gods they're Horace's problems not mine."
"Horace?"
"Otis's manager-yeah I know, don't get many Horaces in rock `n' roll-at least any who'll own up to the name"
"Problems aside from the demon barber of Bogota? Like what?"
"His ex-wife, Mara, is in Fertile Lands."
"Get out!"
"The bass player from his old band, the one who's suing him claiming to have co-written `Lover Man,' is in another act on the bill." Richard chuckled and shook his head. "Don't be put off by Otis's asshole remark this morning. He likes to shock and sometimes he doesn't quite judge it right."
"I'd say."
"He's quite a character.You should hear some of his stories. You will hear some of his stories."
I shrugged.
"We'll see. How're you handling the drugs thing. I seem to recall you're quite partial to a toot on a regular basis. How are you handling abstinence?"
Richard gave me a wolfish grin.
"Ways and means, my man. Ways and means." He nudged me. "You hear about the plane coming in from Rio. Someone had stashed 600 kilo of cocaine in steerage. Cheeky or what? Held us up for hours. They use the presidential jet and navy vessels, too, you know."
I was telling him about the kidnap ordeal when a big black guy shouldered his way into the room. A very big black guy. About my height-6'4"-but all muscle. He moved easily though.
"I didn't like the way this guy Porras was talking about Otis. Seemed like he had a score to settle."
"He'd better get to the back of the queue-" Richard spotted the black man walking by and jumped to his feet. "Hey, bro," he said, clapping him on the arm. "Nick, this is Ralph, the tour's security manager, tell him about this guy Porras."
Ralph looked down at Richard, clenched his jaw.
"I ain't your bro," he said with such intensity Richard moved back a couple of steps. "So don't hit me with that homeboy shit."
"Hey, man-" Richard said.
"Hey nothing," Ralph said. "I get so fucking weary of this street shuck. I'm black but I was brought up on the upper west side. My father is a lawyer. I studied classical trumpet for a higher diploma. I'll take Wynton Marsalis over rap any day. I'm the size I am not because I was too dumb to do anything but lift weights for five hours a day at the neighborhood gym but because I was an athlete as well as a musician at college.A swinmier. I'm sorry I'm not a sprinter but there it is."
Ralph's fierce stare raked across me as well as Richard, then he walked off. Richard watched him go.
"But you're still a glorified bouncer, Ralph," he muttered. "What you got to say to that, huh?" He shrugged. "Guy's kinda wired."
I watched the big man circle the room. He moved well for one so big. Unable to find who he was looking for he glided from the room.
"Good taste in music though," I said as I saw Bridget pass Ralph coming through the door, crane her head back round to get another look at him, then sashayed into the bar trailing, for reasons best known to herself, a long silk scarf, the kind I always associated with Isadora Duncan getting strangled.
"Bridget!"
"Richard!"
"Bridget!"
Yeah, well, you can fill in the rest for yourself-see above and factor in a few air-kisses followed by a big hug.
"You coming to the concert tomorrow, doll?" Richard said.
Any ordinary Joe called Bridget "doll" and the next time you saw her she'd be using his scrotum as a tobacco pouch. For Richard she merely smiled a girlish smile. It was nauseating.
I idly wondered if they'd made the beast with two backs in Riga. Bridget didn't really go for men younger than her-well, unless, like Richard, they were really dishy.
"No, I'm flying up to Cartagena to see an old friend," she said.
"Cool place," Richard said. "Watch out for the crocodiles though. I saw a thing on telly once-apparently they can in-"
"We know," I said. "We met one in the Amazon"
"Missed his stop had he? How come?"
"Let's go out and get a drink somewhere, we'll tell you all about it," I said.
We walked slowly through the old town, down narrow, dusty streets.Young soldiers with high-cheekboned Indian faces wearing green fatigues hoisting automatic rifles were loitering on each street corner-we were fairly near the presidential palace by now.
We climbed half a dozen steps onto the terrace of a cafe and I had to stop to catch my breath. When we sat down I ordered a fruit pulp drink.
Bridget and Richard both ordered large vodka and tonics.
"You're not supposed to drink alcohol until you get acclim-"
Bridget gave me a look that made me think tobacco pouches.
"-nothing absolutely nothing. But I certainly don't want to get altitude sickness."
"What're the symptoms?" Richard said, taking a big swig from his drink.
"Shortness of breath, headache, pounding heart, giddiness, insomnia, maybe vomiting."
"And here I just thought I was in love," Bridget said with a quick laugh.
"Don't laugh," I said primly. "Sorocha or hypoxia-they're the technical terms for altitude sickness-are hard to shake off. And you've got to watch the dehydration-apparently occurs very rapidly at high altitudes. But sip don't slurp-altitude, exertion, and excess fluid can lead to high blood pressure"
"How come you know all this shit?" Richard said.
"I like to do my research," I said, preening slightly.
"He's a swot," Bridget said.
"Varicose veins, hemorrhoids, and other vascular conditions are often irritated by high altitudes."
"Yeah, yeah."
We told Richard about the kidnap.
"So the sooner we can get out of Colombia the better."
"You can't want to leave Bogota," he said. "Great city. Enlightened too-on Sunday they close the roads for rollerbladers and cyclists-that's thoughtful."
"If you're a rollerblader or a cyclist. I've read about that-they only do it because the President's son is a keen rollerblader-sorry it still doesn't mean Bogota is my idea of a tourist town."
"Bogota isn't anyone's idea of a tourist town. Everywhere you look there are people with their hands out, people with guns in their pockets. I daren't catch anybody's eye just in case they shoot Inc."
"And the fix is in big-time. Corruption everywhere, you know."
The sun was bright overhead. We sat in the shade. We told Richard about our adventure, exaggerating only a little.
"D'you think they were SAS or mercenaries who rescued you?"
"Dunno, I'm more interested in why they were there."
"Chasing drug barons obviously."
"I'm not so sure.There was something about them. But the guerrilla leader seemed very interested in this tour."
"You think he might want to kidnap Otis?"
"Certainly a possibility."
"No worries-we got the best security there is-which is just as well as we're starting to get some death threats"
"The drug people?"
"Probably but also from people who don't like the remarks Otis made at the press conference about their beloved queen of salsa." He looked at his watch. "What you two doing this evening-why don't I take you both to dinner?"
Five large vodka and tonics later neither were in condition to go anywhere. It wasn't the amount of booze-that amount was usually merely the beginning for both of them-it was the altitude. I was feeling very superior and smug as they reeled back to the hotel and went to their rooms, until I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My face was bright scarlet.
I waited until after dark before I left the hotel.
"High altitude, thin air, sun more powerful even in shade," the concierge said succinctly as he opened the hotel door for me.
"Thanks, pal."
I went down to a salsa club that the barman had been recommended to me and who should be on the dance floor, large as life and twice as boisterous, but Otis. So much for altitude sickness, though I must say his drunk seemed to have gone. When he saw me watching him he looked right through me-but then a lot of people do that.
I was admiring his moves. Salsa and meringue aren't easy dances since your hips, feet, and knees are all moving at the same time but to different rhythms. For all his bulk Otis was a real snake-hips.
I'm really into South American music-the jazz mostly. Got into it with a Brazilian woman I used to hang out with in lots of Latin American Joints in London. I kind of hankered for her physically but she was one of many women in history-my history-who liked me but not like that. They took Mastermind off television before I could make "Girls Who Like Me but not like that" my special subject.
So I ignored the woman further along the bar who was giving me little smiles and concentrated on the music-the main reason I agreed to come to Colombia with Bridget. I had a whole pile of CD from Discos Fuentes, Colombia's oldest record label.
Two to Tango (Nick Madrid) Page 6
