I never slept through the night there ever again. I stopped using earplugs because I wanted to hear some murderer trying to break into my apartment and slit my throat. To continue the self-terror, sometimes I imagined that when I opened my eyes, Shirley would be lying next to me. That nightmarish experience would serve me well later: learning how to survive on little sleep.
For the next nine months, the band did little except rehearse and play dives, peopled with a few drunks and hangers-on. Jason and I were growing tired of Mick’s constant need to control things and his inability to find better gigs, though we never questioned his playing because he was an exceptional guitarist (one of my favorites to this day). In an attempt to move forward, we began demoing some of our own material at Jason’s apartment.
The previous year, Jason had been in a band produced by Beau Hill, who helmed hit albums for such big ’80s bands as Ratt, Warrant, Winger, Alice Cooper, and Europe. Though Jason’s project was eventually shelved and never released, he and Beau remained friends. We took our demos to Beau. He was into our material and asked us to put together a project he could shop for a deal.
We were excited, but we knew we had to leave Mick’s band in order to pursue our new direction. Of course, when we explained our situation, he was upset. I felt bad about leaving him, but at the same time this seemed like a great opportunity, and great opportunities didn’t come along very often.
Over the next few months, Jason and I demoed lots of material. In order for Beau to be able to shop it, we needed a band. Jason knew some guys back in Canada: a singer I’ll call Aaron, and Dan, a bass player. When Jason told them about our project, they were eager to be a part of it.
Aaron was the first to arrive. I agreed to let him stay with me in Murder-Suicide Manor. Since I’d never met him, having him in my small space was a little invasive. But since I was used to having no space, I gave him my bed and slept on the floor. Though inconvenient, it actually helped me get to sleep—knowing that while he was in bed getting his throat slit, I might be able to crawl to safety, unnoticed. I was willing to make any sacrifice to get the band rolling as soon as possible.
Not long after Aaron arrived, Dan followed. (Like Jason, both were here without green cards.) Now I had two people living with me in a tiny room. Three’s Company it wasn’t.
Luckily, my sister was touring with a Broadway musical and had to be in LA for a couple of months. She’d acquired a really nice apartment not too far away. I happily bestowed my place on Aaron and Dan and moved in with Natalie. It was a spacious apartment and I had my own bedroom, which was a major upgrade . . . like going from a cardboard box in a back alley to a suite at the Beverly Hilton.
We called our band New Pop Eden. (Don’t ask.) After we managed to write some fresh material, Beau began setting up private showcases—with record labels—in our rehearsal space, where we’d perform three or four songs. Each time, we were certain this time would be the one. But after nearly twenty label showcases, it was obvious no one was interested in signing us. Part of it was due to our material; part to the skittishness of those in attendance.
Most of the label people who came were low-level A&R guys whose existence was predicated on keeping a job most weren’t qualified to do in the first place. The prevailing philosophy: Hate everything, sign nothing . . . keep your job! And whatever you do, don’t lose the schmooze account. A typical day in the life: to work by 11:00, lunch at 12:30, back at 2:30, shuffle paper, fuck around for a couple of hours—schmoozing on the phone with other hangers-on—until leaving for a late-afternoon/early-evening showcase or a “business” meet-up at the local watering hole. Tough gig, eh? If one lucked out and got a promotion, they inevitably hired down for their replacement—fearing anyone with real talent would soon surpass them or take their job.
Standard operating procedure: wait for something to hit, then sign a million things just like it. Star making via Xerox. If they happened to stumble across something unique, they immediately tried to change it into whatever was currently popular—destroying any uniqueness the act originally possessed. In times of prosperity, they flung shit against the wall, hoping something would stick. If, by chance, something did, they happily took all the credit, claiming to have the kind of rare intuition that can spot a diamond in the rough. In the case of New Pop Eden, no one was willing to risk his precious expense account to see if we could become a hit act. More precisely, our shit didn’t stick because no one had the guts to fling it against the proverbial wall.
About this time, Dad sent me my first guitar. While my sister was out performing, I’d noodle around on it and write songs, demoing them on a four-track Jason lent me. It was great for me because Beau didn’t care who wrote the material as long as it was good. He took my initial ideas and helped mold them into decent songs.
Aaron, Pop Eden’s lead singer, was into his own vibe. His lyrics were artsy-fartsy and vague. Even melded with really strong melodies, they were too esoteric to make it in mainstream pop. Ever so sensitive, Aaron was offended if anyone suggested a lyric change. In spite of our differences, we tried to make it work. But when we started hearing from labels that the lyrics weren’t cutting it, we knew something had to give.
Unbeknownst to us, Beau cashed in a favor, securing a development deal with Atlantic Records. A friend of Beau’s at Atlantic arranged for us to record a few sides in Rumbo Studios, where Guns N’ Roses recorded Appetite for Destruction. We busted out eight songs in a just a few days, and Beau mixed it. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out like I’d hoped, but since he’d had lots of success mixing his way, I tried to stay positive.
He turned in the mixes to a V.P. at Atlantic. Without so much as a how do you do, he passed. We later learned it wouldn’t have mattered if it had been Michael Jackson’s Thriller, because the Veep had a personal vendetta against Beau. It turned out that when Beau was having tons of success in the ’80s, he made some enemies. This fucker turned out to be one with a long memory. It was payback time, and we became the innocent victims of it. (It’s rare for anything that happens in the music business to be about the music. It’s almost always about something else: the battle of egos, who owns the publishing, whose uncle runs the label, or who has the biggest political dick. In this case, the something else was revenge.)
All our hard work was for nothing. Immediately, the band’s differences emerged. Aaron and Dan weren’t really digging the style of music Jason and I were cranking out. So we decided to part ways.
Once again, I learned a lot from the whole experience. It helped me realize the importance of songs and to understand structure: how to cut through the fat and construct well-crafted tunes. I also learned a lot about how the music biz worked. At the time, it seemed like a bummer not getting signed, but it was a blessing. There were bigger things ahead . . . but bigger ain’t always better.
Jason and I got involved in another project with more of his Canadian friends. This time, it was a guitar player, Theo, and his wife, Carmen. From the beginning, I wasn’t a fan of the material. It was like a “B” version of Alanis Morissette. As soon as I heard her first song, I knew we would be inundated with even worse Alanis knockoffs. And, baby, there were a fuckload of them.
Once again Beau came on board to try and shop this project, which was extremely short-lived for me. I had too much respect for music to be part of this bullshit. I wanted to do music I liked and get a deal for doing something I believed in. I’d sacrificed a lot up to this point, so I thought, Fuck this, I’ll start my own project.
I was burnt on what was happening musically in the world anyway. Nu metal was the flavor of the day, and I wanted no part of it. Metal appeared to be moribund. I decided to do a complete one-eighty. I’d always had a huge love for ’80s-style new wave music. Devo had been a big influence on my desire to do music when I discovered it as a six-year-old. I’ve mentioned my admiration for Prince, David Bowie, and Duran Duran. So I decided to get a keyboard and do my version of techno pop. (Dat’s right . . . fucking techn
o pop!)
I wanted to write it, sing it, produce it, and record it like Prince. But first I needed equipment. To equip a modest home studio, I took odd jobs on the weekends, along with a horrible office job where I sat forty hours a week doing mind-numbing data entry. I also did landscaping and cleaned houses—even scrubbing people’s fucking gross birdcages. I worked my ass off and finally scraped together enough to buy a Roland sixteen-track hard-disk recorder. Soon I added cool Tannoy speakers and a Roland JX-305 keyboard. I also purchased a LinnDrum like the one Prince used. It didn’t take long to learn how to operate the gear.
I began writing and recording songs right away, and it started to click. I stumbled upon a cool sound and direction and completed a record in no time. Totally nouveau new wave, I needed an appropriate persona and chose the name Dynamite. Thinking I had something commercial, I soon discovered (surprise) that nobody would bite. Although Beau tried to help, no one bought it. Thinking that once someone saw me perform they’d get it, I decided to do a one-man show with me on keyboard, wearing a wireless headset mic like the ’80s artist Howard Jones (not the singer from Killswitch Engage). Fortunately, none of this exists on YouTube!
Desperate to have a chance of getting noticed, I knew I had to create something “different.” My girlfriend at the time, Abby, agreed to wear fetish outfits and go-go dance onstage. Holding nothing back, I painted my body in fluorescent body paints that really popped under a black light. I donned crazy-looking fluorescent-yellow contacts and dyed my hair to match. I looked like a complete freak, but I was able to secure some gigs at various dance clubs around LA. All the while, I wrote more songs until I had enough for a second album. (I still have a few hundred CDs I’m willing to part with for a thousand bucks each!)
I continued shopping material and finally got an offer to put a song on a compilation album in the United Kingdom. As no offer to sign me outright was forthcoming, I kept shopping. I found another label willing to put out both albums. I got really excited until I saw the contract—a total rip-off I couldn’t force myself to sign. Before I could regroup and give it another shot, yet another opportunity presented itself, prompting a period I’ve since affectionately christened Three Years I’ll Never Get Back.
Theo and Carmen reemerged in a new band (I’ll call it Snow, still another name for cocaine) that was starting to get a big buzz around town, drawing huge crowds. It was a gimmicky, crazy-costume-wearing live show, like a poor man’s Cirque du Soleil with a Pink doppelgänger as lead singer. When their drummer, a member of an ’80s hair-metal band, was fired for extensive drug use, Theo called and asked me to fill in until they found a permanent replacement. I needed a break from wearing every hat in my own project—plus, I missed playing live. So I agreed to do it.
Snow’s first show was insane, totally sold-out to a wild-ass, enthusiastic crowd. I thought this band just might get signed and be an easy way for me to make a record, go on tour, and escape the fucking struggles of trying to exist as a musician in LA. Even though I thought the music was inane—and soon realized Carmen was a head-case control freak—I was fucking burnt on working a boring day job, being rejected by labels, and playing dives with two people in the audience. So, in spite of feeling like I was selling out, when Theo offered the gig on a permanent basis, I caved.
In no time, Snow was SRO at big venues like the Key Club, even on a Tuesday. We were the buzz of Hollywood. Label reps peopled every gig. When offers started pouring in, I finally allowed myself to get excited. Snow was the hottest thing in town. Labels were champing at the bit to sign the band; that is, until the old fear bug started biting everyone. Remember the sign-nothing-and-keep-your-job policy? Once label heads discovered Carmen’s age (pushing the big four-oh, although she looked younger), word spread and the death knell sounded. Offers were withdrawn.
The industry’s really brutal that way. If you’re too old, they can’t control you and mold you into their moneymaker, so they run the opposite direction. Young and naïve artists tend to have more of a threshold for pain; it helps to be uneducated as far as the business goes, because newbies are willing to go through shit in order to achieve their dreams. The last thing a label wants is for you to know how things work, because it’s harder to take advantage of you. Besides, it’s tempting to drink the Kool-Aid just to get in the game. (I should know. I’ve consumed more than a Jim Jones Kool-Aid junkie.)
I was torn about leaving the band at that point, because we continued to sell out every show. Though Carmen was insufferable, Theo was a great guy and incredibly talented. Because I really liked him, I struggled with whether or not I should stay on. With my luck, I figured the minute I said adios, they’d get signed. So I stuck it out—for three fucking years—totally losing myself in the process. With each passing year, I built up even more resentment from the fact that I allowed myself to stay in something—something I didn’t even like—for the supposed “big payoff.” (Anyone detect a pattern here?) It was like being stuck in a shithole in the ground and trying to dig myself out.
To make a living, Jason had been playing guitar in a few different bands. He’d recently joined the solo band of Vince Neil from Mötley Crüe. Financially stable, he was ready to upgrade his living situation, so we decided to get a place together. That change happened at just the right time. And it would be easier to work on our music together. However, the reality was that he was rarely there.
It was hard watching him have fun touring the world while I worked a boring data-entry job in Sherman Oaks. We’d started his first solo record in between tours, but now he was gone so much, it was difficult to complete the fucking thing. I’d been planning to use those recordings to find another gig. I felt like time was running out and my dream was fading fast.
To add to my depression, my grandma Heyde died. In a way it was a relief, because she’d lived the last decade of her life in a nursing home, suffering from Huntington’s chorea (the same hideous disease that killed Woody Guthrie). It’s one of those weird genetic diseases that turns you into a human mobile. If that wasn’t bad enough, my dad’s sister died of ovarian cancer two months later. I loved Sherry, my only aunt, and her death—in such close proximity to Grandma’s—really devastated me. Couldn’t get much worse, right? Wanna bet?
Before I could get my bearings and begin to process the loss, I found out my parents had decided to divorce after thirty-five years of marriage. Three years earlier, they’d invited my grandma Evie to come live with them, and it resurrected old issues between her and Mom. Old resentments—like Mom blaming her for her father leaving—resulted in major confrontations that always put my dad in the middle. After nearly sixty years, he thought it was ridiculous for them to keep harping on the same unresolved crap. Having recently lost his mother, their bickering made it even more unbearable. He finally said he needed a little peace in his life and, that quickly, the marriage was caput.
To turn this tragic scenario into a bizarre situation comedy, when Dad returned from settling my aunt Sherry’s estate in Topeka, Kansas, he discovered that Mom had “moved” to be near my sister in a Chicago suburb—leaving her mother in his care! (This farce could be another chapter unto itself, but know that after three months, Dad took equity out of the house and moved Grandma back to St. Louis to be near some of her relatives.
Multiple deaths and a devastating divorce, all in the matter of a few months. Christ, wasn’t there anything I could rely on? My abandonment buttons were pushed to the max. Suddenly I was questioning everything and everyone. I felt betrayed and ungrounded . . . and deeply sad.
I’d never really gotten comfortable in my own skin the whole time I’d been sober. I’d somehow managed to stay sober, even through the worst challenges. It had been more than fourteen years since I’d touched a drug or any alcohol. Everyone I knew used or drank, at least occasionally. Yet I never allowed myself to because I was told I was a drug addict who couldn’t handle even one little sip of alcohol. All this just added to my anger and misery.
Changes were needed . . . and fast. I told Theo I was out. I broke up with Abby after five years of living together, and immediately started searching for something fun to take my mind off things. I found an ex-stripper to distract me. That was pretty short-lived, as she and I had little in common other than the fact that we liked some of the same music. I didn’t love her and I certainly didn’t want to settle down with her in her tiny-ass studio apartment. The negatives continued to pile up. Everything contributed to my depression: the music biz, my job, and my sobriety. It wasn’t long until I found my way to Angel . . . and that first sip of wine that led to the next thousand. Even though my addictive behavior was on the rise, for the next eighteen months, I started to regain my emotional footing.
And then . . . the universe plopped a big ol’ cherry bomb on top of an unbelievable shit sundae. That’s when I got an e-mail from Dad that shook me to my very foundation. It said he’d fallen in love with a man and they were gonna live together. His bisexuality had never been a secret, and I shouldn’t have been surprised that after thirty-five years of marriage, he was ready for something different. But instead of choosing someone in the vicinity of his own age—fifty-seven—leave it to my dad, who never did anything in a conventional way, to choose someone a decade younger than I was. This wasn’t one of those older men playing daddy to a younger, penniless cub. Hardly. This guy came from a very wealthy family, and he’d given up a sizable trust fund to be with my father. Still, none of that made it easier for me to accept.
Dad had always been someone I could turn to for advice. He was my best friend. We both loved sports and had gone to college basketball and professional football games for years. We shared a love of music. We had lots in common, including an irreverent sense of humor. But this shocker was too much! It made me feel like I was being replaced by a total stranger. It really hurt, and it didn’t go down any easier finding out in a fucking e-mail. Why this . . . and why now?
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