Rock Monster

by Kristin Casey

  “Don’t be silly. I’m very excited.”

  “I’m just saying,” he shrugged. “It happens.”

  Monty, our guide, was cool and good-looking, with long, gray hair and deeply tanned skin. His surfer garb and mannerisms passed for a local’s, though he was originally from Manhattan, and had worked years of overtime to afford the relocation. Monty was my type all over, but my love for Joe had never been stronger. I was high on his presence and drunk on the sight of him. No other man registered, not even sexy surfer/sage Monty, not even when claustrophobia hit, and he held my hand underwater, distracting me with sea urchins and fish that ate from my fingers.

  Back in LA, we met up with Sam Kinison at the China Club. It was two days after the alleged rape of his girlfriend and, though somber, a night out with friends lent Sam some of the normalcy he was craving—despite the gapes and stares from other patrons. News reports made Sam out to be callous and unconcerned, but that wasn’t true at all—Sam was a wreck, and his darkness rubbed off on all of us.

  A few days later, while I was having a bad acid trip, Joe was again unsympathetic and detached. It lasted for weeks on end. There was no more talk of moving me in. I pretended everything was normal. On Catalina Island, with Rick the Bass Player and his date—a lively and athletic, fresh-faced blonde—I took a stand. In lieu of being held hostage by Joe’s insouciance, I decided to mirror her. We raced around the ferry like kids and danced around the living room of our rented condo, drinking wine, doing blow, and dropping acid. Joe stayed on the balcony all night, listening to waves and picking at the strings of his acoustic.

  He’d been all over me in Hawaii—marriage this, forever that. From goddess to pariah in six weeks flat, I was mystified and sick of it. I went to bed cursing him loudly in the darkness through an open window—You’re a dickhead, Joe. A cock-sucking asshole. The barbs elicited no response from their intended victim, though Rick the Bass Player cracked up at every one.

  In LA, I gave it one more go. I told Joe I was confused about our relationship, what he wanted, and how I factored in. His reply came out of nowhere. “I think we should move in together for eighteen months and then get married.” I stared at him, but he just turned back to his recording equipment, laying fart noise effects over a piece of classical music.

  How High the Moon

  One morning in August 1990, I awoke at the penthouse and turned on MTV. I liked to start my day that way, watching lazily over Joe’s shoulder, with his back pressed to my belly. This time the images weren’t soothing and I bolted upright with tears in my eyes. A helicopter had crashed into a mountain. Stevie Ray Vaughan was dead.

  In my work bag back home, was a frayed piece of paper with my favorite stage songs listed on it—eighty or more titles, ten of them Stevie’s. His signature guitar slinger sound was the first I’d ever stripped to, the first to make me feel sexy and uninhibited onstage. His live shows had helped me move on from the punk scene and the trauma of being mugged. If I had a personal coming-of-age story, Stevie Ray Vaughan was all over its soundtrack. He was a favorite Austin son.

  Joe and Stevie had hung out back in Sydney. I’d been too hungover to join them but had met Stevie once before, after a show in Austin. He’d just gotten sober and couldn’t have been sweeter, nor could his fiancée. I thought of her and shuddered, alone at the snap of God’s fingers.

  Joe’s flirtation with sobriety had come and gone. What little control I’d once had plummeted. Away from Joe, I abstained from coke—I slept seven nights a week in Austin. With Joe, I averaged five out of seven and we spent three weeks a month together. Austin had become a pit stop for me, a place to dry out from my “real life” with Joe. He struggled to impose limits. I struggled to adhere to them. We failed as often as we succeeded.

  I didn’t think in terms of addiction. We just had “bad habits” that were exacerbated by an erratic travel schedule. We’d taper down when I moved in and settle into a routine. In my fantasy we didn’t need to quit. We’d regulate instead, partying on weekends—Friday through Sunday—followed by four days of recuperation. The details could be worked out later. I was a big-picture thinker, and to me the plan made sense.

  Fate intervened. Joe had a new band, and we were headed back to Japan.

  •••

  Journal Entry:

  September 29, 1990

  First show Tokyo, now in Osaka (with Joe’s band The Best). We’ve had two huge fights already, one my fault, one his. I bought him a YSL pen; he bought me a fur coat—holy shit!

  Skunk’s here. He’s kind and super smart. John Entwistle is an ass (or just unfriendly, I dunno). He’s hooked up with a wardrobe girl. His bass playing is incredible. Simon Phillips on drums—what a doll. Keith Emerson is nice (but his solo is too long). And the Brothers (singing harmonies)!

  •••

  I barely knew Joe’s new bandmates and it seemed that would stay the case. None of their girlfriends had come, and without Ringo’s magical vibe, the tour felt workaday in comparison.

  The Brothers were a bright spot, and Skunk’s calm, cool demeanor had a soothing effect on me. John wasn’t really an ass, just reserved when he wasn’t drinking. Singer, Rick Livingstone, was friendly and talented, if an odd fit with his eighties-era glam aesthetic. The other guys pulled me aside to ask if I could help refine Rick’s style, or at least confiscate his homemade armbands. I agreed that the misappropriated shoestrings were uncool, yet good enough for Japan. Besides, have you seen the shit my boyfriend wears? In truth, I wasn’t assertive enough to undertake their request. Armbands aside, the men got along fine—much better than Joe and I did.

  Japan may’ve been a port in my cocaine storm, but a tidal surge of alcohol craving caught me totally off guard. The phenomenon was not new to Joe, who’d toured internationally for decades. His long-term cocaine use, interspersed with dry spells, sparked a need to compensate with drink. The cocaine dry spells I’d endured thus far (in Australia, New Zealand, and Japan) had been blips on the radar—an annoyance versus health hazard. I’d never exhibited signs of withdrawal—fatigue, mood swings, or increased alcohol cravings. He got them every time, while I’d sailed along feeling fine.

  All that changed in Japan.

  For the first time, I displayed signs of dependency, a knee-jerk compulsion for round-the-clock drinking, which I indulged aggressively. With Joe doing likewise, it was a wonder we didn’t kill each other. Smokey had to step in the middle of two separate in-your-face screaming matches, and after the second one, I’d been so keyed up I stormed from the hotel. I sat on a park bench replaying the scene in my head, feeling aghast and perplexed. I had never fought with such explosive rage before. Joe had, but to have two loose cannons going off at once just might end us. I stared at the grass, despondent. When I looked up, Joe was standing there. He took a seat, neither of us speaking. Minutes passed and a calm came over me. After a while, he walked off.

  It was all I needed to know. He hadn’t given up yet.

  Back at the hotel, in the gift shop, I perused designer pens. Joe collected them—all kinds, from gold and silver sets to flimsy souvenirs. I selected an Yves Saint Laurent, but before I could give it to him, he presented me with a much larger package.

  I’d been given a fur coat once before, payment for a bachelor party I’d done. The best man, a furrier, had paid me in mink (for the easiest ten-minute performance of my life). I’d left it at a consignment store without insuring it first; then the store’s owner tried to tell me she’d been robbed. I knew she was lying and had stolen my mink coat herself, but I couldn’t prove it. Easy come, easy go. Plus I was hardly the fur-wearing type. I treasured Joe’s gift for different reasons. I intended to keep it forever.

  On our final night in Japan, nerves were frayed to a man. Joe cancelled the toga party planned for our room, and we hung out in John Entwistle’s instead. For some reason, John chose that night to become openly affectionate
, greeting me with a kiss on the lips, and later planting a string of them up my arm. Joe saw it all, wholly unconcerned.

  I was so grateful to be together, I barely finished one drink and was still subdued at the airport the next day. I was thinking that Joe could’ve made me swim home and been justified, when he walked up with another gift. Inside the blue velvet box was an elegant pearl choker. A single strand of perfectly graduated pearls, flawless and breathtaking.

  For most of the flight to Oahu, we cuddled and cooed like smitten teenagers until John, seated behind us, begged us to knock it off.

  •••

  Journal Entries:

  October 3, 1990

  In Hawaii again. Had dinner with Monty (scuba instructor). Tonight is The Best concert.

  October 7, 1990

  Smoke alarm, 7:50 a.m. Stuffed all sex toys under the bed just as hotel security arrived.

  October 8, 1990

  The Best concert was excellent. Joe got glowing review. Then Monty came over and I asked if he’d thought about our offer. He said he’d love to fool around but not with Joe in the room. “It’s just not my thing.” (Bummer.) Joe went deep sea fishing, caught a tuna—my hunter!

  October 10, 1990

  Back in LA for Ringo’s party, and OH MY GOD, Joe says I can quit work if I want to. I love him so much…it’s immeasurable. I’m happy, I think. (It’s scary.)

  •••

  At the All-Starr Band’s record release party, Joe navigated paparazzi while I chatted with friends in the corner. Ringo came by with his face-kissing thing and Barb told me I looked lovely. After Joe did a round of obligatory sound bites, we joined Jeff Lynn and George Harrison in Ringo’s booth. I journaled later about my relief at finally feeling comfortable in Joe’s world, not so overwhelmed by flashbulbs and glitterati. Beyond the travel and luxury adventures, I felt his love was the ultimate gift. The most important thing! I wrote. Hope I don’t screw it up.

  •••

  We went to Chattanooga, Tennessee, to record Joe’s next album. I wasn’t sure what to expect from the process but hoped to be supportive.

  The vibe was intense and the band serious, both in the studio and in our room, which served as their after-hours think tank. I relegated myself to bed while the men powwowed in the living room. At the studio, I stayed in the lounge, afraid to disrupt their creative process. I read books, hung out with Smokey, or chatted with Rick’s and Kevin Buell’s girlfriends. I didn’t go sightseeing, despite being in such a scenic part of the country. Surrounded by hiking trails, waterfalls, and rock formations, I was unable to tear myself from Joe for a single afternoon. I’d never been so clingy or willing to endure boredom. All that mattered were the sporadic five-minute breaks Joe took in the lounge with me throughout the day.

  I knew nothing about songwriting. I’d penned one short story and a couple of poems that said what I wanted in a way I found pleasing. I didn’t know if they were technically good, but I liked them well enough. Other pieces, that I’d slaved over, came out sounding as forced as they’d felt. Joe had two weeks to write and record an entire album.

  He’d told me once that some songs came to him in small pieces, others in chunks, half-formed and in need of shaping. Recalling the melody he used to play, over and over on the penthouse piano, fresh from the breakup with Lisa, I wondered if she’d been his muse. Was I supposed to be that now? And if so, how should I go about it?

  “Give me space,” he said when I asked how I could help. “Be with me, not all over me.”

  It seemed I was not only a piss-poor muse but annoying to boot. I tried to be unobtrusive peeking over my book from bed. Every night on the couch, he’d write on, then discard wadded-up legal pad pages, slowly filling the floor space with tiny yellow lyrical tumbleweeds. As the week wore on, I blamed myself for his struggle. I was uninspired and uninspiring, my inner light (whatever that was) dulled by cocaine. I failed to be the ethereal rock goddess he deserved…the career-making muse he needed.

  •••

  We left Chattanooga for Seattle, where my mood lifted but Joe’s didn’t. Nothing I did brought him out of his funk, not my new purple lingerie or submissive roleplay. No wonder I didn’t inspire him. Outside of a sexual arena, I had little confidence and nothing much to offer.

  He finally perked up at a Warren Zevon gig. After the show, I told Warren how impressed I’d been, gushing in a way I rarely did (unless I was drunk, which I wasn’t then). Warren responded with a silent stare. Unnerved, I let the men talk, then later asked Joe what I’d done wrong.

  “Nothing. That’s just Warren. He’s always like that.”

  For the second time that night, I let go, uncensored. “Oh, give me a break with the ‘just Warren’ shit, Joe. It was just plain rude, okay? Your friend Warren is a dick.” Joe laughed and wrapped an arm around me, but I wasn’t done yet. “I bet Stevie Ray Vaughan never acted like that.”

  “Okay, hon,” he said. “Let it go. I get it.”

  I did, but an idea had formed. Maybe Joe should move to Austin, where musicians had less attitude. A man as sensitive as Joe (I thought) needed a nurturing tribe to feel creatively inspired. I never brought it up. Back in LA, we monstered, then after minimal sleep, Joe yanked the covers off me. “Get dressed. I need you with me today.”

  I rubbed my eyes, trying to gauge whether he was excited or panicked. “What’s going on? What’s the big deal?”

  His answer got me out of bed, excited as hell.

  •••

  Journal Entry:

  November 6, 1990

  In the studio with (most of) the Eagles. They seem nice. Henley’s from Texas, we chatted about Austin. He offered me a chicken wing. When I said I don’t eat meat, Timothy wrote me a list of his favorite vegetarian restaurants and their best dishes. Felder said I look just like an old friend of his.

  They jammed and Joe sounded awesome. A guy standing near me called it “brilliant.” This is going to be big.

  •••

  Alas, it was not to be—not yet, anyway—and Joe and I flew to New York for a Letterman taping. We arrived a day early to catch Les Paul at Fat Tuesday. I journaled that Les’s guitar playing was “better than cocaine,” which didn’t keep me from going overboard with the real thing. I rationalized that it was Joe’s birthday, as if monstering before a show taping was ever a good idea. Joe was completely fried, and it showed. I blamed myself, as did he.

  We spent Thanksgiving at my parents’ house. Their basement guestroom blocked all light and most sound, which was ideal for Joe, who hibernated there all weekend. He spent one night watching TV with the family, charming my grandma and getting her to sit on his lap. He skipped my mom’s holiday feast (with her blessing), then conducted late-night kitchen raids for turkey and trimming.

  My family made Joe comfortable, while I spent the weekend begging for sex and plying him with cocaine, scored from a high school pal. Joe steadfastly refused (the sex, not the coke), saying it was disrespectful to my parents. Also, he was creeped out by a framed portrait of the pope over the bed. “It’s just wrong,” he said, looking disgusted, as if I were too kinky for him.

  •••

  Joe flew home. I went to Austin, missing him right away and feeling embarrassed, or ashamed, I guess, for being cloying and excessive. Whatever I’d done to upset him—it was all a little murky, to be honest. But just because I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what I’d done wrong didn’t mean I hadn’t done something. If he thought I was a burden, who was I to negate his feelings? It was hard to trust my own judgment. I had to take his word for it.

  Something had to change, and when ACC’s course catalogue arrived, I went through it, circling classes I had interest in. Later I called Joe to apologize.

  “It’s okay, but thanks for saying it.”

  “I want to be more responsible. I want to do something with my life.”
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  “That’s great, honey. I’m proud of you for thinking like that.”

  “I’m considering going back to school full-time.” Silence. “Which would make me less free to travel….”

  “I see.”

  The rest came out in a rush. “I’m terrified of losing you, scared you’ll move on and forget about me, but I can’t live in limbo. I have to move forward, on my own in Austin, or in LA with you.”

  “Mmhm.”

  “This isn’t an ultimatum. I’m just filling you in.”

  Joe said he needed time to think. He called three days later. “Sell your car and pack up the cat. Let’s buy a house and move you in.”

  Fools Rush In

  Our realtor was the quintessential SoCal professional. Cresting middle-age, remarkably well maintained, she was efficient, personable, and unflappable.

  “Kristin’s a pretty name,” she said. “Do you spell that en or in?”

  “In,” I said, appreciating the attention. Joe was a million miles away, next to me in the back seat, gazing out the window as our realtor navigated Studio City like she knew it in her sleep. “My mother named me after Ricky Nelson’s wife,” I continued. “They’re not friends or anything. She read an article about him while pregnant and liked the name.”

  “Ricky Nelson is my cousin!” our realtor exclaimed.

  “Oh my God,” I squealed back. “It’s like we’re family!”

  Joe made a sideways “you girls are nuts” glance, but I didn’t care. House hunting was like Disneyland to me, though we’d yet to see an E-ticket property. Most were either too traditional or coldly modern for our taste. We wanted privacy with brightness and warmth. Something unique, yet spacious and practical. Home sweet home with a touch of rock and roll. The closest we found was Tuscan-style, with a courtyard fountain and extensive tile that had once been owned by Martin Scorsese. Almost perfect, yet too small. Joe said we needed space “to escape each other once in a while.” He was only half joking.