By this point in time, I was pretty much over being nervous around famous people, especially if they were close to my own age. I wouldn’t have been intimidated by anyone in the Clash, and we had met huge rock stars like Robert Plant over the years. I still felt a bit awed by the original rock and rollers. There’s something about those guys that’s still larger than life to me. They seem much older in a historic way. Anyone who I saw on TV in black and white earns a different type of respect.
“Thanks, Killer,” I mumbled. “I use Nu-Nile on the sides and Murray’s on the top, then put in a little Royal Crown to give the whole thing a shine,” I continued. “Didn’t Elvis use Royal Crown hair slick? I read that somewhere.” I was standing there, babbling to Jerry Lee Lewis about hair grease, getting a little uncomfortable with the whole scene.
By this time, the full-figured rockabilly girl had gotten up off the floor and was sitting in the chair, filing her nails and looking very bored with us both. Jerry Lee was standing in front of me, half talking, half yelling about rockabilly music, Sun Records, Sam Phillips, and Elvis. I started to loosen up a little when he quickly reached past me and turned off the lights in the room. The next thing I heard was the girl screaming with a combination of horror, shock, and giggling glee and the Killer’s demonic laugh. I felt around behind me in the pitch-darkness, found the doorknob, and squeezed my way out without ever opening the door too wide. I made my way back to the seats and watched the show.
Jerry Lee was an awesome, whirling, rocking hurricane, as always. He kicked the piano bench over on the last number and did everything he was supposed to do. After that night, I didn’t have any contact with him for twelve years.
In 1996, I was living in my flat on Doheny Drive. A thousand things had happened in my life since the night I saw Jerry Lee Lewis play at the Beverly Theatre and had a bizarre meeting with him in his dressing room. I got a phone call from true pal Jerry Schilling. Jerry is a fantastic guy. He was an extremely close, inside friend and aide to Elvis Presley from the beginning but not the typical goon that seemed to surround the King. If you want a great read and some new insight into life in Memphis and LA with the King, check out Jerry’s memoir, Me and a Guy Named Elvis. I think it’s the best one. It’s an honest, nonsensationalized view of life at Graceland and during the moviemaking years in Beverly Hills, where Jerry was a body double for Elvis on quite a few of those films. I had first met Jerry when he came with Priscilla Presley to a Cats show in Nashville in 1983. We’ve stayed pals since then. He’s always shied away from capitalizing off his association with Elvis and wanted to be his own man, which is why he left the King’s court and did some things on his own, including managing the Beach Boys in the 1970s and 1980s. I had been to visit him at his perfect midcentury house up on Sunset Plaza that Elvis had given him as a present in 1974.
At that point, he was managing Jerry Lee and was calling me to ask if I’d play drums for Jerry Lee on The Tonight Show. The host, Jay Leno, was a well-known car buff and aficionado of vintage stuff, and he knew and liked the Stray Cats. We had met him when he was doing standup comedy in New York City. I would run into him while driving my one rock star possession, my prized 1961 Chevrolet Corvette that I’ve somehow had since 1982, around town. He was always in a different amazing classic car and would always wave and give a honk. So when I turned up as Jerry Lee’s drummer, it was a good little blast to see each other. Another good small-world moment was when true pal Jeffrey Baxter turned up as the bass player. Jeffrey is godfather to my son, and we have a long, strong friendship. He had produced a record for Carl Wilson from the Beach Boys when Jerry Schilling was managing him, so that’s their connection. After a couple of run-throughs, we did a song called “Goose Bumps” that Jerry changed the arrangement for on the fly as we were doing it live on TV. I’m good at going with the rock-and-roll flow, so that part was not a big deal. There is a good cinematic opening to the performance, where the camera starts with a shot of a reflection of me in the shiny black finish of Jerry Lee’s grand piano. I had the iconic Stray Cats logo on the bass drum head and that always looks supercool. After the show, we chatted a bit and took some pictures. I’m not sure Jerry Lee remembered me or knew who I was; it’s hard to tell with him, but I played the drums well on his song, so all was cool.
A few months of normal life went by when I got a call from a strange woman who turned out to be Kerrie Lee Lewis, Jerry Lee’s wife at the time. She explained to me that she was now Jerry Lee’s manager, and he wanted me to join his touring band. I asked about Jerry Schilling and was told he was no longer involved. She told me the pay, and it was pretty good, and she said the gigs were mainly on weekends. She was insistent that the band did not drink or do drugs. This, I answered her, was okay by me. I had already been sober six years, so that part was no big deal. In fact, it was always easier and better at that point to deal with sober guys. Then she added that as long as Jerry Lee took his methadone once a day, everything was fine, and it had been for eleven years. I was a little surprised by this. I was never particularly a drug guy, but I knew that methadone was supposed to be a short-term help for withdrawal symptoms, not a long-term lifestyle choice. I needed the money, and it sounded easy enough and up my alley, yet even though I had done many gigs with other people, I hadn’t really been on the road too much with anyone besides my own band. I called Jerry Schilling, and he told me, “It’s a strange organization, but the checks won’t bounce.” I already had firsthand experience to know that Jerry Lee was a real eccentric, and the whole hiring process had been weird. I figured another adventure was right around the corner.
The first gig was in Toronto, a good city; I had been there many times. Canada can be a bit tough about immigration even though we’re neighbors. The passport guy told me there was no record of a work visa and really hassled me for twenty minutes before he let me in the country. No car picked me up at the baggage carousel. I didn’t know what hotel I was supposed to go to. In a flash of road genius, I picked up a copy of the local free arts newspaper that every city has and went to the back pages where the concerts and shows are always listed. I found Jerry Lee Lewis’s gig listing and called the club, working backward. Luckily, they answered, and I took a cab to the gig. The others turned up together. They all came from the Memphis area, and Jerry Lee always rented a small private jet to take them to the gigs. They’d traveled in tight quarters, and Jerry is afraid to fly, so there was apparently always a lot of tension on board. This was one more reason I was happy I was coming from LA.
The band included longtime Jerry Lee sideman and musical director Kenny Lovelace and Hall of Fame guitar hero James Burton. Kenny is a lovely, faithful guy; he’s been with Jerry Lee since the 1960s and is still there. James is one of the greatest guitarists of all time, having done long stints with Ricky Nelson and Elvis Presley. He’s on some of the best records ever, a true rockabilly legend, and I’m honored to have worked with the cat. That’s James onstage with Ricky on the original Ozzie and Harriet TV show when they show clips of Ricky performing at the end of the program. He was onstage with Elvis in the TCB throughout the 1960s and 1970s. There was a solid electric bass player guy who was steady and quiet. I couldn’t help but think how great it would sound if we had Lee Rocker on slap bass. This wasn’t my call, so I never suggested it.
The room was full, and the gig itself was going along nicely. Jerry Lee does not believe in the use of a set list; he just calls out songs or just starts playing and expects the band to know what he’s thinking and follow right along. He does a bunch of Chuck Berry tunes. A few times I didn’t know which one until the singing came in. On some of them, he would do the famous Chuck Berry stops every time around, and sometimes he would blow right through them. A couple of times I caught myself as my mind wandered thinking about the famous feuds he supposedly had with Chuck over the years.
Musically, I could handle it. We were playing rockabilly, blues, and rock and roll, so with that part of it, I was confident. I’d set up the drums ri
ght behind Jerry Lee as per his request. I’d been told to watch his hands for clues and cues to the tempos and stops he wanted. Sometimes he waved his hand because he wanted it faster. Sometimes he waved his hand because he wanted it slower. Sometimes he waved his hands because he wanted to stop. Sometimes he waved his hand because he felt like waving his hand. It was a bit of a free-for-all, but most of the set was okay. A few times during the set, it fired on all cylinders, and I was thinking, This is great. James Burton, Jerry Lee Lewis, and me are all hitting it together.
At one point, there were a few punk rock girls in the front row, and they started yelling, “Slim Jim! Slim Jim!” They started getting louder and louder. Jerry Lee picked up on this, turned around, and started glaring at me with a mean-faced, pissed-off look—the Killer look. He was staring me down like he was mad about the fact that these chicks were cheering for me. I guess he thought I was stealing his thunder. I gave him a look back that said, “What do you want from me?” I would’ve figured that this was part of the reason why they were hiring me in the first place. I respect my elders and all that, but I’m not some kid who fell off the turnip truck and is just happy to be onstage. I earned my stripes a long time ago.
The rest of the gig was fine. There were some amazing moments, including when Jerry Lee went into a little impromptu gospel number and we all fell in together just right, so that by the end of the song, it was really stomping. We did “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On” at the end. He kicked the piano stool over and was gone out the back door while we ended the song. I went back to the hotel with the other guys. It had been a long day.
The next day we were driving to a gig that was not too far away, so we stayed in the same hotel. During the day, an envelope came through under the door. I saw it come in and opened the door to see a little guy slipping envelopes under the doors next to mine. I introduced myself. He turned out to be the infamous Dr. George Nichopoulos, better known as Dr. Nick. Any Elvis nerd, like me, will know this name instantly. He’s the doctor who prescribed all the pharmaceuticals to Elvis Presley. He traveled with Jerry Lee, and the envelopes were everyone’s paychecks for the three gigs we’d do over the weekend. It was Dr. Nick who paid me on Sundays before I went back home. Before checkout time, an envelope was slipped under the door with a check for the three days. He was the guy who gave us any messages about any changes about starting times for the shows and when we would come and go from the hotel to the gigs.
Since I was already out in the hallway, I decided to knock on James’s door to see if he wanted to take a walk and get a sandwich. It was a clear, crisp day in Toronto, we were staying at the Fairmont Royal York Hotel, and there were some good places nearby. The band guys were all in there watching NASCAR on TV. I tried to hang and sit for a little while. None of them wanted to leave the hotel. The cars just went around and around the track. I overheard comments like “That boy can drive.” I watch every Yankees baseball game on TV, no matter where I am on the road. There’s no accounting for personal insanity or taste.
We did a sound check—without Jerry Lee—the next day. We were all milling about on the stage; I was adjusting the drums when I caught a whiff of something familiar. I picked up a nearby can of Coca-Cola from the top of an amplifier and gave the contents a better sniff. It was filled with booze. I covertly walked around the stage and checked each of the other soda cans. Every single one of them was filled with booze. These guys were all drinking and all telling each other that they weren’t.
The gig that night was like the others: all pretty good, sold-out performances with a lot of personality up on the stage. There were a few moments of brilliance when James was just burning it up on his classic Telecaster; I was following Jerry Lee’s left hand, and it really connected. This was a historic rockabilly happening, and I was an equal part of it. That must have been a special night for the fans—I’d have paid to see it. As a budding rockabilly back in Massapequa, if you had told me that I’d be onstage doing “Breathless” and “It’ll Be Me” with James Burton and Jerry Lee Lewis, I would have signed in blood on the dotted line. The devil could have taken my soul right then and there. I wish there had been a way to explain that to Jerry Lee at the time.
After the show, there was a lot of paranoia floating around backstage because those guys were flying back home that night, and the weather report was calling for turbulence and rough skies between Toronto and Memphis. I learned that Jerry Lee is very afraid of flying and freaks out whenever the plane hits a bump. He was very upset with the pilot one time when he thought the lightning came too close. He started to pray very loudly. Maybe the Killer didn’t want to meet his maker quite yet? They were all afraid to tell him about the impending storm that was expected on the ride home. I was flying commercial the next morning—one more reason to be happy about going to LA. The idea of Jerry Lee freaking out, flying in that bathtub-sized jet with the others trying to ignore it all and be quiet while Dr. Nick tried to calm him down made me grateful not to be part of that rock-and-roll moment. I guess they made it back all right. There was nothing in the papers the next day at the airport.
There were some other shows—none as memorable as those first few, though. There was a funny routine to it all that I got used to as time went by. The office would call and send a plane ticket; I’d meet them somewhere on Friday, play three shows, get the check under the door on Sunday, and come home Monday. It was always slightly disheveled, but it always came off, and those flashes of rockabilly brilliance and decent money made it worth doing.
I had some more strange conversations with Kerrie Lee Lewis and a few very nice ones with James Burton. James was understanding about my place in this off-kilter situation. He knew I was the youngest and the only guy from back east. They were all from the South and a little older. I understood this. He told me to call him if it ever got too weird and I needed to talk to someone. The band was solid, we made Jerry Lee sound good, and we all thought we should keep this lineup going.
After being told by his management that we had the time off, I went to London to play a gig at a fashion show for true pal Peter Golding. I had just arrived when I had a message that there was a Jerry Lee gig that had just come in for a place in Pennsylvania. I called the office and told them I couldn’t make that show, and they told me they would find a substitute for the one show, no problem. A few weeks later, back in LA, I heard about a Jerry Lee show that I hadn’t been called for. There was no reply from his people when I called. I called James Burton to get his input on it. He’s never called me back to this day. That was the end of my tenure with the Killer. Nothing spectacular happened; they just never called me again. It would be another twelve years before I’d see the Killer again.
In 2010, my band Head Cat was asked to open a Jerry Lee show at the Fox Theatre in Pomona, California. The show was on Jerry Lee Lewis’s seventy-fifth birthday, so it was a cool historic event. Lemmy and Danny B. both definitely wanted to do it, and so did I. The night was a special one. We did the Head Cat album cover shoot with photographer Robert John in front of the art deco theater, with the album title superimposed on the marquee. We all went to Jerry Lee’s dressing room for an audience with the Killer before his show. I’m not sure if Jerry Lee recognized me on his seventy-fifth birthday night. Again, with the Killer, it was hard to tell. I could tell it was a big moment for Lemmy, who had never met him, and at the end of the day, like me, is a fan. I think he saw Jerry Lee in England on his very first UK tour, and it was one of his life-defining moments. I could tell from the photographs that Lemmy was humbled in the presence of Jerry Lee. There really isn’t anyone in rock and roll who’s as gnarly as Lemmy was, but Jerry Lee Lewis is the gnarliest, for sure, no question. For the first, last, and only time, I could see the shoe on the other foot with Lemmy and another musician. Jerry Lee has that effect on cats in our game. Who else has been around and rocking for that long? We have some good snapshots from that night. TJ was with me and got his picture taken with Jerry Lee, too. A bit of a fu
ll circle from the first time I’d met him in the dressing room of an old theater in Beverly Hills. The Killer did his show that night. James wasn’t in the band that night, but faithful, loyal Kenny was. He led Jerry Lee onstage, and it was good to catch up with him. He’s been doing it every night for fifty years. Jerry Lee is very old now, but he still had a few moments where, if you close your eyes, you can see the original rock-and-roll wild man, the Killer himself. I remembered the good moments we had when I was playing drums with him.
8
Marbella
I went to visit Britt on a film set in Spain. She was costarring with classic leading man Rod Taylor in a Spanish production of a movie aptly called Marbella because it was being filmed in the resort town of the same name. This must have been in 1984, maybe 1985. I think it was in the summertime. The Costa del Sol is a fantastic place; I had never been there before, so it was an extra little adventure. This part of southern Spain has fabulous beaches and friendly people. It’s got a Spanish vibe to it with a bit of North African influence, as it’s across a narrow part of the Mediterranean Sea from Morocco. The town of Marbella itself is a harbor and is made up of marinas and docks that lead into the hills above the town. There were a lot of giant luxury yachts and pleasure boats coming in and out all day and night. An internationally infamous Saudi arms dealer had his cruise-ship-size yacht moored there; it was bigger than anything I’ve ever seen, too big to get close to the dock, so it was anchored off the shore and had its own large craft to take passengers to the dock. I don’t even know if the guy was there, but there was a lot of activity, whispering, and pointing from the locals about that yacht.
Marbella is a popular vacation spot for English tourists, and there are a lot of pubs, fish-and-chips joints, and tea shops along the docks. If you want to get a glimpse of the typical British holidaymaker abroad, this is the place. The place attracts that breed of people who travel out of the country to an exotic location but still want it to be exactly like it is back home. They complain that the restaurants’ and hotels’ staff don’t speak English, so they yell at them in the hope of getting their point across. The Americans do it, too. I had encountered this quite a bit on tour with the Cats with various crew members in all different countries who didn’t go with the flow. It doesn’t matter how annoyed, threatening, or loud you get; if a waiter in the middle of France, Germany, Italy, or Spain doesn’t understand, “Steak well done and chips on the side!” or “Cheeseburger, medium with fries!” the first time, it’s not gonna happen, regardless of how many times the put-out tourist says it. I remember a big bodyguard losing his mind and getting removed from a hotel dining room in Holland when, even after he had screamed it ten times, a waiter didn’t understand what a mixed grill was. I’ve learned very well by now that “when in Rome” is the best way to roll in any foreign country and not to be embarrassed by a language barrier. In most countries, the natives appreciate any attempt at speaking the local tongue. I’d been around enough to see this all over the world and now found it funny to observe. I liked sitting in a pub in London and seeing Americans come in and order a beer only to get warm English-style bitter. In the same way, I enjoyed seeing sunburned Englishmen in LA who thought they could handle a full day in the sun at the Santa Monica beach on their first day of vacation only to be fried alive and unable to put their shirts on the next day. I’m an equal opportunity enjoyer of harmless hassles.
A Stray Cat Struts Page 9
