Before the Flock

by David Inglish

  Bernie Zupnik is tiny and he never stops moving. His office is done up in cocaine chic—mirrored walls, white leather couches, white side tables, white carpet, and giant diffused photos of his young wife and newborn child. The band spreads out like oil on the white couch. Lunky stands by the door, meaty arms and mirror shades. He reflects a wide-angle version of this white room. Felder shakes Bernie’s hand and says, “We worry about your presence in AOR.”

  Bernie says, “Drinks? Drinks anyone? What about Brougham LTD.? You remember them. You’re not that young. We made them a supergroup. Look what we did for the LTD.”

  Felder says, “That was a long time ago.”

  “What about Lynyrd Skynyrd? We made them the biggest band in the world.”

  “Lynyrd Skynyrd? I got that tape,” EJ says. “Half of ‘Freebird’ is on side A and the other half is on side B. You guys cut ‘Freebird’ in half trying to save a dime on tape?”

  “Dude. ‘Freebird’?” Spewing starts to laugh. “That’s fucked up, dude.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Bernie says. “What about Jody Watley? She’s a brand-new platinum act.”

  “Jody Watley sucks,” Eric declares.

  “She doesn’t suck,” Felder says. “She’s just not rock and roll. It’s apples and oranges.”

  “That demo. Your demo. I’ll release it as an album. What do you think of that?”

  The band smiles.

  Felder stops the joy. “We want to record an album.”

  “Okay, fine, that’s what we do.”

  After the meeting, EJ looks at Eric by the elevator and says, “Eric, you’re so stupid, what the hell? Jody Watley sucks?”

  “Sorry, dude.”

  The elevator arrives. The band steps in. The door closes and Felder turns, smiles, and says, “Are you fucking kidding me? That little sentence just upped the deal a hundred K.”

  Thunderstick plays a Butterhead event. In San Diego, the Butterhead Club guys rule the night in 1988. They are a group of young men who dress like Robert Palmer and Bryan Ferry—ties and blazers with square shoulder pads. They dance like marionettes missing a string, butter their hair back like rumrunners, and make it their life’s work to know every hot chick in town. The international Butterheads call people they like “motherfucker,” as if it were a surname. Little nymphs and fairies pack the front of the stage and look up with adoring eyes at Kurt, who is cool and confident, playing only his happier songs. The Jovi sucks his cheeks to the bone and looks longingly up into the stage lights.

  After the show, they are standing in the convention-hall kitchen when Priscilla walks in and puts her arms around Kurt. She has been back stocking the refrigerator with frozen burritos and cigarettes for a couple weeks now, and Kurt is strung together and content in a way no one has seen since he was a kid.

  When James and Sophie walk into the bright fluorescent light of the kitchen holding hands, every Butterhead takes notice. “Oh my God, the show was really good,” Sophie says to Kurt. “It was like…I wanted to be up there.” She laughs. “Can I play tambourine?”

  “This is how it’s supposed to be,” James says to Kurt, Priscilla, and Sophie. “After all the shit you and me have been through, we put our lives back together.” He squeezes Sophie in closer. “This is how it should be. You with your wife. Me with Sophie. Your music.”

  Kurt nods. “That’s what fifteen fucking years sounds like!”

  The Jovi walks in. Sophie throws her arms up in the air, starts to purr, and wraps herself around him, stepping up onto her toes and pressing with her chest and stomach. Then she releases the Jovi slowly, letting her hand slide down his sleeve. She is still holding his hand when she turns back to James and kisses him long and wet and openmouthed.

  Kurt, the Jovi, and Eric drive up to the Valley in Eric’s BMW. They discuss music and music videos. Kurt gives his video ideas for each song. “For ‘Rain Fall’ I think some young guy just trashes his home. Then he has to live on his own, on the street.”

  “That’s kind of like your idea for ‘Alone, Alone.’” the Jovi says.

  “And ‘Ice Blue Heart,’” Eric adds.

  “Look, man. I want to help people who are lonely and sad and fucked over by the world. I don’t want to be one of these bands that doesn’t do anything good!”

  “I hear you, Kurt,” Eric says.

  “That’s really cool, Kurt.”

  They pull up in front of a seventies tract home and walk the flagstone like assassins. Inside, they fire Vance. He takes it well, sitting there in his bedroom, looking out at his mom’s zinnias in the backyard. Kurt says, “Felder is going to help you out,” and he believes every word of it. “Hey, you’ll always be the guy who discovered Thunderstick.”

  Vance takes off his cross, cups it in his hands, and says, “It’s gonna take me a second to swallow that one.”

  They drive over to Alexandra’s apartment in the Hollywood flats. Spewing and EJ are waiting there. “What’s up, dude? Has he called?”

  “No.”

  “Where’s Lunky?”

  “He’s cleaning my kitchen,” Alexandra says.

  Everyone looks at the speakerphone.

  Finally it rings.

  On the other end of the line, Felder asks, “Is everybody there?”

  “Yes.”

  He whispers in a low porn-star voice. “I’m holding something in my hand, and it’s making me very happy. What I’m holding. It’s big. It’s really big. Maybe it’s too big.”

  The Jovi laughs and slaps Eric on the shoulder. “What the fuck is it?”

  Felder snaps into his serious voice and says, “It’s a deal memo. It’s for seven records. It’s for seven hundred and fifty grand right off the bat. It’s fucking huge. It’s the biggest record deal any unsigned band has ever been offered. I’ve outdone myself.”

  The band erupts. They jump up and down. They cheer. They tackle each other. Spewing and EJ run outside and roll around together in the grass. Tears well up in Kurt’s eyes. Eric asks, “What’s wrong, Kurt?”

  “I can finally take care of my wife.”

  Felder yells, “Take care of yourselves. You guys call me tomorrow. I got work to do.”

  The band hangs up. Kurt says, “God did this. God did this whole thing. God got me off drugs. God gave me the songs. God got us the record deal.”

  “C’mon now, Kurt,” EJ says. “Give yourself a little credit here. We’ve been doing this our whole lives.”

  “We have,” the Jovi adds.

  “No. Let’s pray! Take a knee.”

  “Dude.” Spewing says. “Doesn’t the devil kind of control rock and roll? We don’t want to piss him off, do we?”

  EJ slaps Spewing. “Shut up. Kurt’s right. Let’s pray.”

  Thunderstick takes a knee and holds hands. Kurt closes his eyes and says, “Dear Lord, I told You before—You got me off drugs—now everything I do—everything we do—is going to be for You. I won’t let You down. Let us bring You glory in our music and honor in our acts; let nothing take us from You. Amen.”

  The day Thunderstick inks the deal is a perfect Southern California day, endless blue sky, a crisp sixty-eight degrees. Felder meets us in the plaza at Century City below the skyscrapers that poke at the blue before being bounced back.

  “I can’t go in there with you. The guy’s name is Josh Stein. He’s your lawyer. He’s got the deal on his desk. Let’s do dinner.”

  “Thanks, Felder.” Every band member shakes his hand.

  Kurt, the Jovi, EJ, Spewing, and Eric walk across the plaza on the geometrical patterns created by different hues of concrete, past the granite water fountain, and into the gut of a black-glass building. The elevator takes them up and up and up. Stein’s firm has a whole floor. The receptionist smiles. “You must be Thunderstick.”

  Stein appears and greets them one by one with handshakes. “Come into the conference room,” he says.

  Mahogany doors open and from the fortieth floor you can see the whole drea
m and the whole mistake of L.A. Opposite the panoramic view, the conference room is lined with five Miró paintings. A few brushstrokes on white canvases—these paintings are like giant signatures, signatures that are very valuable. Twelve leather loungers surround a mahogany-and-black-marble conference table. Stein can’t stop smiling as he drops piles of paper in front of the band.

  “You’re our lawyer. Should we sign this thing?” asks EJ.

  “You guys are getting a point less than what Michael Jackson gets on his albums. For a previously unsigned band, this deal is unprecedented. It’s up to you, but I say sign it.”

  Secretaries witness as Thunderstick puts pen to paper. EJ says, “A seven-record deal. Well, I guess this is what I’ll be doing for the next ten years of my life. I’m going to be a rock star.”

  “Give the finger to the rock and roll singer as he’s dancing upon your paycheck.”

  —Beck

  Back home in La Jolla, the band waits for marching orders.

  The Jovi wanders out of his room around noon. Eric pours him some coffee and says, “I am a little nervous, you know, about the studio.”

  “Dude. We’re the Magnificent Seven. We just do our part. I throw knives and sling leads. You’re like the guy who wires explosives, only you lay down the synth pads. Just assume the position. Act like you belong there. And if you can’t cut it, I can cover for you. But fear not, you’ll pull it off—and never bring rubbers on tour.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. I got Dane.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know, God makes something beautiful on every woman. For some it might just be their big toe or their left nipple.”

  “So?”

  “That one thing finds me, man. The chicks are grateful for a guy who can find beauty like that. You should try it.”

  “So why no rubbers?” Eric whispers.

  “If you bring rubbers, you’ll end up fucking ‘em. You don’t bring rubbers, you’ll just want them to blow you. Less shit to worry about if you just have them blow you.”

  “Yes, of course, sensei. No rubbers on tour.”

  “Dude. Can you do me a favor? There’s this girl in my bed and I have no idea what her name is. Can you go in there and have a look? Maybe you know her.”

  “Totally.”

  Eric opens the door, puts his nose to the air, tiptoes to the bed, examines the tussle of hair at the top, and takes a step back toward the door to the galley kitchen. He grabs the door handle and starts to turn it ever so slightly when he hears a soft, sleepy voice say, “Who are you?”

  “Hey, I’m the Jovi’s roommate, I was just looking for somethi—”

  “Come here.”

  Over at the bed, he extends his hand. “I’m Eric.”

  “You’re in the band, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s rad.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want to snuggle?”

  “Yeah. I mean. No. I’ve got a girlfriend.”

  She pulls the sheet back and says, “That’s too bad. It was nice to meet you, Eric. Send your roommate back in here.”

  Eric pushes his hand under the covers until he finds warm skin—her stomach, he thinks. He tries a little Jovi magic: “You got really pretty eyelashes. Did you know that?”

  She laughs.

  DCA rents four furnished one-bedroom corporate condos at the Cokewoods in Burbank, and the band and roadies move in. The rooms are divided—the Jovi and Eric—EJ and Spewing—Kurt and Jesse—Lunky and Talksley. Talksley whines. “Fuck, dude, no. Why’s it always me, man. I want to stay with the Jovi, bro. I don’t want to stay with Lunky. He’s a stray. I don’t know where he’s been, bro.”

  At the end of a grease-stained parking lot sits a long, flat tin-roofed industrial building. It looks like an auto shop. It’s Gates rehearsal studio.

  A line of choppers is parked on the left and a 1971 glossy-black Chevy Chevelle with Cragar mags is parked on the right next to Felder’s Porsche. A muffled version of “Love Removal Machine” blasts from room B.

  Eric nods his head to the music and says to the Jovi, “That’s a pretty good cover band. They sound just like the Cult.”

  “That’s no cover band, bro.”

  Felder walks out of room A. His frizzy black hair looks gun gray in the sun. “Welcome. We’re in here.”

  They follow Felder through a large sliding industrial door into a room in which light disappears—black floor, black walls, black velvet curtains. There is a stage, bigger than any stage at any club Kurt has ever played. The gear is set up, stage lights, side monitors stacked eight feet high, the mixing board has forty-eight channels.

  “Is this where we’re recording the album?” Spewing asks.

  “No, you dumb shit. This is a rehearsal studio,” EJ yells.

  “This place is so satanic. I dig it.”

  Felder pushes his hair behind his ear and says, “I booked this place out, booked it solid for the next two weeks. Anytime you want to jam, practice, screw chicks, whatever, this place is yours. This is Ralph, your soundman.” He points at a guy with long, stringy blond hair.

  We take the stage. Felder sits on the tweed couch. After the first song, Kurt walks off the stage over to the soundman and hugs him. “Thanks, bro. I’ve never been able to hear my vocals like that—ever—thanks.”

  Ten minutes in, a tall man in a three-piece suit walks in, puts his briefcase between his knees, and sits on the sofa next to Felder. Beneath his rounded snout, he is smiling broadly.

  Waves of sound wash over the two of them until Felder sticks one finger in his ear and holds his other hand over his head. The band stops. Felder says, “There’s someone here I want to introduce you to. He’s your money.”

  “I’m Bill Wellington,” the man in the suit says, as he stands to shake hands. “Adam tells me you guys want to hire us as your business managers.”

  EJ raises his hand. “Actually this is the first I’ve heard of this.”

  “Well, let me tell you what we do. We pay all of your bills. We pay your taxes. We give each one of you an American Express Gold Card and a checking account.” He taps his briefcase. “You guys spend accordingly. We pay the band’s big expenses that have to do with touring. We collect your royalties. You send us receipts and we take them off your taxes. Send them to us in an oily brown bag if you want, we don’t care. Just send them to us. You guys are free to create. You don’t have to worry about the lights going out because you forgot to pay the electric bill. You don’t have to waste your time with the bean counting. We count all the beans for you.”

  “What’s in the briefcase?” Kurt asks.

  “Your contracts with us, your Gold Cards, and your checkbooks.”

  “I’m in,” Kurt says.

  “Whoa,” says EJ.

  “I’m in too,” the Jovi says.

  “Hey, bro. Can I get some paternity insurance?” Spewing asks.

  “What’s that?”

  “David Lee Roth has it. It’s in case some chick says I gave her a baby.”

  “I’ll look into it,” Wellington says.

  EJ marches up to Spewing and slaps him.

  Spewing cowers then crows: “Oh, don’t worry about it, bro, all I really want is a Harley and a bitch to suck my dick!”

  Everyone laughs.

  Bill Wellington opens the briefcase. The band comes in close. Five golden American Express cards. The contracts are signed.

  “The money is in. Here are your checkbooks. We put twenty-five grand in each of your personal accounts. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  “Yeah!”

  “Right on!”

  “Yes!”

  “Don’t do it!” EJ barks.

  Kurt grabs his checks and says, “It’s done. Spewing, come here. You know cars. You’re driving me over to get one. Now!”

  They drive down Lankershim to a boutique showroom. Kurt spots a black mint-condition 1968 Mustang Fastback.

&
nbsp; Spewing says, “Bro, bro, bro, don’t tip your hand, let me negotiate.”

  “That’s the one. That car is mine.”

  Kurt drives the black Mustang Fastback off the lot. He stops at a 7-Eleven. “You guys take checks?” he asks the clerk.

  “Yep.”

  Kurt walks through the aisles loading up on frozen burritos, Zippo lighters, smokes, peach-flavored Kearn’s Nectar, chips, cookies, eye drops, nasal spray, T-shirts that say JUST DO ME, and a trucker’s hat that says JUST FOR THE HALIBUT.

  “That’ll be eighty-six dollars.”

  Kurt writes the check.

  Outside a bum yells, “Hey buddy! How’s about a little something for a Vietnam vet?”

  “You ever seen Missing in Action 2?”

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “Here, man.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Writing you a check.”

  “Make it out to my name.”

  “What is it?”

  “Blank.”

  The Jovi trades the Roach and fifteen grand for a purple hard-tail, with ape hangers and a suicide shift. The bike is all chrome with steel-braided brake lines. The Jovi drives it up onto the stage.

  Jesse claps his hands.

  Spewing says, “Right on, bro!”

  Kurt drives the ‘68 Mustang Fastback into the studio. Kurt is now wearing a gray turtleneck sweater with a black leather blazer even though it’s the middle of summer. He points at the Jovi’s chopper and yells, “Get that fucking thing off the stage! We’re not fucking Van Halen!”

  “What’d I say about spending it all in one place?” says Felder

  “Look at my Stang.”

  “Yes, Kurt.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s nice,” Felder says.

  “Nice? It’s cherry!” Jesse yells. “Elmer Junior! Where’s your new ride?”

  “I’m gonna hold on to my money.”

  “I need a fucking Harley,” Jesse yells.

  “Yeah, let’s get Jesse a Harley,” the Jovi says. “Harleys for everyone! Send DCA the bill!”