Before the Flock

by David Inglish

  Kurt sticks his finger into his jaw socket, tilts his head, and says to the floor, “Okay. Thunderstik. No C. That’s what it has to be.”

  “You said you had more good news?” the Jovi asks.

  “We’re doing a photo shoot.”

  “Alright, boys,” the Jovi says, and looks at the band on the leather couch. “This one’s for history.”

  The photographer takes the band to an abandoned factory yard filled with rusting iron, trash, and dirt. He guides Kurt inside a tin-roofed shack, places him strategically in a beam of sunlight, and tells him to hold a steel wagon wheel to his chest and scream.

  “I’ll open my mouth, but I won’t scream. That’s stupid.”

  “I need it. For the shot.”

  “No.”

  “Listen, we’ve coordinated this whole thing with the art director. She told me what she needs, now it’s my job to get it.”

  “I scream if I’m scared or if I’m pissed. I’m not going to sit in here and scream for no reason at all. I’m not going to do that. Don’t ask me again.”

  Felder walks up to the photographer, gives him a knowing nod, and says, “Try a couple with the open mouth, no scream.”

  The rest of the band waits outside the shack. After about ten minutes, Felder brings out Kurt and brings in the Jovi. The catering arrives—Indian food. Kurt opens one container and says, “People eat this? It looks like glue.”

  Eric finds some roasted chicken and hands it to Kurt.

  “Why’s it red?” Kurt asks.

  “Dunno. Let Felder eat the glue. Is there another chicken in there somewhere?” Eric discovers more red bird. They sit outside the shack on giant splintery railroad ties with their Styrofoam plates in their laps. Then it starts. The Jovi is screaming his lungs out as if some grizzly bear were sucking out his intestines like they were spaghetti. The photographer loves it.

  “Yes! Yes! That’s it, like that. Hot! Hot! Fierce! Fierce!”

  The Jovi responds with a scream.

  EJ, Sven, Kurt, and Eric look at one another. Kurt smirks, then chuckles, and the rest of them burst out in laughter.

  A half hour of screaming passes before the Jovi comes out, puts an eyeball on the Indian food, and says in a hoarse voice, “What were you guys laughing about?”

  The band returns to La Jolla, and the gift returns to Kurt with a vengeance. “I’ve got a new song,” he says. It’s a love song, but it has nothing to do with Eros, nothing to do with carnal desire. This is a song a mother might sing to her child. This is a song that God might sing to Adam and Eve before the Fall. This is a song about love as completion, love as redemption, love as connection to the Infinite—and it’s not in the words, it’s in the melody, the phrasing, the hook, the intonation. Kurt sings and plays the tag a few times, stops, and says coldly, “It’s something like that.”

  “Holy shit,” Eric says, “that’s a fucking hit if I’ve ever heard one.”

  “He’s right, Kurt,” EJ says. “That’s the best song I’ve heard you write since the parking garage, since you quit Mellaril and didn’t sleep for three weeks.”

  “I guess we got our lead-off single on our second album,” Sven says.

  “I wrote it to my wife. She’s everything I want. That’s the name of the song. She’s no illusion. She’s real. Can you hear it in the song?” Kurt looks over at the Jovi.

  “That song’s cool.”

  A week later they drive back to L.A. to meet with the art director in a breezy studio in Los Feliz that looks like a tree house for adults. The art director lifts a slip of wax paper and reveals a mock-up of the album cover.

  Felder says, “That’s very NOW!”

  “That’s cool,” Sven says. EJ and Eric agree. The whole concept is integrated perfectly. It’s a distorted photo in sepia tones. A human figure is lost somewhere, lost in a scream, but somehow the overall feel is soothing. It’s sort of like the song “Alone, Alone.” The subject matter is disturbing, but the execution is sublime.

  Kurt takes the mock-up in his hand, squints, brings his face in close, puts it down, walks straight over to Felder, and says, “That’s him!” He points at the Jovi. “I know it is. You can’t fool me. No fucking way! I am not having him on the cover of my album.”

  Felder looks over at the Jovi. The Jovi shakes his head.

  “Look, Kurt, no one can tell,” Felder says.

  “I can tell.”

  “Kurt, they’re actually going to release the album in one month. It’s for real this time. We don’t want to do anything to fuck that up.”

  “You already fucked it up. You should’ve known.”

  “Look, Kurt, there’s no time for another shoot, she’s put hours and hours into this.”

  “Change it. That’s all I’m saying.” Kurt storms out.

  Sophie is in L.A. for the weekend; the band has another meeting at DCA on Monday. Sven, the Jovi, and Eric are hanging around town, so it’s time for martinis and meatloaf on Wilshire.

  Eric arrives first with Dane. Sven walks in a few minutes later with Nicky. He’s been with her for years—Nicky Strand, not exactly a household name, but she played the sleazy daughter in a classic film adapted from a classic novel, and she was the lead in the fourth of eleven summer-camp slasher flicks. She has been a pregnant nun in Iran, a kidnapped, quilt-making corn farmer in Indiana, a chemically castrated choirboy in Kansas City. She has lived all of these lives before your very eyes on the tube. She is what they call a “working actress.”

  The Jovi pulls the handle on the tall glass door, and the crowd parts for Sophie Clark. In a matter of seconds, a hush comes over the room, heads turn. She holds them all in the palm of her hand. She strides past the host to the booth, the Jovi trailing behind. There’s a barrage of kisses and hugs from a procession of bootlickers who want to remind Sophie that they met her here or there. Sophie greets each one with a big smile and a small kiss. One particularly rodent-faced exec comes up giggling. “Sophie Clark, oh my, do you remember me? I’m just, oh no, you don’t. Oh my, what have I done? I never met you! I thought I said hello but I never did.” Then he turns around and walks away. Sophie squeezes Eric’s thigh beneath the table as she holds in a laugh. Her hand is big, Eric thinks, but not horsy big, elegant big. It wraps around and makes him feel like a little schoolboy on his way out for ice cream. He looks over at her profile and thinks that she belongs on a French coin, one lifted arm holding a rifle, one breast exposed.

  Sven lifts his glass and says, “Nicky and I have some big news. First, Nicky got another film!”

  Everybody claps.

  “What is it?” Eric asks.

  “I’m a hooker! Again! That’s why I went to Yale. Sven, really, don’t be so rude. We must congratulate Sophie and the Jovi. Alright, let’s see the rock!”

  Sophie holds out her hand. On her ring finger is a fractional stone on a gold band. “It’s just for now. We’re going to get ring tattoos on our honeymoon in Fiji.”

  “May your years be long and your days be joyous, or is it the other way around—long days and joyous years? I don’t know!” Nicky pauses with a comic expression. “Oh well! A good wife doth a good husband make—that’s what I’m counting on.” She pulls Sven by the neck and kisses his forehead. “We’re getting married too!”

  There is a strange exchange of glances among the women at the table. It’s the secret language of women that men will never understand.

  Dane breaks the silence. “Eric is afraid of commitment.”

  “No. I’m just immature.”

  The table falls back into awkward silence. Darren Getty, an aging gigolo and the star of such movies as Blow-Dry and The Real Jesse James, walks up. He says, “Sophie! Darling! How are you?” His eyes twinkle and his teeth shine.

  Sophie leans up and presses her breasts into his chest in a big smoochy Hollywood hug. “Hey, Darren! This is my fiancé Bobby and Eric and Sven and Dane and Nicky.”

  “Of course, hello, Darren, it’s been a while,” Nicky says.<
br />
  “Do we know each other?”

  “Yes, of course, don’t you remember—Lie to Me Once More? You were having a tryst with my stepmother and then you ran for governor? We had four shooting days together.”

  “I won that race, didn’t I?”

  “Just look at you—the other fellow didn’t stand a chance!”

  “Great. You’re still in the biz, right?” He puts his hands on his hips and nods at her for second. Something sharp is coming together in the back of Nicky’s mouth.

  “Well, anyway, here’s my assistant’s number, Sophie. Call me! The screen tests with you-know-who were dreadful, and I’m still casting the part of Spicy Trufant in Muggsy Malone.”

  “Oh, really?” Nicky asks. “From the comic strip? They’re letting you direct? And you’re not going to cast your rock star girlfriend? Tsk tsk, rather daring of you. What will her publicist say?”

  “She’ll say the same thing she always says.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Mr. Getty and Ms. Cucinotta are the best of friends. Besides, we’re looking for a face people can’t forget—a face like this.” He reaches over and holds Sophie’s chin in his hand.

  Sophie takes his hand in hers and says, “Ooh, what a bummer. I think I’m out—I’m pregnant!”

  He guffaws. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.”

  “Well forget it, then.”

  “Hey, I’m Bobby. Maybe Sophie can be in your next movie.” The Jovi holds out his hand.

  Darren Getty waves to somebody across the room. “It’s been great, gotta run, call my assistant.”

  “So you’re getting into acting?” Nicky asks, then calls out across the room. “Waiter! Pour yourself a tequila shot and hand me the fucking bottle!”

  “She’s just kidding!” Sven says.

  “Quiet, darling. I’m ruminating.”

  Felder wants the band to meet the radio people at DCA, so on Monday, we show up at world headquarters. When we walk in, a guy with a soccer-rocker haircut and a high school letterman’s jacket with DCA written across the back runs up and says, “I’ve been listening to your album, and the damn thing’s got balls!” He pumps his fist in front of his chest like a little kid trying to get a trucker to honk his horn.

  Kurt nods approval.

  “This is no finesse move. This is a strong move to the hoop for a slam-dunk! I am going to have you guys on every AOR station in the country. Fifty adds a week until you’re number one. C’mon, high fives all the way around.” Palms slap together.

  Kurt says, “You know, me and him,”—he points to the Jovi—“we’ve been doing this for fifteen fucking years. We’ve been waiting for someone like you—someone who sees what’s really there with his own eyes.” Kurt extends an arm and gives the guy a rough, manly hug.

  “You guys are the tits! Look, I’m late for my two o’clock. We’ll be seeing you guys—on the radio!”

  The members of Thunderstik are quickly ushered out of the building. Standing in the parking lot beneath a clear blue sky, Kurt lifts his hands and says, “Do you believe me now? I told you DCA was into it. That guy knows what’s up. I don’t want to hear any more doubt. Why is it I have to be the hopeful one for the whole band? Well? We’re gonna be huge. We’re the best fucking band in rock—fifteen fucking years!”

  “You were right Kurt,” Eric says, smiling. “You were right.”

  EJ says, “You heard the man! Slam-dunk! Jaime Seller might hate Felder, but he’s not stupid. He knows our album’s good.”

  “No. More. Doubt.” Then Kurt gets in his black ‘68 Mustang Fastback, starts the engine, revs it, jerks out into Lankershim Boulevard, and a little Japanese econo car plows into him on the driver’s-side door. The little car backs up, and a chubby bald guy walks around to look at his broken headlight. Kurt fumbles with the handle on the Mustang. It won’t work, so he crawls out the window. He looks at the dent, looks at the bald man, and starts furiously kicking his own car and screaming, “GOD DAMN DEVIL! EVERY FUCKING TIME! GOD DAMN DEVIL! THINGS START GOING GOOD, AND THE DEVIL HAS TO FUCK IT UP! WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME?”

  The little man gets back in his car and speeds off without asking for insurance or a license. Kurt gets in his car, does furious push-ups on the steering wheel, and peels out into traffic, narrowly averting a landscaping truck on his way to the 101 freeway. EJ, Sven, the Jovi, and Eric look at one another with blank expressions.

  “You guys want to go get some lunch at Ben Frank’s?” the Jovi asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure.”

  “Sounds good.”

  During this summer, the summer of waiting, Thunderstik is in the starting gate, but the world of music is changing. Just ask a guy named Tone-Lōc. The way that it happens in music is that one song can change the entire musical landscape. In 1989 that song is “Wild Thing” by Tone-Lōc. He samples the turnaround drum fill and guitar hook from “Jamie’s Cryin’,” pays the guys in Van Halen a stipend, loops it over a dance beat, slaps on a rhyme about fornication, and makes all the guys at Delicious Vinyl millionaires. No one can deny that rap music has an energy that Richard Marx, Skid Row, the Smithereens, and all that other crap on AOR radio doesn’t have. Chuck D is going to change the world while Skid Row ushers in the nipple ring. There’s really no comparison. It is a short ride for Tone-Lōc—here today, gone later today. Months after his hit, people are already calling him Tone-Broke and Tone-Joke, but the urban invasion is on. Felder sees the whole thing coming. He takes on three white rappers, formerly from Brooklyn but now thoroughly entrenched in the L.A. scene: the Ill-Bred Boyz. Their first album had a song that became a teenage-rebellion anthem, but they were in a huge legal fight with the producer and the record company that released it. The four of them are like piss in a pan together. Felder no longer wants to don a vintage biker jacket and stand with his Tele between Kurt and the Jovi. He now wants to wear shorts to his ankles, a sideways baseball cap, and scream out “Whasup, boyeee?” He’s not alone. White people all over the world are throwing away their eyeliner, hairspray, and black leather jackets to don puffy satin suits and do the Roger Rabbit. Time is running out. Maybe Felder knows this. Maybe not. Kurt calls Felder and asks, “What’s going on with the album?”

  “Don’t sweat it, Homes. Seller is dissing us, but we’re gonna drop some science on his ass with my mad skills. This publishing deal is going to pop his lid.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Seller is disrespecting us,” Felder says in his normal voice.

  “Is that a word?”

  “I think so.”

  “So what’s going to happen?”

  “I’m going to get you guys a huge publishing deal. DCA is going to release the album. It’s all good.”

  “Cool. People need to hear the Truth.”

  “So get your asses up here. Let’s do this thing.”

  “Okay.”

  “One more thing. Can you rap at all? Maybe just in the middle of the song. Deborah Harry did it, maybe you could too?”

  “Fuck no.”

  “Okay.”

  It is the middle of July. The band walks into Felder’s office at DCA World Headquarters. Felder is giddy. His frizzy black hair gyrates on top of his head. “I can’t believe I fucking did it! I amaze myself. I fucking amaze myself. I salvaged the publishing deal. I don’t know how I talked these guys into it. I just… Sometimes I amaze myself. Carol? Carol! Bring in the deal memo.”

  Carol brings in a document about a quarter-inch thick. Felder ceremoniously slaps it on the table and says, “Let’s sign this puppy and pick up the kayeesh, boyeez!”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, has Stein seen this thing?” EJ asks.

  Kurt presses his index fingers into his temples and cocks his head toward the wall.

  “Of course. It came from Stein’s office.”

  “Shouldn’t we have him explain the deal to us before we sign it?”

  “Look, EJ, you do what
you want, but this thing needs to happen immediately. Call Stein, drive over there, just do it right now. Until this is inked, these guys can back out at any time.”

  “Why would they back out? They’ve heard the album. They know how good it is,” Kurt says.

  “Look, Kurt, it is, but remember this, we have no fucking idea what DCA’s gonna do with the album. Do you get that?”

  “What does that have to do with publishing?” EJ asks.

  “Well, let’s see, where do I start. Number one, you’re fucking broke. Wellington said there’s almost nothing left in the band account.

  “Number two, we owe people money. That fucking T-shirt money, the hundred K is recoupable and refundable.

  “Number three, publishing companies have their own promotion people just like DCA does. These guys know that if you don’t get radio play, their ownership of your publishing rights is worthless. Are you following me? If DCA doesn’t do shit with AOR—”

  “But that guy, he said it was a no-finesse move, the slam-dunk guy,” Kurt says.

  “Kurt, let’s get real here. Can you deal with that?”

  “Yeah.” Kurt is starting to brood. “I know the business.”

  “I don’t know that guy. He probably does that same spiel with every band that walks in there.”

  “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SAYING?”

  “Cool down, Kurt. Don’t start that shit with me, I’m on your side. And quit fucking calling DCA and yelling at secretaries because they didn’t release your album! I heard about your phone calls. You do that again and I’ll fucking drive down to La Jolla and rip your fucking phone out of the wall, you hear me?”

  “All I said was they should release the album like they said they would!”

  “Kurt, I don’t care what you said. Don’t do it again!”

  “I wasn’t even yelling that loud.”

  “How much will you make off this publishing deal?” EJ asks.

  Felder smiles and looks away. “What’s fucking with you guys? You bite the hand that feeds you?”

  “WHO’S FEEDING WHO? WE’RE GONNA BE THE BIGGEST—”