Favorite Scene Friday #4

In keeping with yesterday's post about the Summer of 85 cassette tape, here's the scene that was built around it.

We were heading for Boston the next day, and I was hooked up to a Walkman, humming along to Night Ranger’s latest single, “Sentimental Street,” on the radio. Terry was beside me, sprawled across the wrap-around couch, making it impossible for the rest of us to get comfortable.

“Get your foot outta my ribs,” I complained, slurping on a Coke. “Damn, this new stuff sucks!”

Steve breezed in and sat down beside me, propping his feet on the table. He was swigging down a beer. “What’cha listenin’ to?”

“I found a good station outta somewhere,” I said. “They’re playing...uh, lessee...” I strained to hear the next song and started singing along with “She Don’t Know Me,” from Bon Jovi’s first album, doing the lead vocal for once. Producers and other musicians, as well as the guys, have told me that I’m the second best vocalist in the band, and always choose me to sing when we need good two-part harmony. Once when Steve had a cold, I sang lead while he lip-synched at a party we played years ago. I don’t think I’m half-bad myself, but I don’t think of myself as a lead vocalist. I’m just the bass player and a songwriter and I’m perfectly happy with that.

Bryon and Randy, both good harmonizers, joined in the chorus.

Ratt’s new single, “Lay It Down,” followed. Then the deejay got brave and played an obscure cut off “Power to Kill,” which we were planning on releasing as a single later in the year, one called “Break Your Heart Tonight, But I’ll Love You Tomorrow.” We were still singing along, Steve taking over the lead vocal.

“That line still doesn’t make sense,” Barry grumbled, stroking his beard and scribbling on his clipboard.

“What?” I asked, not being able to hear over the music in my ears.

“Yes, it does,” said Steve, answering for himself and me, the writers of that particular tune. “It’s a cool lyric.”

“It’s usually the other way in real life,” said Barry.

“What?” I repeated.

“But I’m just a manager, not a songwriter.” He sat down next to Randy, who was reading Guitar Player, his left hand practicing air guitar riffs.

I poked Terry. “Did I miss something?” Was I speaking too loudly?

The drummer shook his head, slapping his hands on his thighs to the beat of some song other than the one I was listening to.

I sang aloud, deep into the chorus of The Hooter’s “All You Zombies.”

“Would somebody turn him down?” Barry asked

Terry pushed at me with his feet.

“OW! Watch the genitalia there!”

“Surprised it didn’t burn off after the hot babe you bagged last night,” he said, resuming his “drumming.”

“I didn’t bag a hot babe last night,” I said, stretching out my legs and lacing my fingers behind my head.

He pulled his lip down into some weird frown. “You didn’t?”

“Nope.” I resumed singing. The Hooters weren’t exactly metal but this was a really cool song.

Terry sat up. “Are you having…problems?”

I balked at him. “What?”

He pointed to my lap, then pushed him thumb upward into the air…then Steve finished his beer, prompting Barry to ask: “Where’d you get that beer?”

Terry and I gaped at the manager. Randy’s eyes widened, his air guitar fingers frozen in the air, and Bryon’s mouth dropped open but no sound came, and I was glad, because I knew his attempts to tell some story would fail just like they did with the street gang thing. For a college graduate, sometimes he wasn’t just real bright. All book smarts and no common sense.

“In the refrigerator,” Steve said, giving the rest of us a strange look.

“Oh, I guess the bus driver bought it,” Barry said with a shrug. He stood up, and left the lounge.

Randy heaved a sigh of relief, Bryon forgot what he was going to say, and I closed my eyes again. Terry seemed to forget about what he was asking me and laid back down, slapping on his thighs again.

One thing I must make clear: Barry knows all. He keeps up with every item that goes in and out of the bus, every dime we spend, or pretend to spend. He also watched the alcohol inventory in transit like no tomorrow. At the venue or the hotel, that was one thing. The bus was another story. It was the only way to keep tabs on our “habits.” I guessed he hadn’t heard from Zelda, because he hadn’t brought up any strange phone calls about strange purchases. We were gonna catch hell anyway once he found out about our venture to the Tiger Mart in Chicago.

Bryon turned on the TV and all we could pick up was some public access talk show. Some sexy blonde chick in neon pink was smiling idiotically at the camera, a photo of us on display next to her head.

“Here’s Ralph, with a review of the Tarax concert last night.”

“Ralph?” Terry raised his head. “What kinda rock reviewer has a name like Ralph?”

“That guy right there.” Steve pointed to the screen, and on it was a long-haired kid about our age wearing a leather jacket and faded blue jeans, sitting in front of a tie-dyed backdrop.

“Hey, it’s Ralph, check him out,” I said.

The roving rock reporter slash Veejay wanna-be, in a thick, New England accent, announced, “Even after the terrible weekend they just had...”

We cringed for a moment.

“Tarax doesn’t seem aware of their misfortune, because last night’s attack on Hartford rocked. I’ve never heard Randy Blackstone sound so incredible on that Ibanez, and “Terror” Terry James’ drum licks were just killer!”

“I’m a killer diller Godziller!” Terry wailed, modestly.

“Shut up, weirdo.” Steve was just waiting for his own press. Terry flipped him off.

And although praises bestowed on rest of us in the rhythm section aren’t always expected or needed for ego gratification, Ralph went on to say, “Bryon Kinzey and Jon Warren were excellent as always, burning down the house. And even though Steven Ivey can’t seem to remember the words to “Night Flight”...”

Steve fumed, but didn’t comment, because he did miss the entire second verse.

“…Tarax is still THE band to see this summer!” Ralph concluded his review and Bryon switched channels, managing to find Bo and Hope on “Days of Our Lives.”

Steve moped quietly, since there were no lauds of worship to his rock godliness due to his obvious gaffe. But what does Ralph know, really?

Of the five of us, Steve screwed up the most. He missed his entrance on “Noose,” started singing the lyrics to “Assassination” after four bars of intro to “Shock Me,” which inspired him to make an off-hand comment during the break about how some people shouldn’t write songs that sound so much alike, at which point Bryon reminded him that he, Steve, had co-written both tunes, and they didn’t sound anything alike. Steve also almost caught his ass on fire when he got too close to one of the flash pots, therefore screwing up a choreography move, and…it went on and on. He also complained about what a dead lay his groupie was.

It wasn’t a good show for Steve.

Terry and Randy both were trying not to laugh about the review, and I finally had to get up and go someplace else to do the same, slipping off the headphones and climbing over Terry’s legs. Laughing wasn’t really fair, I guess, considering the weekend, but knowing Steve all these years...maybe he was still blaming himself for not taking care of Randy. We figured Randy would have the rough night, but he played like the genuine guitar wizard he was. Steve was out to lunch. Taking into consideration his recent moodiness, I was beginning to believe something else might be up with Steve.

I ran into Barry in the kitchen area. “Oh, hi.”

“What’s so funny?” asked the manager, looking no more relaxed than he ever does.

“Oh, this reviewer just slammed Steve.”

“Hmm,” was his only response as he shoved me back into the lounge.

“This came in the mail the other day.” He slapped a copy of the Chicago Tribune on the table.

“Oh, no,” Terry and I said in unison.

There we were, front page. Terry was pointing at the camera, his black eye in full view, his mouth open as if he were screaming. I had my bandanna over my face, my eyes peeking through my hair. Officer “Buddy” Richards, the big cop, was behind Terry, and Morgenstern, the little guy, was peering over my shoulder.

But the photo next to that one was even worse. It was of me, at the concert the next night, with my Carvin, leaning forward to the crowd, all my wet hair flying in my face, revealing only my swollen nose.

Randy took one look and began to laugh hysterically, and Bryon did the same. Barry lit up a cigar. “Well, there’s some free publicity.”

“I’ll kill that little asshole if I ever see him again,” growled Terry. I just rubbed my nose.

Bryon tossed the paper to Steve, who studied the candid shots carefully, then read the caption:

“Heavy Rockers Caught In The Act—Terry James and Jon Warren, of the hard rock band Tarax, were seen at the Third Precinct early Saturday, reporting a mugging by a local street gang. James, drummer of Tarax, (foreground) and Warren, bass player, (right), identified three Chicago teenagers as members of a gang that attacked them on West Adams Street Friday night. The rockers did not press criminal charges against the teens, although Warren suffered a fractured nose...”

“My nose isn’t fractured,” I amended.

“…and James a black eye. Their apparent physical conditions had no effect on the sold-out Tarax performance last night at the Rosemont Horizon (see review page E5).

“Damn, your shit made the front page but the concert review is way back here!”

Steve flipped through to read it. He was probably hoping he’d get a better review in Chicago.

“How many papers is that in, do you suppose?” I asked of no one in particular.

“I don’t wanna think about it,” said Terry.

Randy was still laughing and couldn’t seem to stop. The drummer, however, was not as amused.

“It’s not that funny,” he muttered, sullenly.

It took a while for the brown-haired guitarist to find his words. “Yes, it is!” He continued to cackle; probably just glad he could laugh. We all needed a good one.

Steve placed the paper in my lap. “The swelling in your nose did go away pretty quick. Must have been all that tender loving care you got afterward.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about, then I remembered Shanna. Strange he could remember her. Strange how I conveniently forgot.

That really kinda bothered me.

“That may be,” I said, eyeing him suspiciously. I wasn’t about to get into this weird competitive trip with Steve about women. That was Randy’s role. Well, maybe not so much anymore…

I noticed Terry, all pouty and sulled up. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Look at that shit!” He indicated the photos. “I’m in the Chicago Tribune and it’s not even a good picture!”

On to bigger and better things. Barry held up a handful of letters. “Fan mail.”

Fan letters are a trip, because you never know what you’re gonna get. We get some odd requests, and photos, from girls usually. There are the sickos, but those get sorted out at the home office. We got one from some guy in Idaho who wrote that we were gods from another planet and had come to take over the planet.

Weird.

As far as the raunchy ones go, well...they embarrass Bryon, what with this girlfriend and all. Terry thinks they’re hilarious for about five minutes, then tosses them in the trash and forgets he ever read them at all. Steve usually grins smugly and says something like, “Yeah, I’ll bet she does.” Randy reads his quietly and says nothing. He probably keeps some and takes them out to read when he could use a cheap thrill. Me? I flip out for a while, because there are times when I can’t believe somebody I don’t know thinks those kinds of thoughts about me. I’m troll-boy; I’m not attractive.

Barry always picks out two decent fan letters for each of us, in addition to what we get from family and close friends, which we get through a special address. Bryon got a letter from his mystery girlfriend, and I got one from my sister Rikki, who just graduated high school. She’s naive and clueless, so she tends to ramble on about a lot of stuff eighteen-year-old girls like to ramble on about.

Jonny,

Hey it’s me! I’ve been busy as hell these past few weeks, since Mom insists on one of us getting some kind of college education. I enrolled in some summer courses at UA, and am staying with Aunt Martha. Whoopee! I’m in a chemistry class. There’s this really geeky guy in there who refuses to leave me alone, and a girl in my art class who idolizes you. She did a pen-and-ink of you that is just fantastic. She even got your chin! I’m getting a copy I can mail to you.

Mom and Dad are fine. Mom’s breathing down my neck about school and she’s always watching the tabloids to see if your picture turns up. Did you really kick those guys’s asses in Chicago? How’s your nose? I nearly died when I saw your picture in the Sun. Dad thought it was funny. He knew you’d pull through after all those martial arts moves he showed you. Mom said, “See, I told you he’d get into even worse trouble.”

Rumor has it Bryon has some steady girlfriend, some actress who was on “Miami Vice” last week. (It was a rerun). I see you’re still big into one-night-stands. I was looking through a Faces magazine the other day and saw you with some UGLY dishwater blonde chick in a hotel room. I think you’ll catch a disease. Be glad Mom didn’t see it!

Well, look, I’ve got a major exam tomorrow so I’d better study. Didn’t you take chemistry? Do you remember anything about carbons? I’ve taken up enough of your precious rock star time, I’ll write again soon. Mom might let me go see your LA show, but I don’t know. She’s such a hardass. Anyway, BYE!

Keep Rockin’!

Rikki

PSS Duchess ate your old “Toys in the Attic” album. Sorry.

Her closing was followed by some drawings of music notes and guitars. My sister is…a freak. She has this whole obsession with the paranormal…UFO’s, alien abduction. I think she just watched too much Star Trek when we were kids. But I missed her, rambling on about astral projection and the theory of Atlantis…she wants to be a parapsychologist specializing in poltergeist activity. She’s bats.

How did the dog get a hold of my Aerosmith records?

Home seemed far away, and I wished I could see her, Dad, the dog, and yes, even my mother, who I can hear saying, “That ridiculous brother of yours, running around all over the country, picking up strange girls and stranger habits!” I was curious about this picture in Faces of me and some blonde. What the hell was that about? I’m not interested in blondes. They’re such a cliché.

I thought of what my mother told me when I left Phoenix to kick off the tour.

“I guess you’re happy now, with all this craziness.”

“That’s just how it is, Mom. And it’s really not that glamorous, it’s hard work.”

She just frowned. “Well, as long as you don’t get yourself killed.”

What was this? A Buddy Holly flashback? My mother has issues with my choice of career, especially since I didn’t fulfill the desire for her son to be a trial lawyer or a pediatric cardiologist. I always found it strange how she left her close-knit Canadian family to marry my father, an Air Force supply pilot, whom she met in Vancouver. She’s not exactly the model daughter according to my grandmother. Maybe it’s one of those “unfinished business” things that shrinks always talk about.

Some commotion surrounding Bryon interrupted my thoughts, and commotion surrounding Bryon is a major event. He was catching hell about the letter from Rita, or Nita, or whoever.

“C’mon, Bryon,” Terry was saying, “show it to us!”

“It really isn’t any of your business,” Bryon said, shoving the letter into his shirt pocket.

“Yes, it is,” said Steve. “All girls are our business.”

“At least give us a hint,” Randy pleaded. “All we know about her is...well...nothing.”

“That’s all you need to know,” responded Bryon calmly.

“Sounds like the end of the discussion to me, guys,” said Barry, flipping through the pile of papers attached to the clipboard that was always attached to his hand.

“How serious is this, Bryon?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. I guessed that was the end of the discussion, so I asked Terry about his mail.

“Well, I got a letter from a guy in...” He dug the letter out of his back pocket, a keeper, I assumed. “…Minnesota who says he can play the entire first album and is starting his own band.”

“Maybe we can ditch you and hire him,” Randy teased.

“Fuck you!” The drummer tapped the other two letters on the table. “This is from a girl in Wisconsin, and this is a card from my mom.” He displayed it proudly, then clutched it to his chest and leaned on me. “My mom loves me!”

He and I joke about my relationship with my mother a lot. My mother loves Terry, too, and that’s only because he knows how to kiss her ass. “My mother loves me,” I defended. “She just wanted me to be a lawyer.”

“You wanna read it? It’s really funny.” He shook the card under my nose.

“No, that’s cool.” I was a little jealous, wishing my mother would at least acknowledge me in some way. I read my other letters, one written to the band and the other from a girl in Chicago who sent a get-well card because she’d seen the picture of me and my nose.

Barry spoke again. “I have some more good news. We’ve finally found our opening band.”

“Who?” Steve was chugging down a Coke now.

“That band from New Orleans, Rampage.”

“Don’t they have a girl singer?” Randy asked.

“A girl? They let girls do this now?” I asked, jokingly.

“DUH! What about Joan Jett? Lita Ford? The Heart sisters? Janis Joplin?” Terry smacked me with the Guitar Player.

“What are you? Mr. Rock Historian now?”

“You forgot Wendy O. Williams,” said Bryon.

“And Lee Aaron,” added Steve.

“And two of those were Runaways,” Randy concluded. “That’s not much of a selection.”

“Hand me the tape box. Jon’s a stupid ass.” Terry pointed over my head and Bryon reached behind me, taking the leather case out of the window. Terry rattled through the box, since none of the tapes were actually in the slots but thrown into a jumbled mess inside. He pulled one out and grimaced. “New Edition? Where the hell did that come from?”

“She’s a young black boy?” I asked. Bryon laughed.

“Piss off, I’ll find it.” He dug around some more, tossing tapes, empty cases, and liner notes all over the table.

“Oh, hey, there’s my Black Sabbath’s Greatest Hits!” said Steve.

Randy imitated Ozzy Osbourne, screeching about being an iron man.

“Well, where the fuck is it? Ah ha!” Terry finally found the tape jacket he was looking for, and gave it to me. “See, that chick right there.”

Everyone leaned over Terry to look. “Damn, get off me!” he complained.

I raised an eyebrow, expecting to see someone done up like, well, maybe some Heavy Metal Deborah Harry, but instead...

Holy…shit…

“That’s no chick!” Randy squealed. “That’s a fricking goddess.” And he couldn’t be more correct.

She was young, with shaggy black hair that fell to her waist. The photo was black and white, so I couldn’t tell the eye color, but the lids were lined with thick black pencil, her lips full and pouty with shiny dark lipstick. Her brows arched perfectly over almond-shaped eyes, her cheekbones high and shaded with dark blush. It was a half-length shot, showing off most of a perfect body: full breasts, slender waist, slim hips. She wore a white tank top, cropped to reveal a smooth, flat stomach, leather jeans, several bracelets and rings, and long chandelier earrings. Her wrists were crossed over her head, and she wore a sexy, seductive scowl on her face, a lot like the one on that girl at the end of the movie Heavy Metal, the one who kicked everyone’s ass in the bar.

That’s no chick. That’s a fricking goddess.

Piece of ass aside, though. Was that her voice on the tape, or did someone else sing and this picture is just someone who looks good?

Damn good.

“She looks like a female Nikki Sixx,” Steve said.

“No way,” Randy argued.

I wasn’t paying attention. Terry suddenly beat me in the arm. “Yo! Earth to Jon!”

I didn’t even look up. “Huh?”

Steve snapped his fingers in front of my face. “I think he’s stoned.”

“No, he’s just got a major boner.” Randy picked up the Guitar Player and resumed reading.

Terry snatched the magazine out of Randy’s grasp and smacked me with it. Again.

“Hey, I was reading that.”

I ignored the lashing. “What’s this girl’s name?” I scanned the liner notes.

“Holy shit! I think he’s in love!” Terry gave up.

“Two hundred he’s the first to nail her,” Steve chimed. “Who’s in?”

The others started making wagers, except Bryon, who seemed more interested in business than my chance at pleasure. “Will they be with us for the whole tour?”

“Till we finish in the U.S.,” Barry answered, and was about to add more, when Bryon turned back to Steve.

“You got a deal!”

So much for business.

I ignored them, though their idea didn’t sound too bad. Would she qualify as quality pussy? I hadn’t had any in a while, and after last weekend, sex wasn’t a priority, though it might have eased the stress.

“Season Trovisar,” someone said.

“Huh?” I jerked to life again, after imagining running my tongue down a firm, creamy thigh.

“That’s her name, Season Trovisar.” It was Bryon, turning his head upside down, reading the liner notes.

“Trovisar?” I turned the sleeve over in my hand. “Like Benatar?”

“I guess so.” The guitarist with the mustache righted his head.

“Season.” I mumbled to myself, lost in a trance.

Randy started singing, naming off seasons from a very familiar James Taylor tune. Steve joined in with the next line.

Everybody! “You’ve got a friend!”

“Cut that out,” Barry grumbled.

“Oh, she’ll be more than a friend all right,” Terry said, poking me.

Randy decided to reorganize the tape carrier. “I gotta fix this. Culture Club? Jesus!”

“You done with that, or are you gonna jerk off to it?” Sounded like Steve. “Jon!”

“What?”

“Oh, he’s not paying attention,” Terry said, sorting out the empty cases. “He’s got that look in his eyes.”

“What look?” I continued to stare. Season kept looking better and better.

“I think I’d just forget about whatever it is you’re thinking about, even though I already know what it is.” Steve finished his Coke and leaned back. “You know what happens when there’s a girl in the band.”

I nodded, vaguely remembering some stories about being passed around from member to member. Hmm....

“She’s probably involved with this guy.” I indicated another member of the band, a tall, blonde guy. More like a tall, menacing blond tree.

“That’s her cousin,” Barry said.

A strange “ooh” sound echoed around the table.

“Well, they are from Louisiana,” said Steve.

I wrinkled my nose. I was sure incest was not an issue here. “Maybe this guy?” I pointed out a rather stout member of Rampage, slightly on the pudgy side, also with blonde hair.

Terry and Randy shook their heads. “Nah.”

“Nevertheless,” said Steve, lacing his fingers behind his own blonde mane and stretching his legs. “Maybe she’d like to have a whole new line of choices.”

“Hold it!” Terry said. “We made a bet Jon was first!”

“Then I’ll be next.” Steve smiled that shit-eating, lady-killer grin we all knew, and hated, so well.

Suddenly I felt like ripping his head off. “I thought you didn’t like sloppy seconds.”

Terry and Randy howled, slapping hands. Steve replied with a sideways sneer at them, then thumped Barry’s leg with the toe of his Nikes.

“What’s the dirty lowdown on this band?”

Wow, back to business again. Boz Skaggs sang in my head.

Barry whipped over a page on his clipboard. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said, bored and perturbed with our stupid guy talk. “They’re meeting us in Atlantic City on Thursday. They finished opening for Dokken in May. Forty-five minute set and their album’s about to go gold. Season’s a big hit.”

“That’s the girl, Jon,” said Terry and Randy simultaneously.

“No shit,” I said.

Steve told us to shut up. Randy gave him the international sign of ill will.

“They’re a clean show,” Barry said. “Very pro. But we may have to share some backline.”

“No problem there,” said Bryon.

“Oh, I’ll bet Jon will loan her his microphone!” Terry made a gross gesture.

I handed him the tape jacket, getting pissed. “All I did was look at her picture.”

“No, way, man,” Randy said, neatly placing Dokken’s “Tooth and Nail” in its cover. “You didn’t just look at her picture. We’re talking major stiffness here.”

“Okay, so, she’s really hot,” I said. “But that’s airbrushing and pro photography. That could make Dee Snider look good.”

“I’m sure it was a perfectly normal reaction, Jon,” Barry assured me.

“Right!” I was relieved there was someone who wasn’t ribbing me, although the others laughed uncontrollably.

“That wasn’t normal,” Terry said. “Even for you!”

“Well, just don’t have me married off by the end of the summer.” Ewww…saying that made me feel really weird.

“Hey,” Randy said suddenly. “You guys wanna hear a story about this female singer who used to blow a band member before each show?”

People threw things at him.