
|
The Killing Road (cont'd) Club 813 was a
predominantly Jamaican hangout, and the smell of curried lamb
filled the air as much as the ganja and the tunes that four white
boys were jamming on stage. During one of our rock-steady nights,
this elderly man with a voluptuous woman wearing an extravagantly
large, maroon, velvet hat was silently watching us play. He approached
us after our first set and proceeded to hand me a business card.
"Call me tomorrow, I've got big plans for you guys,"
he said nonchalantly, before leaving the club.
He was right, he did have big plans for us...As our marketing
team was busy designing and distributing memorabilia to the masses,
the band was racking up sky miles and every other day we would
arrive in a different destination. The fan base was getting bigger
and demand for the band was beginning to take its toll. We would
sometimes do as many as 55 cities in 60 days; this would include
meet-and-greet sessions, radio interviews, in-store appearances
and how can we forget those special gatherings that promoters
put together for after the shows. These theatrical events would
consist of that old cliché, S, D & RnR, and if you've
heard anything about this traveling carnal zoo, 99% of the dirt
is probably true.
For many years I lived the life of a rock star, within my own
outrageous bounds. My sweet clairvoyant Mama would save every
postcard I sent and review or newspaper clipping about the band,
as she mailed off our popular 45-records to her relatives in
Southern Italy.
By this point I was in need of a passport, more countries, more
concerts, more everything. The overindulgence became monotonous
and practically routine. I was a sequined soldier, defending
my public persona by means of gratifying my supporters. At times
it seemed that even the simplest form of stability was a luxury.
The revenue I was collecting afforded me the ability to drive
a great car, to have a recording studio built into the mansion
on the hill, and all the material goods one could drink, but
no sooner than I would sit down to enjoy a quiet brunch on my
patio overlooking the shore, I would receive a phone call notifying
me of the next scheduled tour. No time to soak up the sunlight
or read a good book, I had to hit the road again.
It felt good knowing that our faithful followers found some satisfaction
in our egocentric endeavors. Everything imaginable was available
to us, meaning the abundance of candy and promiscuity was part
of our daily menu. Our intrigue was not limited only to musical
fans. Our collective group of admirers ranged from gay politicians
to bored rich brats looking for kicks with rock bands. The subtle,
unrecognizable torment we sometimes faced was stored deep underneath
the layers of laughter and eye-piercing facades. We wanted the
fame, we demanded the attention, only to find ourselves weighed
down by a burden of responsibility. Luckily, time has a way of
slowing down the fast-paced highway of popularity; a good thing
if you're caught up in the redundant ruckus. In the end, we can
reflect as mature connoisseurs of our self-appointed space and
smile, knowing we slayed many dragons along the killing road.
|