Rock Star Regret

Not every moment in rock history was a “I’m a golden god!” type of case scenario. Sure there’s lots of hanging from chandeliers, tossing TV’s out of hotel windows and sleeping with willing groupies but for each one of those treasured memories there are probably five they’d like to forget. 

Plaster Caster. 

 

 Oh Cynthia Plaster Caster groupie genius with the best made up job in the world. Hundreds of impulsive young musicians jumped at the chance to be immortalized frozen in permanent limbo for all the world to see. Then they sobered up and realized that after that blow job and all those giggles an actual life-size replica of their genitalia was going to be on display. 

You want to put mine up next to Hendrix? Yeah, that sounds great! Wait, NO! 

Do you ever find  yourself wondering what Peter Gabriel might be thinking? 

I know, me too. 

Here he is during his stint with Genesis participating in some sort of flower shenanigans. You know the entire band is praying that he’ll leave so Phil Collins can front a watered down version of this once mildly interesting band. 

I imagine he's great fun at parties.

 Despite the misstep with the outfit you’ve got to love a guy who leaves and writes Solsbury Hill and Shock the Monkey. 

No one puts Stewart in a corner, or behind a drumkit or whatever!

Stewart Copeland- tube socks and gym shorts make the man. 

Everybody loves Stewart Copeland. 

It’s not a subject that’s up for debate so people end up arguing about the magnitude of his greatness instead. 

He’s FUCKING awesome. 

NO! He’s so fucking awesome MY HEAD IS ON FIRE WITH CERTAINTY. 

Do you hear him beating the shit out of that snare drum? That is so awesome it made my life finally worth living. 

And so on. 

I’ve always loved this guy, his sticks and his ability to make the drums sound like the most important instrument in the Police but the stage clothes he was sportin’ in the 80′s had me narrowing my eyes and giving quizzical looks while planning our wedding. 

This outfit  was clearly born out of necessity (that would be two solid sweaty hours of savage ass kicking thundering drums ) and convenience. And as always with Stewart, all is forgiven. 

He rocked the tube socks.

Billy Squier sports a pink tee destroys career in two minutes flat. 

I'm going to dance badly for a few more minutes on these sheets. Then watch me rip this shirt. Like the Hulk does!

 Someone should have stopped him when pink jammies and silk sheets were mentioned for the video shoot for Rock Me Tonight. 

But no.  

 This guy had the Robert Plant on tropical holiday hair, catchy guitar riffs and lots of hit songs. He wrote his own ticket and then sadly had to cash it in because of this unfortunate choice of shirt and a badly choreographed video. Sniff. 

How are we getting away with this?

Simon Le Bon wears curtain tassel from mom’s drapery in new romantic pirate fashion.  

 So what can we learn from people who dress like ethereal woodsprites with severely colored asymmetrical hair?  We know that it’s easier to hire hot girls to wrestle  soft core porn style for our other smash video Girls on Film and to dress like Indiana Jones looking to get lucky on Sri Lanka for Hungry Like the Wolf. 

 Strangely this did not diminish his masculine appeal for me but Andy’s frilly shirt and all that leather left me confused. 

Minus gauze.

Stevie Nicks. 

When I think of Stevie Nicks I get a warm reassuring flashback from the 70′s. I’m in the large open living room of my childhood home and my dad is putting Rumors on the turn table. This is how I like to remember her. Before she got tangled up in all that gauzy extra clothing that I don’t think she has any remorse about.  But I do. 

Henry. Why all the screaming?

Rollins. 

 Y’ know. Maybe I’m biased because some hooligan started a riot and caused the wooden barrier holding back the frenzied audience to collapse  sending me to the hospital with a broken arm during one of his concerts but I wonder if he has any second thoughts about all that ranting and screaming? 

 As the ambulance pulled away with my rain soaked and busted up body I imagined him standing shaking his head in sorrow and handing me a free signed t-shirt. It never happened. Not sure if he’s sorry or not.

For Those Who Helped Us Rock, We Salute You

We're with the band. Or at least we like to pretend we are.

It’s been over twenty years since I last ran screaming down an alley after a hastily retreating tour bus hollering for its occupants to validate my existence with a wave or a smile. So tonight in order to honor the girl I was and the bands that played on the soundtrack of my youth, I plan to eat a generous helping of humble pie. I’ve spent so much time demanding my pound of flesh from defunct 80′s supergroups that I forgot to take a moment to say thank you. That’s right, I stand before Stewart, Sting, & Andy and give thanks for all the albums, the rigorous touring schedule and  the peroxide. You were the cherry on the cake of an almost perfect decade. While I wish I hadn’t been outfitted in wool jumpers, knee socks and pig tails so that I could have whored around backstage with the rest of the  groupie skanks that  hung barnacle like in the  concrete hallways leading to the dressing rooms, I still had a great time stalking them under the watchful eye of my befuddled parents. This also gives me the added advantage of NOT being riddled with numerous STD’s , so for that I’m also grateful. The Cure, R.E.M., the Go Go’s, The Smith’s, Squeeze, the B-52′s etc. thank you for all the fun. 

After careful consideration I also realized I would be remiss if I didn’t give a shout out to the brothers Copeland, hell the ENTIRE Copeland family for having a hand in crafting the careers of over half of the bands I listened to as a kid. 

Warning: Uncalled for off topic rant coming….. 

Here I would like to go off on a massive tangent related to the above mentioned family. The Copeland family connection is clearly the vital missing link in the history books between overwhelming  band success or failure. Clearly, being a Copeland carries with it the implication that it is genetically impossible to fail. I think they even tried it once or twice, but it didn’t work. Failure = sticky eggs. Copeland’s= teflon pan. It just falls off of them and onto the floor. Sunday brunch with this clan must be hell. Can you imagine how fraught with boasting and one-upmanship this meal is? Hey, I single-handedly changed the entire middle east! I just wrote two well received books-WHILE I WAS SITTING HERE! Oh yeah, I composed two operas, founded a band that took over the world, wrote a book , produced seven kids, and wrote and directed a movie! I just quietly prevented Armageddon using only the power of my mind (that last one was   Miles, he scares me). 

I hate to think what would have become of me had I not had all this great music to distract me from my school work and what could have been a higher calling. I suspect that I could have amounted to something fairly important (doctor, lawyer, missionary?) or I could have just flailed around blindly and become a classic rock fan with bad hair and too much Covergirl charcoal black eyeliner.  But, it is as it was meant to be. New Wave and I found each other and the rest is history.

What’s Up Buttercup?

40: Oh hi 12-year-old self it’s me twenty-eight years in the future, how are you?

12: Holy crap ,are you kidding me?!

40: No, no not kidding .I’m here to let you know that in the future you will type on a computer and be able to communicate with people from all over the world not just play pong on your Atari gaming system or asteroids on the Intellivision system that your mom, whoops I mean Santa, is going to bring you next Christmas!

12: What? Wait, there’s no santa? FUCK, I knew it! But Intellivision, that’s awesome, Cathy Fermaint will shit her pants when she finds out! She thinks she’s so hot with all her Atari games – well screw her and her mastery of space invaders. NO ONE will be going over THERE after school anymore. Has been.

40: Also 12-year-old self ,I have some news about The Police.

12:You mean the biggest band in the universe? You should see the new poster I just got at Sam Goody….so dreamy…..

40: Yes. After the Synchronicity tour they just vanish in a puff of smoke with no real explanation. They go their separate ways and it takes them over twenty years to tour again. And….I have more bad news…

12 : Oh god what? Does one of them die?

40: No, no. But.. you miss the tour.

12:WHAT?! What kind of stupid moron misses something like that? It’s bad enough that you look like this at 40, I mean, don’t they have super ray guns in the future to blast off those wrinkles and destroy that grey? God, what type of horrible fate is this? Can I prevent this from happening?

40: You are getting off track 12-year-old self. Ignore what I look like, it’s been a rough day in 2009 and I had like NO personal time today, otherwise I would have at least colored my hair. I’ve got, well I guess we’ve got, three demanding kids, two dogs and a husband.

12: OH.MY.GOD. Please tell me it’s not Dominik Leonetti!!!

40: Oh lord no. And for what it’s worth I was glad to see you cold cock him after that incident with Jennifer White and the kickball team. No you , well we, marry a wonderful guy. He’s a musician!

12: Oh shit is it Stewart Copeland!?? Please tell me we get married!!!!

40: No 12-year-old self it isn’t Stewart, he’s happily married with like four hundred kids.

12: Four hundred!?

40: Well more like seven, but still as anyone with kids knows that can feel like four hundred. But listen 12-year-old self we digress, I need you to do something for me.

12: What is it?

40: All those albums, cassette tapes, photo books everything you’ve got- keep them.

12:Okay.

40: And another thing, make sure you pester your parents to take you to see The Police live instead of that dreadful Duran Duran concert you will be seeing with your friends. Heed my words for this will be your biggest regret.

12:Fine, but can I ask you a question?

40: Sure.

12: What has happened to my ass?

40: Well 12-year-old self, it has fallen. That shit happens after three kids and no amount of propping it up or stair climbing will help. So enjoy that body for all it’s worth for about eighteen more years.

12: Wow, that freaking sucks. Okay then, it’s been great talking to you but Vicky and Julie are waiting for me so we can walk to Stout Steve’s and buy Creem magazine and maybe even Tiger Beat.

40: You know it wasn’t exactly easy getting here to tell you this, maybe we could just sit and chat for a bit. There is so much going on in the future, it’s spectacular.

12: So , they can’t figure out a way to get rid of fat, wrinkles or grey hair?

40: No.

12: Did anyone find a cure for cancer?

40: Well no, but there’s….

12: Ah, ah, ah. I think I’ve heard enough about this ”future” you speak of. Be gone scary lady with your bad hair and ill-fitting clothes. I want no more bad news.

40: Okay then. Good luck you plucky little metal mouthed girl. Enjoy the ride!

12: I will!

Rewind

Good times.

Clearly I’m having some sort of strange 80′s rewind that is affecting my life in several unforseen ways. My husband is quietly but inquisitively watching me from behind slightly arched eyebrows as I collect memorabilia from yesteryear, dust off my old LP’s and generally become way too enthused about defunct bands washed up actors and bad movies. I’d say the worst was the day I ran so fast to meet the UPS man delivering my autobiographies that I nearly concussed myself tripping over fourteen sets of discarded kid shoes. Now I’m wondering if there is something from this era I left unfinished (like my maturity?) so therefore deep down I have this unsatisfied need to return over and over to the same point in time to relive this era and fix whatever mistakes I made. Or perhaps it’s nothing more than the childish wish to go back  to a time where music, movies and life in general packed so much punch?

I had this exact model.

Naturally, I imagine my enthusiasm will wane and I’ll find something more important to do with my time (my husband is hoping it’s laundry, cooking and cleaning) but what is it about these little raw moments from the past that give rise to such excitement? I’m a firm believer that there is something very revealing about what we connect to, either in the past or present, that shapes our lives in a strange way. Although seemingly frivolous one would do well to take a hard look at what made or makes us tick and why that spark of childlike excitement lights us up when we come in contact with these things marching down the path of life. Things that have passed us by sometimes still have the ability to get us going again. I may have ripped down the Police posters that adorned my bedroom walls and shelved the VHS tapes of blurry films but somewhere in a hollowed out pit in the back of my grey matter is that blindingly shiny slice of time where we jumped up and down at the park blasting a cassette tape of Regatta de Blanc out of the speakers of our massive gun-metal grey radio and tried to get our covergirl purple  eyeshadow just right. I have a vivid memory of a summer night when I had just acquired the legal ability to drive ,of pulling up in front of the New City, New York Bradlees to gather party materials for later in the evening with “It’s Alright for You” blasting from the speakers.

Later on we would eat junk food, watch The Terminator and Sixteen Candles back to back and struggle valiantly with the Rubik’s Cube. God, those were the days.

sigh....

Still confounds me

It Starts and Ends With Sting and Has The Bit About the Squash in the Middle

What do Sting and this squash have in common, besides the fact that I want to hit them both with a mallet?

At first it all seemed to be going smoothly. Then a long strange sequence of intertwined events played out and made the day really difficult to wrap my mind around.  At some point early in the morning yesterday, I finally finished Stewart  Copeland’s book and found myself really regretting missing the life altering 2007/2008 Police reunion tour. Plainly put, I missed the boat to see my all time favorite band because of scheduling conflicts (if I remember correctly I was riding assorted wild but mild attractions at Disneyworld). I am having a violent but delayed reaction to my stupidity and lack of forward thinking.  Ahhh, but I digress. The book was entertaining, engaging and eye opening. He was funny, fair and garnered my sympathy for having had to endure Sting’s withering criticism at every turn.  At first glance it seems like both musicians come down with a scorching case of douchebagitis every time they have to interact with each other where music is the focus. On a personal level they remind me of my youngest two boys wrestling each other for dominance on the basement floor, neither willing to say uncle for fear of having it lorded over them during the next Frasier vs. Ali bout. Nothing worse than your sibling having extra smack to work with. As I reached the last chapters though, I had the genuine urge to poke Sting with a sharp object to deflate that monstrous head of his. Since when did this pontificating blow hard call ALL the shots? Clearly, the Police reunion happened only because the sweet prince waved his scepter and claimed it was “the right time”. If ever afforded the chance I will not hesitate to bludgeon him with a lute. (Yes Sting, your lute album was not lost on me). Since there is not another chance in hell that my favorite band will get together and tour again, I will continue to use various means of self-flagellation as an proper tool to punish myself for missing it, but somewhere in the back of my mind I blame Sumner for making the threesome’s magic impossible to sustain (or perhaps endure) for any length of time. Andy and Stewart , you guys rock. No problems with you.

I need a good smack. Do you get the Christ vibe off me?

So back to the story.  After my internal Sting bashing tirade it was time to pick my daughter up from her best friends house. I pulled up and ran into her father who was packing the back of the truck with his cameras and equipment. Offhandedly I inquired about where he was off to. ” To New York to interview Trudie Styler and Sting” he replied. Well, what a coincidence. ITN camera men seemingly get a lot of this kind of stuff. Off to film Bono’s wedding. Just back from the G8 summit. On to Iraq to live in a tent for four weeks. I guess they have to go where the story is. I regale him with my newly minted opinion of the Chosen One and ask for a detailed update upon his return. “Give Sting my regards” I joke.  No longer stewing in my righteous anger, I collected my daughter and drove home.

The world shifted on its axis as I was brewing up several half-assed kiddie meals when I turned to find my daughter covered in blood, holding a carving knife and an odd looking squash. How are these things related, I asked myself? Only later would I find out that she had stolen this newly grown squash from the backyard garden of our neighbor. Technically (and according to squatters rights) this part of the plant had hopped over our fence to flourish in our endless daytime sunshine.  It seemed perfectly natural that someone would then mistake this vegetable for a pumpkin, pick it, quietly attempt to carve a scary Halloween face in it with a razor-sharp knife and then cut a fierce gash in their left pointer finger.  Nine stitches, two Novocaine shots and endless tears later we have a repaired daughter on our hands.  Thankfully the damage wasn’t as bad as we initially thought and she had a rocking war wound to show off at school.

I’m still a little bitter about that stupid squash beckoning from the backyard for little hands to come and pick it off the vine and find some cutlery to massacre it (or themselves) with. My anger with Sting however, is still burning bright even at this late hour. Get off that yoga mat and get down to the business at hand!