One Train Later: A Memoir (33 page)

Dale and Mike, the boys from A&M, come out one night, and it is gratifying to see their spontaneous smiles as we play them "Message in a Bottle." Within two weeks we have the album in place. We can do this because we record as a performing band, with the studio almost another gig. We don't need much help other than with the engineering, and despite the banter and the sarcastic tone we take with one another, the truth is that we know where we want to go. We become a sealed unit, hermetic, impossible to penetrate. A&M sees this and leaves us to get on with it.

At this time in Britain there is a popular television show called Rock Goes to College. Each week a college somewhere in the country is picked as the venue for a current rock band to perform. We don't feel big enough yet to get this kind of exposure but are thrilled when we are asked to do it. We are given a date at Hatfield Polytechnic, yet another so-called important step because it is national exposure and will help propel us upward.

At home I try to be fully attentive to Kate and Layla, but I find it difficult to be as present as I should be, the success of the band tending to wash through everything, be everything, eat everything. I sense that I am walking a tightrope. The phone rings off the hook, the baby cries, the press beat on the door, the monster begins rising from the dark of the lake, and we set out on the path of success and mutually assured destruction.

On February 21 we drive up the M4 motorway, past the sign that says Hatfield and the North, a sign that groups know as a constant reminder that once again they are about to travel away from home locked in a grimy van with a pile of drums and amps. Oddly, no one to our knowledge has ever seen or been to Hatfield, and the general belief among bands is that it does not actually exist. But today we are in high dudgeon because, as if visiting the ancient ruins of Ephesus, we are actually going to see Hatfield-or at least the college.

After getting over the wonders of Hatfield, we perform in the evening to a raucous college crowd. We play "Message in a Bottle," "So Lonely," and "Can't Stand Losing You," and they roar with approval. We are nervous because this show seems to represent a chance to break through, but now fueled by the tours on the East Coast and the Albertos, we manage to stay loose enough to get through it with enough fire and conviction to deliver a strong set. Stewart and I also add backing vocals even though it's not our forte; the parts we play are too complicated for a lot of oohing and aahing, but we do it anyway. Kate has come to the show and brought along Layla, now three months old. We return to London in the A&M bus, sitting in the back. Stunned by all that is going on, I stare out at the M4, which I have traversed constantly in my life, and think, Maybe this time ... I turn to Kate in the dark; the baby is asleep, but Kate whispers, "I think she might be in shock-the volume ..."

We have two weeks off and then as if we never left, we return to the United States. We have made enough noise on our first "save the band" tour to warrant a second shot and because now we are also officially on the A&M US label. Leaving Kate and a three-month-old baby behind in London, I ride in a cab to Heathrow full of mixed feelings. This flight is to Los Angeles.

Fourteen

Beneath the plane a jeweled megalopolis spreads its wings out through the Santa Monica Mountains like a giant butterfly. We hit the runway and a feeling of entrapment floods my head, sweetened only by the assessment that maybe it was neccessary; this is where I saved myself, retooled for the future, found a mate, prepared the ground for whatever this new thing turns out to be. I stare out the window at LAX. We have three nights booked at the Whiskey.

The Tropicana Motel, with its smell of shag carpet, cleaning fluids, and chlorine from the swimming pool, is a sharp reminder of shabby Hollywood and the torpor of failure in bright sun. I wake up to the incandescent glow of California breaking through the half-torn blinds, and for a second I am filled with a sense of futility and familiar depression. I lie between the sheets for a moment to let it pass before finally pulling myself up to remember that Dukes coffee shop is part of the hotel; you never know who you might run into there.

Like a seedy joint out of a Bukowski novel, Dukes has been the hangout for many legendary writers, rockers, and assorted characters, including the Doors. I am excited to be back as part of this band but I have to shake the harsh overlit memories that beat through my brain as if to accent my nothingness, as if to remind me that while the rest of the city rolled in money, fame, and celebrity, at twenty-six I already couldn't think of a reason to crawl out from between the sheets.

Stewart and I have breakfast together. There is no one of note in the diner, and we decide to walk up the Strip to see if our name is on the Whiskey marquee. After the London winter the fizzing brightness and tremor of L.A. pour into the bloodstream like champagne, and suddenly it is intoxicating. Our name hovers over the Strip and we walk up the street laughing because it feels so good. I note the irony of being back at the Whiskey; it has hardly changed over the years, but this time around it feels different, like an enchanted portal, a point on the compass that we must pass through, and for us it's the equal of the Hollywood Bowl.

The Whiskey is sold out and we play to a hot, sweaty room. I have been on this stage before, but this is It. A&M personnel are in attendance every night, and even Jerry Moss-the M of A&M-comes to check us out. Here, away from the judiciary of London, we have credibility. No one cares about our past, only about the music we are making now. It feels just. We can succeed or fail as a band and no longer have to apologize for having picked up a guitar before the punk era.

We play tough, overdriven sets every night, blasting and improvising our way through "Roxanne," "Message," and "The Bed's Too Big," and come offstage drenched in sweat and high from the adrenaline that pumps from the audience. After the final roar of drums, bass, and guitar, we rush upstairs to the dressing room, where we collapse in a heap on the ratty sofa and chairs, dazed but triumphant. Within five minutes people begin pounding on the door, and with towels around our necks, we let them in. "You guys were great, wow, I really like your music, supercool, where do you get that sound?" The litany that is becoming familiar begins again. The dressing room rapidly gets packed wall-to-wall with fans, well-wishers, piranhas, vampires, and predators who hustle us with silky tones of persuasion, who make offers of sex and drugs-whatever it takes to get on the inside. The high buzz of animated conversation and sexual energy floods this small room over the Strip, and it feels as if the real gig is taking place in the dressing room after the show. I see someone who once threatened to kill me with a gun; he stares at me, then turns and walks away. Old friends turn up to see me, amazed but happy that I am now in this group that appears to be heading like a rocket for the big time. Adulation rolls over us in a warm wave like a strange new sun. It takes getting used to, and as faces appear and recede, I feel as if I'm standing in a hall of distorted mirrors. People are relating to us in a different way, as if we are already on a pedestal, have a power that sets us apart, and they stare at us with the milky look of adoration.

After the show we walk up the Strip and crowd into Ben Franks to sit with key lime pie and hot chocolate or scrambled eggs and hash browns while at tables around us half the audience sit and slurp on straws embedded in tall foamy-looking drinks. They pretend not to be aware of us, but it is a farce. "Our first stalkers," says Stewart. "Get used to it," says Kim, blowing a perfect smoke ring toward one of the tables.

We leave L.A. and begin zigzagging our way across the country. Faced with endless miles of black road and not enough time to get were we are going, we slump in the car stuffed with flu remedies and vitamin C in an attempt to stay well enough to perform. Austin, Houston, Dallas, Chicago: we suck up the distance, spit out the tarmac. It's March and we drive on and on and on, through endless rain and snow, great turrets of storm clouds and crackling radio static. Sleeping and snuffling, we stare though slitted eyes at the prairie, the plains, the cumulus-shrouded mountains in hopes of seeing a buffalo or an Indian reservation. We pull into rough-looking truck stops to eat hamburgers, tuna melts, and french fries in the company of large toughlooking men who could pulverize us with one hand. Beside them we look pale and effete. We get strange looks and usually don't hang around too long but rush through the gift shop on the way out, grabbing postcards, kachina dolls, and snack packs of tortilla chips. The truck stops are an all-American universe of monster trucks, engines, oversize wheelbases, CB radio, country music, and men who will fight for the US of A.

In the late afternoon as the small-town neon begins pulsing in the last streak of sunlight, we pull into a parking lot of a small concrete building. This is where we are playing; we know because our name is on a black-andwhite plastic thing in front, but they have missed the the and it just says PO IcE-uncapitalized, the L on the ground somewhere. Someone says, "Fucking L," and we all give a weary laugh. Sitting there in his Camaro is a middle-aged man with a long grey ponytail who pulls a Marlboro out of his mouth and grins over at us. "Stingstewartandy," he drawls. "Good to meetcha a, aaam Rick. Plice eh naas recid boise ok lesgo." He is enthusiastic, and wearily we pile into the back of his Camaro to rush off to the record store where we are scheduled to make an appearance and sign albums. These in-stores, as they are called, are mob scenes where we sign not only our records but parts of anatomy and anything else that gets pushed in the direction of our Magic Markers. On the walls oversize posters in lurid colors have our faces and names, details of competitions organized through the local radio stations, and the names of the tracks on our first record.

We know nothing of these things in advance and, like drunks staring into a mirror, we are amazed to see ourselves in these places-Austin, Dallas, Chicago, Pittsburgh. Like Hollywood movie stars we hover over bins filled with Black Sabbath, Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, the Beatles, and it is thrilling because suddenly it feels that we are really a part of the music scene, like professional recording artists, and yet we've barely started. Girls push and tussle among themselves to get close to us and pull down their tops to have Sting, Andy, or Stewart written across their cleavage, giggling nervously as the Magic Marker penetrates their skin. Sex is part of the equation, sex is rock and roll, sex rings the cash register.

Back in the Camaro, Rick points to the various turquoise-and-silver bracelets that cover his wrists and, turning down the booming reverb-laden voice of the deejay on the local radio station who is announcing our performance tonight as if it's the Second Coming, tells us that they are Navajo symbols. Dragging on the stub of his cigarette, and staring out the windscreen as if in search of rain, he describes what some of them mean-the myths, the sun climbing across the sky, the Native American conception of the world-and then, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke into the air and simultaneously revving the engine, tells us his mother was a Navajo, and we roar out of the parking lot.

At the radio station we talk "live on air" to the local deejay, Redbeard, about our exploits, what we are doing in the country, where the tour is going, where "Roxanne" came from, why the Police. There is a competitive edge in these interviews because each one of us wants to do the talking, but Stewart, who is extremely verbose, makes it hard for either Sting or I to get a word in anywhere. In the future we will do interviews separately so that we each get our own space. Exhausted by all of this, we finally go back to the venue, get through a sloppy sound check, and slump into a backstage corner among beer cases, a pool table, and a set of broken chairs and pass out until the first set. These interviews, signings, and shows are a period of intense hard work fueled by adrenaline and willpower, but we don't complain because we are fighting to make it and maybe we enjoy a good fight. In the United States the radio stations play only safe, formulaic music that is proven and prescribed, that fits in with the advertisers' idea of inoffensive middle-ground pabulum. Our music is not play-list material, and we have to battle this convention by accepting all the radio interviews we can and proselytizing for the new music scene.

We stay in low-level motels like the Days Inn and buildings with no name other than motel and are constantly ill with colds, viruses, and sore throats that pass between us like a game of Ping-Pong. It doesn't occur to us that maybe we should ease off a fraction. We try to sleep in the car during the ride to the next gig by taking over-the-counter sedatives and wake up a few hundred miles later hungover and groggy from the sleep that is not sleep. American highways stretch on like a blacked-out dream, and the motel rooms, with their weird chemical residue and mind-numbing sameness, must have been made by one person. With your ears roaring and your head spinning, you think that room number from two nights back is your number tonight as you stand in front of a tarnished-gilt seven or nine, moronically wondering why the key won't go in, until the mental roulette wheel rolls forward and another number clicks into place and you feel sorry that you cursed the proprietor, the country, the promoter. "Compassion, compassion," you murmur as you step into an eight-byeight room with a candlewick bedspread, the stench of Pine-Sol, and a picture of Jesus on the wall.