NAMM

Twenty years ago, I went to my first NAMM show. It’s where all the music vendors and rock stars gather in Anaheim, CA to show their wares.

And wear and tear.

Jesus, the people I saw. My advantage was that I look different these days, and old cronies have an image of me from a passed era – elbow length hair, black clothing. It’s different now. I told my pal Eric (who had tried to connect with me a few times) that I was easy to find:

“Gray shirt, gray hair, blue jeans.”

He laughed. But we have been friends for the last few years and he knows who I am now. Not many others do. In fact, when I grabbed Rachel Bolan, he had no idea who I was. I had a firm grasp of his left shoulder, while I shook his right hand. Poor Rach was trying to get away from me like Jim Leavelle.

I wouldn’t let go. He kept repeating the polite exit lines that celebs use to break free from a fan that has just Velcro’d themselves to you.

I kept talking and shaking.

Then, he recognized me, and swore at me to illustrate his surprise. We caught up. It was a meeting I didn’t avoid. The most intriguing ones were the eye to eye passes in the aisles, where I knew them, but they didn’t know me anymore.

The most entertaining encounter came from Zloz, who called me “Fred”. That was a new one. “Fred? Zloz, it’s me, Chris!”

“Jesus! Sorry, dude…I’ve been here all day and I'm fried. Hey, at least I confused you with an actor friend, right?”

He had a point. Neil could have thought I looked familiar because he thought he’d seen me cleaning the stalls at Santa Anita.

I digress.

The whole weekend was a strange, almost melancholy passing of the torch. The metal/hard rock bands still sell the most gear, by my observation. The metalists were out in force, whether it was for strings, amps or cases – they signed away and took the pictures with the smiling ESP dealer from Kenosha.

And with fully stocked bars and partial nudity thrown in to the mix, who could ask for a better sales pitch?

Clearly not the oglers I kept tripping over.

The night was sewn up in the Hilton bar, where 16 years before, I stood with two pals, chatting with Gene Simmons. Now, the guard changed while talking with Eric and Casey.

Then I saw Mickey Dolenz walk by. And it sank in - if you play the music biz game, you gotta play by the music biz rules.

Rule #1 – You’re lucky.

Rule #2 – You’re on your way out; sooner than you think.

Rule #3 - Repeat the first two rules, in any order, for the rest of your career. Rinse.

Be A Doctor, 'Cause The Drugs Are Legal

It’s a strange thing in America. We’re expected, and driven, to be a sports fan for a lifetime.

A Packers fan myself, I can root for Brett Favre as a cybernetic organism in 2029 (and don’t think they ain’t working on exactly this over at ESPGeN) and not be thought of strangely.

But if I mention my love for Thin Lizzy when I’m 75, this will come my way:

“Why don’t you grow up?”

It’s normal “job” in Europe. A musician is an artist. Music is a vocation. A skill. Highly valued, especially in the live element. So, for a Euro-someone to mention that he or she is a fan of any given band at an advanced age is not a developmental detriment. They’re also allowed to cheer for West Ham United.

In Iron Maiden’s case, you can root for Eddie and the Hammers. Cheers! Aces High! Up the Irons!

But here, a musician is a miscreant. A loser that got lucky, even if he or she sold any of their craft. It’s the only job in the USA where being an addict is expected! And in some cases, encouraged. Can’t think of another one like it. If you poll psychologists about their own chemical joyriders, you’ll find a consistent ratio of them is addictive.

Bricklayers, pilots, sheriffs, etc…

But, their addictions would not be seen as immature. Or showy. Or a matter of course. Or fuel for career disdain. Those employees seek help, get offered help, forced to receive help. Help. Then, back on your horse as a recovering addict.

Musicians are expected to be on the horse, and that’s the wrong kind of horse. Drugs and their lure are tragic enough, but it’s tough trap to avoid. Touring is an environment where alcohol is currency (I cannot count the amount of times I got paid in beer - whether I wanted it or not.).

Addiction is as commonplace as yelling “1-2-3-4” before a song. Look what happened to Dee Dee, fer crying out loud.

Quick example - Was the late Amy Winehouse known for her talent or for the substance sideshow she became? Was her addictive behavior the show, or her music? And what if she was an athlete who was on your fave team? Would you think the same way about her?

Americans are expected to outgrow music and the musicians they love by age 30-ish. It’s seen as a pimply rite of passage. The “Love of Music” is something that is to be endured by elders as a phase, and fed by young ones as a cause. Then it’s over, like squeaky voices and bad manners. After all that immature riffing, real adulthood can begin.

And GOD FORBID a child wants to be one! “Good Lord, I’d rather have him on a rooftop with a loaded rifle than be in a band”, I heard one parent say. I gave her a quizzical look, and said “Yeah? A musician? Like me?”

Insert awkward stuttering here…

Part of the employment perception problem, I think (thanks for asking) is that musicians, whether they’re hobbyists or pros, begin the same way – in the garage or basement, hammering out a three chord song. Then they get two songs down; four, eight, 16, etc…

They play a party, they play a club, they get signed and they move up the performance ladder. Other musicians (famous or obscure) can all compare notes – they have the same job transit system. And there are no diplomas or sexy suffix letters after your name to enforce respect for your efforts.

Dentists don’t have that particular albatross. I've been at parties with DDS’s and they don’t all get psyched about a root canal, run out into the garage, fire up a chair and some nitrous, then drill away on a guest.

And if they do, I wanna go to that party. I’ll bet Slash will be there.

But, musicians can do that (with the nitrous, too). Bono can walk into a rehearsal studio in any city, and find something in common with the band that’s rehearsing there. They all look at each other; agree on a tune and the creative stripes all match.

It’s a valuable skill.

It’s communication at the most human level.

And it ought to be more valued here - at least as much as the Cyber Favre we have coming out of the stem cell huddle.

Maybe by 2029…

A Start

This is a piece from a book I was supposed to be writing. Still doing it, I suppose. Just online now.

Hello, Cleveland!


Cleveland, the Lizard tour, fall 1992. Lotsa friends visiting this gig, as was a pair of my sisters, and some future and ex-brothers in law. I was hoping that we would have a good gig, and the mood was high. Saigon Kick was about four months into this tour, and we were really hitting our live stride. I heard some tapes from this leg of the tour not too long ago and we were on fire.

Now my family could see the results of that for themselves.

The day went well, and we dined in a very cool restaurant down on by water. Showtime arrived and the band got ready in the backstage area. As in Spinal Tap, it was a convoluted system of twists and turns, all around concrete abutments. But we had nobody to tell us where we had to go to reach the stage.

And we didn't have time for a jog.

Evil, my tech, and I head towards the noise of the intro tape. I am leading the way, bass in hand, and Evil is behind me with a Mag-lite poised over my shoulder like a miner’s helmet. As we approach the sound at the end of the tunnel, I hear a voice behind us:

EVIL! WHERE’S MY TEA?

It’s Matt Kramer and he’s dry apparently. Evil now swings his beam of light off of me, and before I know it, I walk right into a five foot high chunk of concrete. Which is a bit of a problem, since I am six feet high. Like two drunken mountain goats, my large head meets it's Quik-crete head squarely and I am instantly woozy.

I stagger through the rest of the Cleveland Labyrinth, and make it to the stage a little late. Jason Bieler looks at me funny, as if to say “where the hell have you been?” and I shoot him a dazed look.

He shoots me a wide eyed one back.

During my backstage spelunking adventure, I have acquired a three inch red crease on my forehead where the edge of the obstacle met my head. It’s bleeding, but not a whole lot. I am instantly remained of Tommy Thayer colliding with a door mechanism in San Diego earlier that year. His variation was that he was wearing Ace Frehley make-up. But that's another story.

The best part is that I have a picture of the incident. I don’t know who was sharp enough to grab the shot, but SK's erstwhile bassist looks like a drunken Fred Gwynn, wearing Yvonne De Carlo’s wig during a Munster’s cast party.

With a gash in his head.

Inaugural Blog-arul

Yes, I know. Bad pun. But, they'll be plenty more of THAT as this wears on.

Eyes peeled, ears perked. All that good stuff.

See you soon.