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 professi
onal 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.
We travel on through a series of repeating scenes as we bounce from the adrenaline charge of the show to the struggle to refind our motel on the outskirts of town to the early-morning call to get back in the van for the next slogging drive. But even at this early stage people are waiting for us as we arrive to set up our gear. They extend their hands through the biting midwestern chill, holding out our LP or the "Roxanne" single or a small pink autograph book. They are polite and address each one of us as "sir." We are from England, and by most standards outside of New York or L.A., we-with our dyed blond hair, bomber suits, and narrow black pants-look as if we have arrived at the wrong party. The local bands, with their long hair, denims, and cowboy boots, give off a vibration of heavy boogie and blues and rockand-roll machismo. We appear as martian drag queens.
This second tour of the U.S. again ends back in New York at CBGB's. It is still black and depressing but, like an old coat, is beginning to have the comfort of the familiar. New York is a rush; the electricity of the city pushes into the music. We get animal in the performance and don't fuck around. It is 1979, and though we don't have America by the balls yet, we have the knife out.
Fifteen
I lie between the sheets next to Kate and baby Layla, my ears hissing, the sensation of a helicopter whirring through my head. The familiar bed, scent of females, breast milk, fragility and nurturing the soft end of the pendulum swing, the gentle opposer to the scrape of distance, stench of tarmac, phantom highway, tedium, and death at the end of a pool cue. Swaddled in the animal comfort of touch, the low murmer of endearments, luminous swell of dreams, and the comfort of our history, I'm home. Half asleep, I burrow into the sheets as Buffalo, Chicago, New York strobe across my brain, red in a field of black.
Now that we are back in England, A&M re-releases "Roxanne"-and this time it goes into the Top Twenty. It is a moment of triumph edged with grim satisfaction, and it is hard not to indulge in a slice of "I told you so." The BBC has graciously lifted the ban on our pop song, and we are allowed to appear on Top of the Pops. So we give it our best with a piss-taking sort of performance, Sting singing into the camera and casually waving the mike about two feet from his head.
We cap this brief two weeks back home with a performance at the Nashville in West Kensington. This time, unlike the hollow loneliness of the year before, the place is absolute pandemonium, with lines around the block and rabid fans desperately trying to stuff themselves through the window. Inside it is packed like an overheated jail, and I find it hard to wipe the grin off my face, as it seems only five minutes ago that we couldn't even get a gig here. Among the crowd are many fully paid-up punks who sing along with us. The barriers are down.
We leave for the U.S. once again. I am excited to get back onstage and continue our push in North America, but again I feel conflicted about leaving my family behind. It seems as if I am going off to have fun and adventure while Kate-going along with the situation in her own sweet and intelligent way-is being left alone to cope with a new baby and the poison of postnatal depression. The band and the family pull in opposite directions. It becomes like a Zen koan: "New baby, new band, where is the heart?" But I can hardly walk out of this situation; this is the shot; the arrow has finally penetrated the target; and now, with its double-edged aspect, it arrives quivering like Jekyll and Hyde. I feel like a man hanging over the edge of a cliff with a pistol at his head. In the surging maleness of it all, the band, the success, the money, power, is everything-and little thought is given to marriages, babies, or fragile situations. We have to conquer America, eat the world.
With this brew of emotion, I return to begin a tour in the southern states with Sting, Stewart, and Kim Turner, who is with us all the time now. Miles repeats the mantra that if we break the States, the rest of the world will follow. Grueling touring is still the process that works. Miles is right, but it will take three albums, three million miles, and three marriages.
After dates on the East Coast we arrive in Atlanta for a gig at the Agora Ballroom. One of the first things we are confronted with is a "Roxanne" contest. This has been organized without our knowledge by a local radio station, and when told about this event, we are mildly disturbed-as we are to be the judges. We feel that we have to take a stand about women being treated like cattle, but we are in a double bind because the radio station that has been promoting us heavily thinks we'll love it and so we have to zip our mouths shut. The girls, on the other hand, are loving it and there is no end of willing contestants. The idea is that each girl will try to become the very embodiment of Roxanne, an impoverished prostitute.
After we have ripped our way through the show and toweled off, we reappear on the stage, this time in a judging capacity, and the contest is announced. Our steely nonchauvinist resolve goes out the window as fifty scantily clad girls troop out onto the stage in front of a whistling and cheering audience. Dressed in all
manner of sexy underwear and fetish garments, many of the girls are stunning, along with a few assorted insane ones whom only the demented would purchase from the flesh market. But even for these poor creatures this is a moment of glory; you have to admire their ingenuity at least as they imaginatively show their affinity with the strumpet, the tart, the trollop, the whore, the sister of mercy. "Okay, so we're sexist pigs," we say to one another as we stroll up and down in front of the line of giggling girls, our eyes roving over the Roxanne wannabe flesh. "Now look what you've started," I say, nudging Sting. "I didn't mean this to happen," says Sting, pausing in front of a pulchritudinous young beauty in stockings, garter belt, and a cute little pair of furlined fuck-me boots.
You make a song and if you are lucky, it lives, enters the world, is sting, whistled, purchased, memorized, becomes the soundtrack-the witness to the unfolding union, is remembered with joy or bitterness, a smile, a sighing stare into the mirror, and uninvited crawls between the sheets to stay with you forever. It seems only a blur since the three of us were in Paris, Stewart and I watching Star Wars, mouthing "May the force be with you" back at the screen, and Sting wandering around Pigalle and observing the demimondaines, the seeds of "Roxanne" sprouting in his mind.
On the stage of the Agora it is tempting to pick one of the short fat girls because she is courageous and beautiful on the inside, but in the end a sexy dark-haired girl in corsets is led to the front, and with Sting raising her handcuffed wrist above her head and the lust-filled drunken mob below slurring out the chorus of "Roxanne," with half-embarrassed, half-libidinous looks on our faces, we proclaim her-She.
One Train Later: A Memoir Page 25