Rock and Roll Voodoo

by Mark Paul Smith

  Jesse looked at the faces turned toward Dale and saw genuine curiosity. Looking back to Dale, he realized the one gay member of The Divebomberz was about to address the issue head-on. Dale looked like his emotional levee was about to fail as the table paused in anticipation. He took a deep breath before continuing. His strong chin and dancing eyes became serious.

  “No. Now that you ask, it has not always been fun. In fact, it was a living hell growing up. My family is evangelical Christian from Missouri. To them, homosexuality is a crime against nature and a sin against God. So, even though I always knew I was born gay, they refused to accept me or even try to understand how I could be the way I am. My father took the dolls away when I was five years old. He wouldn’t talk to me after that. Having a gay son was a huge threat to his masculinity. My mother didn’t give up so easily. She tried everything from counseling to baptism. That blew up in our faces when the preacher kicked me out of church at the age of thirteen for trying to hold hands with another boy. He said I couldn’t be a Christian if I was gay.”

  “That must have been terrible,” Amy said.

  “It was worse than that,” Dale said, tears beginning to well up in his eyes. “I learned to sing in that church. I loved the songs. I knew them by heart. I knew I loved God and Jesus too. The day that preacher told me Jesus had no love for me or my kind was the worst day of my life.

  “No, I take it back. The worst day of my life was when my own mother kicked me out of the house at age sixteen. The two of us were sitting at the kitchen table. I was asking her about love and telling her I was in love with a boy at school. She couldn’t handle it. Next thing I knew she was showing me the door. She said she was tired of trying to teach a child who would not listen.”

  “What did you say?” Butch asked.

  Dale was losing the battle to keep from crying. A tear rolled down his cheek and into his mustache. He put his head in his hands to hide his face and sobbed, “All I could say was ‘goodbye, Momma, I love you.’ She wouldn’t even look at me as I packed my suitcase and headed out the door.”

  Jesse and Amy put their hands on Dale’s back. Nobody could say a word.

  “I’m sorry,” Dale said as he uncovered his face with a sniffle and wiped away his tears to regain his composure. “I didn’t mean to spoil the party.”

  “You’re not spoiling the party,” Butch said. “If it hadn’t been for your mother kicking you out, we never would have met you.”

  “I guess that’s right, isn’t it?” Dale said, wiping his face with a paper napkin. “But anyway, I don’t need to cry about it. I’m in a great band now and we’re going to show the world what we can do. I’m going to show my mother how wrong she is.”

  That led to a cheer and a clinking of coffee cups.

  Rene couldn’t help himself. He had to ask one more pointed question. “Do you ever see your family?”

  Dale took another deep breath and looked at the sky. “No. I don’t see them. I write my mother once a month to tell her how great everything is going. She doesn’t write back but I hope and pray that one day she will.”

  Butch changed the topic by saying to Jesse, “Remember when it was just you and me and Dale down here, singing for tips at clubs and trying to sound like Crosby, Stills, and Nash?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jesse said. “And Dale got us that paying gig at The Outpost.”

  “I didn’t realize you three played down here before you got together with Tim,” Rene said.

  “They came back to Indiana to get me because they were short handed,” Tim said, holding up his left hand with no fingers.

  Everybody groaned and laughed, even Dale.

  “Let me tell you about The Outpost,” Jesse said.

  Amy pushed him on the shoulder. “I know you will whether we want you to or not.”

  “Go ahead,” Dale said. “Rene and Tim need to know their band heritage.”

  Jesse, as always, was pleased to have a story-telling opportunity. He started this one out like he was scaring young campers around a fire. He lowered his voice to begin. “Okay. Here it is. The Outpost was a leather-levi, gay-motorcycle, no-girls-allowed club. I think it was on Ursulines Avenue, just off Royal Street. There were pictures of naked cowboys on the wall, wearing nothing but hats and boots and six guns on their hips. We set up our little sound system in this club filled with nothing but guys who were definitely checking us out. It was on the second floor so we had some lifting to do.”

  “A couple big old grisly girls helped us load in as I recall,” Dale said.

  “Yes, they did,” Jesse said. “So, we start playing and everything is going great. They’re cheering the music and dancing with each other, and we think we’ve found ourselves what might be a steady gig. Then, we see them stand some guy up on the bar and pull down his pants and underpants so he can’t move his legs. They tie his hands behind his back with his shirt and start hitting him with little whips and pouring drinks on him.”

  “And he’s loving it,” Dale said.

  “I’ll never forget that moment,” Butch said. “We were playing ‘All Along the Watchtower’ by Bob Dylan. The more stuff they did to him the faster we played that song.”

  “And then they started to—“

  Amy put her hand over Jesse’s mouth. “Stop right there.”

  Butch stepped up to finish the story. “We cut that song so short. We packed up faster than a pit crew at the Indianapolis Five Hundred. We left in a hurry and never even asked to get paid.”

  “I got us a hundred dollar set up fee if you remember,” Dale said.

  Rene didn’t say a word.

  “That’s right, you did,” Jesse said. “But enough of that. Let’s go somewhere and get a real drink. I’ve had enough coffee and water for one day.”

  Tim stood up and stretched. “We’d better be careful. We could end up getting sober.”

  “I’ve got a great idea,” Dale said as they got up to pay the bill. “Let’s hit Tortilla Flats for tacos and Sangria.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Butch said.

  “What’s Sangria?” Rene asked.

  Jesse threw his arm around the drummer. “You’re about to find out.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  PUBLIC TELEVISION

  Shortly after the Sauce Piquante Festival on the bayou, The Divebomberz got a booking agent who found them gigs at bars and fraternity parties from New Orleans to Baton Rouge. His name was Ron and he took fifteen percent commission off the top. What did he care if the band wasn’t right for the job? He got paid, no matter what. One Monday morning, Jesse and Butch paid Ron a visit at his small, cluttered office on the second floor of a rundown building on North Rampart Street, near Louis Armstrong Park. They banged on the frosted glass door. Ron pretended not to be there.

  Jesse shouted through the glass. “Come on, Ron. We know you’re in there. We need to talk. You owe us money. We need to get paid.”

  A chair squawked back from its desk and a grumbling shadow shuffled to the door and opened it a crack. Ron was a middle-aged former musician who was mostly gray in hair and skin color. He didn’t like being disturbed, especially when he knew his visitors were not making a friendly call. When he saw it was Jesse and Butch, he opened the door wide and pretended to be happy to see them.

  Butch was all business. “Don’t act like you don’t know why we’re here.”

  Ron smiled as if being forced to at gunpoint. “Why, if it isn’t The Divebomberz in the flesh and blood. Come in, come in.”

  Butch was in no mood to accept phony hospitality. “We don’t need to come in. We want what you owe us and we need to know why you sent us to the slaughter at that heavy metal bar across the river in Gretna.”

  Jesse wasn’t about to be left out of this house call. “Those speed freaks didn’t want to hear a country rock band. They booed Tim so bad on the fiddle he had to put it down and play slide guitar all night.”

  “You knew we wouldn’t go over,” Butch said.

  Ron motioned
for them to come on in. “Relax, I’ve got your money.”

  “Getting paid to be humiliated is not our idea of you being a good agent, Ron,” Jesse said. “It was a full house before we started. By the third song, half the crowd gave us the finger and walked out. The rest of them stayed to get drunk and heckle us all night.”

  Ron raised his right index finger to make a point. He took a breath and opened his mouth to speak. No words came out. He cleared his throat and waited for Butch or Jesse to speak. They each took one step closer to their agent.

  Ron backed up two steps. “Okay. I’m sorry. I really am. A band backed out on a gig. I needed to fill it. I knew I shouldn’t have sent you guys but I thought maybe things would work out. You guys can rock.”

  Butch followed Ron into his office. “We asked you what kind of club it was. You lied to us.”

  “No, I didn’t know the club was that heavy metal. Clubs change, you know. Anyway, I can make it up to you. New Orleans Public Television is looking for a band to play for its annual outdoor fundraiser. You’ll get more exposure than the mayor.”

  Butch stopped in his tracks. “What does it pay?”

  “I thought it wasn’t all about the money with you guys?”

  “What does it pay?” Jesse persisted.

  “It’s a freebie, of course. That’s the point of a fundraiser. Everybody donates their time for a good cause.”

  Butch moved closer to Ron. “When is it?”

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Ron said. “It’s this Sunday.”

  Jesse moved in on the conversation. “Six days from now. Sounds like we weren’t your first choice. Or did you just forget to tell us?”

  “Come on now, I was going to call you today. I swear. I just found out about it last night. They had a band back out and they need somebody fast. You guys are right on time.”

  “What if we already have a gig?” Butch asked.

  Ron sat down and put his feet up on the desk. “I happen to know you don’t. And what’s more. This might be the best job I ever got you. Television is the wave of the rock and roll future.”

  “I like it,” Jesse said, looking to Butch for approval.

  Butch backed up to a respectful distance from Ron and his desk. “How long do they want us to play?”

  Ron put his feet down and began rummaging through several piles of paper on his desk like he might find the answer to the question somewhere in the mess. He fumbled around until he finally held up a flyer for the event. “It’s a four-hour gig but you only play for an hour of that time. The rest of the time they’re pitching for donations. They’ve got big names doing the pitch. Like Al Hirt and Pete Fountain.”

  “Whoa,” Butch said. “It doesn’t get any bigger than that. We’ll do it. And tell Al and Pete they can feel free to sit in with us. If they actually show up.”

  “Oh, they’ll show up. Public television is getting to be a big deal. Just make sure you guys show up at the Fairgrounds and get set up by noon for sound check.”

  Butch watched Ron count out the money he owed them and held his hand out to receive it. “We’ll be there. How many other bands are there?”

  “Just you guys.”

  Butch took the money and counted it. “No shit? It’s just us and a bunch of New Orleans big shots? Sounds like we got ourselves a deal, Ron. And have I told you lately how much we love you?”

  “That’s more like it,” Ron said.

  Jesse took the money from Butch and counted it himself. “So, what else you got for us?”

  “I’m still working on the Riverboat gig. It’s pretty much a done deal and it means a six-hundred-dollar boat ride for you guys once a month.”

  “That sounds great, Ron,” Jesse said. “But once a month won’t keep us alive. We need to work more. Our next gig is The Safari Club on the bayou but that’s two weeks away.”

  “Book yourself some more jobs. I’m just an agent. I’m not your manager. I don’t have an exclusive on you.”

  Butch shook Ron’s hand as he prepared to walk out of the office. “You got that right.”

  The Divebomberz had a band party at Jesse and Amy’s loft apartment to watch themselves on television for the first time. It was the first Wednesday after the Sunday performance.

  Jesse could tell that Amy was totally impressed to see her boys on television. She was the first to comment. “Look at all that hair. You’re all blowing in the wind like some Bob Dylan song.”

  Dale was dancing to the television. “It was a windy day. Beats a wind machine any day.”

  Tim was paying critical attention to the small screen. “We had a couple microphone stands blow over.”

  “The crowd was huge,” Butch said.

  Rene chimed in, “They loved us.”

  The band and Amy were sitting around the wooden skid on the floor that served as the main table in the apartment. Besides a few unmatched chairs, the only other furniture was an old porch swing that hung on chains from the rafters. The small antenna television sat on a fruit crate in front of two, tall, leaded glass windows. The walls were exposed brick.

  Tim’s eyes were glued to the set. “We must have played ‘Little Liza Jane’ for twenty minutes. That was the longest singa-long I ever played.”

  Amy could barely contain her excitement. “Look at you guys. You look like rock stars. And, oh, here’s Bam Bam on a close up.”

  Everybody cheered.

  “Now they know why we call you Bam Bam,” Butch said. “You’re beating those skins to death.”

  “Man, I need a haircut,” Rene said. “My hair is all over my face. And please don’t call me Bam Bam. I never should have told you guys that nickname.”

  Dale fluffed up his long, curly locks. “We can’t be hiding the second best looking man in the band behind his hair.”

  Butch had to jump in on that one. “So, you’re finally admitting I’m the best looking guy in the band?”

  “Look,” Dale shouted at an extended close up of himself. “I think we can plainly see who’s number one. That cameraman fell in love with me.”

  “Not as much as you fell in love with him,” Jesse said.

  Jesse was amazed by how photogenic the band looked on television. Maybe they weren’t big time musicians yet, but they sure looked the part.

  The moment was transformational for Jesse. He would never think of the band the same way again. The television image went straight to his head. It was like looking into a magical mirror that turned the ordinary into the extraordinary. While his confidence took several giant steps forward, it didn’t take him to the land of overblown egos. He was still too broke for that. The Divebomberz had sounded big and polished for the public television benefit. The sound team had a great mix. The band was starting and stopping on a dime. They were singing great and playing with precision and determination. It had been exciting to perform for the big crowd with all kinds of cameras pointed at them and filming. The stage looked like a movie set. The lights were blinding. They were six feet above a sea of people. Celebrities like Aaron Neville and Pete Fountain socialized with them like equals. Al Hirt never showed up and Pete Fountain gracefully declined an invitation to sit in with The Divebomberz. Even so, the public television gig was at least as entertaining for Jesse and the band as it was for the people watching them.

  And now, it was even more fun watching himself on television. Suddenly Jesse’s dream of making it in the music business seemed more than possible. It felt inevitable. The band was young and thin and handsome. The cameras loved them all. They complimented each other. They had the look of a seasoned, professional band, not five guys who happened to get up on stage together. What tied them together was their long, curly, brown hair. They looked like a shampoo commercial, right down to their facial hair. Jesse, Rene, and Tim had full beards and mustaches. Butch and Dale had mustaches and sideburns. They looked like hippie brothers.

  It was more than “the look” that unified them. They actually moved like a unit, although there was nothing
choreographed about their performance. They moved together with the music, like they were riding the same musical horse.

  Jesse maybe jumped around a little too much on bass.

  “You’ve got to tone it down a notch,” Amy said. “Bass players are supposed to be grounded.”

  Jesse could see her point was well taken. “I can’t help it. I get excited.”

  Butch sprang to his defense. “Don’t listen to her, Jesse. She’s just jealous.”

  Everybody looked at Amy to see how she would react. The television program had just concluded.

  “Actually, I am a little jealous. You guys look great on television.”

  Amy knew exactly what to say to a rock band watching themselves for the first time on the small screen.

  “I propose a toast,” she said, lifting her can of beer. “To The Divebomberz, the best band to hit New Orleans and the bayou in a long, long time.”

  Amy was the only non-band member present for the televiewing event. She could hang with the guys. She smoked and drank like a guy but she cooked like a housemother. Besides handling the t-shirt enterprise, she hauled gear and set up lights. She did everything for the band except run sound. She was everything he wanted in a woman. She was smart and sexy. She was a wonderful cook and she had a green thumb. Everything she planted flourished and bloomed. She would be a wonderful wife. Jesse had thought all that through. Problem was, he didn’t want a wife at this point. He was too busy chasing the rock and roll dragon.

  As the band members were toasting each other and firing up another joint, the telephone rang. Jesse answered it and motioned excitedly for everyone to tone it down. He talked for several minutes and then hung up slowly for dramatic effect.

  “You’ll never guess who that was,” he said.

  Nobody guessed. They were holding their breath.

  “That was Pete Dryer. He wants to talk about managing us.”

  Nobody reacted. They looked at each other with puzzled faces.

  “Who’s Pete Dryer?” Tim finally asked.

  Jesse got their undivided attention by standing in front of the television. “Who’s Pete Dryer? He’s the guy we’ve been trying to get for months. I got him to come hear us one night at Fritzel’s. He’s worked with the Neville Brothers and The Meters. He wants to put us in the studio and make a record. He’s talking about starting a Jazz Festival in New Orleans.”