Once the Remainders have a song in our repertoire, we pretty much stuck with it. This is because the band never rehearses. Or you could say we rehearse onstage. When I first began playing with the band, Dave asked me what song I’d like to perform. Without giving it much thought, I suggested the old gospel-blues “Nobody’s Fault but Mine.” I was still singing the same song years later, and I can honestly say we still managed to screw it up. But with each new effort, we made higher quality mistakes.
My favorite moments with the Remainders were in between shows—riding the bus, hanging out in a hotel suite singing songs, eating junk food in dressing rooms. At our last concert, at the Anaheim Convention Center, a golf cart was scheduled to come to the green room and take Stephen and Greg Iles to a VIP reception. (Both Stephen and Greg had survived serious car accidents that impeded their mobility.) The golf cart failed to materialize, so we decided to put Steve and Greg on a flatbed utility cart and roll them to the event. We went on a long journey through the bowels of the convention center, past a kitchen, then through a food court and the lobby. Officials from the convention were on the phone reporting our progress. Dave and I began to run ahead, Dave saying into his sleeve, “Eagle One, Eagle One, we have the pumpkin.” Dave pointed at a bellhop pushing a cart with a room service order and shouted “Check that!” I leapt on it, opening the trays to make sure there were no hidden bombs. (There weren’t—only chicken and meat loaf.)
The Remainders are more than a band, which is a lucky thing, since we aren’t a very good one. We’ve made people laugh and raised a lot of money for some good causes. But we are also like a family. In fact, some of us are family. I proposed to Kathi while we were on tour with the Remainders. Our band mates were the first people we told, which led to a spontaneous rendition of “Chapel of Love.” Scott conducted our wedding. (He’s a lawyer, which we figured was kind of like a judge.)
KATHI AND SAM'S WEDDING DAY
In 2010, when we learned Kathi had breast cancer, each member of the band stepped forward to offer love and support. My amazing brother Dave was there for us, and Amy and her husband, Lou DeMattei; Ridley sent videos of hope, and Mitch Albom and Scott counseled us through the worst of times. Greg shared his courage, and Steve, James, Josh Kelly, Roger and his wife, Camilla, sax player Erasmo Paulo, soundman Gary Hirstius, and our illustrious manager, Ted Habte-Gabr—everyone reached out and let us know they had our backs. The cancer took Kathi in 2012. But the love continues.
What follows are the memories of the love and respect we have for each other. It’s also a living record of how much fun we’ve had together. My guess is we’ll keep having fun together, even if we have to admit we’re getting too old to pretend to be rock stars. Rock stars for librarians, that is—which is the coolest kind.
INBOX > Subject: Remainders’ Last Waltz
From: Dave Barry
Sent: Wednesday, November 30, 2011 4:22 p.m. -0500
Dear Band—
Next June it’ll be 20 years since we first stumbled cluelessly into the spotlights of the Cowboy Boogie in Anaheim and strummed (not all of us at the same time) the opening chord (not all of us the *same* opening chord) to “Money.”
Twenty freaking years.
A lot has changed since then, but one thing has not changed: We still pretty much suck. But we’ve had some fun, no? We’ve had a LOT of fun.
I’m hoping we can have at least one more big wad of fun before we stop. We’ve been invited to play a 20th anniversary gig next June for the American Library Association convention in—you guessed it— Anaheim. I’d like to try to get the whole band together, and maybe some special acts.
We need to know if we have a band for June, so we can commit to the ALA, which is eager to promote us. So I’m asking you to please let me know a.s.a.p. if you can make it. I really hope you can. It’s twenty years, folks. It’ll only happen once.
Love,
Dave
On behalf of Ridley and Ted
PS: I ran this by Kathi, who’s here in Miami recuperating from her hip operation. You will not be surprised to learn that she’s all for it. “I’ll be there on my walker if I have to,” were her exact words.
PPS: The opening chord to “Money” is A minor. I think.
From: Roy Blount Jr.
Sent: Wednesday, November 30, 2011 2:04 p.m.
i’m with Kathi
Roy
From: Mitch Albom
Sent: Wednesday, November 30, 2011 2:34 p.m.
Count us in.
Mitch
From: Amy Tan
Sent: Wednesday, November 30, 2011 4:26 p.m.
Ha! We said it would be our last 20 years ago.
I’m in.
xoox
A
From: Matt Groening
Sent: Wednesday, November 30, 2011 5:54 p.m.
As Herman Cain so eloquently stated: “Here we go again!”
Yes, I’ll be there, with both my musical and eating spoons!
Matt
From: Dave Barry
Sent: Wednesday, November 30, 2011 6:34 p.m.
Subject: Holy shit
Looks like the WHOLE BAND is in for this gig, except James, who for reasons of national security never reveals his plans until the last minute. Thanks to all for the quick responses. This is gonna be EPIC.
From: Ted Habte-Gabr
Sent: Wednesday, November 30, 2011 6:44 p.m.
This will be the mother of all gigs. Thank you all.
From: Dave Barry
Sent: Wednesday, November 30, 2011 7:05 p.m.
Subject: McBride Update
James says he’s in. We now have every major minority group, with Ted alone accounting for seven of them.
The Green Room
by Ridley Pearson
Welcome to the green room. It’s here that the band comes together before the gig. Here that the last-minute touches are put on instruments, costumes, and even personas. Because the Rock Bottom Remainders can number anywhere from eight to fourteen players, sometimes the green room is a very tight fit. It might be a sleazy, smelly twelve-by-twelve room with a moldy carpet and an old torn sofa that probably serves as a home to mice. The bathroom door doesn’t close fully, but we’re family by now. Or we could find ourselves in a very large convention room lounge with a hot buffet, cold beer and sodas, and several volunteers ready to wait on us hand and foot. The green room is our kitchen, the place we prep the food before we serve it. And it’s probably the one time you can’t say “too many cooks spoil the broth.” There are a lot of cooks in this band, some of them gourmets, some of them sous chefs, some of them more “wok and roll.”
Over in the corner, around the partition, Stephen, Roger, and Dave are listening to an old rock ’n’ roll song on YouTube—Dave carries his laptop everywhere. (The amount of technology carted around by the band would make a heck of a Christmas list.) They are speaking excitedly. They’ve discovered an unexpected chord or a new lyric, or are simply exclaiming how incredible 1950s rock ’n’ roll was. All three, along with Mitch, are rock ’n’ roll encyclopedias. Any one of them can recite the lyrics, name the chords, the players, the name of the band, the label—sometimes even the producers—to any song you can name.
On this side of the partition are Greg; Erasmo; and Josh Kelly, our drummer. Erasmo and Josh played with me in a band in Sun Valley, Idaho. I recruited them as ringers at the start of the band; they’ve been with us for twenty years, a run that is coming to a close tonight in Anaheim.
Sam wanders the room with a harmonica in his mouth and a beer in hand. James sits on the floor, his back to the wall, working on the mouthpiece to his saxophone; he wears a beret and a sly grin, as if conversing with his instrument.
Matt is at a table with Amy, Amy’s husband, Lou, and several of Amy’s friends. Turns out, Amy has friends in every city! Matt is drawing; Matt is always drawing.
Greg is working on a problem with his guitar—his strap won’t stay on. Scott comes over and I ask him
if he’s seen the president lately—they were friends in Chicago—and he holds us all captive with a quick story about their most recent conversation. There’s a videographer nearby, and I’m worried he has heard the story. Clearly Scott intended this to be confidential. I’m the designated worrier in the band.
The green room is our co-ed locker room. It’s the place we begin to get psyched up about the gig. We wander among one another with no real sense to any of it, sharing some tidbits about a particular chord change or order of the songs, or some other piece of the evening’s show that needs to be remembered. Much of the organization of the performances has been left to Dave and me over the years. Especially Dave. He and I have gotten used to consulting with each other in the green room just prior to the show, making sure we’ve thought of everything. There will always be surprises in the show. There will always be embarrassments. But we want Roger’s songs to go smoothly—it amazes us both that we get to play with Roger McGuinn. Stephen hasn’t played with us for a while; we also want to make sure his songs go especially well.
RIDLEY AND DAVE BUSKING AT THE TRAIN STATION,
Photo by Mike Medeiros
I look around the room and think to myself: How did I get here? How is it that I’m sitting in a room with Stephen King, Roger McGuinn, and Dave Barry at one end, Scott Turow, Amy Tan, Mitch Albom, and Matt Groening at the other? Just lucky, I guess. I’m not really doing much of anything in the green room at this moment. I am instead trying to soak it all in. I’m a romantic. Saying goodbye to the band tonight will not be easy. I could play every night of the week with these guys for the rest of my life and forget all about writing.
But writing is what got me here, and I know the idea of playing every night with everyone is only a fantasy. It ends tonight. Not the friendships hopefully, but the music.
This won’t be news to you, but these people are really smart. The first time you hang around with them, it’s intimidating, or it was to me. I kept my nose down, my trap shut, and my ears open. As it turned out, none of us had ever met one another. There were no cliques. No politics to negotiate. That made it easier for me, but still these people were monstrous best sellers. At the time of my joining the band, I had had one modest best seller, and honestly felt recruited more as a musician than an author. Now that’s a joke!
THE GREEN ROOM AT GOOD MORNING AMERICA,
© Good Morning America
Here’s a quick playbill biography:
Stephen, early sixties, going on nineteen. Wickedly smart, funny, thoughtful, and generous. Phenomenal reader. Not at all the ghoul you would expect him to be from his writings. His fans are psycho, but that’s a different story. He’s a good friend to everyone in the band. I was lucky enough to once write a book that tied into one of his projects; Stephen protected me through that process like a mother hen. For now all you need to know is, lovable teddy bear with a brain like Einstein.
Dave is likely the most even-keeled human you will ever meet. Never falters. Twenty years now, and I’ve never seen him in a bad mood. He’s brilliant, yes, funny, but he would throw himself in front of a train to save you. The other person always seems to come first for Dave—I’m not sure there’s a better compliment to be paid for a human being. He claims to be agnostic, and yet I don’t really believe it. The son of a preacher, Dave has an indomitable spirit. He can frustrate the hell out of you, because he knows everything. I mean it: He knows everything. He doesn’t claim to know everything; he just does. He can entertain you, but he doesn’t need to be the center of attention the way some funny people do. Dave can sit quietly at a dinner table, absorb what’s going on, and then, when called upon, cut to the quick—nailing everyone’s idiosyncrasies and faults perfectly. And making everyone laugh, especially at themselves.
Sam is Dave’s “little” brother. A big soul. Sam brings that soul to the stage, along with his expert harmonica chops and gravelly voice. He’s the minstrel of the group, the guy who would gladly set up in a subway tunnel and start playing. Most of us visit the music; Sam lives it. He joined the band late but wasted no time marrying our founder, Kathi Goldmark. They hid their romance for a while, like they were on an episode of Friends. Sam is a brother to all. If the music is the motor, Sam understands what fuels it.
Amy. At first glance, a living contradiction to the person you think you know from her books. Turns out she is an irreverent, self-denigrating, quick-on-her-feet Asian sensation, with a streak of naughty, the confidence of the successful, and a hint of celebrity. Generous, kind, willing (dare I say, eager?) to play the fool, she has risen through the band from someone terrified of the microphone to someone who owns it. If I had to pick a single word: surprise. Unexpected. Sexy. (Oops, that’s three.) I don’t know this for sure, but I sense that writing for Amy is a struggle. So one more descriptive to add: artist.
RIDLEY ON THE WORDSTOCK 2010 TOUR,
Photo by Mike Medeiros
Mitch replaced Barbara after the first long tour, when Barbara had the good sense to get out while the getting was good. A qualified musician—so I suppose something of an island in our sea. This is a Dave Barry line, but I’ll steal it: If there were a letter in the alphabet above A, that’s the personality type that Mitch would be. He is busier than three of us put together. More productive than any human being should be. He has found himself in the midst of an unbelievable career run, but still takes the time every month to fly to Haiti, where he runs a foundation to help those in need. He’s impossible to pin down, because he’s always on the move. Radio. Television. Newspaper column. Books. Plays. He collaborated with Warren Zevon on a song. He’s working with Adam Sandler on a film. He married Janine Sabino, who’s a featured singer in the band because she can actually sing. He’s had a show on Broadway. Mitch and Dave were friends prior to Mitch being recruited. Dave’s wife, Michelle, once worked with Mitch, but his and Dave’s friendship came about the honest way—they sat down at a piano at an Olympics twenty years ago and sang oldies with drunk Norwegians, or Swedes—or was it Germans?—until three in the morning.
The requirements for being invited into this band differ. But for some reason alcohol is often involved, even though several of us don’t drink. Which leads me to Roy. Seriously, that’s a low blow, because Roy is many things; a lush is not one of them. But one of my first memories of Roy is of him and Dave coming out of a Hilton men’s room on hands and knees and laughing to the point of tears. Turns out, the urinals in the Hilton talked to you. That proved too much for Roy and Dave in their inebriated condition.
Roy is a Southern gentleman, and by that I mean poised, soft-spoken, charming, handsome, and—this coming from Dave Barry—“the funniest man I know.” Roy is family. He’ll call you ahead of time if he’s going to be within a hundred miles of where you live. He’ll send cards. Return e-mails. Tell you where the best barbecue is in the city you happen to be writing from. He’s a team player. He’ll stand in the wings, smiling and singing along, awaiting the moment he speaks a single line, five songs from now. He isn’t low maintenance; Roy is no maintenance. He’s the guy who drives fifty miles to help you fix a flat tire. Two of our members have been president of the Authors Guild over the time this band has been playing: Roy is one. He is our emcee (more to come on that).
Greg entered the band because he and I happened to be writing friends and I knew he played music. We invited him one night to take my place and play bass. Within a week, he was in the band as a guitarist. Greg knows who Greg is. He’s a big guy, with a big Southern heart, but is not afraid to tell you (and audiences) where he stands on various other authors and their work. I think of Greg as 007. He’s Mr. Mystery. But he’s also one of the few legitimate musicians in the band. He and I have become close over the years, and I count him as a dear friend—but I think Stephen and Scott and others would say the same. Greg’s honesty, even when you don’t agree with him, makes him endearing.
Matt’s first big moment in the ’Ders (as many call the band) was dropping trou down to boxer
shorts and shaking his ass at the crowd. Of all my band mates, I know Matt the least, which has been a regret for me. I’ve been to his house; I’ve met him on the Fox lot. Matt has always treated me like we know each other well, even though we both know it isn’t true; he’s inclusive. His celebrity is at the level of Stephen’s—Matt and Stephen fans actually chase our vehicles, stalk the hotel lobbies. It’s wild to see. Not if you’re Matt, I don’t imagine, but he is incredibly patient and gracious with his fans. He’s famous for his generosity—of time, of spirit, even of finances—in helping out fellow band mates. Despite a zillion time-sensitive projects (television, writing, films), he never seems hassled or rushed. He always has time for you.
James signs off from his e-mails with “Peace, James.” That about sums him up. James is way too cool and way too good a player to be in the band. But when he walks into the hospitality suite, things liven up. He and Erasmo have created a horn section for our lame little band, making it sound almost like, well, a band. But James has heart written all over him. We communicate a bunch by e-mail, and I always know there will be some treasure hidden in there, probably written without much thought, but so on point, I reread it several times and save the e-mail for later. James has missed a bunch of gigs over the years, but when he’s onstage, it’s different. We seem to soar with him around.
Scott came to the ’Ders late in the band’s history. He walked onstage at the Miami Book Fair (a regular gig of ours for nearly seventeen years), sang one song with us, and was in the band. For me this was another coming-to-God moment, because as I was with Dave Barry, Stephen King, Barbara Kingsolver, and Amy Tan, I was already a HUGE fan of his work. I’m sure the first few times we spoke, I was a complete fawning idiot, but Scott put up with me. He has a litigator’s command of the language and argument; he has a poet’s heart; a surgeon’s eye and steady hand. He studied and taught under Wallace Stegner at Stanford University. He’s someone with whom you can talk about writing for an entire evening, the next lunch, and a bus ride to Cleveland. Or politics. Or the Chicago Bulls. Always interesting. Ridiculously smart. Scott’s the guy to call when you need level thinking, no-nonsense listening. His processor is crunching stuff the rest of us are only chewing.
Hard Listening: The Greatest Rock Band Ever (of Authors) Tells All Page 2