by Bobby DeVito
My parents by this time had landed in Tampa, Florida. My father ran a large technical school there called Tampa Tech, and my mother ran an orthopedic surgeon’s clinic in Hyde Park. On a break from the band, I would come down and visit, and I liked Tampa in the beginning. There was a really happening music scene, much larger than that of Pensacola. In the mid-80s, the Tampa Bay area had an assortment of live music venues like Mark Twains, the 49th Street Mining Co, The Volley Club, Razzles Bottle Club, The Rock-it Club, and many more. I figured I would end up in Tampa once The X-Statics were through, and I was right.
Our last road trip in the band was straight from hell. We had done a one-nighter in Atlanta, and then headed over to Vicksburg to play a week club engagement. The club had decided to cut costs, and instead of putting us up in a hotel, they had a “band house” for us. When you hear the words “band house”, any experienced musician will experience great fear and well-deserved trepidation. One time we had all stayed at a band house in Greenville, South Carolina, and had slept unknowingly in the very same sheets and bedding that the last band had used – and our entire band caught the crabs. It was somewhat humorous to see all my fellow bandmates scratching themselves furiously all week long. Once we arrived at the club, we were informed the alleged “band house” was actually a trailer, and it was located 45 miles away on Eagle Lake. After what seemed to be a 2 hour drive, we arrived at Eagle Lake, a desolate stop on the highway with nothing more than a dozen broken down fishing trailers, and a small convenience store and bait shop. Our trailer was a fishing trailer, used by fishermen to drink beer and clean fish. The bathtub did not even have a shower head, just a rusty blood covered spigot with scales and fish skin in the bottom of the tub. We had to make it a week under these conditions.
The convenience store & bait shop will be forever etched in my mind. Basically they sold Lance crackers, beer, cigarettes, and bait. Somehow I managed to survive on Moon Pies, Marlboros, and RC Colas that week. Eagle Lake was one of the most depressing, boring, mind-numbing experiences I have ever had. And we had absolutely no pot, and it didn’t seem likely we were going to find any.
By the end of the week, I had had it. I quit the band onstage one night, simply packed my stuff, got a bus ticket, and hit the road. I took a Trailways bus from Vicksburg all the way to Tampa. Don’t ever be misled; riding a bus for a trip that long sucks. And I always tend to attract really talkative people who decided to corner me in the bus seats. Most of the time, I am quite happy not to talk to people. I am an isolator, according to my therapists and recovery people. But sometimes a person NEEDS to isolate, especially when riding a public bus. I managed to make it down to Tampa with all my equipment unscathed, and on the way down we had a stopover in Tallahassee. I had managed to score a joint in the bus station, and had snuck out into downtown while the bus was stopped for an hour. I smoked that joint right on the steps of some huge official looking building. It was not until I left that I realized I had burnt that doobie right on the front steps of the Florida Dept of Law Enforcement building. Just my luck, I suppose. But I am one of the only people I know who could do something that brazen and actually get away with it.
CHAPTer TWo
the Tampa days
Tampa was a fresh start for me. It was sunny and bright, and I initially enrolled in my father’s Technical School and did a couple of semesters with great grades and attendance, but then rapidly got bored and missed the musician’s life. I was single most of this time in Tampa. Since I wasn’t playing in a band, I wasn’t really catching the ladies eyes like I normally did. I hated being a normal 9-5 schlub with a job. I worked at Circle K and did the dreaded 11 pm – 7 am shift for a while, then ended up stocking groceries at Kash and Karry. Until the grocery store figured out that I was definitely not the person that they wanted to be stocking their beer and wine. I would get completely toasted all night long, then go home and pass out after work. Most days, I hung around with my friend Mark, riding around in our eternal quest to find someone who had pot. He had a red Dodge Challenger, with the “Starsky & Hutch” paintjob, so we weren’t exactly stealth. Just two guys on the loose, looking for hot women and good marijuana. Our biggest thrill in these days was riding through the apartment complexes in north Tampa seeking out the pools, where the girls would be laying out getting tan and getting melanoma. Mark had installed a semi-truck airhorn in his car, and we would slowly idle by the pool, then hit the horn to scare the sunbathers, praying to find the ones that were lying face down with their tops untied. Many times we got lucky as these frightened women would immediately jump up topless to see what the heck all the noise was. And we got to see boobs.
I played with a variety of rag-tag bands at first. Top 40 bands, Reggae bands, rock bands, country bands. Nothing ever really “clicked” for me at that time. Billy Corgan from The Smashing Pumpkins was living in Tampa during this time and he was frustrated too, as he couldn’t seem to put a band together either. He had auditioned and gone through the musician’s classifieds in the paper, but could not find anyone to play with in the Tampa scene. So he moved back to Chicago and recorded “Gish” in his father’s basement. We had some good bands in Tampa that did get signed during this time, bands like Stranger, Parade in Paris, Four in Legion, Savatage, Secret Service, Julliet, and others. I was just so far out from being in “the scene” that it was frustrating. So when The Heat called me from Biloxi, I hit the road with them – ironically replacing Donald the keyboard player who used to sleep with my first love Tina frequently when I was in The X-Statics. The guys in the band never let me forget this, but we all gelled musically and I was back to playing professionally.
In Biloxi, we had a house gig at the Crazy Horse Saloon.This was a true rock n roll roadhouse kind of gig. A nice large stage, with a cavernous interior dotted with pool tables and the walls hung around with all sorts of Wild West memorabilia. I lived with the bass player Greg in a trailer that sat in the direct sunlight during a hot Mississippi summer. We would huddle in the afternoon next to the one window unit air conditioner that we had, praying for sundown. It was HOT that summer; we had almost no money, but somehow managed to have fun. One of the bartenders at the Crazy Horse was a beautiful brunette named Amanda, and I spent quite a bit of time with her, going down to the lake, parking and drinking cheap beer, floating around on inner tubes. That is, until SHE came into the club one night.
Beth was a rock and roll queen. Long bleached blonde hair that was teased up so high it taunted the sky, supported by a fantastic body that was usually clothed in a tight little top and a black leather miniskirt. I was a rock and roll guitar god, and she was a rock and roll queen. Within 15 minutes of our introduction, we were in the ladies room at the Crazy Horse, making out like teenagers. Beth was a very unique girl, she built hot rods for a hobby, had a beautiful 1974 Corvette Stingray, and tits that turned heads everywhere she went. We were an instant celebrity couple there in Biloxi. We were basically living together from the first week we met, staying at the trailer from hell with Greg. Beth seemed to have an endless supply of money, and did not seem to have a job. I didn’t question it at the time, until she ran out of checks and I found out she was wanted for fraudulent check writing. She was a classic habitual liar, regaling me with stories of her supposed Scottish royal heritage, and that she still owned the family castle in Scotland. I guess I just sort of blew off all these indicators that screamed “RUN AWAY” because we were having sex on an hourly basis. Like many men, I’m easily swayed by big tits and blonde hair.
After about 6 months, it was obvious that The Heat were winding down just like The X-Statics did. The band hired a female vocalist, changed their name, and started going downhill. Everyone knew it was the end, and I prepared to go back to Tampa and take Beth with me. Before the band split up, we had a great experience that has always stayed with me. Judas Priest were playing at the Gulf Coast Coliseum in Biloxi one week, and they stayed in town for a week, as one of the road crew had gotten married and the band took the we
ek off. Guitarists Glenn Tipton and KK Downing played golf all week, but I managed to meet lead vocalist Rob Halford at the pool. I was initially taken aback upon meeting Rob, as he was flanked by both his boyfriend AND girlfriend, and each of them looked like little gothic siblings, both wearing little black bathing suits with “night-white” flesh and jet black hair. Rob initially tried to ditch me, saying he would love to chat, but that he had to save his voice for the tour and was not supposed to talk much during the day. I simply told him how much I loved his music, that I played in the house band at The Crazy Horse, and would love to have them all come down and hang out. Rob immediately got interested, got the address, and told me to reserve 4 tables for Friday night. “I will be there at midnight”, he said.
Of course I am beside myself, and tell the band and the club owner what Rob plans to do. No one believes me, of course. I set aside a few tables with a reserved sign, and we play the first two sets. No Rob, No Judas Priest. It is 11:45 pm. Still no sign of the band. 11:55 and I am getting antsy. Finally, exactly at midnight, up comes the entourage with Rob in front. He and the drummer from the band showed up, along with various and sundry members of the crew. Rob was a total gentleman, we played a few games of pool, and he actually checked out my guitar playing when we did the next set. Luckily we played some of the material that I could really shine one, Heart’s “Barracuda” and some others. I would have killed the female vocalist right there onstage if she had called the cheesy stuff we did. Rob took the time to compliment my playing, while his drummer was busy trying to get Beth to go do coke with him in the bathroom. Typical rock and roll night.
One of the last gigs I did with The Heat was at Keesler Airforce Base in Biloxi. This is one huge military base, and the performance space looks dangerously like the place Spinal Tap plays, a grey meeting hall with a dance floor, all very governmental looking and official. I had driven Beth’s ‘74 Corvette to the gig, and met a young and beautiful Lieutenant from the Air Force. We made out backstage, and I ended up taking her out to the car, taking off the t-tops, and having sex right there in the parking lot. I salute you, Lieutenant, that was probably the most patriotic I have ever felt on a military base.
The band grinds to a halt, Beth is wanted in Mississippi for fraudulent checks, and it is time to hit the road again. My whole life has been hitting the road again. As I type this, I am still on the road now, albeit a few months stop in Key West. Beth and I drove the Corvette to New Orleans, stayed with my friends Billy and Lucy Murry for a few weeks, sold the Corvette to a dealer in New Orleans, bought a beat up Chevette and headed down to Tampa to an uncertain future.
One thing Beth had neglected to inform me was that she was pregnant with someone else’s child when we met. Once we finally made it to the Big Guava, we settled into a “weekly rate” Motel 6 in North Tampa. I always hate staying in those places, but sometimes it’s the only choice you have. We had been there a couple of weeks, as I scrambled to get a job and find us a real place to live. We lived off the Shanghai Express Fast Chinese Food Drive In, eating fried rice and egg rolls for weeks. One night, I made a trip to see my friends from a local band. At that time, they were one of the hottest bands in Tampa Bay, and made extra money by dealing pot. I stopped by to see them, got an ounce of dirt weed, and stopped through the Chinese drive-through. When I arrived home, Beth was not in the room. I figured that she took a walk or was getting sodas for us to drink with dinner. I waited a few minutes, and then started rolling a joint. I kept waiting, no Beth. I smoke the joint, sitting there by myself, still waiting for Beth to return. By this time I am both stoned and paranoid wondering where she is. For some unknown reason, I glanced at the bathroom door, which was closed. However, there was a river of red blood coming from underneath the door. I rush over to investigate, flinging open the door to reveal an unconscious Beth lying in a pool of her own blood. I do a quick check of her vitals; she is breathing very shallowly, has a weak pulse, and her lips and fingernails are almost white. I decided against calling an ambulance, picked her up over my shoulder and threw her into the Chevette. I knew that she had to have immediate trauma care, so I drove her directly to St Joseph’s Hospital in Tampa. I literally drove right up to the large double glass doors that are the entrance to the Trauma Center. As I carried her in, I was barking orders like my mother would have – “Get me a gurney, we have a code blue patient here, let’s go NOW!!!” Luckily the intake nurses did not question my judgment, and Beth was instantly taken into the trauma center and stabilized. She very nearly died right there in the hotel room, and I nearly let her die by sitting there smoking a joint being clueless.
Of course my mother was one of the first people on the scene to help out. My mom is just like that, always there when someone is sick or dying. I guess she has never quite been able to get the RN out of her system. My family was leery of Beth from the very beginning, and this was just further evidence to them that she was plainly crazy. Over the next few weeks as she recovered, she admitted that she had tried to give herself an abortion in the hotel bathroom, damn near killing herself. My mother, ever the nurse, allowed Beth to come home to their house, and she nursed Beth back to health.
During these trying weeks, I got a call from Jon Allmightey offering me some more gigs with The X-Statics. He was still trying to keep the band alive, and the band had recently suffered a major truck accident. In all the years that I was in the band, this never happened as I was the one who drove the truck the most frequently, logging over a millions miles of driving in the 80s. However, after touring and driving over a million miles with that band, sometimes drunk, sometimes stoned, sometimes both – I feel truly grateful today that I avoided ever wrecking the truck and injuring my fellow band members or other innocent people. Jon had replaced me with some other local guitarist, and the band played a one-nighter in Atlanta. After the show, the rest of the band wanted to stay in Atlanta and sleep through the night, but the new guitarist wanted to leave immediately and drive all the way back to Pensacola. What he managed to actually do was make it a couple of hours into South Georgia, and then fell asleep at the wheel, driving the truck into the swamp. Jon told me he and Scott woke up in the back of the truck, covered in speakers, mike stands, and other equipment, locked in the back.They did not know what happened, and when Scott stood up, they both felt the truck sink in the water. At this point, they both thought the idiot guitarist had driven off a bridge, and that the truck was now floating out to sea, and sinking a little at a time. Needless to say, that guitarist had the shortest career of any X-Static ever.
So, I went back out on the road with the guys, we did mostly college shows and a few clubs. Back in Tampa, all was not well. My father and mother had called me, expressing concern about Beth. “Well” my father tried to explain “She likes to go shopping at Albertsons a lot…around 1 am in the morning…with her miniskirt and makeup on…etc”. My father is many things, but he is far from stupid; he just didn’t want to state the obvious. Which was that Beth was sleeping around on me, only weeks from having been released from the hospital, and while living in my parent’s house. Yes, I could really pick them. I knew the dates with the band were temporary, that the band was really over and had been so for the last year. Jon was still just trying to pay off the last of the band debts and move on. At the end, Jon had amassed quite a little fortune, he owned the entire PA system and light show, had four hot rod cars, and was doing quite well financially. The rest of us basically left with nothing but our last paycheck. That’s rock and roll.
So I managed to come back to Tampa, and got a small apartment near my parent’s house where Beth and I lived for a few months. During this time, Beth managed to get a job as a night auditor for a hotel right next door to the one she nearly died in. This joint was called the “Interstate Motor Inn”, or as my father referred to it, the “Intercourse Motor Inn”. This was actually the kind of hotel that offered hourly rates, and they were only a block away from the notorious Nebraska Avenue in North Tampa. Beth’s mot
her died that summer from a brain tumor, and she left Beth her house in the will. We somehow managed to negotiate that gauntlet that the insurance company placed before us, and ended up with around $30,000 for a $150,000 house. At this point, Beth and I had already been through romantically for some time. I came home from a gig one night, and she was in the kitchen with some Cuban guy cooking up freebase cocaine. I had no idea what they were doing, but I knew I didn’t like it, and ended up going after this guy ready to beat him silly. He tossed me a rock of pure cocaine as a peace offering, probably the size of an 8 ball. I took the proffered gift, and promptly put him out on his ass. Beth was cowered in the kitchen, and I screamed at her as I broke the glass pipe and other freebasing implements the Cuban had left behind. I grabbed Beth, held her against the wall, and literally put my fist through the sheetrock right next to her head. It is the closest I have ever come to hitting a woman, and I nearly broke my damn hand. Not a great idea for a guitar player. And I did end up with about an eight of an ounce of incredibly high quality cocaine. At least Beth always made good connections.