by Bobby DeVito
We had dinner at a local restaurant, and basically just enjoyed the sheer pleasure of being in each other’s company.This beautiful blonde girl was almost the diametrical opposite of Erika – she was sweet and caring, blonde, beautiful, and chaste. After our dinner, we drove to the highest point in the entire town, a “look out point” that reminded me of bad American 50s movies. We got out of the car, looked down over the darkened valleys that were illuminated by little electric lights that looked like groups of stationary fireflies. As we held hands, she kissed me and we made out like teenagers. It was an amazing experience to be up there on that point with Federica, one that ranks up there with any peak experience I have ever had prior to that moment, or since.
The next day, Federica told me that the hotel would be hosting a literary conference that weekend. Toricella was the birthplace of the pre-Beat writer John Fante, and once a year there was a conference that discussed Fante’s work and literary relevance in the modern day. She invited me to attend this event, and I gladly accepted. While touring with the band was a fantastic experience, it was also isolating as well. Nobody else in the band would have been interested in attending this conference
– none of them would have even known who Kerouac was, much less Fante. The next evening, there I was, sitting next to people like the Vice President of Coca Cola, college professors, and other writers. Federica and I sat together as a couple, and I could see her parents checking in on us from time to time, smiling at each other as they viewed the two of us. I felt like I actually belonged, for a brief moment. Here I was among the literary and cultural elite, having a beautiful dinner with quite possibly the most amazing woman I had ever met. I was discussing pre-Beat literature with some of the greatest minds on the planet, in one of the most amazing towns I have ever seen, and I was with Federica.
Our time in Toricella was coming to an end, as all good things seem to. We finally played our show as part of the summer cultural events of a larger nearby city. The night of our show, I came downstairs dressed in my concert finery. Federica’s mother loved my shirt, a black sheer number that had been woven throughout with silver tinsel to give it a really good stage glitter under the lights.The band loaded up into the van, and we went to do the show. It was probably the smallest show of the entire tour, with perhaps only 500 people attending. But we had a great time, and the week had been a welcome rest from our busy touring schedule.
The next night, we were still In Toricella. Sherman had been ribbing me all week long about Federica, and making sure that my intentions were pure. He called me in my room that evening, and told me “Tonight I want you and the boys to take me out”, said the bluesman, “Sherman needs to let the dog out”. I was surprised, as Sherman had never hung out with “the boys”; he usually went straight back to his room or hung out with the manager Cat Bauer. So I called Freight Train and Jason, and we made our plans. Of course, it was easy to figure out where we were going, as there was only one bar in town! They guys were pretty surprised as well that Sherman wanted to hang out, and I even roped our road manager into this party. Emanuele had been a great guy to hang out with during this tour, and we all got together and walked into town.
The bar we went to was a small but comfortable joint owned by a revolutionary biker type that looked like he was fresh from a Hell’s Angels party, but wearing a Che Guevara shirt. He had the Harley cycle of course, and it was parked on the sidewalk out front. I later ended up giving this guy any of my Harley-branded stage clothing. I like to ride motorcycles, but I am anything but a biker. We hitched up our spots at the bar, and started drinking. Sherman had made it known to us that this was “his night”, and he was going to get sloshed with us. We drank a little of everything, from Cuba Libre (wth real Cuban Rum), beer, and a strange lemon concoction called “limoncello”. As the night began to get more interesting, we were doing shots of limoncello with Sherman, challenging him to drink the sweet lemony shots. Back in the corner of the club sat two older Italian gentlemen; one with an accordion and one with a strange sort of drum that had a long stick coming out of the top of it.These two barflys were somewhat forlornly making traditional music back in the corner, while the much younger crowd at the bar largely ignored them. Sherman noticed the two musicians, and did something that I have never forgotten.
Although Sherman was starting to get loaded, he was still 100% in control of his faculties. He made his way back through the club to speak with the two musicians. He shouted out to the crowd “Let’s all dance!”, and he tipped the musicians $20 American. The musicians perked up immediately and began playing a high-tempo Italian jig of some sorts. The locals looked at Sherman with a mixture of awe and humor, it was obvious that he didn’t know how to dance correctly to this music. But Shermn kept on them, telling them “This is YOUR music, this is YOUR history, let’s celebrate it!”. He danced wildly around the dance floor as the musicians continued to play. Finally, some of the other people in attendance decided to show Sherman “how it’s done”, and started dancing together. By this time, Cat Bauer had shown up with her everpresent video camera, and it was one night I was truly glad she brought it along. A fever started to break out among the locals, and within 15 minutes or so they entire place was caught in up dancing with Sherman to the local indigenous music duo. I could see the smiles on the old men’s faces as they played – Sherman had taken their previously ignored music, and suddenly had made it hip and contemporary again. It was a beautiful moment, initiated by a beautiful man who truly did love their music. It took a black man from Breaux Bridge Louisiana to make these locals truly appreciate their own music!
The dancing and drinking continued for well over an hour. One of the locals had an idea, and left the bar rapidly, showing back up about 15 minutes later with a beat up older nylon string guitar. He approached Sherman, and in broken English attempted to hand Sherman the guitar, saying “Mr. Sherman…please?”.
Sherman hesitated to take the guitar, but the assembled crowd had grown larger in the last hour, and they all wanted to hear Sherman play. The old men motioned to Sherman that THEY had played, and now it was his turn. Sherman laughed, and handed the guitar to me for tuning. As I tuned the guitar, Sherman made a short speech about the universality of music, and how we should all respect our own cultures. As I finished tuning the ancient guitar, we all assembled in the back room of the club and waited. It was truly standing room only, with most people that could not get a chair sitting on the floor. Sherman took the battered guitar, sat down, and delivered one of the best sets of the entire tour right there in that little Italian club. He pulled out Gospel Standards, older Bobby Blue Bland songs, and some blues chestnuts. There was no microphones, no big PA systems, no effects units and reverbs. It was a man, his voice, and an old guitar. It was fucking magic. My grandfather had told me when I was 12 that if “You can’t do it with just an acoustic guitar and a good song, you ain’t shit, boy”. And I was finally realizing he was right. Sherman held these people in the palm of his hand with just his voice and guitar. As he played an old traditional Gospel song, I felt the wet tracks of tears beginning to etch their way down my face. I looked around and saw Cat Bauer in tears as well while she was filming. Some of the locals were crying, even though they didn’t know what Sherman was singing…but they felt it. I huddled in the back of the crowded room with Federica, holding her tight. Sherman gave us an hour set of some of the finest music I have ever heard him play. After each song, the entire place would erupt in shouts of “BRAVO!” and loud handclapping. I saw the amazing power of music to unite all of us into one happy throng of very different people.
After his set, the people were blown away, and started to wander off into the night. We remained and drank until the wee hours of the morning. Sherman indeed got fully and happily drunk along with the rest of us. However, it was the only time I have ever seen Sherman drink, and I sometimes think he did it that night to show me that drinking could be a hobby and not a full-time job. Sherman had talked to both Freight Tr
ain and I about our drinking during the tour, and we basically informed him that we were adults, that we never drank on stage, and that it was none of his business what we did in our free time. At least he tried.
We had two days left in Toricella and I was not looking forward to leaving. Federica knew I had to leave, and didn’t want me to go. Her father stopped me in the hallway of the hotel the last day we were in town, and said to me in jagged English “You’re a god Italian boy, even if you are a Calabrese. You know my son, he likes you, and my wife and I, we a like-a you too. My daughter likes you, and we would like you to quit the band and stay”. Gulp.
If I could have, I would have stayed. Toricella was beautiful, Federica was beautiful, and I could have dropped out of American society for good. But I had to finish the tour, go back to Tampa, and get divorced once again. My sister started referring to me as “Ross from ‘Friends’”. Leaving the small town in the van, we passed an ancient castle further down into the valley. I noticed the sign out front that read “Castello DiSangro”. My mind racing, I asked Emanuele about the castle and the sign. “Yes”, he said “that was their family castle from the 1500s, and it’s a historical monument now”. Damnit, I missed my chance to truly be royalty, if only by association.
The rest of the tour was a let-down after Toricella. We played a few smaller shows at some pretty rustic locations. One last standout tour stop was our trip to Sardegna. I was familiar with Sicily, as we had performed a concert in the downtown square in Palermo. Sardegna is a smaller island off the coast of Italy. It reminds me of being in Arizona, if Arizona was a small island bordered by some of the most beautiful ocean I have ever seen. Perhaps even like Key West, but with mountains. We arrived at the airport, and were ushered as usual into a van to travel to the venue. Our promoter there was a very affable guy, a typical thin late 40s Italian guy, well dressed and good sunglasses. After checking in to our resort hotel, we checked out the concert venue and prepared for dinner. The promoter’s brother owned one of the finest restaurants in town, and we were once again herded into the van for dinner. Once arriving, we were greeted by the owner, and taken to a private room upstairs. As soon as we were seated, out came around 11 antipasto appetizers that were the most amazing spread of Italian seafood I had ever witnessed. It was gastronomical delight – GIANT prawns, mussels, clams, fish of all kinds, lobster, and more. Plate after plate kept arriving, and I was practically having an orgasm watching these plates arrive one by one.
Sherman surveyed the plates with a look of someone who had just been exposed to an abnormal smell. His nose wrinkled at the enormous plates of seafood, and he asked me rather loudly “Bobby…tell them I just want spaghetti and meatballs!”
This had happened before in the UK. The guys all hated the food in England. I, however, enjoyed the food in England immediately. I had quite possibly the best Indian food I have ever ingested in Brighton. Italy was a bit easier, as I had learned that Sherman loved “pasta fagioli”, a wildly varying bean soup that nearly everyone seems to love.
The waiter was not an idiot, and although I didn’t understand everything he rapidly said in Italian to his servers, it basically translated as “dumb ass American wants pasta Bolognese”. Faced with a bounty of foods that was merely the first course, Sherman had just opted for spaghetti and meat balls. I managed to distance myself from the band, and made friends with the restaurant owner, apologizing for the band’s disrespect. We were in Sardegna, far away from home, and I wanted them to make it back safely. Italians take food SERIOUSLY.
The show was decent, but the highlight was the opening act, a rag-tag bunch of about 11 teenaged and early 20s Italian kids. They had three female backup singers, horns, 2 guitars bass drums keyboards, and more. I was happy not to be their roadies, as they completely filled the stage. Our show was somewhat perfunctory, as we had been supplied backline amplifiers from a crazy vintage guitar and amp guy there on the island. Lots of these crazy old Italian guys have some amazing collections of the older guitars and amps. I had selected a beautiful 50 watt vintage Marshall head with matching 4x12 cabinet, while Sherman got a black face Fender Twin. Same old choice as usual, just like at dinner earlier. I had a tone that was amazing that night, and it was evident. Sherman didn’t let me do too many solos that night, but it didn’t matter. I actually had groupies at this show, a group of about 5 girls hung out until well after the show to chase me down. But our schedule was pretty tightly scripted, so there was no time for shenanigans. Until we got back to the hotel, that is. Once we arrived back at the resort, it was soon discovered that the opening band was staying there as well, and were at the bar. We joined them (sans Sherman of course), and ended up all drinking naked in the warm hotel pool that night reveling in the warm Sardegnian night.
We were soon to leave Italy, and headed back to a town about an hour from Rome. It was completely depressing there, just another innercity hotel room in a dirty city town. Cat had called me “to breakfast”, her way of punishing me by making me get up early when I was hung over. She had tried to extract more money from me due to the size and weight of my guitar case, and I had flatly refused. My exploits on tour, in conjunction with Jason and Freight Train, were legendary. I was the bandleader, however, and I was ultimately responsible. Cat liked to call me to breakfast to discuss whatever I had done wrong the night before, or to bitch about the other bandmembers or Sherman. This time, however, she gave me my pink slip. I was fired, and our show in Sardegna would be my last with Sherman. So back we went to the USA. I had one last night with Emanuele our faithful driver and road manager, and Jason and I spent the whole night in the hotel bar with him. We bribed the bartender to keep the place open with a fresh American $100 bill. We drank Stella and smoked Camels until we couldn’t see straight, and then tried to catch an hours’ sleep.
Arriving back in the USA, Jason and I rented a Dodge Viper and headed down the road. We had made pretty good money on the tour, and wanted to enjoy the ride back. It was enjoyable, tooling down the sunny Florida highway Alligator Alley in that nice new Dodge. But I knew I was headed home to a shitstorm.
Once back in Tampa, I had to return my fly rental automobile. It was back to the Hyundai, back to Tampa, back to playing to 20 drunks in a bar, back to Erika and divorce. Two weeks before, I had been sitting in a literary conference in one of the most beautiful towns in the world, with a beautiful woman by my side, and the possibility of a brand new life. Now, I was back to reality, and it wasn’t pretty. I immediately began to move my things out of the apartment that Erika and I shared, and once again couch surfed at Curtis’s condo. As we sat there doing bong hits and drinking beer, I bemoaned my situation and the fact that I had to once again get a divorce, this one even faster than the 9 months I had been married to Sara. I had somehow managed to condense an entire relationship and marriage even denser. At this rate, I figured I should simply meet a woman I couldn’t stand, and just give her all my stuff. It would make it all so much easier.
Curtis kept insisting that I did not have to get divorced. I told him “You were there, man! You SAW me marry her! There’s no way we’re getting back together”
“Yes, but I have your ace in the hole”, he said.
Reaching over into his overstuffed filing cabinet, he withdrew a manila envelope and threw it into my lap. “Open it”, he commanded.
Within the envelope was the marriage license that Curtis hat retrieved from the minister at the ceremony.
“I knew that bitch was trouble” he said, coughing his way through another bong hit. The next day, I went down to the Clerk of Courts office in downtown Tampa. Reaching an elderly clerk, I stumblingly asked her “I have this friend, and he um, got married, but um, the LICENSE was never filed, and um he was wondering…”
“What’s YOUR name, son?” she asked unblinkingly. After checking her files, it was determined that Erika and I were indeed not married. It was a huge relief, but also a huge sense of guilt and shame, as I really did like Erika’s family a lot. Her fa
ther, being a lawyer, insisted that we get a divorce anyway, just as a matter of course. So, in a twisted way, I had been divorced twice and only actually married once. Such is the course of my life.
CHAPTer FiVe
FroM 20,000 To 20
Once again single, I plunged into the Tampa nightlife with a renewed vigor. Tampa is a great town to be an alcoholic, and I could drink nearly anywhere I wanted for literally no money. My local stature had risen quite a bit since all the press for LVX Nova and for all my international touring. And Tampa had a vibrant drinking scene of which I partook in gratuitously. Most of the poor artist types used to hang out at The Hub in downtown Tampa, the kind of bar that had been there for 50 years, served the strongest drinks in town, and had the best jukebox.The Castle had Goth Mondays, which were always the best party in town. And the Oak Barrel and New World Brewery were in full swing as well. I had decided, after seeing Sherman play solo acoustic in that small Italian club, that I was going to do the same thing. Although I still played in bands when I got calls for gigs, I began to play a little Irish Pub in Ybor City that would change my life – The James Joyce Irish Pub. Situated directly on 7th Ave in Ybor, the pub was upstairs on the second floor above a horrible little fratboy bar called The Green Iguana. Most of the redneck weekenders that visited Ybor from the surrounding towns like Lakeland and Ocala had no idea the James Joyce even existed. And we liked it that way. The Joyce was an exclusive little place, owned by a pixie-ish little Irish guy from Dublin named Richard. He had imported much for the wood for the bar straight from the old country, and had his Guinness taps set up with the proper blender for the gases. We were a favorite hangout for the US Guinness reps, and had one of the best selections of imported beer in town. It was a perfect place for me to perfect my drinking lifestyle.