Joe had been eager to see his friend all day. He seemed nervous, but mostly excited. We’d been waiting in the sitting room of a posh hotel suite when Ringo and his wife swept in like royalty, with warmth that was genuine and disarming. Barb and I made small talk while Joe and “Richie” (as Joe called him) talked tour business. The first incarnation of Ringo’s All-Starr Band was set to launch later that month. It couldn’t come soon enough.
Though Joe didn’t discuss his career concerns with me, I was aware his latest record hadn’t done well. Low sales ate at his self-confidence, which in turn fed his bad habits. Going on tour with an artist he admired was exactly what he needed—what we both needed.
Between my DWI and Joe’s more recent legal run-in, I’d practically been scared straight. Returning from New Zealand, Joe had stopped in Hawaii for some R and R and been detained at US Customs on suspected drug charges. A vigilant agent, combing through Joe’s eleven suitcases, had unearthed a single paper packet from the Hells Angels’ clubhouse. To our relief, lab results cleared him the next day. Powdered caffeine, it turned out, was not an illegal substance.
I’d never been happier to get screwed over in a drug deal. We thanked God for those asshole Kiwi bikers, then vowed to be more careful. We’d have help in that department. Ringo and Barb were clean and sober, and drugs and alcohol were prohibited on tour.
•••
The All-Starr Band was exactly that—a group of established musical talents playing each other’s hits, plus a plethora of Ringo’s. The lineup included Dr. John on piano; Rick Danko and Levon Helm from The Band; Nils Lofgren and Clarence Clemons from the E Street Band; Billy Preston on keyboards; and Jim Keltner, a revered session drummer.
The wives—Cynthia Keltner, Sandy Helm, Liz Danko, and Dr. John’s wife, Lorraine Rebennack—treated me like one of them, despite my younger age and lesser, unmarried status. Ringo and Barb were friendly and accessible. Barb regularly asked how I was doing and what I was reading and included me in group conversations. One day, she waved me over backstage from a room where she was chatting with friends. I entered in time to catch the tail end of her anecdote—a darkly funny punch line about alcoholic blackouts. Everyone cracked up, while I looked on in awe. I’d yet to make peace with my checkered past, much less be able to joke about it. Barbara had studied philosophy and was building a rehab clinic. I thought she was a rock star in her own right and would’ve hung onto her skirts all day if she didn’t make me so tongue-tied.
Every day, Ringo greeted me by name, and every day, it caught me off guard. He created a family atmosphere on tour, hosting group dinners and riding with the band to and from gigs. Nothing got by him; he was attuned to everyone’s needs. During a sudden downpour at an outdoor photo shoot, the first thing Ringo did was shelter my eleven-year-old sister (who was visiting for the weekend) in his personal limo. She didn’t know The Beatles from a hole in the wall but happily watched cartoons in luxury all day. I entered his dressing room once to find a big bowl of pistachios—pre-shelled. I’d never seen anything like it. I always had to shell my own, I told him. Ringo burst out laughing and insisted I eat all I wanted.
A pervasive lack of snobbery surprised me at every turn. Dr. John gave me a new compliment every day. Levon and I had an instant rapport. He said I reminded him of his favorite aunt from Arkansas. Rick and Clarence were sweet and outgoing, Jimmy and Nils unfailingly polite. Only Billy was distant, but as the man responsible for my favorite four minutes of the show, Mr. Preston could do no wrong in my eyes. I danced my ass off to “Will It Go Round in Circles” every single time. “The Weight” was another favorite—of mine and most audiences’. Joe’s rockers were major crowd-pleasers, and opening act Mason Ruffner had a sexy shredder called “Gypsy Blood” I couldn’t get enough of. But the ultimate unifier was love for Ringo. When he left his drums and took center stage for “With a Little Help from My Friends,” “It Don’t Come Easy,” or “Photograph,” the entire crowd sang along, mimicking his peace-sign wave and simplistic dance step to the end in perfect unison. Compared to the hardcore punk shows I’d loved, it could’ve seemed corny. In truth, it was celebratory and bonding. There was something magical about Ringo, and his shows were intoxicating.
Tour producer David Fishof became one of my favorite people. He was guileless and cherubic with an ever-present grin that suggested no one was more delighted by this thing he’d set in motion than him. Hilary Gerrard, of Apple Records, never missed a chance to say hello or bestow upon me a little wisdom. First, he was adamant I “let” Joe marry me.
“I’ll get right on that,” I laughed.
“Everyone should marry at least once. How many husbands have you had?”
“Hilary, I’m twenty-one. None.”
“Well, then, marry Joe and leave it at that.”
“Anything else?”
“Dehydration is the enemy—drink lots of water.”
“Got it.”
“And pursue your passion. What are you passionate about, dear?”
“Writing, I guess…and film.”
“Good for you! Pursue that and then get married.”
Hilary had done well for himself and I needed all the guidance I could get. I upped my water intake immediately.
Allen was another of Ringo’s inner circle, a manager of some sort. I liked Allen because he was always having fun and making sure I was, too. In Dallas, after meeting one of my prettiest stripper friends, he pulled me aside to ask about her. “Is she single?”
“She has a boyfriend in Austin.”
“Tell her something for me anyway.”
“What’s that, Allen?”
“Tell her, fast cars, fast boats, and a house on the beach.”
I laughed and promised I would.
Allen spoke the language of my tribe back home. Maybe I wasn’t that different from Richie’s camp, after all.
I sensed Dr. John and I had things in common. He had one foot in the demimonde. I wanted to crawl inside his head and see where else we connected, but it seemed an inelegant task. One day he asked me to fix the latch on his necklace, the one his special pouch hung from. He told me he didn’t want anyone else to touch it, and that said everything I needed.
•••
In August, we were in New York City for a cluster of arena shows. Joe and Clarence did a Letterman taping where I ran into Paul Shaffer. I started to remind him of where we had met, but he just laughed and hugged me. “How could I forget you, Kristi?”
We smoked a joint in Paul’s dressing room before the show. After, he took us to his favorite restaurant where they set up a table in the kitchen for him, away from the other diners. I caught a buzz from just two glasses of wine, and when Joe offered a bump to counteract it, our good behavior abruptly ended. We spent the rest of the night in our room at the Pierre, monstering through sunrise.
I crawled into bed, strung-out and feeling ill. Joe, wired to the gills, called the Howard Stern Show. Unable to sleep, I flipped on the radio and heard Howard say something about “Joe’s gorgeous girlfriend with the great body.” Since we’d yet to meet in person, I figured it was his way of apologizing for ambushing me the previous winter. I fell asleep feeling special, then woke up too hungover to make the show. The band went to Albany without me. Joe was brusque before heading out, filling me with shame for monstering. Not on this tour, we’d said; Not around Richie. I spent the day cleaning sex toys and sending out his laundry, trying to make myself useful.
Liz Danko called from her room, having missed the plane, too. I was tempted to confide in her but decided not to. She and I had smuggled vodka backstage at the first two shows, giggling like teenagers. She liked to drink, but others on tour had bigger demons. Maybe Liz did, too. I didn’t want to tempt anyone with thoughts of cocaine, or ruin a freshly clean slate. Nor did I want to share our stash, if Joe scored one again. (The fear was justified when, later on in th
e tour, Billy correctly suspected Joe was holding. He hounded us for days while we hid in our room, ignoring his phone calls and door knocking.)
•••
There were other stressors on tour—health issues, for one. Hilary and Ringo had bad colds; Dr. John cracked a rib; Joe temporarily lost his voice; and Clarence suffered an ear infection and chronic back pain. They were accomplished musicians, but not young men, some trying to jump-start stalled careers. The night before the first show, Rick Danko spent four hours jamming in our room, polishing his bass skills. The practice paid off, but that he’d needed it at all unsettled Joe. Tensions were building. One day, Billy lashed out at his wardrobe assistant, an unassuming young man I gathered was also a special friend. The poor guy just stood there while Billy yelled at him over a minor infraction—a wrinkled shirt or missing button, something like that. Rick, Jim, and I were hanging out on his couch at the time. None of us spoke as we casually strolled from the room.
Joe said the guys needed to blow off steam—like the Herbs had, with their acid-fueled food fight. He and Levon devised a scheme, faking a feud that escalated throughout the day and culminated in a physical “brawl” backstage. They really threw themselves into it, with Levon wielding a fake knife and shattering a prop bottle over Joe’s head. Everyone was in on it except David Fishof, who was beside himself, trying to break the men up and remind them of their friendship. When the prank was revealed, David’s jaw dropped to his chest. Band and crew dissolved in hysterics. Laughter erupted over and over that night as the story was retold to everyone who’d missed it.
•••
Joe wanted me to come out of my shell and socialize with his friends. “They’re your friends now, too,” he said. One night, during intermission, he asked me to find John Candy. “He’s backstage, but I can’t find him. Tell him I want to hang out after the show. Don’t let him leave, no matter what.”
“You want me to put John Candy in a headlock?”
“Tell him you’re my lady,” Joe said, running back onstage. “Just do it, trust me.”
I found John between two curtain panels at side stage, tapping his feet and bobbing his head. I touched his shoulder, and he turned with strained resignation. The toe tapping ceased.
“Sorry to bother you,” I shouted, leaning in and feeling him tense up. This is going well, I thought, plowing ahead. “Uh…see, I’m Joe Walsh’s girlfriend and he said to introduce my—”
“Hey! You’re Joe’s lady?” John exclaimed.
“Yeah, I’m sorry to bother—”
He cut me off with a bear hug. “I’m so happy to meet you! Joe’s one of my dearest friends—I love that guy!” John insisted I stay and share his curtain spot for the whole show, and he even scored us a couple of beers (I have no idea where from). On the bus later, we laughed as the band members one-upped each other with Little Richard anecdotes (which at least half of them happened to have). At the hotel, we gathered in Levon and Sandy’s room, where John did a hilarious improv bit on the insanity of touring. Jim Keltner videotaped it.
Few on tour had it easier than me. “My heaviest lifting is the phone to call room service.”
“Don’t underestimate room service,” Jim quipped.
“It is a marvelous concept, I agree.”
Jim nodded. “A weirdly wonderful thing.”
“Right up there with in-room massage therapy.”
Levon balked. “Nope, not for me.”
“You don’t get massaged, Levon?” I was stunned. “Why not?”
Sandy answered for him. With a good-natured eye-roll, she explained that to her backwoods Arkansas husband, the concept of bodywork didn’t fly. It just sounded wrong.
“No way something weird ain’t happening there,” Levon muttered, confirming her statement.
I laughed, though more at her ribbing than his paranoia. I would’ve loved to roll my eyes at Joe once in a while. Lord knows I’d have been justified. Like that time he fashioned a pair of tinfoil goggles and Viking helmet, then donned a reflective silver cape, and paraded the ensemble onstage. But his clownish image wasn’t my business, whether he shed it or fed that beast for life. I had firm opinions on a variety of topics, most of which I kept to myself.
I observed people. I studied and analyzed them, then found a way to fit myself into their perceptions of reality. Drugs and alcohol loosened my tongue, but I rarely voiced dissent or challenged anyone. That’s just how I was raised. At home, church, and school, a sharp intellect was for passing tests and getting good grades. Book smarts were fine, but critical thinking was the road to hell. The nuns kept us in check with a variety of shame tactics and unpredictable bouts of rage. At home, my mom did the same. Question authority? Yeah, right. Not out loud, anyway. Things I cared about—things that mattered, like politics, religion, and social constructs—weren’t up for debate. I had no idea how to do what Sandy had done, but I was dying to learn.
The next day, our group gathered in the lobby awaiting transportation when Howard Stern’s name came up in conversation. A debate ensued as to whether the shock jock was a jerk or just a showman. I spoke up, figuring my personal experience applied. Voting the latter, I relayed our disastrous on-air interview, followed by Howard’s recent on-air flattery.
Suddenly Joe whirled on me. “He was talking about Lisa.”
Everyone went silent. Joe didn’t seem to care. He glared at me, letting the barb sink in.
One minute he was pushing me to befriend John Candy and Ringo’s kids. The next, shaming me for thinking I measured up to his ex. I reacted the way I had as a kid—stone-faced, stuffing down my hurt feelings, and dissociating.
The next time Joe did Howard’s show he insisted I come with, but only in my airhead Valley-girl persona. “It’s the perfect deflection. Howard will be helpless against it.” I didn’t think it was a good idea. I agreed with his theory but thought I was too coked-up to pull it off, and I was right. Howard wasn’t amused, he was bored. I didn’t make Joe proud, I let him down.
•••
The band went on to Canada. I flew home and threw myself into work. I missed Joe, but the confidence boost from being in my element was worth it. Two weeks later, we met up in Vegas, like newlyweds, fawning all over each other. From there, on to LA for the final two shows.
Backstage, the Greek Theatre was packed with guests and celebrities, something Joe said was common in LA. The first night, things were hectic and Joe was distracted. I’d invited Vicki and Christine, and barely noticed his inattention. The next night, we purposely didn’t bring guests, hoping to enjoy the backstage camaraderie together. Jack Nicholson had other ideas, barging into Joe’s dressing room to do bumps, rushing off, then reappearing with Harry Dean Stanton and a handful of fans. Harry and Jack took our chairs as his hangers-on spread out on the floor. Joe watched from the doorway, more amused than anything, as Jack held court. I leaned against a wall, studying Harry and wishing I had the balls to make him return my chair.
I couldn’t get used to what passed for etiquette in LA. Before the show, Gary Busey had cornered Joe in the hall, practically shoving me aside in his rush to ask if he could jam with the band. Joe had been firm yet kind—It’s Ringo’s gig, man, sorry. Once Gary was out of earshot, he’d turned to me with a smirk. “Everyone wants to be a rock star,” he said. “Especially actors.” Later that night, I met Alan Rogan, Pete Townshend’s right-hand man, who disarmed me with his warmth and wit, not to mention his ability to engage in a two-way conversation.
The tour’s end was bittersweet, but I was excited to have Joe to myself. In two months’ time, we’d head to Japan where proper etiquette was prized and monstering strictly prohibited.
Woman on a Train; Up on a Plane
The All-Starr Band had consumed Joe all summer. We had eight weeks to unwind before Japan, and I expected to spend it shutting out the world, with copious sex and drugs. I was wrong.
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br /> First, Rick the Bass Player came down with a mysterious stomach ailment and we spent the weekend at his place, caring for him. Back at the penthouse, the phone and fax were blowing up with band business and other drama, including Dr. John threatening to quit. (He didn’t.) Each new development sucked Joe deeper in and pushed me further out. I offered to take messages or man the fax machine, but Joe was juggling chainsaws and said I was throwing off his rhythm. I tried to give him space but there was nowhere to retreat. The office was off limits and the living room was blanketed in faxes and paperwork—floor, sofa, coffee table, everything. There was not one uncluttered space in that sprawling penthouse for a girl to bury her nose in a book.
My sympathy waned. When pouting didn’t work, I monstered.
Joe was still in the habit of cutting me off around sunrise. The times we monstered around the clock were his call, never mine. Twenty-four-hour binges were at his discretion, usually due to being in the middle of some roleplay or kink scene he wasn’t ready to finish.
That wasn’t the case this time. Even when the calls and faxes ceased, Joe continued to shut me out, citing stacks of paperwork and contracts he had to read. Yet he didn’t cut off my coke supply or send me to bed. Emboldened, I requested more hog rails and got them. I was being girlish and cheeky. Joe was surly, yet the bumps kept coming. I held my breath for an argument that never came. Instead, he rented a Bentley.
“We’re moving to the Bel Age.”
I didn’t ask questions, just went to pack a bag.
Later he explained that we needed a change of scenery to get our brains back. As logical as that sounded (or at least not illogical) in my case the opposite happened, when a portion of my gray matter evaporated en route to the hotel. It was a surprisingly pleasant experience…for me, that is.
Tackling LA morning traffic, while grinding out on blow, was asking for trouble. I’d learned the hard way that too much noise, motion, and sunlight could trigger a bout of paranoid anxiety. What came over me this time, however, was mental euphoria and hypersexual arousal. I had no idea why or how (though the high-end luxury of that finely crafted automobile didn’t hurt), only that it was sublime on every level. Not to Joe, but I couldn’t help that. Sorry, babe. I’m running with this.
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