It’s a storybook concert, one of those rare times when the artist, the audience, the venue, the moon, and probably some voodoo all come together. The thrill of a great show is a two-way current that energizes an audience but positively electrifies the performers.
It would be interesting to analyze the brain chemistry at such times.
La Notte della Taranta in Melpignano
Photograph courtesy of Ponderosa Music & Art
Leaving the stage after a show like this is kind of bittersweet. It’s the last show of the tour, the last cheer, the last pizzica groove, and the last event requiring focus, energy, or health. No more hand maintenance will be required. No show moments to fix, no point tweaking the kit, it’s over. Burn the stage and everything on it. I probably won’t see my drums again for months.
As I lope from the stage to the palace dressing rooms my heart is full of joy. I’m not religious but usually the thought in my head is one of gratitude. Thank you Lord for this gift, this body, this life.
CHAPTER 18
INCUBUS
THE HYBRID
DECEMBER 2004
LOS ANGELES
O
ut of the blue comes an e-mail from brother Miles saying: All confirmed. Rehearsals are next Friday, and your show with Andy Summers and Incubus at the KROQ shindig will be on Sunday.
Whaaaat? I dimly remember Miles mentioning something about this, months ago. At the time I said, “Wow, cool,” and then forgot about it.
So I’m thinking about it now (a little panicked) and figure, What the heck? They’re a cool group, they were nice to my boy Jordan when he interviewed them for his belly dancing documentary, so why not?
Of course I had better dig out my drums and try to get some life into my wrists. After a long layoff I can still play, but the tiny little muscles that provide the finesse, that enable the cool persnickety stuff that the folks like, are only good for a few squirts before they quit. Actually, it’s nice to have an excuse to blast away on my long-suffering tom-toms.
I get a phone number and call up Mike, Incubus’s guitarist, to see what they have in mind. He proposes that we play “Roxanne” and “Message in a Bottle” (from The Police) and “Pardon Me” and “Megalomaniac” (from Incubus).
Mike suggests that we meet up for dinner the following night at a fancy restaurant in Santa Monica. When I get there at the appointed hour, I find Andy regaling the Incubus guys with his vast repertoire of road stories. They are a fun crew and we have a riotous evening trading notes and tales. We haven’t met their singer, Brandon, yet, since he is off with the flu but the rest of this cheerful gang seems to be led by Mike, who has an easy, confident air that relaxes me. Ben, Jose, and Chris each have their own vibe, though. In fact they are like the United Colors of Benetton. Black scratcher, Latin drummer, Jewish guitarist, Mulatto bassist, and Scottish/Native American/Mexican singer. They seem very close. Maybe because they have been playing together for fifteen years!
After dinner, as we climb into our cars everybody admires my brand-new conveyance, which is the newly modeled Jeep Grand Cherokee. Since I suspect that I may be among liberals, I tell them all that it’s the new Jeep hybrid.
Next day we meet again for rehearsals way over in Glendale. I get there early to tinker with my kit. I’ve got my boy Scott in tow and he is very impressed to be hanging out with a band that many of his friends are into. His ol’ Hall of Famer dad is just a dad, but Incubus, like, wow!
Andy arrives at the crack of 2:00 (the agreed-upon downbeat) but there is no sign of our new friends for another hour. While we wait we remember with joy the glorious anarchy of young players.
We also get a chance to inspect their gear. The first thing that an old seventies’ rocker like me notices is how small it is. Speaker cabinets are now so efficient that no one needs the huge stacks that I used to fantasize about as a kid. Mike just has a couple of small two-speaker enclosures with a classic Marshall amp and Ben’s bass rig is similarly unintimidating. What they do have a lot of is effect pedals. Andy walks straight over to Mike’s collection clustered on the floor next to his mic stand. He is muttering: “Got that one and that one, sold that, and…what’s that?”
Even the drums are small and oddly shaped. Jose has everybody’s (except mine) new favorite brand of kit called DW. He has them tuned way tight like a jazz kit (so do I, but neither of us play jazz). Kids these days have it all figured out. I used to be the only drummer who knew how to get a heavy sound from high-pitched drums. Kids today start out knowing everything that we had to learn.
The most elaborate corner is the deejay rig. It’s a row of turntables, rack-mounted FX boxes, and odd retro synthesizers. He even has a theremin, that strange, squeaky instrument of the sixties.
When the band shows up they are all business. We go straight into “Roxanne” and everybody seems to get it pretty quickly, so with time to fool around, Ben suggests that we could go into the Marley song “War” during the bridge. Veerrry cool idea.
By six o’clock we have knocked some semblance of order into the material and call it a day.
Walking out into the parking lot I see Chris climbing into an enormous, tricked-out black Cadillac Escalade SUV. Thing must weigh three tons. He looks over his shoulder at me, flicks a dread-lock out of his face, says, “It’s the new hybrid,” and then roars off into the night.
THE GIG IS ACTUALLY called “The KROQ Almost Acoustic Christmas” and there are eleven bands playing tonight. At the sound check this afternoon, eleven drum sets and a hundred tons of amplification are being hustled around the stage by black-clad gangs of tattooed roadies. It’s all very professional and good-natured but I still want to run home, rifle through the kids’ toys, and see if I can find me some tattoos. Maybe some Polly Pockets or a big Sponge Bob right over my jugular.
The drums and amps are all set up on rolling platforms, and it’s a revolving stage so the pace is brisk. As one band runs through its sound check another is setting up behind it. The stage revolves, the gear is wheeled off in a twinkling, and the next crew rolls their stuff on.
When it’s our turn to bat, we go straight through two of our songs and are trying to cram in just one more, but the stage is turning. We’re still blazing as we rotate out of the hall and into the sunshine outside the Universal Amphitheatre.
When I arrive back at the gig after an afternoon lounge at home, the rock-and-roll party is in full swing. There is a large backstage area separated into layers of access to the booze, bands, and stage. Everybody backstage gets the booze. It’s a mob of carousing fun lovers with crazy hairdos and loud clothing.
One layer deeper is where the dressing rooms are. Some are large suites; others are small. Once you get into this area, most of the people you see are rock stars. Down the hall, the early-playing bands (in the small rooms) are full of aftershow swagger. Their doors are open and they are slouching in and out of one another’s rooms exchanging manna. Closer up are the bands who are still getting ready, and the atmosphere is a little more sober.
When I get to our room, Incubus are all there. They seem pretty relaxed as we goof around, with about ninety minutes to kill before our moment. There’s a TV monitor in the room so we can watch the show onstage and rate the competition. Sum 41 are there one minute and next it’s a guy with a lot of tattoos. Then it’s us.
Or rather, then it’s Incubus. They depart for the stage to do their own show. We’ll be joining them after a few songs. They look great onstage and have a lot more going on musically than anyone else I’ve seen today. They are an excellent combination of power and poetry.
There is a tunnel under the backstage party area so we can get up to the stage without having to run the gauntlet. After a short wait in the wings, the crew pulls the drapes off my drums and out we walk. As soon as I’m sitting down my hands take over and my horse is charging through the bit and over the fields. Somewhere I can hear Andy and Mike start up the Doo doo doo riff and I try to rein it in a little so that Brandon can s
ing the song.
Next up is “Message in a Bottle” then “Roxanne” and then just like that, in a flash, it’s done. Sure, there were a few fender benders. OK, so I played too loud, too fast, and too much, but shows like this are such a rare treat that I feel no remorse. Catch me at a real concert, on a real tour, and you may see some finesse, but this was something else. So shoot me if I had too much fun.
As Andy and I leave the stage and head back, we pass Velvet Revolver coming up the tunnel. For some reason we studiously ignore one another. Maybe because Andy and I have postshow swagger and they have preshow tension. I’ve actually met Duff and Scott at various times in the past and they are good guys.
By the time I get out of the shower the rest of the band are all whooping it up in the dressing room. Everybody is happy. It was a good show and the crowd obviously liked it, too. The room quickly fills up with friends and family. On the TV monitor, the show goes on with Velvet Revolver in full swing. The sound is down so I can’t hear them, but they are raging away. Pity about that hat that Scott is wearing. It gives them kind of a Village People vibe.
The band that I really want to see is Green Day. I lost a bet that I made ten years ago with my niece Ashley that they would vaporize after one hit. I had them figured as a McPunk band (which I didn’t hold against them because that’s pretty much what The Police was at first). Well, I was wrong. They are still here and I want to know why. So I drag myself away from the party and head out to the auditorium to catch their show from the front. Here’s why they are still here: they write hits, keep it simple, and they connect with the audience. They are tight, professional, confident, and energized. I’m not about to rush out and buy all their CDs, but I respect this band and I owe Ashley one dollar.
Life is full of rewards and miseries, but I’m very happy that shows like this come along every once in a while. To some it may look like Andy and I are clutching on to past glories by playing old hits rather than doing something new. Fact is we are both doing much new stuff. Heck, I have a whole new and unrelated career as a film composer.
The Devil may take me, but every now and then I will reach into the cookie jar….
CHAPTER 19
DANCING WITH THE (POLL)STARS
FEBRUARY 2004
A typical night out in sparkling Hollywood with the glitterati.
H
aven’t checked Sting’s pulse in a while, so I pick up the phone. He’s somewhere down the beach, but Kathy Schenker quickly returns my call. “Are you coming tonight?” she asks. Well, no, I hadn’t heard about it, but it turns out that tonight is a big night for Stingo. It’s one of those Man of the Year evenings where he will be surrounded by the glitterati of Los Angeles as he endures speeches about his virtues and performances of his songs by esteemed artists. Well, it ain’t the keys to Melpignano, but it’s a big honor nonetheless. By some mix-up, we didn’t get the invite, but Kathy is urgent on the phone now.
Problem is, I’ve already got a gig tonight handing out an award to someone else. My brother Ian has twisted my arm to attend the Pollstar Awards ceremony, and further, to be an award presenter. This event is the Grammies of concert promotion. The winners are not just agents, promoters and performers; the venues and trucking companies are also honored.
It’s also my buddy Henry’s birthday party night. After handing out the brass, our plan was to meet up later for further hilarity at a fetish club in West Hollywood.
Ian, Miles, me
Copyright © 2009 Lynn Goldsmith
But Stingo is Man of the Year tonight and I absolutely cannot but add my voice to the accolades that will be sung. It will be a busy evening, so we set off into the golden L.A. dusk with the intention of hitting every base.
Over in Hollywood at the Kodak Theatre is a cheerful throng of faces from my old touring days. They are all suited up and shiny for their big awards night. And there’s my brother Ian! A particularly warm glow lights me up as he shouts a big hello. Ian has a way of energizing any gathering. In his company, everybody and anybody becomes vital, interesting, and amusing. In the Ian zone everybody is relaxed and chuckling about something. We spot Miles and we three musketeers toast the blessing of our nest. Miles has his Bellydance Superstars along to wow the assembled promoters in the show tonight so he is all business, which actually isn’t much different from his vibe at Sunday lunch.
Downstairs in the dressing rooms, there is a minor constellation of celebrity award presenters. Alice Cooper is there, and Don Was. Sharon Osborne is there. Alice, Don, and I soon have our heads together, exchanging war stories and comparing notes about the different eras in which we worked. Alice is the coolest guy, quick laugh and droll comportment. This is a man who has been around the block a few times.
The show has started so we wander up to the wings, marveling at the obscurity of the awards that we will be handing out. Don is doing “Christian Music Booker of the Year.”
I am handed a nominations list and a sealed winner’s envelope with the title “Arena of the Year.” I check the list, and sure enough, the nominees are buildings: concrete and cement. I look around to see if my old friend Shea Stadium is fretting hopefully somewhere in the audience.
When my turn comes, I stride importantly to the microphone and intone the nominees. There is a flourish of music, then, “And the winner is…Madison Square Garden of New York!”
There is a heartwarming applause from the audience of agents and promoters for this storied concert hall. I accept the award on behalf of the building, and after a few modest words of thanks (on behalf of the building) to all the Pollstar voters, my work here is done.
Soon we are sailing over to Culver City to cheer on my old buddy Sting. At the Sony Studios, the parking lot is full of the slickest, longest, and blackest limousines in town. Our car drops us outside one of the huge aircraft hangar–sized soundstages and immediately we can smell the rarefied scent of show business royalty. This is a much higher caste than the lowly carnies and hawkers back at Pollstar.
We have missed the start of the festivities and there is a woman onstage singing one of Sting’s songs. Could be Alanis—or a Dixie Chick for all I know. It’s a pretty tame rendering of “Walking on the Moon.” In the middle of the song she stops singing and addresses Sting directly at his table in front of her. She’s gushing with soaring eloquence, and there is hardly a dry eye in the house as she picks the song back up and finishes the tune to tumultuous standing applause. Useful. Now I at least know where his crew is sitting.
Fiona has been scrutinizing the table plan and doesn’t see us anywhere. I grab her by the hand and thread her through the applauding throng to the Sumner tables.
It’s a wonderful moment. The band has struck up, the glitter ball is swirling, and the royalty are ringing with joy.
My Main Man has risen to the stage and is basking in the adoration of his peers. This is when we are spotted by Kathy and Trudie, who light up.
Trudie Sumner is unique. Not one for half measures, she always greets family with full Latin embrace. No pecks on the cheek for Trudie—she inspires and demands full mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She can turn the most Nordic of dweebs into Antonio Banderas.
Just as she is sweeping into my arms for our customary operatic greeting, I can see out of the corner of my eye that The Man of the Evening—her husband—has reached the microphone and is about to speak. People are now sitting down, to reveal the Wife and the Nemesis, right there at table number one, performing our reenactment of Il Trovatore in front of the entire gathering. Fiona, with her instinct for invisibility, is long gone. At the sound of his voice, Trudie turns, and I am vapor. Sheeeezus!
“Dahling,” says Fiona when I catch up with her, “did I lose you there for a moment?” She twinkles.
CHAPTER 20
SCORING WITH ANJELICA
MARCH 2005
This gig had the added unstated threat that if I didn’t get it right Anjelica would turn me into a rat. Anyone remember The Witches?
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t was a gig that arrived very quickly. At about four o’clock in the afternoon my manager, Derek Power, tells me about a movie produced by Larry Sanitsky, an old friend of his, and directed by Anjelica Huston. Sounds cool. I once sat next to Anjelica on a transatlantic flight and we got along famously. First thing next morning Derek is on the phone again. Have I watched the movie? Um, it just arrived by FedEx. So I watch the movie.
It is a three-hanky tearjerker starring Rosie O’Donnell as the retarded sister of a sleek power bitch played by Andie MacDowell. It is a very emotional piece and O’Donnell eats up the screen. At the end of the film, just as the end credits begin, and as I’m reaching for my fourth hanky, the phone rings again. It’s Larry Sanitsky, the producer. Can we meet at my place in, say, half an hour? “Sure,” I sob.
Anjelica and Larry soon arrive and we all yuck over how Anjelica and I have both been dining out on how we slept together (well, in adjacent seats) over the ocean. Does this make us members of the Mile High Club?
We get down to business and spot the movie. This is when we map out where the music will be and what it’s going to say. We talk at length about the meaning and sub-meaning of each scene how the music can impart, imply, illuminate or even obscure the different threads of the story.
Strange things happen: a life with the Police, polo, and pygmies Page 13