A Stray Cat Struts

by Slim Jim Phantom

  There wasn’t much I could do except sit there and think. About six or seven weeks into it, I had a big day out on the town, when I went back to the same hospital in Marina del Rey for a doctor’s visit. After an x-ray that told him my bones had healed perfectly, he took the cast off, knocked me out again, removed the pins, and put a new, even bigger cast back on. Good news on the bone-healing part, but a further six weeks or so with a different giant cast lay ahead. I got better at life with a thirty-five-pound right arm with no fingers. I fashioned a functioning sling out of a big old pirate scarf with skulls and crossbones, so I did make it my own.

  The whole time this recuperation was going on, the house we lived in was under major construction. The roof had been removed from a whole section of the house, and a new staircase was being built, along with an addition of two new rooms. It was a job that had been planned for months and in a case of perfectly bad timing started just as I was a prisoner in my own home. Every day, there was a different team of workers there, making all different sorts of deafening noise with heavy machinery. Drilling, banging, hammering, and dust that started every day at 8:00 A.M. were my daily visitors. I would have been on tour for another week or so, and I had planned on staying in Dublin with Madison for another week after the tour. I usually would’ve at least been able to drive to the Cat Club and kill time in the office or on Sunset Plaza with my gang every day, but in this new routine, I didn’t go anywhere, and—understandably—no one really wanted to visit me in a construction site with a couch in the middle. My head was off to the races with the first nail being driven each day, and I knew that when it was over, I wouldn’t be able stay in the house any longer. The accident caused a loss of funds on the tour, and escalating construction costs combined with the financial crash and housing debacle in 2008 really got me down. The bank had canceled the line of credit attached to the house, and we had to start paying for the whole thing directly out of pocket. I had to get out from under the house and all the panic and despair that went along with it.

  Meanwhile, the U.S. insurance company would call me constantly to question the treatment and charges that were fully covered by the tour and extra workmen’s compensation insurance that I had personally taken out on myself, as is the norm on a tour of this size. All sorts of people would call and ask trick questions about the accident details. I kept calm and told them that I had five thousand witnesses and that it was all on film. They just didn’t like having to pay out. Never mentioned was the fact I’ve had every type of premium, platinum insurance since I was twenty-two years old on cars, health, and touring. I never took one penny off them for over twenty-five years. I had the feeling a few times that someone was watching me to make sure I hadn’t been faking this injury. I never saw a bill, but I’ve been told by a few people in the know that the whole thing cost the insurance company over $300,000. A few hundred grand versus a new arm for a drummer—it still boils my blood that they put a price tag on it and made a hard time even harder.

  In the face of all this, Cherie and I broke up. It was sad in the moment, but it was over on both sides. I moved into a small house in Beverly Hills and stayed virtually by myself for a year. I went about my business, did gigs, and tried to hustle up a living. We sold the house in the middle of the housing bust and took a bath. During this time, I didn’t use the club to pull a lot of girls and without thinking too much went into monk mode. I stayed in touch with all my true pals, but on the whole, I didn’t want to talk to anyone, and nobody pushed advice, which is part of why someone is a true pal in the first place. I stayed close with Madison, and we worked out a way for everyone to get along.

  During this self-imposed quiet time, I did do quite a few other things. When the cast came off, I did twice-a-week hand therapy and reacted well to it. I started to practice the drums and felt no pain with that type of motion. I had a few gigs with Head Cat, which were perfect warm-ups for the bigger tour that the Cats had coming up later in the year in Australia. Lemmy was very supportive, and in his own way, he admonished me by telling me, “The drummer shouldn’t have been in the front of the stage, anyway!” I played the gigs with him and had no pain. Turning a doorknob or getting the gas cap open caused more distress than playing the drums. I can live with that. As long as I can play the drums, carry the luggage, and type, I stand a chance; none of the necessary activities were affected in a long-term way by my accident. Having said all this, I can say it still aches but has never stopped me from doing anything since.

  In October 2009, with the Love Hope Strength charity crew, I did climb and peak Mount Kilimanjaro. By that time, my arm had healed up just nicely and didn’t prevent me from doing any physical activity. We all reached the summit, Uhuru, the local Swahili name for the mountaintop. Another true pal joined on this one: I shared a tent and toothpaste with Robin Wilson of the Gin Blossoms. He was a positive and helpful tent mate, and we had a gas climbing and singing the whole way up Kilimanjaro. In accordance with tradition, I can now call it Kili. The local legend and pro mountain climber code mandates you cannot use this nickname unless you’ve peaked it. It fulfilled a longtime wish of mine to go to Africa.

  I visited the cancer and children’s hospitals in Arusha in Tanzania. I brought a bunch of swag, and there are now kids in Arusha wearing Slim Jim T-shirts, and one lucky one is sporting a Yankees baseball cap with a World Series patch on it. We stopped in villages and clinics all along the way. I enjoyed hanging out with locals and always get gratitude shots when I see kids who are happy with what we think is so little. I have a lot of respect and admiration for Shannon Foley Henn, who was the head of the charity at the time. She has since moved to Arusha full-time to help with the newly built cancer ward and really deserves a more than honorable mention in the charitable sections of my story. I really dug the whole African experience and on one day was especially glad to be a vegetarian when the big chief of one the villages served roasted goat for lunch. No matter what anyone may say now, nobody liked it then.

  We went on a once-in-a-lifetime safari, too. I had been telling our excellent guide James for two weeks that I had better see a rhino on the safari or I’d be very upset. It became a running joke. I made out I was serious, and the guides gently insisted that rhino sightings in that part of the country were rare and almost unheard of. At the end of the breathtaking safari where we saw every possible animal except the elusive rhino, the joke was on me. We rode the safari in open-topped Range Rovers and just saw nature at its finest. Actually seeing the lion take down an antelope is spectacular, frightening, awe-inspiring, sad, brutal, and vicious all at once. It was really right out of the Wild Kingdom show we watched as kids and could never imagine it would ever really happen in front of us. The only way I have ever been able to travel anywhere is when there is a gig attached at the other end, and a gig in this locale is unlikely for anyone. So this opportunity was even more special, because I knew it was a one-off chance to see some things I had never seen before and may never have the chance to see again.

  Near the end of a long day in the sun, while we were driving over an immense open plain, heading back to the final camp, the guide guys were looking at me with disappointed long faces. I was almost ready to shrug and tell them it was all a gag and a coping mechanism for the last two weeks, when someone in the lead car cried out while they circled back to us and handed me his high-powered binoculars. Off in the distance, sitting by himself, was a huge black rhino. The tour guides and locals were amazed, and a few of them had never seen one before. With the special binoculars I could see him vividly, could count the wrinkles in his massive neck, see the flies getting swatted off by his tail, and look right in his eyes. He just sat there, motionless, and everyone was patient with me while I just stared at him through the field glasses. Although I was captivated and would have stayed a little longer, I could feel the group unease and knew everyone wanted to get going. I understood that not everybody was as into the whole rhino thing as I was. We had a nice base camp waiting, but it was still a
few more hours’ drive from there.

  Even among the wonder of nature, a five-hour drive in a Land Rover with five people per vehicle is a tough one. As the convoy was getting ready to start pushing on, my rhino stood up, shook himself off in a big dirt cloud, and started running around, stopping, turning, and starting again. He was putting on a show that everybody was surprised by and enjoyed. After a few passes, he ran off past the horizon. I’ve read everything that Hemingway ever wrote but proudly admit that I never even once thought about shooting him. I’d kept up the act that I was confident and knew my rhino would turn up. The trekkers who were along with me and even the guides and locals couldn’t help but wonder if I hadn’t summoned up this beast through sheer will.

  When I got back from this adventure, I went back to regular life. A few months later, I had another short, fun series of dates with Lemmy; we were doing some easy ones up and down the coast in California. I was not looking for it, but I found another rarely spotted wonder of nature. There are not many six-foot-tall, super-gorgeous, twenty-two-year-old, rockabilly-loving true California blondes out there. I saw one and didn’t let her get away. I met Christy Lynn Nelson at our gig in San José. She was a platonic friend of Danny Harvey’s and was coming to visit him. I saw her in the audience and knew I couldn’t miss this chance. I was introduced to her after the show and was just honest about my feelings. She started to visit me on my home turf, and the rest is history. We are still together, and she’s my girl. Another example of how if you are open and let it come to you, the extremely rare things in life can happen.

  22

  The Boys in the Band

  A lot of guys have sold more records and had more money, more girls, and more drugs, but not with the same combination of varying adventures as the Stray Cats. Country guys stay with country guys, rock guys stay with rock guys, actors stay with actors. The Stray Cats and I in particular have straddled all these fences.

  The other two have never been close. Lee thinks that Brian has tried to rewrite history to make it seem like the Stray Cats was all him and we were like a backing band. Brian thinks Lee has an overinflated opinion of his own place in rock-and-roll history. I don’t care about any of it. It’s a hundred years later, and people still care about something we came up with when we were kids. There are still new fans every year. At this point, I just want to play, earn, and have fun—back to the basics. On any given night, there are three different bands on a stage somewhere in the world, each with one member of the Stray Cats playing a different version of “Rock This Town.” I’m sure they are all pretty good; they are excellent musicians and full-on pros. But I feel in my heart that none are as good as if we three were doing it together. I really do love my guys and want nothing more than to play with them, earn a good payday, and cement our legacy as the best rockabilly band ever.

  I like to remember everything in a positive light. Let’s be honest: if anyone can find any way to complain about the details of being a rock star, it’s pretty sad and petty. We are one in a million, and if you add rockabilly to the mix, we are one in ten million. I try to keep the early hunger and excitement as close as I can. I know none of this would have happened exactly like it did if we hadn’t all played those gigs and gone to those record stores and thrift shops on Long Island in 1979. No one can tell, maybe the others would have made it on their own, but not in the legendary way the Stray Cats did. I do not live in the past, nor do I deny it. I embrace the memory and move ahead. I am proud of our achievements. I do think we should take the old car out for a spin once in a while; it still runs great and looks cool. In the long-term sense, we blew it a long time ago.

  The other two are more gifted in a technical, musical way than I am. They always have been. I have never been a soloist, but I do feel that my style of drumming and spirit helped them both get to their best. I feel it was a total team effort, but I love the team the most. The others would never have done anything they didn’t want to do. We all benefited from the band, but I think I did the most to hold it together and was the most hurt when it split up in 1985. I think that’s part of being the drummer.

  I was devastated, personally and in a career sense, but quickly moved on. Lee and I got busy right away. Then we reformed it in 1988, but it was never the same. We had lost valuable momentum, and although we did some of our best songwriting and live shows between 1988 and 1992, the real opportunity to become a truly important band had passed. We could have really rewritten the book with the right record after Rant N’ Rave. At the time, in late 1984, Brian didn’t think I was up to the task, although I don’t think he gave me the right chance. He had a vision at the time for what he wanted to sound like and I feel was looking for a way to do it on his own. After everything we had been through and achieved, he was ready to pack the whole thing in after a few very impromptu coke-and-booze-fueled rehearsals. He seemed to almost want it to go badly so he could break up the band with a clean conscience. He had me feeling that I wasn’t musically up to his new vision. I think he has always wanted to be a solo artist. He’s not a band guy, and the time spent with the Cats, which had equal voting rights, did not come naturally to him. It’s frustrating to me to have wanted to tell him for thirty years that all I ever wanted from him was for him to be in his own band. He is older than I am by two years, and it doesn’t matter now, but when one guy is fifteen and one guy is seventeen, it does matter, and it stays with you. Since we were kids, I’ve always looked up to the guy and wanted his approval. He was the best guitar player in New York, and he was from my same school and Little League. And as a kid, I always wanted to play with him. When we discovered rockabilly around the same time, I got the chance to work with him as an equal.

  Lee and I had played together since we were twelve years old and agreed on most things. In that regard, the two-against-one vibe was definitely created by Brian. Lee and I would have never broken up the band. We would have both ridden out any bumpy patches. I felt Brian was open to listen to the first people who got in his ear and told him he should go solo the first time. We should have circled the wagons and have been closer at that time. I accept my part in it but would have never left the band. It’s a common hindsight, but we should have just taken off a few months.

  Brian and I have the same horoscope sign, and Lee and I were born in the same year in the Chinese zodiac. So that throws astrology completely out the window. We are all very different characters. We agree on how great Gene Vincent was and how good we are. I wish we discussed these more positive things more often.

  I don’t follow either of their solo careers. I’m not very computer savvy. A funny contradiction I’ve noticed with the whole rockabilly scene is that for a bunch of people who crave the lifestyle of a bygone era, they have really embraced the Internet and all modern ways of gossiping, snooping, and snarky commentary. In the past, a disgruntled fan would have to write a letter and lick a stamp and an envelope in order to express some clumsily veiled jealousy toward a band he or she secretly worships. We three do all agree on this one. The rare times I speak with them, I enjoy talking to each of them. We inevitably wind up talking about something or someone from when we were growing up in Massapequa. There is always one time in every conversation where I genuinely crack up with laughter, and when I hang up the phone, I always wonder what happened and what could be so bad that we don’t do this more often. The other two tend to remember unhappier moments. Maybe it’s my drummer’s naïveté and glass-half-full optimism.

  I have rarely ever listened to a solo record by either of them. It’s too hard for me to be objective. When I do hear a track, I recognize their styles immediately and know their records are going to be good if for no other reason than that they are both super-talented guys. For me, the records I’ve heard lack the X factor of the Stray Cats, regardless of how many copies have been sold. I don’t think they are as good as the records we did make or the records we could have made. These are very unspecific regrets, I know. I won’t talk about their personal lives. I wa
s very hurt when Brian called to tell me the band was over by a phone call. I thought then and still believe it was a shabby way to end it.

  In 1985, I didn’t have the life skills or technique to navigate this properly. I was twenty-four years old and had spent my entire adult life up until then in the Stray Cats—it was all I knew. I slammed the phone down and yelled. I didn’t speak to Brian for two years. I know he felt at the time that I couldn’t musically handle his vision for his new musical direction—which in the end was straight-up rock music that I could’ve easily handled. I wish we had given it more of a chance, because the next record would have been the one that really proved something to the world and us. If we had combined what would appear on both his and our solo records, it would have pushed rockabilly forward again. I think I proved on the Phantom, Rocker & Slick record that I could handle regular rock music. I felt insecure about my playing for a while, but I haven’t for a long time. Perhaps I had to make that album to prove something to myself. I have learned to embrace my own style and technique, but am not sure if I would have got there without doing that first Phantom, Rocker & Slick album. Further proof for me that although sometimes unwanted, everything happens for a reason.