“Well, that means we’re everyone. It’s not a lot. We make the music—you guys promote the music—that’s what record companies do.”
“Really?”
“C’mon, Jaime. These guys are really good. Have you listened to the album?”
“Sure.”
“Well?”
“Adam, it doesn’t fit.”
“What do you mean—doesn’t fit?”
“It’s not AOR, it’s not New Wave, it’s not really New Romantic. I don’t know who would play it.”
“Look, Jaime, you’re the president of DCA. You don’t ask people to play it. You tell people to play it.”
“Adam, have you heard my new band—Bang Tango? These guys are really something special. They’re like the Cult and Poison combined.”
“Let these guys play for you. It’s a whole ‘nother animal live.”
“Adam. I’m a very busy man.”
“Alright, Jaime. I read you loud and clear.”
Felder presses the button on the receiver, dials Bernie’s number. “Seller’s fucking us. Can you call him?”
The next day Felder gets a message from Seller: “Thunderstick showcase February 2—somewhere close—forty-five-minute set—seven o’clock.”
It is band meeting time again. It is one of those days—crisp, onshore wind—the sky is filled with hang gliders. Eric finds Kurt standing at the edge of the cliff with his arms over a wooden railing staring down at Black’s Beach. “Hey, Kurt, listen to this: I caught Spewing walking around my house with a tape measure and a skinny German dude.” The human kites circle high above the ocean in garish Sunday-school colors.
Kurt distorts his face at Eric. “What the hell?”
“That’s what I said to Spewing. He looks at me and says, ‘Hey, Eric, this is Gerhard. He’s my architect. We’re figuring out how we’re going to remodel your shitty house after I take it from you in court.’”
“I hope you punched him,” Kurt says.
“No. I told him he was trespassing. He looked at me with a straight face and said, ‘Not for long.’ Can you believe that shit? Is he gonna win?”
Kurt squints into the sky. A purple triangle, a hang glider, blocks out the sun for a second. “I’ve always wanted to do that, kinda.”
“I guess it might be okay.” Eric looks at Kurt. “I’m stressed, man. The devil. The lawsuit. DCA.”
Kurt wrinkles his brow, befuddled. Eric waves his hands in the air and says, “Where the fuck is the Jovi?”
“He’ll be here.” Kurt brings the Zippo flame to his smoke. “Ease up. That’s Black’s Beach down there, Planet of the fucking Apes.” He smiles and laughs and glows for a second. “Seen some days down there.”
“It is Planet of the Apes. All you need is the Statue of Liberty sticking her head out of the sand and a beautiful mute girl riding bitch on your steed. Carrie Gomez would do.” Eric imitates Charlton Heston: “Get your hands off me, you damn dirty ape.”
“What are you talking about?” Kurt exhales a small cloud of gray smoke from the sides of his mouth.
“Nothing. How’s the jaw?”
“Good. I got an appointment in L.A. with the top doctor in the world. You think you can drive me? Mustang’s down.”
“Yeah. Sure. Anytime.”
The Jovi shows. Nobody apologizes. Nobody has to. Sven says, “We’re pirates set to plunder.”
“We’re a business,” says EJ.
“Just wait a couple months for my brother to mellow out. You can make her your chick in a couple months. Would you do that for me?” Kurt asks the Jovi.
“Yeah. Of course.” The Jovi pushes his hand through his hair and looks down at Black’s Beach. “You think there’s any waves?”
“A little something. So, Felder says we’ve got to showcase for DCA.”
“Like we’re not even fucking signed,” Eric says in disgust.
“Shut the fuck up! We are signed. We play for them. They cop our vibe. It’s on. They’ll promote us. They aren’t stupid.” Kurt presses his finger into his temple, opens his jaw. “We’re still going to be the biggest band in the world. Keep your head in this fucking thing, Eric.”
“Yeah, I just meant it kinda…”
“It doesn’t fucking matter. If we stick together, everything is going to be fine.”
“Kurt’s right,” the Jovi says.
“Kurt’s fucking right,” EJ says.
“He’s right,” Sven says.
The Jovi takes Eric aside and throws him an injured look. “You’re hanging out with James.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know you guys were close.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“That’s… Yeah. Maybe you can redirect some of this shit off of Kurt.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t let James wreck this whole thing.”
“Hold on, it wasn’t James who fucked his best friend’s chick.”
“It’s not like that. It’s pure love. The real thing. Love isn’t like you think. Love isn’t like cute little puppies and everyone’s happy. Love comes and fucking torches everything else in your life. That’s what it’s supposed to do.”
“How do you know it’s love?”
“She’s cured my whoring. I don’t even look at other chicks.”
“You said you’d wait.”
“Chicks like Sophie don’t wait. And believe me, Kurt doesn’t really care. He just wants to be famous.”
For the showcase Felder rents the biggest room at the most expensive rehearsal studio in the Valley and sends the bill to DCA. The Jacksons are using the same room to prep for Michael’s “my-brothers-are-broke” tour. They have choreographed dance routines, a horn section. Thunderstick doesn’t dance. The only thing theatrical in the Thunderstick show is Kurt Franklin’s self-exorcism, but Felder has strictly prohibited that. At Felder’s urging, Kurt brings Priscilla and some of the others from the Vine Church.
EJ and Eric pull into the parking lot. As the headlights turn across the gravel, they illuminate a hulking figure listing from side to side, pissing, holding his dick like a garden hose. It’s Jesse the Giant. He squints into the headlights and flips them the bird.
“Holy shit, look at that thing,” says EJ.
“What?”
“His dick! I got more than a gerbil, but I ain’t got that. His poor girlfriend, no wonder she’s a little cross-eyed.”
Eric laughs. “So, if you have more than a gerbil does that mean you have a hamster?”
“Fuck you, Eric! I got a fucking Guinea Pig.”
“Shit, a Guinea Pig, that’s pretty good, those things are like two handfuls, I don’t think I got that. But don’t they shrink when they get wet like a poodle so maybe—”
“I’m not short! It’s just my neck, you know. If my neck was a normal length, I’d be six feet, just like the rest of you.” EJ stares off into space. “I’m serious. Look at it.”
“Yup. You’re right. Your head is pretty much mounted on your shoulders.”
Jesse stumbles over to the car window, breathes some beer in Eric’s face, sticks his big mitt inside, and shakes Eric’s hand.
From the stage, the sound is pretty close to flawless, not a single note out of key, not a single transition stumbled over. Thunderstick is driving it home, but the new people stand huddled down in front, curious but unmoved, like dogs watching a butcher take apart a pig through a plate-glass window. One guy bobs his curls in the back—the only human movement in the crowd.
After the last song, the silent crowd parts as Bernie pushes his way up onto the stage, grabs a sweaty, shirtless Kurt by the dog collar, grabs one of EJ’s broken drumsticks from the ground, huddles up the band, and says, “Three hundred dates! I don’t want to see you again ‘til you’ve done three hundred dates!”
“You liked it?” Felder asks.
“Did I like it? These boys are going to conquer America—that’s how much I liked it! I want you to meet my wife.” Kurt is s
miling his genuine smile as Bernie grabs him by the dog collar and leads him away from the rest of the band. A sweaty EJ slaps Eric on the back. “We did it!”
When the place has cleared out, when there is nothing but gear and roadies, Eric spots Felder sitting on a black-carpeted speaker and staring off into space.
“What’s up, Adam?”
“I fucking knew DCA was wrong. Why didn’t I trust my instincts on this one?”
“I thought Bernie loved it.”
“Bernie’s our guy, but he’s as good as gone. Seller, that cocksucker, he had the nerve to say to me: ‘The band is good. I look forward to working with you.’”
Eric laughs. “That sounds alright.”
“Eric, in Hollywood that’s like saying ‘I don’t see it.’ In this business, if you like something, you say you love it; if you hate it, you say you like it; if you love it, you say you’d kill your firstborn for it, especially when it’s on your calendar. We’re on his fucking calendar. I could see it in his eyes. He’s gonna string us out until Bernie’s gone, and then he’s gonna—”
“What’s up?” Kurt walks up with Priscilla under his arm.
“Great show, Kurt. Great show. We’re okay. Everything’s okay. They dug it.”
On Monday Felder is sitting in his office when his assistant, Carol, says, “Adam, I’ve got Mr. Seller’s office on line one.”
Adam picks up the phone. “Jaime. I was hoping you’d call.”
“Mr. Felder? This is Sheryl, Mr. Seller’s assistant.”
“Okay. You got me. Put him on.”
“Mr. Seller is busy right now. He asked me to pass a message along to you.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No, Mr. Felder, I’m not kidding you. His message is this: After hearing Thunderstick live, he believes the album needs to be remastered and at least a few songs rerecorded.”
Adam is speechless.
“Hello? Mr. Felder?”
“I’m here.”
“Mr. Seller also asked me to tell you that he would like the album to sound more like Bad Company.”
“Bad Company? Bad-Company-from-1974 Bad Company? Bad Company with the song “Bad Company” off the album Bad Company?”
“No, Mr. Felder. Mr. Seller likes the 1988 release Dangerous Age.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No, Mr. Felder, I’m not kidding you.”
“Those guys are fucking forty! Forty? They’re fucking fifty! That’s not Bad Company—that’s reconstituted Bad Company. That’s a sad, middle-aged, comeback album. Kids don’t listen to that shit.”
“Mr. Felder?”
“Yes?”
“That’s all.”
Felder slams down the phone and seethes. “Carol, if you ever tell me that Mr. Seller is on the phone and he’s not, our love affair is over. You hear me?”
“Sorry.”
“Get me someone from the band on the phone.”
Kurt doesn’t answer his phone.
Eric does. Felder explains.
“Are you kidding?”
“No. That’s what everybody wants right now—Bad Company. Look, we have to do something. As of right now, we’re off the calendar.”
“They bumped the release?”
“We need to change the album, make it more rock, less alternative, more AOR, or they’re never going to even release it.”
“Who’s gonna tell Kurt?”
“You.”
There is silence.
“Just fucking around. I’ll tell him.”
Felder calls Kurt.
“I got some new songs,” Kurt volunteers.
“We’re on a shoestring here. We’ve got one day, Kurt. One day in the studio. No fucking around like before. One day. Got it?”
“Yup.”
The opulence of A&M studios is all behind Thunderstick now. We go into a tiny studio in the heart of the Valley, no runners, no catering, no valet parking, no hippie icons, no U2, no excess. We need to rip out four tracks in one day. Kurt doesn’t even let the Jovi try a single guitar lead. He takes Eric’s thirty-watt mini-Marshall, puts every button on ten, plugs in his Strat, and just kills it. If the little amp had a uvula, it would be shaking wildly in the back of its throat. Kurt has unleashed the Kraken, and the thing comes out of the water with its giant lizard head, mouth agape. It is one of those control-room moments when the hair on your arm stands up and everybody watching gets real still. After the lead is done, Kostas hits a button and the playback stops.
“How was that?” Kurt asks humbly.
Kostas leans into the mic on the mixing board, presses another button, and says, “I think you got it.” Then he releases the button and laughs.
It’s clear the Jovi is being stepped on, but he nods and tries to be good-natured about it. “That’s pretty good. Kurt should play lead on a couple songs. I’m cool with that.” His eyes have a watery gloss to them.
Kurt and Eric spend the night at Dane’s roach-infested apartment off Orange, and the next day Eric takes him to see the TMJ specialist. The office is in Brentwood on a eucalyptus-lined side street. Kurt is in with the doctor. Eric sits in the waiting room, waiting, reading, checking out the white hose on the nurses. After Kurt has been in there for a while, the tall and pasty doctor comes out and asks to see Eric.
“You want to examine me?”
“No, I’d like to talk to you.”
Eric follows the doctor down the hall into the examination room. He sits on a white sheet of paper in his black jeans.
“Are you Mr. Franklin’s caregiver?”
“I’m his keyboard player.”
“Can I ask you a question or two?”
“Shoot.”
“I see from his records that he has been on psychiatric disability from the state for six years.”
Eric laughs. “Oh, not anymore. He called those people and told them that he got the biggest record deal in the history of rock. He told them he didn’t need those checks anymore.”
“Yes, I see that here too. So that really happened?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Why?”
“His social worker thought he was delusional. She noted it as cause for concern.”
Eric laughs again. “He bought himself another ten years of checks, huh?”
“You think this is funny?”
“No. Of course not. Just the thought of, you know…How’s his jaw? He said he might need braces or a retainer or something.”
“I’ve looked at his jaw, x-rays, bite. I don’t see anything. It seems perfectly normal.” He looks down at his clipboard. “Is he still on Mellaril?”
“No. Kurt kicked drugs. He’s a new man.”
“Kicked?”
“Cold turkey.”
“Not on a doctor’s recommendation, I imagine.”
“No. His brother, God, that’s it.”
“God?”
“You think there’s any way that demon’s are causing the pain in his jaw? That’s what Kurt keeps saying.”
The doctor looks at Eric for a long second then says, “Well, I think Kurt may want to reconsider psychiatric medication. It would probably do his jaw more good than braces. Has he tried lithium?”
On the 5, Kurt sits in the passenger seat, looking a little caged. He pushes in a cassette. “Ocean Rain” by Echo & the Bunnymen. He blasts the music and sings along. Eric thinks to himself, That doctor has no clue at all; it’s impossible; there must be something wrong with his jaw
While singing loudly to “Villiers Terrace,” Kurt snaps. He ejects the tape, throws it out the window, turns the radio to static, and screams at the top of his lungs. Then he starts kicking the dashboard until it bends into a crease.
“Cut it out, Kurt! Stop it!”
He continues kicking until the bent plastic breaks off. Eric slams on the brakes and pulls onto the side of the road somewhere near Oceanside.
“Nobody has any respect f
or what I do! I’m the best fucking singer in the whole world and nobody fucking cares. I have to redo the best album that has come out in ten years, and I get no respect!”
“I know. I know. I’m on your side. Don’t fucking take it out on my car!”
“Then why don’t you do something? Help out! What? I can’t do everything myself! Just fucking leave me alone.” Kurt gets out of the car, slams the door so hard the glass shatters, and stomps off into the dry brush.
Priscilla is standing in the bright light in her Minnie Mouse heels with a basket of sample packets in one hand and a spray bottle of perfume in the other. Near a kiosk of sunglasses, Eric watches her greet strangers. Most shun her, walk away. She doesn’t care. She just smiles for the next one. He walks over tentatively.
“Hey, Priscilla, how’s it going?”
“Oh! Eric! Oh my goodness! What are you doing here?”
“Nothing. Just shopping, I guess.”
“Really?”
“No. Not really. I wanted to talk to you. It’s about Kurt’s doctor in L.A.”
She tries to smile. “I told Kurt not to stick you with the bill.”
“It’s not that.”
“Um…okay. Let me take my break.”
They sit in the atrium beneath an escalator and a palm tree. Priscilla puts her hands on her lap, leans forward, and says, “Do you think that specialist can fix Kurt’s jaw?”
“Well…I don’t…What I came here to tell you is that the doc in L.A., he said nothing was wrong with Kurt’s jaw. He said whatever is causing all that pain is not something he can physically see.”
“Oh.” Priscilla puts her hand over her mouth and looks off toward the Burrito Barn.
“Kurt needs to go on lithium or something like that—that’s what the doc thinks would fix it.”
Fear chases hopelessness across Priscilla’s face and down her neck. She swallows them down and says in a slow, drawn-out voice, “I think you’re right.”
Kurt’s father, Wayne, is alone in the desert, doing wind sprints on his banjo. He fingerpicks ferociously fast then stops cold, waits two seconds, plays ferociously fast, then stops cold, waits two seconds, plays ferociously fast. His phone rings. Outside his window is a brown dry riverbed. His phone rings again. He stops picking, grabs the receiver, and yells, “Who is it?”
Before the Flock Page 20