by Karina Halle
I opened my mouth to protest, to tell him things were already fucked up, weird, and too much, but he went on.
“Just listen, please. I know you hate the idea of going home, but you’ve caught a lot of shows, spent a lot of time on the road, you’ve interviewed most of the band. You’ve really got everything you need.”
“I haven’t interviewed you,” I pointed out. “And you’re the most important piece of the puzzle.”
“I’m the most broken piece of the puzzle,” he spat out. He quickly composed himself and tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “If I give you an interview soon, will you think about packing it in? That doesn’t mean you’re quitting, it just means you’re done.”
“Why do you want me to leave so badly?” I asked, stung.
Silence swamped us like the thick humidity.
Finally he said, quiet and husky, “I have too many things to worry about. I don’t want to worry about you.”
“You don’t need to worry about me,” I told him. I smoothed down my hair and shirt and put on a sober face.
“You’re stubborn and you’re scared,” he said, smiling just enough to make his cheeks rise, dimples found in the scruffy two-day beard on his face. “It’s a dangerous combination.”
“I hear the world’s a dangerous place,” I replied.
He got to his feet and held his hand out for me. I returned his smile and put my hand in his, relishing the strength and warmth as he closed it over mine and pulled me to my feet.
“Come on,” he said, pulling me along. He let go of my hand when he was satisfied I would follow. “Let me go have another word with Graham. I plan on breaking every bone in his body except his arms and legs. Hybrid needs those.”
We walked back to the auditorium in a comfortable silence. In my head I kept repeating what Graham had said to me when he had me pinned up against the wall.
“You can’t save him. You can’t save any of them.”
Thirteen
I woke up to a weird slurping noise in the middle of the night, followed by a shaking of the bunk. I had my curtain drawn across, but even then I knew it was entirely dark on the bus and that it was in motion. I heard Bob at the driver’s seat, shifting gears as the bus climbed the hills that cluttered around southern Virginia.
I held my breath, listening for that slurping sound again, terrified of the monsters, real or imagined. Then I heard a sucking noise, followed by a groan. I’d heard that groan before. It was Robbie, in the bunk below.
I drew back the curtain and poked my head over the side. In the dim light I could see Robbie. Well, I saw parts of him. He was 69-ing with a rather porky-looking broad, her giant ass pulled apart by his hands, the white skin of it shining in the bits of passing light from the highway.
I gritted my teeth in anger and fell back into bed, putting the pillow over my face. I was dealing with Graham being an abusive asshole, potentially dangerous groupies, and shadowy Sage, and yet Robbie was still Robbie and managed to sneak some random chick on the bus for the journey down to the Charlotte Music Festival. I wished I was so carefree and clueless.
By 9AM, most of the people on the bus were up, except for Graham, thank god, who slept in the latest since he went to bed the latest. I knew Sage had given him a talking to last night when we returned to the venue, and I was glad I got to bed without having to face him. One look under the night sky and I would have sworn he was turning into a monster again.
I hopped off the bunk and got my first look at the smuggled groupie. She was sitting next to Robbie at the table, across from Noelle and Mickey, drinking a cup of freshly brewed coffee. She wasn’t as large as I had originally thought, just soft and curvy, the type of body I could easily have if I didn’t watch what I ate. She had honey blonde hair and green eyes and a cherubic face that wasn’t very sexual or cunning at all. She looked nice, and she was wearing one of Robbie’s t-shirts, stretched across her breasts. She caught my eye as I walked over and gave me a demure smile.
Behind the eating booth, Jacob sat on the bench flipping through newspapers. He spoke to me without looking up. “Someone better introduce Rusty.”
Sage was lying down on the couch with his eyes closed, a book on his chest, his shirt raised enough so that I could see trails of dark stomach hair snaking down toward his pants and hand-tooled belt. I tried not to stare and looked back at the new girl.
“I’m Dawn,” I said, trying to push both my thoughts about Sage and my anti-groupie feelings away.
“Don’t listen to her,” Robbie spoke up with a cheeky grin. “Her real name is Rusty. Rusty, this is Emeritta.”
Over the next hour, as the bus rolled through the trees toward the festival site on the banks of the Catawba River, I learned that Emeritta was actually a pretty cool chick. She was from Boston and was a huge fan of everything loud and gritty. She loved MC5, Sabbath, Vanilla Fudge, Iron Butterfly, and most of all, Hybrid. She gushed to Robbie about how his yapping howls in “Freedom Run” made her think of a dog in heat, and that the first time she saw them live, she almost came. She said it in a fit of giggles, which was quite endearing, and her own face went pink at her frankness. Most of all, Emeritta was kind and really listened to you when you were speaking. It made me feel a little ashamed for branding so many groupies a slut. I mean, yeah she slept with Robbie and I had a feeling she slept with a lot of rock stars, but a slut is a name you give a girl you don’t like. I liked Emeritta and was happy she was coming with us to Charlotte…and any other place after that, depending on how quickly Robbie discarded her.
By the time the bus was pulling up to the festival and lining up with all the other tour buses, the band had found their newfound energy and everyone was getting pretty excited. Graham only came out of the back room near the end, and to his credit, he stayed as far away from me as possible. I caught Sage shooting him wary glances from time to time but Graham took on a very hangdog, meek appearance. I, however, didn’t believe it for a second. I could still sense that black violence rolling around in his soul…if he even had one.
I could tell this was going to be a special show by the amount of whiskey and Bailey’s Jacob was pouring into his coffee. The festival was still sleepy this early in the afternoon, but the breeze of the river was deliciously cool and the air was swamped with a sensual headiness, punctuated by the sun that shone high in the sky and sparkled off the trees. The backstage area wasn’t some dingy dressing room or cramped lounge, but a bunch of mobile trailers scattered about in a pastoral setting behind the big stages. All of us, including Emeritta, walked through the grassy field now turned a miniature town of musicians. We passed trailers marked for Earth, Wind & Fire, Deep Purple, and The Eagles. We saw the wide-mouthed Steven Tyler of the band Aerosmith having a beer on his trailer steps, and spotted Bob Seger and Randy Bachman chatting up a few gorgeous blonde women.
The Hybrid trailer was just as big as the other ones, and our neighbor, who was playing an acoustic in his doorway, was none other than Ted Nugent. Even Sage was impressed and immediately went over to introduce himself.
Despite the ups and downs and nagging sense of doom that permeated my thinking as of late, the festival was turning me around. It was impossible not to smile, and I was glad Emeritta, someone as star-struck as I was, was there with me. We both took many walks together up and down that grass alley between the trailers, trying to look into windows (subtly, of course) and listen to what music was coming from what trailer. It was what I imagined Hollywood was like.
While we did our rounds in the steaming sun, squealing at the hello we got from a killer-mustached Jon Lord, I got to know Emeritta a little better. Now that she wasn’t surrounded by one of her favorite bands, she was more forthcoming.
“So what do you think about the other groupies out there?” I asked, trying to convey sincerity.
She laughed and tucked her hair behind her ears in a nervous gesture. “First of all, we hate that term. I know Zappa and Miss Pamela made it all cool and stuff, but I’m
just a rock lover. A lover of rock. I love with my ears and my body.”
I nodded, trying to figure out how not to insult her further. “I guess groupie doesn’t have to be a negative term though.”
“No, it doesn’t, but I know the way girls like you say it.”
I raised my brow but let her go on.
“You seem to forget all about the women’s movement. We’re free to love who we are and when we want to. A lot of us just happen to love rock stars. It doesn’t have to be bad. The bands love us. Everyone should be happy, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” I mused, seeing her logic. We sat down at a splintered picnic table along the fence. You could hear fans on the other side, trying to see over it or find a knothole to look through. I felt immensely cool, a feeling I thought I had lost. I relished it.
“See,” Emeritta said, beaming at me. “You love too, just differently. I know how you feel because I feel the same way right now. It’s far out. And when I’m with the men, I feel far out then too. But ten times more. You haven’t hooked up with anyone from the band?”
I hoped I wasn’t blushing. The last thing Emeritta needed to hear was that I hooked up with Robbie. It was something that made me feel dirty and ashamed, and though she probably wouldn’t have cared, I cared.
“No,” I lied. “That’s against the journalism oath.”
“They make you take an oath?”
“I took my own oath. Thou shalt not touch rock stars.”
“Tough oath you got there. I’d last five minutes. I heard that the first female journalist who went on the road with Led Zeppelin got raped by Bonzo.”
“That’s just a rumor,” I dismissed, knowing the fabled story. “Bonzo’s just a drunken teddy bear.”
She grinned, her teeth small and crooked on the bottom.
I rolled my eyes but smiled. “Let me guess, you slept with Bonzo.”
“No, I didn’t. And I know he didn’t rape anyone. He just got super feisty with the journalist. He gets like that. He did, however, fuck me with a champagne bottle.”
I nearly burst out laughing. “Okay, I just met you, Emeritta. I don’t need to know all your details.”
She shrugged, clearly unfazed. “It’s a pity you took your oath. Wouldn’t Sage be fun for a night?”
I couldn’t help but glare a little. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Oh, me neither,” she quickly said, showing her palms in peace. “Sage isn’t the groupie type. I’ve heard the occasional hook-up story, and I think he was with Miss Pamela for a while, just fuck friends, but he’s the unattainable lone wolf of the rock circuit. Just in case you were thinking about it.”
“Well I wasn’t.” I was really starting to hate Miss Pamela and her ways. If I was being honest with myself, I was jealous.
“You ladies want a beer?” a voice called out.
We looked over to see Randy Bachman walking toward us with two Coronas in his hands. He had an affable way about him, one of those non-threatening musicians, which I guess they all are when they’re from Canada.
He stopped by our table and handed us both a beer, which we accepted graciously. We made small talk for a few minutes while I tried really hard to be professional and not gush about The Guess Who, knowing he probably didn’t want to talk about his ex-band.
After he left to go join Fred Turner, I shot Emeritta a look.
“You thinking about him?” I joked.
She shrugged again. “Not at the festival, but he’s kind of cute. Why not?”
There I was back to not understanding her mentality. We finished our beers and began the hot walk back to the trailer, the grass tickling my bare legs. I realized she’d never answered my original question.
“So, back to this, what do you think about the other groupies…rock lovers…out there?”
She seemed to chew on that for a bit. Literally chewing on a piece of her blonde hair.
“It’s a dog-eat-dog world, that’s what,” she admitted with downcast eyes. “At the beginning, girls were a lot nicer to each other. It was all about the music and we were all in it together. Then the groupie scene kind of exploded thanks to that stupid Groupie movie. Now you’ll find girls who pretend to be your friend. You know the ones who say things like, “How are you, darling, I heard you had a flood in your neck of the woods, I was thinking about you and hoped you were okay,” or something else said out of fake concern. But they only say that shit when you’re in public and there’s lots of people around to see it, and then they go and talk behind your back. They only want people—musicians and famous people especially—to think they are oh so nice while they go and spread rumors about you when you’re not looking. That’s what I think about other groupies. No one helps or loves anyone anymore. It’s every fan for themselves.”
I was surprised to hear her rant like that, but there was a sense of relief to her face, like she hadn’t been able to confide in anyone for years. I was slowly but surely finding out that all the fun parts of the music scene weren’t exactly as they seemed.
Given that realization, when we got back to the trailer I wasn’t too surprised to find Robbie doing a line of coke with Jacob and Noelle, the white stuff sorted out on the faux-wood dinette table. None of them looked ashamed and just continued to snort the stuff up using a twenty-dollar bill that Jacob had provided. Jacob, who was wearing a yellow and brown suit despite the heat, gave me one of his “I am what I am” looks and carried on.
I tried to ignore the disgust I felt (they had a festival to play, shouldn’t that have been enough excitement?), and I walked into the rear of the trailer and flopped down on the cheap green couch beside Chip who was lying down and drinking a can of Pepsi. Sage, Graham, and Mickey were nowhere to be found. I heard Robbie offer Emeritta a hit but she refused, saying she never did hard drugs. I liked her even more after that.
Hybrid’s set was on the second biggest of the three stages, with the coveted sunset slot. I was going stir-crazy in the hot trailer, and convinced Chip to explore the festival with me and catch some lesser known acts (Emeritta and Robbie disappeared into the back room of the trailer, so there was no point waiting for her). The rest of the band seemed to want to stay on the bus with that one measly rotating fan. I’d later figure out that they were nervous and hiding. Playing to a crowd that’s not specifically there to see you was always a challenge to them, a band that too easily judged their talent by the crowd’s reaction.
Chip was good company and knew a lot more about some of the bands than I did and loved to flex his “I know everyone” muscle. We drank beer and enjoyed the sunshine, mingling with other roadies and sound techs as well as the general public— scruffy-bearded men and women in flowery dresses. There was an overall stench of marijuana and body odor in the air, though the occasional breeze wafted by carrying the smell of hot dogs, dirt, and river water. The Catawba River was the place to be in between sets, and we sat by the muddy banks, watching a bunch of stoned hippies run into the water naked and shrieking.
As fun and carefree as the setting was however, that didn’t stop me from glancing around every chance I got. I was looking for Sonja, Terri, or Sparky, my eyes fixating on every pale blonde or spiky-haired brunette I saw. I wondered if they were here, hiding and waiting, and if they were, what they would do to me. Of course, there was a big chance they wouldn’t do anything—their bark could have been worse than their whorish bite. But I wasn’t going to take any chances; Jacob didn’t tell me they weren’t dangerous, and Sage, in all his vague glory, was definitely leaning toward that option too. Maybe it would just be name-calling and hair-pulling (which I would win at), or perhaps something worse. I shuddered a bit at the thought and Chip mistook that for a chill and put his arm around me.
“Is my Rusty doing okay?” he asked, steering me back toward Hybrid’s stage. He was going to have to set up and check the levels soon. The sun was low in the sky and the air temperature was dropping to a more tolerable level.
I smiled awkwardly but let
him keep his arm there. Chip was harmless, and I felt like a little extra protection couldn’t hurt.
Hybrid went on to an electric and moody atmosphere. The sky was darkening, a mixture of bright reds and purples as the glowing sun began its descent toward the horizon. Bats appeared, flittering above the crowd’s head, followed by the flowery, cooling smell that comes with dusk after a hot day. I spent the first few songs at the side stage, gawking at the members of REO Speedwagon before Emeritta dragged me down into the crowd where we could experience the show as it was supposed to be seen.
I didn’t know why Hybrid was nervous at all, or if perhaps that tension made them play that much better, but it was the best show of the tour. Absolutely. Determined to knock the socks off of the crowd, they gave it all they had. Robbie strutted around like a peacock, wailing into the mic like his life depended on it, his tight pants, open fringed vest, and winning smile causing the women to shriek and fan themselves. Sage and Mickey worked with each other, walking right up to one other during the harder parts, like a riff-off, only they were smiling for once and enjoying it. From my viewpoint I couldn’t see Graham and for that I was glad, but I could hear his monstrous sound and that was enough for me. The only one who seemed off-kilter was Noelle. She held her own with a nervous, hunched over stance, and a few times I was certain she was going to mess up, but she pulled through and so did the band.
It really was a prime example of the band’s energy and musicianship. They introduced a never-played before cover of “Purple Haze” which made the crowd go bonkers, and they ended with “Wet Lips” which they extended from three minutes to fifteen, jamming without a care in the world. I looked at the dude next to me, and he had his eyes closed, moving to the unpredictable beat, his face lit up with a spacey smile. I heard murmurs spread through the audience, things like “far-out,” “cool city,” “awesome,” and “best set of the festival.” Hybrid wowed their fans and earned new ones in the making. Troubles aside, I was honored to be a part of it. The band really had me on a roller coaster ride.