[Previous entry: "We put the GRIM in Grimaldi."] [Next entry: "Helden (part two)"]
04/08/2005: "Helden (part one)"
I've both spoken and written about the following incident at great length
(some might say "ad nausium") in the past, but I can't help feeling that,
in light of a recent development, it bears repeating. If you've read of
head it before (and, given my tendency to repeat myself, there may only
be a small tribe in Borneo who haven't), please feel free to skip down a
few paragraphs.
By the way, the following story is guaranteed to be 100% true:
About a decade or so ago, the Dead Milkmen had sold out a show at The
First Avenue in Minneapolis. Following the show, the venue, in a wonderful
display of generosity, opened the bar to us and assigned a young lady the
task of making sure that we got back to our hotel safely. Joe, Dave, and
Dan called it an early night, but Dean, Matt, and I stayed on to drink into
the wee hours. To our delight we found ourselves joined by our good friend
Bobby Schayer; who, at that time, was drumming for Bad Religion.
We drank steadily until the sun came up; then we decided that it was time
to head back to the hotel (the fact that the club was closing and tossing
everyone out played a large part in this decision); so we piled into the
car of the young woman who'd been assigned to make sure that we arrived at
the Hilton in one piece (sans a few brain cells) and departed. Bobby kindly
agreed to return to the hotel with us to help Matt and I drain whatever was
left in our mini-bar.
We were standing on the curb thanking the young lady for the excellent
performance of her duties, when, as if out of nowhere, there suddenly
appeared a guy in his late teens or early twenties who pointed over our
shoulders and breathlessly panted, "He…I…he…I waved…he…He waved
back!"
Matt immediately took on the role of translator, "OK, he waved back. It's
a good story; really, it is, but it's missing just one small piece of
information: who is he?"
The kid blinked in astonishment and look at us as if we were a group of
escaped mental patients instead of the pack of hopeless drunks. That look
said, "Who the fuck else could 'He' be?" The kid swallowed three or four
gulps of air and blurted out, "Robert Smith, of course."
It took a few minutes, but we finally got the story out of the kid. It
seems that he was standing on a corner a few yards away (what he was doing
there at 5am we were never able to figure) when a tour bus drove past.
Instinctively, the kid waved at the tour bus not knowing if its occupants
were Dead Can Dance or Alabama (no doubt on their way to one of our
nation's fine State fairs). The curtains of the tour bus parted and there,
lo and behold, was the kid's hero, Robert Smith, smiling and waving back
at him. The kid immediately set of running in search of someone to impart
the good news of this miracle sighting to. He ran smack into us and, by
extension, his destiny.
"Oh, yeah,' said Bobby, "I think I remember our manager saying something
about us sharing a hotel with The Cure in Minneapolis."
"Hey," I said turning to the hyperventilating kid, "How would you like to
meet Robert Smith?"
"You…you…he…Robert…me…meet?"
"I promise."
Now, despite have been a huge fan for many years, I don't actually
know Robert Smith; so you might think that I'd just made a promise that
I couldn't possibly keep. However, this story takes place back when I was
young and single: back when not only was I a huge fan of Robert Smith, but
also a huge fan of young women between the ages of 19 and 24. It was one
of these young women who, a month earlier and nearly 1,500 miles away,
during an unbelievably lengthy explanation, over beers, of why she was
definitely NOT a groupie despite he propensity for sleeping with musicians
happened to mention that se knew the alias that Robert Smith used when he
checked into hotels (No, the girl didn't sleep with Robert Smith; which we
may chalk up to Mr. Smith's good judgment and not to a lack of effort on
the part of the young lady).
Of the over one million people in the greater metropolitan area, the kid
had managed to bump into one of only a handful of people who not only knew
where Robert Smith was staying, but also under what name.
"You…you promise?"
"I put my arm around the hopeful lad's shoulder and slurred into his ear,
"Of course I do. After all, I'm Jesus Christ; aren't I?" The creepy part
is that, looking back, I think I actually meant it.
Dean poked his head back into the car of the young woman who'd been saddled
with the task of chauffeuring our drunken asses home, and who'd been
watching the drama on the sidewalk play out, and said "Um…could you please
drive us to just one more place?"
So we, along with our new, kinetic friend piled back into the car and sped
off towards Bobby/Robert's hotel while I explained "the plan" (which
consisted entirely of "Keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking") to
the kid.
"Oh, God! I can't believe…I…he…I'm his biggest fan! I …I never dreamed…
Robert Smith…I hope I don't kill him." Somehow, those last six words
failed to fully penetrate our pickled brains.
We pulled up in front of the hotel and the kid and I sprinted (I would've
preferred to slowly stagger, but the kid was doing everything in
fast-forward mode and I didn't want him to reach the front desk before I
did: that would be disastrous) inside. Before I could say a word, the woman
at the front desk pointed at me and said "Hey, I recognize you from TV?"
This was back when Punk Rock Girl was being shown three times an
hour on every television show from Headbanger's Ball to Black
Separatist Farm Report, so the only people in whom my presence didn't
stir feeling of familiarity were either blind or exceedingly elderly (like
the members of Sonic Youth).
"Oh, thanks," I said "My name is…Paul Westerberg. Yes, I'm Paul Westerberg
and I've come to visit my good friend Robert Smith. He's staying in your
fine establishment under the name of M T." [No, not "Mr. T",
"Marlo Thomas", or "Marisa Tomei".]
Now this woman recognized me from a music video. She had, living in
Minneapolis, heard the name "Paul Westerberg" before. And I knew the
Kabalistic secret name of God. Therefore I must be the genuine article.
"Oh, yes. I thought that was you. Mr. Smith is in room 1403. I'll call him
and tell him that you're on you way up."
"If you don't mind, I'd like to surprise him. I can't tell you how
long it's been since we've seen each other." Technically, both of these
statements were true.
With the nice front desk lady's approval, I headed toward the elevator with
the kid, who was now convinced that he was dreaming, in tow. I pushed the
"up" button, turned to the kid and said, "From here on, you're on your own.
Good luck." We shook hands and I ducked out the back way.
In the car, on the way back to our hotel, we suddenly found ourselves
recast as Olympian Gods who had managed, with a few puffs of breath, to
steer a small ship full of Greeks to the Land of the Golden Fleece.
"That kid is about to meet his hero"
"He'll remember this night for the rest of his life."
"We've made a young boy's dreams come true. We're like some sort of
fucked-up Make-A-Wish Foundation".
And then the car grew eerily silent.
"'I hope I don't kill him'," we mouthed in unison. What had we done?
"Just what the Hell did you do last nigh?" That was the question that my
manager asked my at 10:00am the next morning when, after letting the phone
ring about three dozen times, I finally crawled from under the blankets and
answered his call.
I swear by Hephaistos that I could actually feel his anger through
the phone. I don't think that my parents sounded as menacing when, during
my pre-teen years, they had become convinced that I'd vandalized a local
church (A crime for which I was later exonerated, much to the surprise of
everyone including myself: it really did sound like the kind of thing I
would've done).
Just what the Hell had I done the night before? To be honest, I couldn't
remember. Since our drinking spree coincided with "Club Sex" night at the
First Avenue, the list of illicit acts that I could've committed was quite
lengthy; thank you. I can sense that some explanation is called for. Once
a month, on Wednesday night from midnight until dawn, the First Avenue
would host an event called "Club Sex" that was exactly what the name
implies. Dean, Matt, and Bobby sequestered themselves in the upstairs bar,
so their contact with the participants of "Club Sex" was practically nil.
I, on the other hand, being a "people person", felt the need to mingle.
But just what the Hell had I done? Turned my boot inside out and used it as
a urinal? No, I'm pretty sure that was Alexander Soljenitsin. Had I turned
someone else's boot inside out and used it as a urinal? No, that was
definitely William Howard Taft. Drawing blank after blank, I decided to
take a shot in the dark, "Did I make my favorite horse a Senator?"
"Electra is pissed."
"Well she did sleep with her father…"
A bit of free advice, if you'll allow me: NEVER make an obscure
mythological reference to someone who is angry at you. They will NOT find
it endearing.
"I've been on the phone with them all morning. They're threatening not to
distribute the album. The Cure is one of their biggest groups…"
Electra? The Cure? With a loud, rusty creak, the gates of my mind swung
open and a wave of dark memory, like fetid water, washed over me.
"'I hope I don't kill him'," I muttered and began fumbling for the remote.
If that kid had taken Head on the Door literally, CNN was sure to
have the story. My stomached turned in upon itself. Oh God of Israel, if
you let this cup pass me by and not only will I never attend another "Club
Sex" ever again, but I'll never even look at another beer. "Please tell me
that kid didn't hurt Robert Smith."
As it thankfully turned out, the kid didn't harm Robert Smith. He did,
however, scare the living shit out him.
Most Rock Stars when confronted a with the fish-eye view through a hotel
door peephole of drunken fan screaming "Wake up, man. I love you" would
call either the front desk, the cops, or both. Robert Smith, being a
genuinely nice guy actually opened the door, thanked the kid for his
enthusiasm, gave him a hug, and offered him two free tickets to that
night's Cure concert if he would just go away.
The kid would have none of it. He had come with the intension of become
Robert Smith best buddy for life and he wasn't leaving until he achieved
this lofty goal. Robert Smith upped the ante three times (offering the kid,
in addition to the tickets; an autographed picture; a guitar; and, finally,
some of his own clothing, if he would just go away) before he broke down
and called the front desk; who then sent hotel security to remove (drag)
the kid from the premises.
So how did this fiasco get traced back to your friend and humble narrator?
Well, on the ride to Robert's hotel, Bobby had apparently, and with the
best intensions, told the kid that it was The Dead Milkmen who were making
his dreams come true. I'd like to think that it was Bobby's sense of
modesty, and not his wicked sense of humor, that kept him from mentioning
Bad Religion. Robert Smith, for his part, had the presence of mind to ask
the kid, while he was being led away and proving that boys do, indeed, cry,
just how he knew where to find him. The kid spilled the beans.
I spent the rest of the day on the phone, profusely apologizing.
Why am I telling you this story? I'll explain that tomorrow.
