I Can't Get No

"Satis------"

The concierge took her by surprise from behind, when he suddenly began singing. They had been distracted by the level of opulence in the hotel lobby. Even the unused ashtrays were made out of 18 carat gold.

They were escorted up a fire stairway, "Forgive the back entrance. It's the only way to deal with fans and PAP-parazzi, you see," The penguin in the monkey suit addressed them like foreign dignitaries, as they passed obscene graffiti on the walls. 

They exchanged looks at every opportunity.

"I'm taking this as a giant metaphor for exactly how we're going to fucked if we accept" he whispered into her ear.

They were being asked to "donate" a song to a charity album.

Although they were pretty sure the charity to benefit was the Rough Group.

They had made their initial impact on the 60's scene as the Tougher, Rougher version of everyone. More working class, quicker to seduce & sail (wham, bam, no thank you ma'am). Generally punk before it was a thing, capitalizing on the Angry Young Man thing. The Most Successful Group Ever were the cute ones, targeted at fresh faced young women, ages 4-49. These were targeting the divorcees, the seamy side of men.  They were the Angry White Men of Power, who had the Blues.

Surprisingly enough, the hotel room itself was simple and sparse, more like an office with a bedroom than an opulent hotel room. A simple folding table, a big comfy chair behind it (which MJ never sat in) and 2 standard issue iron folding chairs for them.

"Less shit to trash."

They don't trash things anymore, do they?

Not them, the guests, the friends of friends, I wouldn't be surprised if... Yep, that other room has no furniture at all!!"

And less shit to steal.

Let me do all the talking

(Of course, MJ only spoke to her. And ignored everything P had to say)

The ironic thing of the day was that MJ was a boring businessman. Dressed in sweats with holes. Talking percentages, they swapped numbers and P brought up something dull, which was treated like a delicious piece of gossip. (Golfing, hobby? A girl they both had slept with??) 

It was a flirtation, yes, but a business flirtation. She gave as good as she got, all talk, no touching. She was sharp about that & he respected her. But somehow they were consumed & eaten in the end. 

"Welcome to the MAW, you think those lips are just a trademark icon? Symbol for the monster that eats you. It looks like a kiss and next thing you know, you are bitten in half. Or your face is half bitten off. 

How can you get fucked & eaten at the same time? 

Don't answer that.

I don't know about this

It's the nature of this monster.

Bedfellows Strange

She had sworn up and down that she would never perform.

Looking at her, the shy kid, hiding behind glassless glasses, you'd agree.  Even in the world of Folk Music, the DIY, consciously casual (except for the hippies, who honestly thought "come as you are" was a way of life), she fit in only on the Backstage spectrum. 

Mostly, she looked scared. Of everything.

He wouldn't understand this fully, until he met her mother. 

She had whispered something to someone at the station. An open mic, a mysterious stage name.  Something was going on there tonight and he wanted to find out. 

He brought a friend of his (someone she was impressed with the first few times, and then grew to see as a disciple, a lackey, someone lower and more in love with him than she was.)

He watched her in the dark.

Awkward intro, a few strums in tune (thank god), she began singing a few words, vague, directionless, evaporating in the air as she released them.  No meaning to anchor them to anything.

"Tonight, found I, in a strange bed"

Onstage, she was suddenly earnest. A true folkie. A voice, yes, prettier than she would let on. It came through in phrasing. 

The song itself was joyless, the frustration of a 22 year old, the fear of selling out. Some whining. 

"You don't need the fat of The Man"

When she said those words, it seemed she was looking right at him. And damn it, if his brain didn't hear The Bell. When a piece of art HITS YOU. 

He suddenly saw that he'd never be able to make her happy, all his money, his fame, his talent, it was all FAT. She could leave him at any moment. For him, that was the most terrifying thought of all. 

His life was built on a loose webbing of connections.  People who loved him, unconditionally, even when drunk. He had money, when that failed, he had fame, when that failed, he had talent. He used to have charm too, but he gave that up. Too hard to maintain.

He watched her in the dark.

The song didn't do her any favors, weighed down by monotonous, vague lyrics, it conveyed its message. Not pleasant to hear or a new way of saying it. 

When she was done, the audience politely clapped. He gave her a slow standing ovation, so she would be sure to see him.

She did.

And they didn't speak for a few days in the office.

It didn't come up again, until months later. When he asked her to introduce him.

"Not like I'm asking you to sing," he teased.

And then, he brought her up for backup. 

Gradually, it happened.

When I turned my back on the devil

He was old & on his way out. She was younger, not young, but enough to catch his eye.

And his heart.

And his cock.

Everything in him stood at attention when she walked into the room.

She was the kind of person who threw all the rules out the window. And then had you questioning gravity.

He loved not just her body, but also her presence. 

The first day, he noted her body filing up the space in the room (so sweet-but not yet)

Then, he began getting to know her as a role among the players in the room.

It wasn't until he felt the stirrings, until he began to laugh, that he began to see her open like a flower. 

And then, he felt consumed by the need to be in her presence, in her spirit, needing to have her eyes on him, her voice her mind, directed at him. 

Once he was there, he couldn't imagine anything else.

Until later, when his life was marked only by her absence.

I turned my back on the Angel too.

You want it darker (album)

Leonard Cohen

The Birds Sing Like They Know The Score

(Sometimes I forget about these characters, and they return to me when I'm driving, or when I hear a very good lyric.  These people have embodied music for me.  Joyous music and traveling.

Like the boy I saw playing the HANG instrument in Hoboken Station.  And then the girl and the guitar.
And then there was the CRASH.  And I did not go back to Hoboken or the ferry.  Which made me sad.)

Take off your porcupines

Everytime after that first time, they would sleep in the same bed. 

And they wouldn't discuss it or stress over it; no matter who they were with at the time, the warmth of each other's bodies was deeply reassuring.

All except that last time.  There wasn't room in the hospital bed in the dining room. 

Even when she was dating and then engaged to Prince Charming, there was something familiar existing between the two of them.

She looked at the stash of his pills on the tray next to him. So easy to end his suffering, just dissolve in water & stir. A kind and gentle overdose. Take him out of his suffering.  For all she knew, he had been planning something similar already. She didn't want it to turn into a comedic case of double overdose.  And wanted to give him the room to make his own choices, no matter what they were.

She had been with him, already and easily betraying Prince Charming, as if that other life was all imaginary and This Life on the Road was the reality.  She got a call that he was having an episode.  He was visiting family, and surely he would be safe. She got the call, she got the call, she got the call. Each was worse and worse and worse.

She should have expected it. Found hanging, throat & wrists and pills and a gun. Prince Charming had been armed to slay the dragon. And it was himself.

There was gentleness that night. The idea of loving someone who destroys themselves is a blow, the carpet pulled out from under.

Funny how that memory came to both of them, that final afternoon in his house.  They both knew he couldn't live in that hospital bed, and wouldn't allow her to take care of him. Even though she was prepared to give up her outside life and summon up every joke she had ever heard for his final weeks. Or months. Or....

Crazy little thing called love

By John Hiatt

We Haven't Met Since Then/Gee

He came to hear her sing for her 40th/50th bday

A dive cabaret in the city. But by definition classier than most places they had played together.

We did a few tracks in the studio, but we just weren't feeling it. (Actually, her voice sounded dead without him. It worked nicely on Not Exactly Paris, but cs depressing otherwise)

Besides, he wanted me to tour to support the album. And I didn't want to tour without you. And you were on that other tour....

I hate to tell you, but your fiancée is gay.

I hate to tell you, we're not getting married. You just surprised me, that's all.

I love that your kneejerk response is slapstick. I love Lucy 

She's good at dealing with the groupies. And taking care of me.

That's good. You need a lot of taking care of.

I was gonna ask----

She covers his mouth quickly

O my god!! Don't you dare!! Don't you dare say you were gonna propose to me.  I don't think I could take it. (She wanted it badly)

I was gonna ask if you wanted a ride home, or to go out somewhere. She wants to get to know you.

No. No. I'm fine. And I'm sure she's great. Maybe someday, some other day when you and I are both happy. I'd love to be friends with her. But not just now, okay?

He goes to leave.

I was the biggest chickens hit for not begging you to stay from thatcvery first day.  You were always too good for me. The more I wanted you, the more I knew I was ruining you. Be glad you can still escape while you can.

They sing something sweet and silly and brief

O Sylvia!

Yes, Micky?

Hey Paul 

Planning a life 4 2

That was the last time before the last time.

If you believe in the power of magic

"if you believe in the power of magic/it's all a fantasy/
but if you need to believe in someone/just pretend it's me"
Don't Answer Me
Alan Parsons Project

This chapter looks like a graphic novel.
Like the video from 1984, a femme fatal and him a detective.  Or maybe they were a series of those famous paintings come to life, by Roy Lichenstein.  Stills by Cindy Sherman, untitled.

He believes in the power of magic, that's the funny thing.
And he knows it's all a fantasy.
He's the magician/musician.

And he also knows the most magic moments between them are the times when there is no audience.  When they are both caught up in the music.
When they dance around like Fred Astaire & Ginger in those smelly bars after hours or before the shows start.
She's taught him how not to be afraid, of himself of the people, of the EVERYTHING.

And still, he's stupid enough not to trust her and the magic.

Because he's used to the temporary magic.  And he knows that they would kill each other if they ever tried to domesticate each other.

He ran out one night to buy more water(cds??? BW STORY IN.Girls) because the joint ran out, left her onstage to work through her 3 solid songs, then her awkward 3, and then just a few long monologues, until he shows up, casually.

They had a giant fight in the car.  She threatens to quit (again). He was slightly stoned and not interested in her being a drag.  She sent him a long letter, which he threw in the trash before reading.

2 weeks later, she calls him about a friend of hers. She had to call 911.  Her new boyfriend is fine, she says, but she's not.

Years later, he comforts her when the guy(L) finally offs himself successfully.  She's in shock.  The one noble gesture he had was to wish the guy had gotten better on his own.  But he also knew what that was like, being the one on the edge, and surviving.  And being one of the survivors.  His other noble moment was vowing to himself never to come close again, not for her sake.  Not when he saw what this was doing to her.

That was one of their many goodbyes.  In the rain. He drops her off and they don't see each other for a year.

But he comes back, he calls her up, he gets her on a tour, one of his tiny tours.  Never let the girls think they control you.  And the great wave of something easy, something exciting, he looked forward to seeing her.  To being stuck in a car with her.  Even in traffic.

==
PLAY SCENE: CAR: BRUSHING TEETH
Einstein's theory of relativity.
Sitting on a hot stove can seem like an hour and sitting with a beautiful girl for an hour can seem like seconds.  Sitting in traffic with each other was a dubious honor, you never knew when they'd get in a huge fight.

The time they shared a soda. He found it in the back and it wasn't too hot.  She accepted it even after he had drunk from it. As if the spittle wasn't anything big.

Then he started brushing his teeth.  In the middle of a busy intersection in Brooklyn.

And she started laughing-what?? He was genuinely surprised. (leftover from his alcoholic days)

And then there was the accident.  He took off the right hand side rear view mirror.  Which he wasn't planning to fix. And there was no insurance.

What if the cops stop you?  And you don't have insurance?  What about the DOG? They'll arrest you and take the dog to the pound! And I won't bail you out!

Look, mister, I think you are terrific.  Not the STAR you seem to think you are, I like the crazy guy who brushes his teeth and plays to 3 people in deadbeat bars in New Jersey!  But I can't love you if you don't even love yourself.  I can accept things if you don't love me, but I can't scrounge up enough love to keep you alive.  You have to respect your life and yourself enough.

Come back when I'm not the only one who loves you. (She slams the door & leaves him alone in the car)
On the Air (end, HERE!!!)
On the Road
On the Record

Hottest Group in Jazz

The three of them had clowned around in Robert's loft at a party.

Her karaoke chops were beginning to pay off. (Her range exceeded her grasp.)

They had been slightly obsessed with an album, and in the car, he could get away with sounding terrible or creating a guitar or piano arrangement for her.

But M had shown up, like he always did. That brother who was more charming, a better singer, and wanting whatever P had.

The song changed from a car song to a stage song when they were fooling around with the records at the party. P struggled to keep up, vocally, even at the party. She wore a wig and they wore funny hats.  It wasn't a costume party, but there were costumes around, or maybe they had raided the guest bedroom with the pile of coats and hats for the party. 

She did a fierce DWWashburn, and even M swore he could never do the song again. He was impressed. And as usual, if you can't beat em, join em. M quickly tried to recruit her, but she had her own loyalties, and grabbed P by the arm for the trios.

It might have even been her idea.  It worked for a while, and they all had fun. The song changed from something they sang into the sunsets on the road into something covered in glitter, champagne, cheap tinsel and sequins. 

And then into the sparkling lights of the city at night. They were asked to do a benefit at JALC, then it was a few nights. 

It didn't hit him (P) until he saw them across the room. M was making her laugh.

The hovering voice in his head (P), turned into the theme from a horror movie.

The ring case was in his pocket, he had been going to ask her. A few weeks now, waiting for the right moment. (Turns out the right moment was when she was still laughing AT M, not with him) It was always too late with him.

The only place he had ever felt like he properly belonged was with her, and even then, only on stage. He wanted to believe it was everywhere, but looking at them he feared his connection to her was so thin. 

His Buddhist & AA self calmed him down. It was his wanting something in the world that was impossible. He needed to stop caring.  Or he would be spending his nights "singing the blues". Which he would anyway.

He was used to feeling out of place. M made sure to let him know he was the least talented, he was only hired for being pretty and having good teeth. And now, even those were gone. 

She came to him that night, all sunny and sparkling, her voice sounding so beatifully heartbreaking. She told him about M's agent, and how they were working on recording a song or two, and then an album.

He buried the ring case in the bottom of his suitcase.  

What were all these love songs about anyway?  Why do people drive themselves crazy over someone? Trying to convince them to want to impose your will in someone else. A little band of gold that she'd never say yes to. Not now, probably not before.

He looked out the window and planned his escape for early the next morning.

They were miles away from that lovely fall day in Lexington. When they were lost. And she told him she'd be happy to be lost with him forever.

Creature Comforts

Somedays, you are glad to have a painless job.

You swear you can close your eyes and just allow your life to roll out.

Like when you were a child, understanding that you were sentenced to a decade of school-jail.  The years ahead looming in front of you.

You could just put your mind into autopilot, and the deeper part of your soul goes to sleep.  Until you can wake up to something real in your life, and you decide that now, THIS time, you are a grownup and you can cancel the meetings.

And just not go.

And take care of one of the most important people in your life, who is on the verge of dying.

And shouldn't have to die alone.  Because you needed to talk to the Client.

Prince's Tracy "Only Cry for Love, Never Cry for Pain"

Overwhelmed by another death of another beloved singer, too early.

As angry as I get, about the lost promises of peace.
And all the other injustices I rail at.
Another one is gone, and I want SO MUCH to keep these men ALIVE & talking & to capture it all while they are ALIVE & talking.

Mah NaNa; The Farming DJ

She was wearing a white faux fox coat and smoking in the cold.

She had lots of makeup and I was surprised to hear her speaking with a strange accent.

I stood close to her in the gang outside the stage door and pretended to smoke with the other roadies, just to hear her story.  I always feel odd asking a stranger directly, as if their life story should be something they only give you at gunpoint.  Mostly people give it away, like bad sex, and its like looking into the sun and trying not to blink.

It turned out, she was going to be our host for the night.  We lugged our stuff inside and honestly, I couldn't tell when we were in the house proper.  I took her living room for a mud room.  Because it was covered with mud and dirt, the floor-mostly, but even the furniture seemed covered in dirt.

She was a farmer during the day, when she wasn't wearing mini skirts and high heels.  She had come from an enemy formerly known as Russia, or Georgia, and/or she had moved around a lot in her life.  There was one story of fleeing from one wartorn country to find that her new country was also suddenly at war.  And then she came to the Georgia in America, where people carried guns in the back of their trucks. She generally preferred not to talk to people.

But she LOVED music.

Her shelves were full of cds and records.  Even the record player was covered with dirt and when we heard her at work in the morning, it was as if she considered herself a DJ for each of her crops. The corn liked Heavy Metal but the flowers preferred Punk.  Unfortunately for us, she started work at 5am, when we were just winding down.  We covered our heads with the compost covered sheets and pillows stuffed with corn husks and tried to muffle the sound of her giant speakers feeding music to the fields just outside our window.


The Lumineers, Cleopatra

Some Kind of Really Good Trouble and Tracy Grammer

https://soundcloud.com/womr-podcasts/tracy

Excellent interview with Tracy Grammer about Dave Carter (his transitioning to F and dying)

Scenes for the play

Act 1
Opens with her discovering him on his deathbed, front of curtain

Chronological to the time they met
She's trying to seduce him after a concert & she runs out
Then he's her boss at the radio station (JOKE!)
Then she helps him put on shows, she's does sound
THEN SHE SINGS//SOUNDCHECK

ACT 2

They do their ACT

(Maybe break up scenes with them telling the stories in between songs??)

Tell the rest of it onstage??

He DOESN”T propose,

she gets a record deal, doesn’t make the record, gets an MBA

he goes on tour with The Band, hates them again

(Master of Disaster AGAIN)

His deathbed scene at the end

They sing together, ONE LAST TIME??

This Affair Never Could Go So Swell

HIM GETTING OUT OF HIS CONTRACT

He opened up his most expensive bottle of liquor.  Aged, 80 year old scotch. Owned by the movie star who owned the house 80 years ago. The bottle cost more than his parents had paid for their house.

If he couldn’t pack up the house & the pool, he’d take it all with him.

His 25 year old self looked out at his pool. The house was quiet for once.  He would enjoy every last second of his lease. 10 more days and he’d be free of California.

No more naked pool parties.  Maybe he could get back that $100k he loaned to that guy to buy the sailboat.  His band was doing pretty well now.  Maybe there would be a favor in it for him if he didn’t ask.  Maybe that $100k would get him into a recording studio, maybe they’d even do one of his songs.

Who was he fooling? They didn’t like the song he wrote for the movie.  And his ugly twin never got over recommending the audition.

“You should try it.  They didn’t like my teeth and my bald spot.  They wanted someone just like me, but prettier.  They wanted someone with my kind of talent, but you’re the only one who looks like me//you were all I could find” (Stills)

It started as a joke, but the years revealed the truth.  He tried to throw money at Steve, he showed up to his gigs and brought his “people”. The sailboat.

He felt like he had packed 30 years of living into the past 5.

When he first signed the contract, there were so many possible endings to this story.

He had never imagined handing back a check for such a big amount.  Anything to get OUT.

His brother had told him how miserable he sounded.  It started maybe a year ago, when the movie came out.  Awful.  He didn’t have answers for anyone, in fact, that’s when it first started.  People turned away at the parties.  The Popular Kids.

But since the TV show, the awful one with the ape costumes and the sound problems. They aired it against the Oscars, no better way to bury it.  And that’s what he had to look forward to.

He would miss the neighborhood.  Driving by and waving at Joni, Jimi, Janis.  Picnics and parties.  He was suddenly the most popular guy at parties.  Was. That’s his life now.  WAS>

He missed being accepted into the world of the rising stars, of being asked to sing at every party. Of being respected as a fellow artist-or if not respected, then admired for how he tricked The Man into giving him so much money.

He had eaten, fucked, snorted, smoked and PLAYED for the past 5 years.  GOD!!

He had access to a fucking fully equipped music studio at his beck & call!!  He had gone on tour and played all the big stadiums.  Kids cheering so loud, they couldn’t even hear him sing & play. His grandmother was the president of his fan club, for chrissakes. How was he gonna tell his grandma?

His face was everywhere in LA. HIs shining happy face.  Billboards, magazines, cardboard cutouts at record stores, along with the other guys.  Back when they believed in the hype themselves.

He looked so much younger.

They took away his dream.

Now he was just some cynic, sitting by a pool, ready to begin his slow descent into nothingdom.

The lights of LA spread out before him like sparkles in a pool of champagne.

Maybe he should have the pool water replaced with champagne.  Now THAT would be a way to go out!!

Maybe he’ll wake up dead, floating in the pool, stoned out of his mind.

Like that guy in Sunset Boulevard. Wasn’t that how everyone ended up here?

Either metaphorically or literally.

But his brother was right.  It was a bubble.  A fun period of time that would never last.  Like with girls, enjoy it while it lasts and sneak out before things get bad.  Or the crying begins.

Too late.

Don’t get up, he thought, you’ll be dragged to the edge of the water.  Like gravity.  

Don’t die.  Not here, not like the rest of them.  They’ll know you are just a wanna be.  

A wanna be music martyr.  Like that drummer, if that guy wasn’t pushed in. (Brian Jones)

Don’t drown, he thought.  Just don’t drown.


I've Got You Under My Skin
Louis Prima & Keely Smith