18 Mar The Road Crew-Part Eight

It has been a weird winter in Santa Fe, Gentle Reader(s)—more like The Winter That Never Was in actual fact. Here we are in mid-March and temperatures are headed for around 85 degrees over the next few days. That’s not just odd—it’s bizarre, freaky, unheard of. I’ve been living in this town for 36 years and I’ve never seen anything quite the likes of it, and it’s got me a bit rattled I don’t mind sayin. But what’s that got to do with Part Eight of The Road Crew ? Well you might ask: Absolutely fuck-all. I just wanted to get that particular observation off my chest. On with the matter at hand then. Part Eight of the Cretins saga finds the boys recovering from a night out on the ‘town’ and heading further into deepest, darkest Middle America for their rendezvous with the Big Time in Omaha, Nebraska. Ink relates his unsuspecting trial-by-fire initiation into the crew on a previous tour and the band prepares to enjoy the perks of their all-too-brief association with the Tom Kindler Band. Extra points to those who can suss out the identity of this thinly fictionalized Bay Area five-piece of early ’80s MTV fame. Keep those cards and letters coming in (yours would be the first, actually), and don’t hesitate to share The Road Crew with your family, friends, enemies, fellow ICE detainees, or whoever else you’re hanging out with these days.

Eight

It was a painful start the next morning, everybody but Rob being sleep deprived from the previous evening’s exertions and pollutions. We didn’t have the luxury of lying in though, and Rob’s wind-up alarm clock had gone off at 7:30 AM to a chorus of groans and curses. We had to gas up the bus and head up the road to Omaha. It was nominally a five hour drive but taking into account the PeaPod’s less than optimal highway speed we had to figure on at least six. Load in at the venue was at 2 PM so we had to be underway not much later than eight to make it on time.

When our low budget dog and pony show hooked up with the Kindler tour we enjoyed the almost inconceivable luxury of hotel rooms. Actual honest-to-God hotel rooms, in an actual hotel in reasonable proximity to the venue, not at some run down cinder block vermin-infested dump out on the frontage road with no cable TV, special promotional rates for serial killers and vintage guitar thieves lurking in the parking lot. Hotel rooms meant real beds, clean sheets, air conditioning and hot showers and I wasn’t going to feel entirely human until I could scrub all of the previous evening’s carbon monoxide grime out of my pores. There were to be three rooms for the five of us—the privilege of single occupancy being rotated amongst the road crew.

We headed towards the interstate with the Goof behind the wheel and stopped for breakfast at the first McDonald’s that we came across. The bus was too big for drive-up windows so we always had to park at the edge of the lot and go inside. Hot breakfasts were a fairly rare treat for our typically penurious excursions but one that this string of dates thankfully afforded us. When not under the benevolent wing of some higher power we typically had cold cereal and instant coffee for breakfast. For dinner it was often ramen or the slop that Beano sometimes whipped up for al fresco dining at KOA campgrounds in an electric wok that plugged into an outlet by the rear bumper of the bus.

On the first night of my first tour with the Cretins we had pulled over for the evening at a KOA on the outskirts of Oklahoma City. This was a full austerity mode excursion as we were not yet riding the coattails of the Kindler Band and KOA campgrounds were typically where we docked up. It was a home cooking night and Beano whipped out the electric wok and began to conjure up some sort of improvised goulash for dinner. The ingredients, produced from an old camping cooler packed with ice, included chopped up weenies, frozen spinach, canned beans and a melange of spices from Beano’s stash of epicurean notions and potions.

I didn’t know how Beano had been designated as the default road chef, but his wok-glop tasted reasonably un-hideous at first. Everyone else chowed down with gusto but I gradually became aware of some sort of off-note lurking, like a sour string in the viola section. A couple of hours after I had settled in for the night I began to experience a sensation like I had a brick wedged in my gut. I did my best to ignore it but by the wee hours of the morning the brick had become belligerent and had initiated hostilities with the rest of my digestive system. Nausea, a cold sweat and a pounding headache ensued—I barely slept all night long.

By five AM I was beyond miserable but, bafflingly, the rest of the road crew seemed unaffected, slumbering peacefully so far as I could tell. Perhaps a year or two of persistent low grade poisoning by Beano had gradually built up their immunity to whatever toxins were in this evil concoction.

As the sickly gray aqueous pre-dawn light began to break over the scabby KOA campground I staggered haltingly out of the PeaPod and aimed myself in the direction of the concrete pillbox that was the communal bathroom and shower house. The pillbox seemed to waver unsteadily in the leaden dimness a few hundred yards away from our camp site. I stumbled forward and the distance ahead seemed to yawn disconcertingly with each faltering step like a zoom in/dolly out shot in a Hitchcock film. I swayed, veered unsteadily sideways, tried to re-focus on my destination and regain my heading. I advanced a few more yards but the riot in my roiling guts had escalated into a full-on insurrection.

Just one foot behind the other, keep moving, try to hold on, hold on, hold… I wasn’t going to make it.

I lurched to my left, my legs gave out, I dropped to my hands and knees and vomited convulsively into the shrubbery.

I felt beyond horrible. I was horrible. What the fuck was I doing here? What kind of karmic ambush had I unwittingly stumbled into? This was a mistake—a horrible mistake. Not even 24 hours in and I was reduced to a quivering subhuman blob of misery.

In the distance a small stream of decent, God-fearing, early-rising citizens were beginning to wander in and out of the brutalist bathhouse bunker, sitting at bombproof concrete KOA picnic tables here and there, preparing wholesome artery-clogging all-American breakfasts as I emptied my grinding guts onto an unsuspecting creosote bush. Luckily, no one seemed to have noticed my hideous retching. I was an abomination, an affront to decent society, an outcast in the heartland, puking heathen goulash from hell into the foliage as Ronald Reagan’s righteous America rumbled and groaned slowly to life outside of Charlie Christian’s hometown.

Between gasps and sobs I could hear the infernal combustive roar of traffic rising from the direction of the relentless interstate, the disapproving chatter of the morning birds as I desecrated the sanctity of the new dawn with my blasphemy of bile and bilge.

This was an offensive spectacle. Fathers would curse the name of the Cretins and throw rocks at the bus. Mothers would shield the eyes of their innocent and impressionable wee ones from this horror. The sheriff, the fire department and the Oklahoma Highway Patrol would be summoned. The Cretins would be shown to the county line under armed escort and enjoined never to return. The FBI would be notified and thenceforth would monitor our pestilent route as we advanced across the nation, attempting to spread our unhygienic and unpatriotic contagion from state to state. Protests and admonitions from local officials, 4H Clubs, VFW lodges, PTA committees and clergy of all denominations would confront us angrily at every venue, and who could blame them?

At least that’s how it felt from beside my befouled bush that would burn no more.

Why me? What had I done to deserve such affliction, such indignity? I figured I knew, but I didn’t want to admit it. Exile and odium—this was my sentence.

My shuddering convulsions reached a crescendo and then, finally, after a few sobbing gasps, stopped. I remained quivering on my knees in the dirt, hoping that the worst was over. I staggered unsteadily to my feet and reoriented myself once again in the direction of the pillbox, spitting and wiping globules of puke off my gray face.

What the fuck was I doing here? Is this what I had to look forward to for the next few weeks? Slow death by demonic goulash? Dismal monochrome mornings on the godforsaken outskirts of miserable Mid-American nowheresvilles? There was nothing for it now—I had burned my bridges and committed myself to the road crew for the foreseeable future and there was no turning back. I was the author of my own fate and had no one to blame but myself… and perhaps Beano.

As I approached the pillbox I attempted to straighten up and maintain a linear trajectory, avoiding what I was certain were the suspicious and accusatory eyes of my fellow KOA campers. No one paid me any mind. Once inside I washed my face in cold water at a sink, rinsed the awful acidic taste out of my mouth, and looked at my haggard countenance in the mirror. Good lord. I looked as shitty as I felt—disheveled, unshaven and pallid—and we had barely been on the road for a single goddam day.

I retraced my steps to the PeaPod, giving the barf-laden foliage beside the path a wide berth. Back at the bus, everybody else was still asleep. Rob, Beano and Vinnie were still enclosed in their bunks and the Goof was laying on the sofa with one arm thrown over his face. No one was groaning, gagging or convulsing. Perhaps they were all dead? We had all eaten the same dinner from the same wok—had Beano singled me out for special poisoning? Was this some sort of cruel hazing ritual? Did Beano keep a secret vial of botulism toxin stashed in an airtight insulated stainless steel canister encased in dry ice in some secret compartment beneath the floor of the PeaPod?

The Goof stirred and peeked out at me from under his elbow.

‘Jeezis, Ink! A bit early isn’t it?’ he said.

‘Yeah, sorry, I had to take a leak,’ I mumbled. ‘Go back to sleep.’

My misery was to be mine alone and I didn’t say anything to the rest of the crew. I wasn’t going to betray any signs of weakness this early on in my road career. The road was for the strong and the steadfast. Display any deficiency, any lack of resolve, and they’d be all over me like wild animals!

Never let ‘em see you sweat… or puke.

Whatever the taxonomy of the malady I was suffering from, the effects proved to be protracted. The Beano-brick remained wedged in my guts for the next week or so. I had barely any appetite and while the nausea didn’t return my innards remained in defiant lockdown. Little went in but even less came out. This was not fun, but I was determined to tough it out and settle into life on the road. It would take more than a bit of beanie weenie hell to break me!

I soldiered on but refrained from partaking in Beano’s satanic stew ever again. If it was on the menu of an evening I would demur, claiming not to be hungry, and made do with a couple of handfuls of dry Wheaties instead. Breakfast of Champions, dinner of the Walking Wounded.

On the west side of Topeka we left I-35 and took route 75 the rest of the way north to Omaha past Emporia, Netawaka, the Kickapoo Reservation, Sabetha, Plattsmouth and Bellevue. The Missouri River hove into view off the starboard side as we approached the south side of town. We had made decent time and rolled up to the Civic Auditorium on at 1:45 in the afternoon. A security guard pointed us in the direction for load in.

The building was an oblong oval structure that dated from the late ‘50s. It looked like it was used primarily for basketball. The facility manager, whose name was Chuck (and who had a name badge to prove it) was waiting for us on the loading dock. He told Vinnie that Elvis had played one of his last gigs at the Civic in the fateful summer of 1977, just a couple of months before his untimely appointment with the Almighty and the bathroom floor at Graceland.

Wow. End-of-the-line, television-murdering, pill-popping, Cadillac-gifting, sweaty, full-bloat, incoherent babbling Elvis! Now that was heavy. Literally.

Chuck took us inside to have a look at the place before we loaded in. The auditorium looked beyond vast. I guessed that it had to have a seating capacity of several thousand, but it was hard to tell—we just weren’t used to anything nearly this big. The distance from the floor to the ceiling seemed to be about 80 feet or 100 feet or maybe a mile or two. There were two levels of seating above the auditorium floor and there were rows of folding chairs set up facing the stage which was oriented at the midway point, facing across the short axis of the room. All of the folding chairs were red. The chairs in the tiered seating were red. The stage had red carpeting. Chuck had red hair and a red beard. What was with all the red?

Most novel of all, the stage was circular. We had never been on a circular stage before and Chuck told us that it rotated as well. Now that was something new. If the band played a crap show they could suck from every possible angle!

Much to Vinnie’s joy, the Civic had a full-on professional lighting rig suspended above the stage. He was going to have a chance to pull out all the stops tonight and demonstrate the full range his legendary lighting chops. It was a bit intimidating to be in a place this big, but we all knew we had to play it cool and not betray any signs of nervousness. This was our natural habitat—to the manner born, us Cretins.

Another brain-boggler—a squad of local roadies were on hand to assist with the load in. Not roadies, actually—nothing as lowly as that: stagehands, this lot. Vinnie unlocked the back door of the bus and the two of us climbed in and started to unload the Marshalls, the SVTs and the drum kit out of the back of the PeaPod and up onto the concrete dock. The locals had brought a few wheeled equipment carts and I grabbed a Marshall cabinet to hump up onto one of them. A couple of the stagehands gave me the skunk eye and Chuck pulled me aside and quietly intimated that I was to stand down. The locals were actual card-carrying union stagehands and I was infringing upon their rice bowl. Hands off the gear once it was out of the bus and on their terra firma. Seriously? What about my goddam rice bowl?

I was amazed to find out that there was a union for this kind of shit—that gear-humping was exalted enough to warrant an organized labor force. Either I let them do their union thing unhindered or the long arm of Jimmy Hoffa might reach out from his grave beneath the end zone at Giants Stadium to smite me. The whole thing seemed a bit strange. I would have expected this kind of action in New York, perhaps, but in Nebraska? But fuck it—I wasn’t raised to be no scab.

The stagehands trundled the gear carts into the backstage entrance, down a long incline and out onto the arena floor to the edge of the stage. All the gear had to be hauled up a flight of metal stairs and the stage was about six feet above the floor. I was glad it wasn’t me that had to haul the amps and the drum gear up there. Only after I had directed the locals approximately where to place it all were we allowed to touch it again—our own goddam gear!

There was also going to be a union guy at the sound board and at the lighting board for the gig, whether they actually performed any function or not. I would be allowed to tweak things during the sound check and Vinnie could run the lights but there had to be a union guy right there every step of the way. I was going to be onstage tonight so I was fine with the union man twiddling the knobs. I was comfortable with club PA wattage, but a behemoth on the scale of this rig scared the hell out of me.

Once the stagehands had cleared off I set about adjusting the positioning of everything and getting the Goof and Rob’s rigs hooked up. The band went off with Chuck to check out our dressing room and after a few minutes the Goof came walking down the aisle between the sections of folding chairs with a big smile on his face and said, ‘Ink, leave that stuff for a minute—you gotta come see this!’

I followed the Goof back up the aisle, through some swinging doors and into a long hallway that curved out of sight around the arena. The dressing room was on the right and there was a laminated sheet of Omaha Civic Arena letterhead affixed to the door with ‘THE CRETINS’ printed at the top in big block letters and in smaller letters below that ‘DRESSING ROOM, BAND ONLY.’

‘Make sure you grab that for the bus after the gig,’ said the Goof.

The dressing room, like the arena, was a vision in red: red carpeting, red chairs, tall red lockers lining the white concrete block walls.

There were some weight machines and other miscellaneous workout equipment scattered about the room. A couple of folding tables were set up against one wall arrayed with two large deli platters wrapped in plastic film, one with carrot and celery sticks, broccoli and cauliflower buds, sliced red and yellow peppers and a dipping bowl of ranch dressing in the center and the other with rolls of thinly sliced roast beef, turkey, ham and three types of cheese. There were two loaves of sliced bread—one brown and the other white—squeeze bottles of French’s mustard and Hellman’s mayonnaise, a jumbo size bag of Fritos and another of Lay’s Potato Chips, a bowl of M&Ms (brown ones intact, alas), a bowl filled with apples, oranges and bananas, a large can of Planter’s Mixed Nuts, a plate with several oversized chocolate chip and peanut butter cookies, and two ice-filled coolers on the floor, one stocked with a selection of soft drinks and bottles of water and the other filled with cans of Miller, Budweiser, bottles of Heineken and a couple of bottles of wine—one red and one white. Cold red wine? Even I knew that wasn’t right.

Off to the left was a tiled shower room with a dozen or so shower heads arrayed around the perimeter. Shelves at the entrance to the shower room were stacked with big fluffy white towels.

‘Goof, this is Shangri La!’ I said. ‘Can we just live here, please? Talk to that Chuck dude! Maybe we can be the Civic Auditorium house band. We should pray to the immortal soul of fat Elvis or something!’

Apparently our dressing room was for the visiting team and the Kindler digs on the other side of the building were for the home team. If our digs were this deluxe, what were Kindler’s like? Feather beds and saunas? Champagne, foie gras and oysters Rockefeller? Hot and cold running masseuses? I would have loved to go have a look but unless specifically invited to do so there was zero chance of that happening.

I grabbed a root beer from one of the coolers and slapped together a sandwich with the dark bread, some slices of turkey and cheese and some mustard. I carried my lunch out to the stage and got back to setting up the guitar and bass rigs and emptying out the drum and cymbal cases. Beano wandered out a while later with a paper plate with a sandwich and a pile of chips and some vegetables on it.

‘This is the life, right Ink?’ he said ‘This is how it’s going to be for us, I’m tellin’ ya.’

‘I could certainly get used to a bit more of this kind of action,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I should join the union—get me a card, sing the union anthem before every gig. Then I could go out on strike when Sonny doesn’t pay me.’

‘Sonny’s gonna pay you,’ Beano said, ‘… one of these days. And, hey Ink, I’m not getting paid either ya know! And at least you’ve got your own place—I’m living with my mom!’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but you’re in the band.’

‘C’mon Ink—you are too! We’re a team!’

‘Okay, so does that mean I can sing lead on Rat Salad tonight?’

‘Sure—fine with me! But talk to the Goof—that’s his song.’

Beano started assembling his kit and a few minutes later the Goof and Rob joined us and pulled out their instruments. Chuck reappeared and told us that sound check would be in 45 minutes.

The house sound man materialized and starting working on placing the microphones around the drum kit. For smaller gigs we often had only five or six mics for the drum kit—one on the kick, one for the snare and hi-hat, two for the rack toms, one for the floor toms, and an overhead mic for the cymbals. This time we had ten mics—hi-hat, snare, kick, two on the rack toms, two on the floor toms, one for the ride cymbal and two overheads on boom stands for the crashes.

Tonight we would run both the Marshall cabinets and both the SVTs. I set up the backup Bassman on the left hand cabinet and jumped the guitar signal from the #1 amp to the #2. We would need the extra volume for a hall this big and it was also insurance against the #1 Bassman acting up—we’d have the other Marshall already up and running if I had to resort to the Shoe. I told the sound guy to place a mic for both cabinets, but that we’d only be using the one on stage right as a backup.

As the opening act the Cretins were allowed access to only about 60% of the sound system’s power capacity for our approximately 45-minute set. It would be plenty loud but Kindler would have access to the full 100%. This was standard operating procedure—an added bit of insurance just to make certain that, as the under card offering, we didn’t have much of a chance to outshine our betters. If the Cretins were going to make an impression they would have to give it their all, make up for the restricted PA power with the Goof’s backup Marshall cabinet and Rob’s second SVT, and project everything extra big to reach the furthest recesses of the hall.

Vinnie climbed up to the lighting board which was on a riser with the sound board about 100 feet or so from the stage towards the other side of the hall. The circular portion of the stage wasn’t very big and the dozens of lights that were already in position would provide full coverage, so no repositioning was required. Or allowed, actually, as we were just the opening act.

Our dressing room was on the opposite side of the auditorium from the stage, so the Cretins would have to use the inner hallway to walk around the perimeter of the hall to get back and forth come show time.

Once everything was in place we ran through all the mic checks, making sure everything was hooked up correctly. I went up to the sound board to clue the union guy in on the particulars of the band’s sonic preferences. I introduced myself and he nodded a hello but didn’t offer a handshake or his name. He was wearing a polo shirt identical to all the other union guys (wine red with an Omaha Civic Auditorium logo) and while he didn’t seem much inclined towards the conversational arts he certainly seemed to know what he was doing.

There was a smaller board set up to the side of the main console for the monitor mix and the union guy was going to run them both. The Goof and Rob were to have two large floor wedges apiece on either side of their mic stands as opposed to the typical single monitor, and Beano would have a large cabinet on a riser to his left instead of the one usual single floor wedge behind him. The monitor system at this place likely packed more wattage than the mains did at a lot of our club gigs.

With the mics all placed and tested and the Taurus pedals plugged into the direct boxes the band began to run through the four songs we were allotted for sound check, pointing and signaling up or down for changes in the monitor mix. The Cretins’ songs boomed and echoed disconcertingly around the empty hall. Things would undoubtedly sound different with an audience in place and the band always played harder and louder during the actual show than they did during the sound check. The mixing console settings for both mains and monitors resulting from the sound check were usually just an approximation for what to expect during the actual performance and everything would have to be readjusted on the fly.

After sound check we all stood around the drum riser to compare notes.

‘This place is so fucking huge, the slapback is messing me up on my intros,’ said the Goof. A lot of the Goof’s songs started with a few bars of jangly solo guitar run through a tight rockabilly echo on the Boss delay.

‘It won’t be so bad when the audience is here—lots of big puffy midwestern people to soak up the sound,’ said Beano.

‘I hope so,’ said the Goof. ‘It’s not like we’ve got a guest list to pad the crowd with, not that it would make any difference in this place.’

‘We’re not in Kansas anymore, Goof,’ I said.

‘I thought this was Kansas.’

‘No, dude, this is Nebraska.’

‘Kansas, Nebraska—what’s the difference?’

‘Good question. I have no idea.’

The Goof and Rob put their instruments into the cases and headed back to the dressing room. No doubt Beano would have loved to whack on his snare and ponder the range of sonic nuances with the sound man for another half hour or so but this was not to be.

We were still busily stuffing our faces in the dressing room about 20 minutes later when Chuck stuck his head in the door and announced that he had a van available to drive us to our hotel should we desire it, or we could hang out backstage or on the bus until show time. Luxurious though our dressing room amenities were none of us wanted to stay there for the next four hours.

We trooped out to the loading dock and down to the bus to retrieve our luggage while Chuck went to go fetch the van. The loading dock area of the venue was inside of a fenced in area manned by a guard and Chuck assured us it would be secure, so no need to clog up the hotel parking lot with the picturesque PeaPod. Chuck would provide hotel transport after the gig and back to the PeaPod in the morning.

Kindler’s touring rig was parked around the far side of the arena by their dressing room. We got a glimpse at it as we left in the van and found it to be a classic touring bus of the deluxe Greyhound-type highway cruiser variety augmented by a large box truck for the gear. The big silver bus had tinted windows, the big storage areas beneath the coach, and a destination roller above the windshield that said ‘PRIVATE.’ There were five guys in the band and I figured they would be traveling with at least two roadies, a sound man, a lighting guy, a band concessions dude and probably a tour manager. Ah, how the other half lives.

Chuck reappeared a few minutes later behind the wheel of a tan 12-passenger Chevy van and the five of us loaded ourselves, our luggage and the two basses and two guitars onboard. Regardless of where we went, the instruments were never left unattended. The drum kit and the rest of the gear was too cumbersome for anyone but the most determined thieves to get away with but the basses and guitars were valuable, portable and easily salable. The Goof’s Strats were worth several thousand dollars each and were part of the reason we owed our souls, such as they were, to the company store.

And I say ‘our’ souls, because once I had thrown my lot in with the Cretins it seemed that I was to be held to account for the band’s debts just as much as the Goof, Rob and Beano. As far as Sonny Ulrich was concerned I was just one more debit entry on his Cretins balance sheet. A dime going to my upkeep was one less dime going into Sonny’s pocket.

Our accommodations for the evening were to be at a Marriott a few minutes drive away from the arena. We pulled up to the lobby entrance of the hotel and Chuck went in with Vinnie and Rob to get us checked in while the Goof, Beano and myself starting unloading the van.

A bellhop in a red vest appeared with a luggage cart but bellhops meant tips and tips were not in the budget. The Goof commandeered the cart and I went in search of another. It was pretty obvious from the scowl I got from the bellhop that guests who insisted on handling their own luggage, especially when there was a pile of it, were considered contemptible. But as long as the bellhops’ union wasn’t on hand to enforce their privilege that was just going to have be tough titties. Kindler and his boys could tip the staff on our behalf.

Chuck, Vinnie and Rob appeared with the room keys just as we were rolling the two carts full of gear into the lobby. Chuck said he would return to fetch us at 6:30. As we ascended to the fourth floor it occurred to me that it had been months—maybe even years—since I had last been in an elevator. Albuquerque had only a handful of buildings that were more than a few stories tall, and I never had any call to go into any of them. It all seemed rather surreal.

Holding up the three keys Vinnie said, ‘Okay ladies, just so everyone knows, all the rooms are the SAME—identical, right?—two queens apiece, and I’m not just talking about the beds. I’m up for the single tonight, so here you go.’

He handed a key to the Goof and another to Rob. Our double occupancy rooms were adjoining with a connecting door and Vinnie’s single was across the hall. On the rare occasion of hotel/motel stays I generally roomed with the Goof unless he had the solo room for the night. If we didn’t rate three rooms that meant that one person either had to stay on the bus or sleep in a roll-away bed in the one of the two rooms.

We sorted out the luggage and the gear and I manhandled the carts back down the hall to the elevator to return them to the lobby. In the elevator there were photos of the hotel restaurant, the gym and the swimming pool but we weren’t going to have a chance to take advantage of any of those—and no point in paying for meals when food was provided at the venue.

Back in the room the Goof and I unpacked our necessities and grabbing his toilet kit he said ‘Calling first shower.’

‘Fine, go for it,’ I said laying down on my bed with the television remote.

‘I’ll call you when I need my back scrubbed,’ the Goof said as he closed the door to the bathroom.

‘You’ll be calling for a long time,’ I said.

An actual bed. Air conditioning. Color TV! I had a 13-inch black and white hand-me-down Zenith back in Albuquerque. It had a wire clothes hanger for an antenna and you had to change channels with a pair of Vice-Grips clamped onto the stub where the knob had once been. Cable television was pretty much of a mystery to me as the only times I ever had access to it was in hotel rooms. I knew what the basic channels were—HBO, ESPN, TBS, CNN, Showtime, Cinemax—but I didn’t know much about their programming.

MTV was the only network I was really familiar with from my time working at the Northeast Heights branch of Cheap-O Records and Tapes. There was a television installed in a nook in the back wall of the shop and MTV was always on during business hours. Whenever something cool came on the siren song would lure me away from the front counter to wander back and stare at the screen, transfixed—dutiful employee that I was.

For ill or gain, the advent of MTV had changed the music world in a number of significant ways. The video revolution meant it was no longer sufficient just to have good songs, solid musicianship, a compelling stage show and good album cover art. Charisma and good looks were important, as they always had been, but if you were going to make it in the MTV era you also had to have good cinematography, choreography, sets, locations, video effects, animation, fabulous video babes, fabulous hair and makeup and so on. In other words, you needed money—a lot of it. Or, more to the point, you needed a record company with a lot of it.

Case in point: Duran Duran—Rio. Tropical islands, azure blue water, palm trees, yachts, paint-smeared models in bikinis, designer suits in pastel colors. This was the slick, stylish standard for the eye-popping pop video. With a sufficient budget—a hundred grand or so?—the Cretins could probably swing down to the Caribbean for a few days and crank out something visually striking and worthy of heavy rotation. In theory. Perhaps the band didn’t currently have any material as polished, smooth or hummable as Rio, but under the right circumstances, with the right backing, it could happen. In theory.

Yachts and models aside, what the hell might a Cretins music video look like anyway? The group lip synching a rockin’ rendition of Cubed Beef Bonanza atop the PeaPod in front of a baffled audience at a KOA campground? A mystical George Harrison-esque Taurus pedal instrumental segment featuring Beano solemnly demonstrating the water pouring ritual? Celebrity cameos from Gordy and/or the Gopher?

On one hand, I liked MTV and the creative license it offered to artists who were exploring this new avenue of visual expression, but on the other hand I had my reservations.There was a certain style-over-substance sensibility that came with the video revolution and it wasn’t as if most pop music was lacking for superficiality. The market clout of MTV had an undeniable affect on the way artists presented themselves and thought of themselves and, congruently, the expectations of the fans who bought the records and came to the shows. As to how the ascendancy of the music video might ultimately affect the music itself remained an open question.

Were the Cretins artists? Now there was a puzzler. It wasn’t something I had actually put much thought into. I supposed they were ‘artists’ in the generic sense, but I hadn’t really considered the Cretins as an actual artistic enterprise. The band was was definitely a commercial enterprise—a distinctly unrewarding one thus far, much to the chagrin of Sonny Ulrich. As to whether or not it was Art, it was a gig and Art didn’t necessarily factor much into the gig. This was what we did—onstage and off. It was a job. More than a job, it was a lifestyle—a 24/7, 365 way of life. But it was not an Art life. It was a Grunt life.

I considered the Goof, at least, to be an artist, or at least possessed of an artistic sensibility. But the Cretins as a band? Not so much, I had to say. An artistic sensibility was not something that the Cretins could realistically afford at this stage of the game. Perhaps at some point in the future if things went well, maybe after we gave up the touring life following our final freak-out, sold-out gig at foggy Candlestick Park. The band could grow beards, put on polka dot ties, retreat to the recording studio and plumb the mysterious depths of their expanding creative vision.

But not now. Art, beards and polka dot ties would all have to wait. More pressing obligations were at hand.