We put the joint out and ran out of the dark apartment. A bunch of the guys was already gathering in the courtyard in a group around Bubba. Bubba was yelling at Glenn to get his ass out there, now.
This was not good, this was not good at all!
It must have been 4 am, and I could see lights coming on in apartments all around, sleepy tenants looking out their windows, and others coming out on their balconies.
I couldn't believe that nobody had called the cops, as much noise and commotion as we had already caused, but, this was going to bring them, I was sure.
You never wanna deal with cops when you are high, and you never ever wanna deal with them when you are tripping.
I was freaking the fuck out.
There was no stopping it, either. This shit was going down.
Why did I ever think this was a good idea?
It was classic Mikey, "Oh yeah, let's have a bunch of dudes over to our apartment, and get blasted "
Then, there's a whole bunch of dudes over getting blasted, and I'm like, "Oh shit!"
Apparently, while we were next door, Glenn's behavior had gotten even more strange, and he scared one of the girls or something.
Bubba heard about that, it pissed him off, and he told Glenn he needed to pull his shit together, or he was going to get his ass kicked.
Glenn said, "Oh yeah, by who?"
And Bubba said, "By me, motherfucker. Don't be out here being all fucking weird and shit, you're messing up our vibe!"
"Fuck you!" Glenn replied.
Well, he shouldn't have said that.
Bubba was the baddest motherfucker around. He knew some martial arts, and his reputation for kicking ass was legendary around Donelson and Edge-O-Lake. He was the sweetest dude you ever met, but if shit went south, you always wanted to be on his side.
Nobody said, "fuck you" to Bubba, at least nobody in their right mind. (Shit, none of us were in our right minds at this particular time, and we still knew that rule.)
Glenn was still standing on the sidewalk, sweating, tweaking, looking all crazy.
I went up to him, "Dude, what are you doing? Get the fuck outta here! Please!" I pleaded. "This shit is gonna get us busted!"
"No way, Mikey!" He said, all weird and shaky, "He called me a pussy! I'm gonna beat his ass!"
"Uh, no dude, you're not, you're gonna get killed," I said.
He wouldn't listen.
He walked out into the courtyard, determined, a sad silhouette in the yellow floodlight.
I felt terrible for him, it didn't take a rocket scientist to know what was about to happen to him.
I ran into the apartment, checking to see if any weed or other shit was laying around, I started grabbing stuff, trying to clean up for the inevitable visit by Metro's finest. Paulie was already busy doing the same. I started yelling at anybody who was left, to get the hell out, we were about to be busted.
Right then, I heard a bunch of yelling and howling from outside, I went out into the breezeway and looked at the scene.
I could not actually see the blows taking place, because now there was a circle of guys around Bubba and Glenn, 'Fight Club' style. I did see Bubba's leg go up in a flash, and heard the final THWACK, that sent most of Glenn's front teeth flying out of his mouth.
The group said, "WHOA," in unison.
Glenn was on the ground. The group started to disperse, Bubba looked over at me as they were walking away, and shrugged, "Dude, sorry, man, I guess we better get the fuck outta here."
"It's all good, Bubba," I said. "You got all your shit?"
"Yep," he said, "Good party," he winked, and was gone.
Glenn got up, totally dazed and confused, and wandered over, mouth a mess, blood trickling down.
I'm in damage control mode now. Glenn started to try and say some shit, and I'm like, "Dude, no! I tried to tell you, man!" I was pissed. "You have to get the fuck outta here, now!"
"Wha dawn haf mwaah caww..." he said, pitifully.
I was pretty sure he said he didn't have his car.
Goddamnit.
Joe gets the MVP award for the night. After much pleading, we convinced him to take Glenn home. He didn't like the idea at all, but he definitely took one for the team.
Finally, everyone was gone, except Joey, Paulie, Jamie, Fish, and myself. Jamie showed up sometime after midnight, his sixteen-year-old ass had been with his girlfriend all night, but told mom he was rehearsing with us, then spending the night. I wasn't too happy about that, either. If mom got wind of any of this shit, we would be out a bass player, for sure.
We sat and waited for the knock on the door, freaking out, starting to come down a little.
Thirty or forty minutes went by. I'm all nervous, wondering when the ax was gonna fall; I knew I would have to be the one to do the talking. I called Joe to check on him, he made it home okay, well, at least that was good.
The Gods of Metal must have shown mercy on us that day, because by the time the sun was rising, still no cops.
We couldn't believe it!
Relieved, we cracked open some morning beers and decided to go out in the courtyard and look for teeth.
A couple of us were down on our hands and knees, feeling through the grass, giggling, I guess we had not come down all the way, yet.
One of the neighbors across the way started to blast Hendrix' Star-Spangled Banner' from his balcony, smiling.
He yelled, "Great party, boys!"
We walked in Paulie's room, he and Jamie were on the bed watching Saturday morning wrestling on Paulie's tiny black and white TV.
Jamie looked tired, I was worried the whole scene had freaked him out a little. I loved that boy so much, I put my hand on his shoulder and said, "You okay, bro?"
He looked at me with those big blue eyes, smiled, and said, "Hell yeah, that shit was awesome!"
One of the big fat wrestlers did a gigantic dive from the corner and just flattened this skinny guy.
"The flying Pomahouse!" someone yelled, followed by waves of laughter, then groans.
Some of you may know that the day after tripping, your stomach muscles are sore from so much laughing. Your whole body is kind of sore, actually.
I said, "Damn, how are we ever gonna make it through the whole day, out in the sun, at Hermitage Landing?"
"Dude, that's not until the day after tomorrow."
Thank God.
******
Fish came and got us in the gold Monte Carlo, bright and early, June 21st, 1984.
One For The Sun - Metal Edition.
The show was to feature a bunch of bands, even Peter Criss' solo group was playing. It wasn't really all Metal, per se, but Alcatrazz, Kick Axe, and RATT stand out in my mind.
I didn't really care about any of it, except, Yngwie. (Pronounced "Ingvayy," by the way, for you millennials.)
I bought the debut Alcatrazz record, after hearing the Steeler record with Yngwie on there. In an interesting six degrees of separation thing, an earlier version of Steeler had opened for our band, Aura, at the Tennessee Theatre back in 1980. Robert Eva was the drummer in Steeler back then, and I do believe that is how we met.
Steeler went on to LA, went through a bunch of lineup changes, and then Mike Varney, with MetalBlade records, eventually brought Yngwie over to the states on the power of a fantastic demo tape alone, and placed him in Steeler.
At that time, Eddie Van Halen was still king (still is in my book,) but nobody had ever heard anything like Yngwie before. His blazing fast, clean, double picking, his sweep picked arpeggios, classically infused note choices, and the burning attitude in his playing was not only spectacular, but it was also intimidating. He sent a whole generation of us Metalhead guitar players back to the woodshed.
I remember the first time Skully heard him, he looked at me and said, "Welll, Moik, Don't feel bad mannn, you are still awesome, Moik. He's just a freak of nature, mannn."
Yes, he was,
He's been the butt of many jokes over the years since, sometimes for a good reason, (we had few run-ins with him after that, different stories though,) but in 1984, he was the new badass. He spawned a whole brood of little sweep picking clones, practically overnight. I remember a few years later, a GIT (Guitar Institute of Technology) graduate told me that my whole technique was "wrong." He asked if I wanted him to show me the "right" way. I looked at him (he had obviously never been laid,) and said, "Nah dude, I'm good."
Our plan was to dress Metal, basically, get the hair flying, wear the leather, all that shit, and then bullshit our way backstage, posing as one of the bands.
No, the acid had not fried our brains, this plan had actually worked well for us a few times. Also, we knew a bunch of the security guys, if Plan A fell through, we could fall back on Plan B. You would be surprised how easy it was to bullshit your way into a rock show. Also, being broke as hell, inspired ingenuity.
We were out drinking at The Brass A the night before and ran into Bobby Blotzer, drummer of RATT. He said he would put us on the list if we found him some blow. I don't know if he ever scored, but that was an in, as well.
We smoked down on the way over, listening to Defenders of The Faith by Priest, not a care in the world. We wound through the curvy roads around Percy Priest Lake, on that beautiful Tennessee morning, with no clue of the awesomeness that was about to take place.
Hermitage Landing was a man-made beach area, a few hundred yards south of the dam. It had a few water slides, camping areas, cabins, a marina, a restaurant and snack bar, playgrounds, everything, but its pride and joy was the floating stage, in the little bay, facing the beach area.
You know, whoever came up with this idea, was smoking some weed.
They also had never loaded in a rock show.
Anyway, we pulled up to the gated entrance to the park, and a local production coordinator comes out of the little guardhouse, and bends down, peering in the window.
"Hey, can I help you, fellas?"
I'm in my killer lightweight, black leather jacket, no shirt, black stage pants, and wrestling shoes. Paulie and Fish were both decked out in their Sunday Metal best, so we definitely looked the part.
I'm sure my eyeliner helped paint the picture.
"Uh yeah," Fish says, cool as a cucumber, "We're friends with RATT, and they told us we would be on the list. We're here early to scope everything out."
The guy looks at us curiously, "Really?" He said.
"Yeah, "Fish said. "Bob said it was cool."
"Oh, Bob did? Okay, hang on a sec," the guy says. "What's the names?"
We tell him. He goes back into the guard shack, and we wait, looking at each other, wondering what the hell is gonna happen.
He walks back over, "No, not seeing it, but, I'll let you drive on down to the next checkpoint, there's a lady there named Sue, she may have it."
Okay, phase one of the operation is a go, insertion, check.
We pull up to Sue, and Fish gives her the same spiel and ends again with...
"Bob said it was cool."
There was noise from the mic checks on stage, echoing through the place, and she was struggling to hear. She looks us over and then says in her sweetest southern drawl...
"Oh, y'all are RAY ETTE? Hang awn."
We all look at each other, smiling.
Here she comes, waddling back, with all of Ratt's passes, food tickets, their whole package! She hands them over, and then she tells us that backstage is set upstage left on the shore.
"Just show your passes to the security guys, and you can drive all the way down to the beach."
We pull away, slowly. And as soon as we get around the corner, we start dying!
"Can you believe this shit!" I said.
"Bob said it was cool! BWAHAHAHAHA!!!"
You gotta love Bob.
The floating stage was a giant brown monstrosity that had been a part of the scene since we were kids. It was about fifty feet wide and forty feet deep. It was basically a covered floating dock that was anchored a few feet off the shore. The roof was covered in wood shingles, so it looked kind of like a floating barn.
I had seen more shows there than I can remember, and it was always a good time.
We rolled up to the "backstage" area, which was really just hard dirt, with patches of grass, roped off at stage right. There were some easy-up tents around, Porto Johns, the usual outdoor concert fare. There were a few box trucks in the gravel lot, ramps down, crew guys buzzing around, barking orders, setting the stage. It was still early, so there were no band buses yet, just crew.
We chilled, smoked some weed, and tried to scope out where we could scam some beers.
Not too long after that, a tour bus comes lumbering into the area in a cloud of gravel dust. We are hanging at a picnic table right next to where they pulled up.
Immediately the door opens, and we hear a bunch of yelling and screaming, then a briefcase comes flying out of the door, and lands in a dusty puff, right next to us.
I heard a muffled voice from inside yell, "There! There's your fucking briefcase, asshole! Go get it!"
Then, another guy says, "Fok you! Fucking asshole fucker," He had a foreign accent.
Something else came flying out, and then, "That's my foking tape recorder, bastard!"
A dark figure descended the steps of the coach, white boots, black spandex, and leather, he squints in the sunlight, obviously looking for his stuff on the ground.
It's Yngwie.
He sees his stuff and walks over toward us, muttering.
"Hey, Yngwie! What's up, man!" I said, excited, "You're the man we came to see!"
He bent down, grabbing his little handheld recorder, and case, then he approached us.
"Really? Cool, tell those fuckers," he said, in his surprisingly deep voice, pointing to the bus.
"Dude, fuck yeah, I just bought the album a few weeks ago, your playing is so fucking killer!" I said.
"Thanks, man, but wait until you hear my new shit," he said, obviously grateful for some new company, "I've been working on a solo album, you wanna hear some of it?" He asked, holding up the recorder. It looked like it was broken.
He yelled back at the bus, "You broke my fucking tape player! You dickhead!"
Paulie and I looked at each other like, 'What the fuck?'
This was great! Were we in the middle of a band break up?
Yngwie sat down and started fucking with the recorder, and we heard someone yell some other shit from the bus.
He fixed it, then played us snippets of demos, that would eventually be the 'Rising Force' album. He told us he had Jethro Tull's drummer and some of his guys from Sweden in the band. They had been in LA, working on the record.
"I told these Alcatrazz guys that I'm quitting, a few days ago, but we still have to finish this tour. They are being babies." He said, in his Arnold Schwarzenegger sounding voice.
Another tour bus rolled into the area while we were talking. It was the Ratt guys, but we didn't know that. I looked over as Juan and Warren were getting off the bus, and there were other guys with them, talking. There was some kind of commotion in the group, and then there was the production dude from the guard shack, pointing at us.
"Uhhhh, Fish..." I said.
Then I heard the production dude yelling, "There they are! Over there!"
He started power walking toward us, scowling, face red as hell.
(To be continued.)
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