Enjoy one of your favorite posts from the past until I return to entertain you!
And thank you for your loyal following.
You can ask just about anybody.
I don’t drink.
Well, I don’t drink very often.
Maybe once, twice a year.
I believe that years of partying with the “Bad Boys” of the 80’s might have something to do with my lack of interest in drinking today and…
After spending most of my time around recovering alcoholic-addicts, I have a lifetime full of cautionary tales… so I don’t.
But I have to admit… that maybe this night in New York City, with Brian May from Queen, might have had something to do with my decision to give up the “big party” for good.
We were both in town for CMJ: the huge music/publishing festival that takes place annually in New York.
I flew in with my band, Brian was there solo.
But we were both on Hollywood Records and so the president of the record company wanted to take us both out to a schmooz dinner, after we played CBGB’s that night.
Our job was to impress publishers, journalists, radio station owners in hopes that they would find us “down to earth” yet “intelligent and witty” and therefore, want to buy our music or play our music because not only were we talented but heck… we were just damn good people.
Now… I have always been good at schmoozing… it’s just something you have to do when you are playing in “The Show” but deep down inside…. it always made me extremely nervous and super sick to my stomach.
So, when it came time to leave for the big dinner party, my band thought it would be great if I drank a few margaritas and tequila shots with them… just to relax me before the special event.
Well, anyone that has been drinking in New York, knows that the bartenders of the Big Apple really like to make their cocktails strong and so… next thing I knew… I was in a limo, heading to a dinner party… empty stomach… well… now full of booze… and pretty much already bordering on inebriated.
My A&R person was trying to get me to pay attention as she did the run down on who would be there and why it was important to impress them but… I was in a bit of a stupor, looking out the passenger side window, enjoying the street lights, and basically spun out in my own little world.
“D.D.,” she snapped. “This is serious.”
So I gathered myself together and tried to sober myself long enough to at least LOOK interested in what she was saying.
We arrived at the restaurant: Upscale Mexican. Tequila and Margaritas strewn across the table.
This was going to be bad.
My thoughts of getting a coke or a cup of coffee to get myself back on track dissipated.
The record company president handed me a shot and pressed me to down it.
Brian May stood up, towering above me, gave me a giant hug, placed a margarita in my hand and that is basically all I remember.
I have a faint recollection of trying to pull a girl’s ear off her head, believing that she had something stuck in her hair.
And I guess I did actually get up and cross the restaurant to smell Robin Leech, from Lifestyle’s of the Rich and Famous fame because Brian May dared me to do it.
Other than that… my next memory is me on a street corner, outside of CBGB’s talking to a middle aged Italian man in a wife beater, who had a 1980’s Cadillac with a back seat full of hand guns and kept telling me not to worry about anything.
He would take care of me.
“Johnny” would take care of me.
At this time, I knew I was in trouble.
I picked up the pay telephone and called my brother Jack and started to cry.
He could hear “Johnny” rambling on in his heavy Bronx accent in the background, people outside the club screaming and fighting, and me… having my first breakdown on the road… and he wasn’t sure what to do.
“Where’s your A&R person?” He asked.
“I don’t know,” I sobbed.
“Go back to CBGB’s and get a cab back to your hotel now. Call me when you get there.”
I hung up the phone, told “Johnny” my brother said I had to go now, and so he saluted me with his heavily-clad-in-chunk-gold, pudgy Italian hand, and wished me well on my way.
I did grab a cab.
I did make it back to the hotel.
And when I woke up in the morning, naked in a bathtub full of rusty water in one of the old rooms at the Algonquin… my all time favorite New York hotel… home of the Algonquin Round Table… host to many of my favorite writers and editors: Dorothy Parker, George Kaufman, Harold Ross… I felt like I was going to vomit.
Not only because I was in the beginnings of the WORST hangover of my life but, because I had acted a fool and ended up a physical wreck in my literary place of worship.
I felt like Bukowski was the only writer that might actually applaud me at the moment, raise his glass to me in celebration of last night’s debauchery.
It was horrible.
And when I suddenly came completely to and remembered what I had done… I actually slapped my hand to my forehead and shook my head in disgust… hoping that I might somehow be able to forget the idiot I had been.
Had I actually tried to pull an ear off of a girl’s head?
Had I actually walked over and smelled Robin Leech?
I leaned out of the bathtub, grabbed the edge of the toilet, and vomited.
Ten minutes later the phone rang.
I dragged myself, naked, across the floor, and picked it up to hear Jack, my brother, and Joe, my husband, both screaming at me for scaring the shit out of them.
I guess I never called the house back to tell my brother I had made it safely to the hotel and they had no idea where I was staying until they were able to get hold of one of the record company reps in the morning.
I made my pathetic apologies and hung up.
The phone rang again.
This time it was my A&R rep.
I was ten minutes late for the record signing and press junket for my first album.
“Get your ass in a cab and get down to the Kimmel Center now!”
I had no idea where I was supposed to go but I rushed to get dressed, did everything I could to try and look like I wasn’t a drunken mess the night before, and made it to the Kimmel Center just in time to take some publicity photos with Brian.
Seeing him standing on the red carpet, his arms outstretched ready to pull me in close, a big smile on his face, soft-hearted giant, I felt like I had just been granted an “idiot” reprieve.
I rushed towards him and snuggled close, as he held me tight, and leaned down to whisper in my ear, “I loved that you actually went over and smelled Robin Leech. It was just so great.” and that was the moment that they snapped our photo.
Light bulbs popped off around us, people screamed out our names, questions were fired from all angles, and though I was a bit dazed… overwhelmed from the attention, and sick as a dog from my hell of a night. I made it through.
“Welcome to my world,” Brian said as he squeezed my hand and then sat down next to me at the autograph table where we spent the remainder of the morning visiting with fans, signing our names on cds and posters, and joking about Robin Leech until we both caught the late afternoon flights home out of JFK… me back to Los Angeles and my small home in the suburbs of Long Beach… Brian back to England… to his mansion estate… but both of us forever connected through our mutual love of music, drinking, and Robin Leech.
In 1990, at the age of 24, when I began to record my first solo album with Disney’s Hollywood Records, I was pleasantly surprised by my Producer Julian Raymond… who knew about my first “secret” Rock n Roll crush.
He knew that THIS band had been my first arena show EVER…
He knew that I still had all of their pop-punk buttons hidden in my ballerina jewelry box…
He knew that when I was 13, I would often lie on my bed and sing their lyrics, while holding their record cover close to my face, and kissing my “secret” Rock n Roll crush, during all of the silent pauses between everyone of their hit songs.
Yes… he knew all about my affair with Tom Petersson, bass player of Cheap Trick, and it seemed that he had somehow become “Wish Master” the man who had the ability to grant me my Rock n Roll fantasy: a date with Tom Petersson.
“I have someone coming down to the studio to record with you this next week,” Julian said.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Julian smirked. “I think you might have heard of him. His name is Tom Petersson.”
I felt like my head was actually going to explode.
I tried to play it cool, like all good Rock and Roll musicians are supposed to do, but my “Folk Roots” must have kicked in because I became an emotional mess in a matter of seconds.
“TOM PETERSSON?” I shouted. “TOM? MY TOM?”
I never thought I would hear a man giggle, but Julian actually did, as he left me in the recording studio and walked back into the control booth.
I watched as he pushed the control room sound button and said to me, “Yep. Your Tom Petersson.”
My heart was racing.
I had been madly in love with Tom Petersson all of my 7th grade year and way into the summer.
He was beautiful to me in every way.
His dark hair.
His blue eyes.
His flirt of a smile and of course…
the biggest seducer of them all…. his talent.
My secret Rock n Roll crush.
An entire week.
Working on MY MUSIC.
It was too good to be true.
I’d like to say that I didn’t primp for the big event with Tom but… I did.
My X hadn’t seen me so pumped up about “being with a man” since our wedding day.
“He’s just a bass player,” he mumbled. His lead singer ego all in an uproar.
I gave him a big hug, “You’re my man,” I whispered and watched as he smiled and toddled off to go play with one of his tube amps.
Don’t get me wrong… I adored and loved my lead singer husband, but there was no way in hell I could tell him that all of my life I had been secretly in love with bass players… yes.. the list is actually legendary and no need to name names… you all know who you are… and Tom Petersson was at the top of my list.
Bass players always seemed so mellow, laid back… cool.
They dropped a goose egg here or there…
They never stole the limelight…
They kept the rhythm going and popped out of the mix every once in awhile to shine.
So I shaved my legs, and curled my hair, and picked out my cutest dress to wear the first day that I would meet my big crush.
And when Tom came into the studio… you could imagine my surprise… when the first thing I noted was his size: not much taller than me actually. I had always pictured him larger than life… but as he strutted towards me, I could see that he had this charisma about him that seemed to radiate throughout the room.
He walked forward, skinny jeans, expensive London mod boots, tight black t-shirt, open white suit jacket… his hair cropped punky and short now… but still dark… and his eyes… still a brilliant blue and said, “D.D.!” as if I had always been and would always be his best friend as he reached out, hugging and kissing me, until I thought I really would just lay down happily and die.
I rarely get tongue-tied and I rarely get star-struck but for a moment… I felt myself turn back into a 13-year-old DORK, though I tried to contain it, as I gave him a great big smile before saying, “Tom!” Just a little too loudly… and a little too breathy… giving away a bit of my junior high school persona.
“Can’t wait to play on your tracks,” he said. “Good stuff.”
And I thought that of all the validation I had ever received in my life time, to have one of your star musician crushes tell you that your music was “good” basically “worthy of their attention” that they would take time out of their superstar life to come and play with you… well I tell you… it was the best validation ever…
“Pull my finger,” Tom said abruptly, causing me to immediately step out of my starstruck validation moment, while realizing that his voice had the same rough and raspy texture as David Johansen’s from the New York Dolls.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Pull it,” Tom repeated.
I hesitated a moment before I reached out and grabbed his finger, and the next thing I knew, Tom Petersson blasted out a terrific fart.
His laugh had a lot of bass and a booming tenor… it was a guffaw that filled the room.
“Don’t you just love fart jokes,” he said as he walked into the recording studio and got his bass out and ready to play.
I looked at Julian who said, “Don’t you just love the reality of the situation?”
I’m sure he meant it to be facetious… but actually… I did.
To find out that Tom Petersson was just “one of the guys” a down to earth, super cool, “Good Time Charlie” made me beam from ear to ear.
I couldn’t imagine what the week would hold: the possibilities of fun and trouble were obviously endless.
The next day, I rushed to the studio to be with Tom and found that he had brought me a present.
“D.D.” he said. “You have to see this.” He handed me a video tape.
I was afraid to touch it.
“It isn’t porno,” he said. “It’s Robert Tilton.”
Okay… so maybe I was confused. Did Tom Petersson, my Rock n Roll crush… my Musical God of Sex, Drugs and Rock n Roll just give me a tape showcasing an evangelical television preacher?
“Watch it,” he said. “Actually,” He grabbed my hand and dragged me from the studio, “Let’s find a TV and watch it together now.”
We rushed down the hallway, and broke into an office, where we found a TV and VCR and popped the tape into the player.
“You’re gonna love this,” he howled as he grabbed two chairs and pulled me down to sit next to him.
I watched as the tape began to roll and Robert Tilton appeared. He was preaching about the word of the Lord when suddenly he stopped, squinted his eyes to pause for spiritual emphasis, and then a loud fart sound emanated from his ass.
Tom squealed with laughter.
“Isn’t it great?” he said. “Someone took all of his TV sermons and added fart tracks behind it. Isn’t it the best thing ever?”
I can’t say I wasn’t enjoying myself… I was… I was alone with Tom Petersson, I was sharing a personal moment with him, ANYTHING would have made me happy but… I couldn’t help but wonder for a moment, What if Robin Zander were in the room with us? Did he have the same bathroom mentality?
Tom shook my hand, sure that I wasn’t paying proper attention.
“Look D.D.!” He shouted, “Look!”
I watched again as Robert Tilton paused for spiritual significance and a long rapid series of fart sounds descended upon us.
Tom could barely breath. He actually slapped his skinny little Rock n Roll knee, shook his head and sighed before saying, “I just love this,” and I felt a sudden ache in my heart.
How I wish I could have been on the road with Tom circa 1977.
I bet he was so much fun to travel with.
He must have been the prankster. The trickster. The one always up for a good time. I bet he had never been mean to a fan in his life time. He was everything I could ever want him to be.
Our week together passed by quickly… one prank after another: fart jokes, pages of porn magazines taped under office desks… and in cartage containers… and stuffed into acoustic sound holes of guitars… and when it was time for him to leave… I knew how much I would miss him.
“Stop it,” he said in his deep booming voice. “I’ll see you soon. You’ll come to a show right? We can hang out. Have fun.”
And there it was again… my 13-year-old fantasy come true.
And as the years have passed… it’s been nice to hear from friends in the business that he still asks after me… still rants and raves about our great time together in the studio that week.
And fart jokes and all… my Rock n Roll crush is still… my beautiful legendary gentleman.