Inside the World oF a Rock Roadie
SPIN magazine, March 2oo4
On a cool morning in the spring of 2002, I stepped off a bus and hobbled into the bustling lobby of Cleveland's Ritz Carlton Hotel. As I waded through a sea of Armani-clad business travelers sipping lattes and perusing Wall Street Journals, disapproving eyes knifed into me from all directions--a reminder that, by all appearances, I did not belong in their well-pressed, nine-to-five world. I was wearing my standard work uniform: faded Slayer T-shirt, stained knee-length shorts, and a tattered baseball cap that barely disguised my greasy, matted hair. I joined the registration line behind a sophisticated woman in a gray pantsuit who was clutching an Italian leather briefcase between her manicured fingers. She checked her watch; then stole a glance at the lumbering, disheveled figure behind her. Our eyes met for a second, and she quickly looked away. She sniffed loudly several times, and I saw the corners of her mouth twist into a disgusted grimace. I hadn't showered in three days, and although I had tried to conceal my stench with a hefty dose of Speedstick, this was a battle I was clearly losing.
I stepped up to the counter, and the middle-aged clerk greeted me with a hesitant, "Can I help you, sir." His tone was the kind generally reserved for placating the severely retarded or completely insane. I told him that I had a reservation, and he just looked at me, one eyebrow forming a skeptical arch. Then I uttered the five most surreal words ever to escape my lips.
"I'm with the Doobie Brothers," I said quietly. "I'm with the Doobie Brothers."
My strange journey as a rock'n'roll roadie began in the summer of 1988, a time when Ronald Reagan was President, cel phones were the size of toaster ovens, and Milli Vanilli dominated the Billboard charts. Over the next 15 years I would drift in and out of the roadie world, doing brief stints in 1994, 1998, and most recently in the fall of 2001, when I left behind the predictable comforts of the corporate world in search of a writing career. My transition from Web coding desk jockey to full-fledged "road dog" was remarkably smooth, considering I hardly fit the roadie profile: I had two Liberal Arts degrees from a prestigious West Coast university. I bathed regularly. I wore khaki pants. And the only debauchery in my life involved freeze-framing the naked Katie Holmes scene on The Gift DVD. Now, two years later, I'm humping band gear with guys named Opie, Steamer, and Taliban Dan.
I'd just flown home to Los Angeles after three months with the Doobies and was sorting through an enormous pile of unopened mail, when I noticed three things: All the plants in my apartment were dead; my cat no longer recognized me; and my live-in girlfriend--a borderline schizophrenic named Taffy--was nowhere to be found. There was, however, a note scrawled on the bathroom mirror, in her favorite shade of lipstick, that simply read, "Fuck this I'm gone." I hadn't even unpacked my bags when I got the call offering me a job on the Elvis Costello "When I Was Cruel" Tour.
"Great," I heard myself say, "I'll be there on Thursday."
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