Dead brilliant, p.1
Dead Brilliant, page 1
To Rachel
One
Roc Molotov compared the face in the bathroom mirror to the one on the bottle of Midnight Velvet shampoo. He pouffed his hair to match the famous vinyl-black nest but couldn’t manage the cool, enigmatic smile that stared back from his younger self. Dimming the lights, he tried sucking in his cheeks before tossing the container away in disgust. He lit a pair of Mission fig candles, lifted his guitar from the empty bathtub, climbed in, and checked the tuning. Some of his very best vocals had been recorded in bathrooms, and the echo always seemed to make the lyrics sound deeper. Closing his eyes, he let the magic of a handful of major sevenths wash over him, banishing his dark mood.
Minutes later, he was jolted from his musing by the phone and lunged over the tub to answer it. Before he could even say hello, he heard the silky voice of his manager, Uncle Strange. “Have you got MTV on? You’re gonna want to see this.”
“I’m in the tub … with my guitar.” Roc tucked the phone under his ear and produced a long, melodious strum.
“Nice reverb. Listen, come down to my room — we should experience this Cocktails interview together.”
Roc had been trying unsuccessfully to ignore the upcoming release of his old bandmates’ new disc. “Yeah, I guess. Order me a Tuborg and a tumbler of Nembutals, will you?” He let the phone dangle over the edge of the tub and eased out, putting the guitar back in and blowing out the candles.
He padded barefoot down the hall of the Sunset Lagoon, the West Hollywood boutique hotel that he and Uncle had called home since their full-on touring days. He found the door to Uncle’s suite propped open and took in the usual aromas of incense and pretence. Uncle had made modifications over the years to suit his carefully crafted identity, with the décor running to early Zen pimp. The hotel’s faux O’Keefe nature prints had given way to Uncle’s personal collection of Klimt’s erotic drawings. Bamboo blinds, little stone stacks, and a bonsai garden underneath the glass-topped coffee table rounded out the feng shui.
Roc was greeted by the cawing and burbling of Uncle’s current favourite nature CD. The lone connection to their mutual past, the beaded curtain that had been rescued from Uncle’s first apartment of a couple of decades ago in Duluth, was now the gateway to satori in the Buddhoir. Above it hung his treasured photo of native rock ’n roll sons from the Gopher State, featuring Prince, Paul Westerberg, and a distracted-looking Bob Dylan flanking Uncle, whose head was unfortunately halved by the top of the frame. Gone mercifully from the room was the bento box that had held Uncle’s stash in the old days.
On the carpet in front of the TV, seated on an embroidered pillow in the lotus position, Uncle Strange stared at a glowing laptop. “You sound stressed, my son. You want a traditional tea service, reflexology? Maybe Sandra’s around to do some Reiki.”
“No thanks, Uncle. A beer should take care of it.” Roc picked up the remote and hit ‘mute’ as the theme from MTV’s Rocktalk played.
When he unmuted, he heard the host intoning, “Now, everyone knows that Roc Molotov was the lead singer, songwriter, and founder of the band. How do you feel his departure will affect your sound?” The host, with whom Roc had done countless interviews over the years, turned up the sincerity and leaned toward the three ill-at-ease members of The Cocktails, peering dimly at each other through the fringe over their shades. Some clearing of throats and shifting on the studio couch followed.
“Uh … well ... you know.”
“I mean ... it’s like ...”
Finally, drummer Danny “Double” Cocktail asserted himself. “Not at all, really.”
Rhythm guitarist Frankie “Flaming” Cocktail found his confidence too.
“Yeah, rock and roll as usual, right?”
The third member of the group, the terminally shy and somewhat overweight bassist, Barry “Shaker” Cocktail, giggled. “We don’t miss him much, do we?”
“So, the Y2K concert turned out to be the final show for Roc Molotov and the Cocktails?”
“Yeah,” said Danny wistfully, “the time just felt right, you know.”
“Sure,” said Roc, fuming. “After I told them before the show.”
“And there were some creative differences,” said Barry.
“Oh right,” said Roc, disgustedly, “like the difference between being utterly devoid of creativity and ...”
The host nodded, changing topics. “And how did you prepare for this big event?”
“Well,” said Frankie, brows furrowed, “I bought a really big generator, in case ...”
“And I filled the garage with bottled water,” said Barry.
“Oh my God, someone stop the madness.” Roc covered his eyes with his hands.
Mercifully, the host wrapped up the interview. “Well, whatever you’re doing now, it’s working. Congrats on your first #1 record. Now let’s take a look at the video, our sneak preview of ‘Stop Before I Start’ by The Cocktails. Thanks, guys.”
“Wankers!”
The screen went blank as the remote bounced across the room, coming to rest under the window, which overlooked a tranquil southern California garden.
“Total wankers, the lot of them.” Roc got up off the couch and began to pace.
Uncle spoke serenely. “Calm down, Roc, you know how it’ll go. They’ll have their moment of glory, and poof, it’ll be over before you can say ‘where are they now.’”
“‘Calm down?’ Easy for you to say, genius. Whose idea was it to fire them and go solo? And how come you didn’t know they had a record in the can ready for release a week before mine?”
Uncle continued working his computer while picking up the remote with one foot and using the other to turn the TV back on. “Roc, relax, you’ll leave them in your dust. Musically, you already did years ago. Trust me.” He gestured at the television. “I mean, look at this nonsense.”
On the screen, the members of The Cocktails, dressed as cops, were awkwardly arresting a gaggle of ten-storey-tall nymphets as the chorus of “Stop Before I Start” kicked in. Uncle looked up and appeared to be silently mouthing the words as he nodded along with the song.
“Stop before I start
Look before I leap
Listen to me
Baby can’t you see you gotta …”
Here Frankie held his guitar like a chainsaw and played his big lick — “wawawawa” — as the other band members froze in a tableau.
“Stop before I start.”
Uncle shrugged. “Catchy.”
“So’s herpes,” mumbled Roc. He crossed and recrossed the room, his wiry frame practically twitching, all the while stealing glances at the television. “Uncle Strange, I’ve trusted you since the fifth grade, but right now I’m nervous. The last two albums have tanked, the hair product deal is toast, and now those morons have a #1 record riding on my reputation. Did you remember to check with the lawyers about the rights to the name?”
Uncle assumed his customary guru pose and opened his palms. “Remember? Roc, this is me. I always remember. We’ve got bigger fish to fry, my brother.”
Roc tensed. For one thing, he hated being called “my brother,” and he was convinced that Uncle had been polishing his bald head lately, so that in certain lights it would create a creepy halo effect. As it was now. “What fish, exactly?”
Uncle, still focused on the laptop, replied distractedly. “Like getting Higher than Heaven off the ground.” He turned his attention to his number one client and oldest friend. “This is the best record of your career, Roc, and I want the world to hear it. There are no free passes out there at radio, and there’s been major turnover at the label since your last release.”
Roc didn’t want to think about what this would mean. He ran his hands through his spongy hair then noticed the black stains on his hands. “Shit.” He retreated to the bathroom to wash it off and muttered to himself, “No wonder no one’s buying this crap.”
Uncle called out from the other room, effortlessly slipping into stroke-and-placate mode. “Hey, top ten phones on the advance single at WSFT, and you just entered their ‘soft parade’ at 98 with a chub.”
“Never heard of them. Major market?” Roc re-entered the room and leaned over Uncle’s shoulder to look at the screen, a maze of call letters, radio station wattage, and colour-coded cities laid out in Uncle’s own peculiar format.
“Flagship station on the gay network out of Miami.” Taking in Roc’s pained expression, Uncle continued, “Consumers, my good sir, using the same currency, last time I checked.”
“Yeah, well, just don’t take any three-dollar bills, my good sir.”
He was praying that Uncle wouldn’t remind him of last year’s Pride parade in Toronto that had chanted the lyrics to his song “Damn Straight” as they marched on city hall.
Uncle shut down the laptop and unfolded his six-foot-five frame, a bit creakily, from his cross-legged position. “Let’s go down and have a little recreational beverage poolside, what do you say? Check out the local talent. Unless you’re hitting for the other side now.”
Roc wanted to be mad but just laughed and grabbed his shades as the unlikely duo headed for the door.
Two
“Bless your heart, punkin’, you are just rarin’ to go, aren’t you? Well, I’ve been pinin’ for you, my little moon pie.”
Bobbie Burnette eased her silver Toyota into the passing lane on San Vicente and smiled sweetly at her reflection in the rear view mirror. She abruptly slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a rollerblader who was waving at a friend across the str
“Oh, no, not you baby, you know I would never want anything bad to happen to you,” she purred into the cellphone. She paused and her expression changed at the reply. “Oh, you like that, why, you bad boy, I didn’t know that about you.”
Noticing that her cappuccino had spilled on her new white jeans, Bobbie picked the cup up from between her legs. “Oh, damnation, I’ve got foam all over my muffin!” she growled in frustration.
“Oh, sweetheart, I am sorry, excuse me, but ...” She put her best southern belle tones into effect. A startled look came over her face at the sound of moaning on the line. “Are you all right?” she asked, concerned, as she pulled into the line-up for the parking lot of Earth’s Bounty. “You just put your head between your legs or whatever you do and breathe deeply, I’ll be right back, you hunky monkey.”
Bobbie switched to call waiting, and a soft expression came over her face. “Roc, honey, I was just thinking about you. Hang on, let me get off this call.” She hit call waiting once more. “Okay, time’s up. Same card as always?” She paused. “Can’t wait.” She made kissing sounds before changing lines again while being suctioned into a minuscule parking place. “I was going to pick up some Sierra salad for us and come by the hotel, if that’s all right, sugar.”
Poolside at the Sunset Laguna, Roc and Uncle sat at a prime table with a couple of beers and a fruit plate in front of them. Around them, every link of the rock ’n roll food chain was in evidence. A big league easy-listening king was taking his t-shirt off for the hundredth time that afternoon and oiling his hairy chest. A Cuban diva with a major web of halo hair was strutting by and flashing her gleaming smile to all who’d notice, while an ex-prime-time comedian who was now hustling jewellery on late night TV passed unnoticed. Publicists, bodyguards, songwriters, and masseurs elbowed each other aside for access. At the next table, a trio of gauzy blondes was pretending not to notice Roc.
“Bobbie, I was just thinking of you too. I’m kind of right in the middle of a strategy session with Uncle right now. Maybe we could hook up a little later.”
Roc noticed Uncle, in his usual lotus pose, making prayer motions at a mostly naked brunette emerging from the pool right in front of him. As Roc peered over his shades and the brunette adjusted her bikini top, Uncle bowed solemnly and said, “We have been blessed, my brother.”
Bobbie sat in her parking space and saw a number she recognized well on the call display. “Okay, Roc, I’ll be at home, or in the car, call me.” She pushed her seat back and reclined as she took the call. “Why, Snagglepuss, I’ve been waiting to hear from you.” She closed her eyes, rubbing her temples with fatigue. “I’m in the garden and my back is getting a bit of a burn, can you do something to help little old me?”
Roc put the phone back on the table and finished his beer. By the time he got back from the washroom, the blondes had evaporated, the sun had dropped behind the cabanas, and some kids were screaming in the crocodile-shaped pool. Uncle had relocated under the brunette’s umbrella and was sitting cross-legged with his palms facing up, being fascinating.
Roc went back to the room for the advance CD of his new album and decided to go for a drive.
Three
Roc slipped the Lexus into cruise control now that he was clear of the tacky beach bum part of Malibu and into the stretch of Highway #1 that he loved. Driving was meditation, especially with nowhere to go; it always seemed to suspend the tough stuff — the problems, decisions, frustrations that were always waiting when you got back. Once he was through the light at Zuma, he hit “play,” and the opening chords of the title track of Higher than Heaven filled the car. The long orchestral intro was a bit risky in the thrills-per-minute climate of today’s pop world, but he knew it was good and set up the ethereal quality of the song. Besides, they could always edit for a single if necessary. Roc quickly wiped those thoughts before they spoiled the moment and breathed deeply as he rolled past Leo Carillo beach, a favourite haunt in the Tabatha days. Another thought that needed editing.
The album was coming out next week, and Roc was as worried as he had ever been in his career. My god, has it been twenty years? No, not quite, but still. He could blame video, but it had helped him considerably in the early days; computer games, piracy, the economy, executive changes at the label with bloody kids making the big calls — scapegoats for days, but he knew it was just the turn of the wheel.
Uncle had been diversifying lately, although he’d been mysterious about what was occupying his time, but Roc knew that even his manager’s legendary ability to affect pop history was all smoke at this point. If anyone could see through Uncle Strange’s bullshit, it was Roc. Uncle had made the swift journey from childhood friend and roadie to spiritual advisor and personal manager greased by the universal lube, money. His reputation as a financial whiz was based on managing a major cash cow, Roc Molotov. Being seriously math-challenged, Uncle had accountants to do the real work.
The visionary image was always hilarious to Roc, but it seemed to work wonders on A&R guys, concert promoters, and especially the young women who would do anything to be “in the biz.” Roc wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow’s strategy session at the label, but Uncle had said that this time Roc had to be there to use whatever charisma he had in reserve to motivate the weasels.
Roc pulled off the highway into the parking lot at Matador Beach as he listened to the solo at the end of “Underwater Smile” and felt good. He locked the car and walked to the edge of the cliff overlooking the beautiful rock formations below. Another perfect sunset — California seemed to have an endless supply of them. He smiled as a pair of dolphins rose from the water in tandem then dove joyously back in. It had to be joy — why else would they do it? He realized he was getting hungry and decided to call Bobbie to see if the Sierra salad was still on offer.
By the time he ran into some traffic in the commercial stretch of Malibu, the last chords of the new album were fading into the roar of the ocean sound effects, and Roc smiled again at the appropriateness of the moment. It’ll be fine, he thought as he grabbed the phone and hit Bobbie’s number on speed-dial.
“Oh, hi baby,” she said somewhat breathlessly, “I’d just about given up on you. I’m on my way back from spinning class. Hang on while I ditch this call.”
The spinning was definitely working, thought Roc as he waited at the Cross Creek traffic light, picturing Bobbie in her pink danskin and matching warm-ups. Maybe he’d stop and grab a bottle of Phelps; just because she wasn’t drinking wine didn’t mean he couldn’t. The phone let out a little squawk, and Roc heard what sounded like Bobbie in the throes of wild passion.
“Oh, yes, you randy panda, yes, that’s it, you know what to do.” Her voice was rising, and little squeals punctuated her speech.
Roc was stunned and could barely get the words out. “Bobbie, is that you?”
The squealing stopped abruptly and was followed by a silence, then, “Roc?”
“What the fuck are you doing, if I may be so bold?” Roc tried to keep his voice cool, but it shook, even as he barely whispered.
“Oh, Roc, I didn’t think it was you ... I mean ... I wish it was, but ...”
“Bobbie, are you in your car?”
“Yes, Roc, and I’m almost home. Meet me there, I can explain.”
“No explanation required. Later,” he said coldly and smashed the phone against the dash.
At the last second, he pulled into the left turn lane for Sunset. He wasn’t going to Santa Monica tonight, or to Bobbie’s place ever again, he thought bitterly. As he followed the curves of Sunset toward Hollywood, he knew he had no right to feel so angry. He had no claim on her; he had blown her off countless times before, for totally whimsical reasons, once when he’d thought Tabatha was actually coming to see him romantically instead of with her lawyer. But this was beyond the pale. And totally unexpected.
When he’d met Bobbie, she had just arrived in California, having won the Miss Alabama Millennium Farm Implement Queen contest. She was so innocent, and almost ridiculously sweet. Something about that sweetness had appealed to his jaded rock star heart, and they had been on again/off again ever since. I guess L.A. gets to them all, he thought, passing through the strip as the nightly spectacle was getting underway. Still, in her bloody car, for God’s sake. He pulled into the leafy overhang that led to guest parking at the Sunset Laguna and was grateful for room service and a private entrance.
