C’MON! – My Story of Rock, Ruin and Revelation Page 8

  Barren Cross and Dead Serios both arrived at the next venue at the same time the following day. As crew members were setting up the stage for that night’s show, I approached LaVerde, and with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other I introduced myself and began apprising him of my spiritual beliefs and my passion for the Christian rock scene – including my interest in The Sanctuary. He wasn’t impressed.

  However, after a couple of shows, LaVerde and I actually began to bond a little. And then, following our last show together in Melbourne, he leveled with me. “God came to me earlier tonight and told me to talk to you,” LaVerde confessed as we both climbed into the back of my pick-up truck in the club’s parking lot. He wasted no time in making his point. “I ‘get’ your band,” he quickly confessed. “And I think your songs about cops and boogers are really funny. But don’t you dare come up to me with a beer in your hand and tell me how ‘right on’ you are!” Wow, nobody had ever been that direct with me. And for the next hour, Jim LaVerde “preached it” in a way I’d never heard before – or since. In fact, I didn’t know whether to jump for joy over hearing his powerful message of faith or to jump off the roof of the club, realizing what a dirthead I really was. Although LaVerde’s words freaked me out for the next several days, I still didn’t truly “get it.” And before long I was once again back to my old ways – trying to play rock star from both sides of the spiritual fence.

  Post-show backstage shot featuring members of Deep Purple, Barren Cross and Dead Serios. (Orlando, Florida – May 1990)

  Critical Mass

  Sometimes we fail to recognize the “big picture” no matter how crystal clear it may be. And I was afforded numerous doses of rock reality as a result of Dead Serios’ connection to the band Nuclear Assault.

  The first time Dead Serios opened for the New York-based thrash band was in Florida during their first U.S. tour in early 1987. Since they were signed to a well-known record label, my expectation was that Nuclear Assault would arrive at the gig in a deluxe tour bus, loaded with all of the rock star-type amenities. However, I was taken aback to discover that at the time, they were actually traveling in a dilapidated school bus. And since the show was being held in the ballroom of a fairly ritzy hotel, I naturally assumed that the band members would have been set up with a couple of sweet suites. Wrong again! In fact, I was dumbfounded when I overheard drummer Glenn Evans literally begging the promoter to allow him to “borrow” a room for an hour just so he could shower. Huh? “This isn’t how it’s supposed to work,” I naively thought to myself. How could it be that a guy with a record deal, playing in the headline band, was without a place to shower, shave or snooze?

  But by 1990, Nuclear Assault had graduated to deluxe tour bus status and were on a national tour with the band Testament, playing theater-type venues. Over the last couple of years I had established a close friendship with their lead guitarist, Anthony Bramante, and when the tour wrapped up in Orlando, Florida, Anthony graciously invited me and Joe Del Corvo to come and hang out. Joe and I were now in awe of Nuclear Assault. Their current record, Handle with Care, was selling well and their recent videos for “Critical Mass” and “Trail of Tears” had become staples on MTV’s popular Headbanger’s Ball program. In our view, Nuclear Assault had truly made the “big time.” So imagine my surprise when discovering how delighted the members were to be getting off the road while we were at their hotel after the show. In fact, Anthony didn’t even want to go near his bandmates or return to their bus. His bags were already packed and he was clearly eager for me quickly to take him anywhere else. Although I didn’t “get it” at the time, I would completely relate to Anthony’s tour-related anxieties years later. In fact, from numerous road stories and traumatic intra-band accounts to tales of deals gone bad, Anthony offered me considerable insight into the music business big league.

  Me and Anthony Bramante goofing around in my pool during the summer of 1990.

  Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch Cherry Bomb!

  My writing career actually began completely by accident. I was in Los Angeles in the spring of 1990 – pounding the pavement and knocking on doors, promoting Dead Serios. While in town I happened to stop in a Hollywood bookstore where I finally located a copy of Neon Angel, the newly released autobiography written by former Runaways siren Cherie Currie.

  At that point, the beautiful, one-time, up-and-coming actress, rock star and now author was enjoying somewhat of a comeback, making various appearances on the television talk show circuit promoting Neon Angel. Having seen her recently on one of these shows, I knew her book was in stores but I couldn’t find it anywhere in my hometown of Melbourne, Florida. This was years before the birth of Amazon.com and other online mail order services, so you’d really have to search to locate certain hard-to-find books and records.

  It’s amazing what treasures you can find in Los Angeles. I had been a Runaways fan for years and during this trip I not only found a limited edition autographed copy of Neon Angel, I also scored Japanese import CDs of the first two Runaways records, The Runaways and Queens of Noise. Had this been the extent of my 1990 L.A. journey I could have returned home completely satisfied. However, this story was just beginning.

  As I was packing by bags, preparing for my trip back to Florida the next day, I began to examine some of the promotional materials on Cherie that I had received when I purchased her book a few days earlier. I noticed that the address for her management office was right around the corner from where I was staying in Hollywood and I got a crazy idea. I had an acknowledged major “thing” for Cherie and I also was eager to create a unique experience that would make this trip particularly memorable. So without giving it too much thought and certainly without considering any consequences, I called her management office, masquerading as a music journalist. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing and I certainly don’t suggest this as a way for anyone else to break into the business. But I decided since I was going to be leaving L.A. the next day, I may as well go out with a bang! After all, what did I have to lose?

  Within seconds, I had Rick, Cherie’s manager, on the phone and I quickly convinced him of my bogus status as an East Coast music journalist. I told him that I was a staff writer for Jam, a popular and quite legitimate publication based in Orlando, Florida. Realizing that I stood zero chance of ever actually meeting her, I told Rick that I’d like to schedule a telephone interview with Cherie. After asking me several questions regarding the magazine, Rick told me that Cherie was on her way to the office as we spoke and that once he had verified my credentials with the Jam office, I could do the interview right away.

  I couldn’t believe it. Rick actually bought my story – hook, line and sinker. I also quickly realized that I probably had less than a minute or two to contact Jam editor Darrel Massaroni and apprise him of my scheme before Rick had a chance to call and find me out. Fortunately, Massaroni was, at the time, a major supporter of my band. So when I got him on the phone and told him my story he was actually very amused and supportive. In fact, he not only agreed to vouch for me, he also encouraged me to “get a good story” and informed me that the deadline for the next issue was just a few days away. Having now covered my bases, I quickly began jotting down questions and setting up a cassette tape recorder as I prepared to conduct and record what would become my first interview. As instructed, I called Rick’s office back around 1PM and within a minute or two Cherie was on the line.

  Considering that I had no idea what I was doing, the interview went quite well. For nearly an hour Cherie and I talked about her time in The Runaways, her solo records, her acting career and how she successfully had beaten her near life-ending addiction to drugs a few years earlier.

  As the interview was winding down, I mentioned to Cherie that I didn’t have a very good promo photo of her and that perhaps she might want to send a better quality headshot to the Jam office to accompany the feature. Then came the real bombshell. Instead of opting to mail a photo, Cherie invited me to meet with her that afternoon
at Rick’s office and together we could go through a box of photos and I could select whichever one I liked. Without haste, I immediately took a shower, got dressed, jumped in a cab and within minutes I had arrived at Rick’s Sunset Boulevard office.

  Through a partially opened door I could see Cherie in a room in the distance as I entered the office reception area. Upon introducing myself, the secretary at the front desk immediately escorted me to the room where I had just spotted Cherie and then closed the door behind her on the way out. Only a few hours earlier I was thrilled just to have found an autographed copy of this woman’s book; now we were alone, face to face, hanging out together, rummaging through a box of her various promo photos. In my world, this was big. No, it was bigger than big. This was colossal. In fact, I wouldn’t have been as psyched had I been invited on a private getaway ski weekend in Aspen with Paul Stanley! And I simply couldn’t believe that I successfully had managed to pull off such a stunt.

  Me and Cherie in 1990. (C’mon, you know we look great together!)

  (Photo: Mike Laughlin)

  Upon returning to Florida, I submitted my first feature story, which appeared in the April 6, 1990 issue of Jam. Before long I started getting approached by people who had read my interview with Cherie and they would often compliment me on my writing style. I found these compliments to be hilarious. Little did they know that it was all a total fluke and that I literally had bluffed my way through the entire thing.

  Brotherhood

  An acronym for At Will of the Lord, AWOL was a high-energy hard rock band based out of Merritt Island, Florida that became one of the “must see” live acts on the local scene in 1990.

  The members of AWOL were a couple of years younger than me, yet I was inspired by their ability to lay it down live – to leave gallons of sweat behind onstage, while sticking to their powerful Christian message. To say the least, I was truly a fan of this young, up-and-coming band whose style could best be described as a hybrid of Stryper-like arena rock and the funkiness of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. The new crop of hot young rock club chickies really dug these guys too. In short, I found considerable value in being connected to AWOL.

  AWOL – 1990

  I developed a personal brotherhood with the AWOL guys and as a result, our bands performed numerous shows together. In fact, from 1990-1992, there was rarely an occasion when one of our bands booked a date without including the other in the deal. I was so on fire for AWOL, musically, spiritually, and personally, that I chose their band logo as my first tattoo in 1991. Now that raised a few eyebrows. First of all, this was back before all Americans seemingly were required by law to be tattooed by age sixteen. In Melbourne, Florida in 1991, being in a band, sporting ink was still somewhat of a novelty. And having a tattoo honoring a rival band was perceived by many at the time as plain weird. I became particularly close to the group’s frontman, Paul Peters. And although we would drift apart as time marched on, he would play a surprise key role in my spiritual transformation, two decades later.

  The Downward Spiral

  At the height of our notoriety, Orlando’s Jam magazine named Dead Serios as Florida’s “Entertainer of the Year” at its annual Jammy Awards ceremony in 1991. “Now we’ve got ‘em!” declared Jerry Landers, our manager at the time, when I phoned him in Los Angeles to give him the good news, late on the night of our big victory. Our moment had arrived and we could now no longer be denied – or could we? The fact is, at the exact glorious moment of our “crowning,” the Dead Serios “machine” seemed to blow a gasket.

  Our first two post-Jammy Florida concert appearances in 1991 were with the industrial band, The Genitorturers. To say that The Genitorturers’ audience failed to connect with Dead Serios’ slapstick style would be an understatement. I was physically assaulted by their disapproving fans as I jumped into the crowd at both gigs with my toy lawnmower to act out our concert mainstay, “Lawn Care Studs.” In fact, the hardcore audience in general was now starting to turn on us. And for the first time, I was beginning to feel as if I was actually in danger being onstage.

  Dead Serios being named “Entertainer Of the Year” in 1991.

  (Photo: Christopher Lee Helton)

  I already had recognized the writing on the wall months earlier and in an effort to save our sinking ship, I suggested that we do the unthinkable – we added a lead guitarist to the band. Attempting to focus more on our music and less on our campy show, we brought ace guitarist Doug Gibson into our ranks. Although Doug’s contribution made us a better band, our new high road musical direction came a bit too late.

  The ensuing months only brought further darkness and dilemmas to the Dead Serios world. We did get one last shot with a major label in August, but the rep from Atlantic Records who came to check us out as an opening act for the soon-to-be chart-topping band, Saigon Kick, was less than impressed. I’m sure that our lackluster performance had something to do with it, and production restrictions imposed on us by the headliner’s tour manager didn’t help. But more likely it was due to our unabashed onstage drunkenness. In fact, we were now developing such a dubious reputation for being alcoholic derelicts, that despite our Jammy Award status, we were becoming almost un-bookable. Things were becoming grim in our personal lives as well, as Dead Serios members soon endured divorces, arrests and even a botched early ‘90s suicide attempt.

  Doug Gibson onstage with Dead Serios in Orlando during the early ‘90’s.

  (Photo: Ramon Scavelli)

  But perhaps the most frustrating and humiliating part of our story took place when Dead Serios seemingly became victims of identity theft. In the summer of 1991, I sent a promo pack to an L.A.-based attorney in hopes that he could secure us a record deal. He called me a couple of weeks later to inform me that although he was personally impressed by the band, he saw little chance of us getting signed.

  A few months later people began approaching us, commenting on how they’d heard Dead Serios on the radio. At first I thought nothing of it as we’d been receiving college radio airplay for years. But more and more people continued congratulating us on finally scoring a hit record. Suddenly, even national level musicians began calling my house, offering the same sentiment and adding that changing our name was apparently the smart move. None of this made sense to us. We hadn’t been signed, we weren’t receiving commercial airplay and we hadn’t changed our name. Then one day, a kid came up to me at a local fast food joint and began reciting the lyrics of this new “Dead Serios” tune he had just heard on the radio. It caught my attention because the rather clever lyrics were a takeoff on the story of the Three Little Pigs.

  Finally, someone in our organization got a copy of the record. When I heard it, I recall literally being rendered speechless for the first time in my life. From the heavy, chunky guitar riffs, to the growling vocals to the novelty-type lyrics, the song entitled “Three Little Pigs” by the group Green Jellö was a carbon copy of Dead Serios’ sound and style. And to add further suspicion to this tale, it soon came to my attention that Green Jellö was managed by the same L.A.-based attorney who just a few months earlier had passed on representing Dead Serios. Hmm. Let me be clear that I’m not making any accusations. I’m merely conveying a really odd show biz coincidence.

  The Last Gasp

  Major record labels clearly didn’t embrace Dead Serios like the fans and press. An Interscope Records A&R rep once went so far as to tell me flat out that our music “sucked.” “You ought to quit now and stop embarrassing yourself,” she recommended, with considerable arrogance and disdain.

  Dead Serios in 1992

  (Photo: Ramon Scavelli)

  Despite our lack of major label interest, we knew we were on the verge of becoming “the next big thing” in the early ‘90s, when actually our days were numbered. The Seattle grunge movement was revving up and was about to consume the entire rock world. And there would be little room in that world for a band like ours. The once tight Dead Serios unit began to splinter and before long, one by one,
my bandmates all moved on to pursue other projects. Although I stuck it out for a couple of more years with various line-up changes, our window of opportunity had been permanently slammed shut by the end of 1992.

  *******

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Life, Death and

  Butterscotch Pudding

  At first it appeared as if the 1990s were poised to become the 1980s, Part II. The Bush presidency was a spillover from the Reagan administration, popular ‘80s TV shows like L.A. Law and Full House remained ratings champs in the early ‘90s and people all still pretty much looked like Lita Ford – even some of the chicks. The music scene was status quo as well. While established acts like Poison and Mötley Crüe were showing early warning signs of their impending self-destruction, new bands such as Slaughter, Extreme and Mr. Big were carrying the ‘80s arena rock torch into the new decade. And I was perfectly content to “let the good times roll!”

  Smells Like Bad Music

  …A fateful Saturday night in the fall of 1991 changed all of that. A frumpy-looking trio from Seattle, Washington named Nirvana, debuted their ground-breaking video, “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” on MTV’s Headbanger’s Ball program.

  Nirvana ushered in the game-altering Grunge movement. Within the three-minute span of their music video, the rock world was effectively turned upside down. Platinum-selling, good-time-party poster boys who maintained solid, successful careers on the Friday preceding Nirvana’s proverbial A-bomb, found themselves standing in rock’s “breadline” by the following Monday morning. Any musician after 1982 who had ever smiled at a camera, wrote a catchy anthem, worn tight pants or, heaven forbid, donned a little eyeliner seemingly was banished in an instant. They’d all been expunged and replaced on the charts and the airwaves by a new crop of grimacing, brooding, unwashed, hobo-looking characters, wearing flannel shirts with misbuttoned sweaters and sporting short, greasy, unkempt coifs. And to me, the music made by this new breed of anti-rock star was, in a word, depressing. Simply put, the party was over.