Chapter 22: Opening Night

San Luis Obispo, California

April 7, 2000

They took the minivan and Jake’s BMW to the airport, mostly because of Caydee and all of the baggage that went along with her. She had her portable crib, a suitcase dedicated only to diapers and diapering adjuncts, and another suitcase just for her clothes, snacks, toys, and bathing supplies. Even so, Meghan would be given a significant budget to purchase more clothes, shoes, diapers, wipes, and every other supply at stops along the tour. After bidding a semi-tearful goodbye for now to Elsa; Jake, Meghan, and Caydee climbed into the Beemer while Laura took control of the Sienna and all of the luggage (she had to fold down the back seat bench in order to put it all in. Steph, who was parking her car in the Kingsley’s garage for the duration of the tour, rode in the Sienna with Laura. They arrived at San Luis Obispo Regional Airport at 9:05 AM on a beautiful central coast spring day.

Jake pulled the Avanti out of its hangar. They unloaded the minivan and stowed all of the luggage (Laura, Meghan, Steph, and Jake only had the traditional one travel bag apiece) into the cargo compartment in the nose after Jake weighed everything. Once it was evenly distributed and secure, he parked the BMW on the right side of the hangar and Laura parked the Sienna on the left side. Jake hooked both vehicles up to trickle chargers to keep their batteries from going flat while they were gone (which actually necessitated him making physical contact with the minivan for the first time since it was purchased). He stowed both sets of keys in a small toolbox that sat near where the aircraft tug was stored. He secured the toolbox with a combination lock and then stepped out and closed the hangar door, twisting the handle to engage the lock. The key for that lock was stashed inside of his own travel bag and would go on tour with them. In the event that the bag and/or key were lost somewhere in their travels, there was a spare in the possession of the airport manager.

“All right,” Jake said after performing his external inspection of the aircraft. “Let’s hit the road, people.”

“Fly high in sky!” Caydee said happily. She was very enthusiastic about hitting the road with Mommy, Daddy, and May-kin. “Go make moo-zik for the peoples!”

“That’s right, Caydee girl,” Jake told her. “Let’s go make some moo-zik for the peoples.”

Jake had deliberately left the plane with only enough fuel to make it to LA (with a healthy emergency reserve, of course) so there would not be a large quantity sitting in the tanks while they were away. He filed his flight plan and twelve minutes later they were roaring into the sky, disturbing the peace of the San Luis Obispo County residents and visitors for the last time for the next four and a half months. Though there were legs to the upcoming tour and lots of breaks built into it as well, none would be long enough to justify flying home. Unless something went wrong, they would not be back in SLO County until August 22 at the earliest.

Jake landed the plane at Whiteman Airport at 10:05 AM and taxied over to the hangar instead of parking in the GA lot like usual on this end of the commute. Here, he did the opposite of what he had done in SLO. He pulled his truck out of the hangar and they loaded all of the baggage into the back of it. He then parked the plane in the hangar. It took all three of the adults to push it inside since there was no tug on this end. Caydee happily sat on the left wing as they did this (they had gradually started letting her sit up there unattended as long as she promised not to stand up or try to move from the spot they put her).

Once inside, Jake hooked the aircraft to a shore line and then secured all of the pitot tubes with their covers that had the dangling red ribbons that read REMOVE BEFORE FLIGHT. This would keep spiders or insects from making homes inside the tubes and possibly clogging them up and rendering them ineffective the next time the plane flew. It was a sensible precaution. Just four years before, a Boeing 757 had crashed into the Atlantic Ocean after taking off from the Dominican Republic, killing all 189 aboard. The primary cause was discovered to have been the loss of reliable airspeed and angle of attack information due to a wasp nest that had been built in an uncovered pitot tube at some point during the twenty days the aircraft had gone unused.

Jake secured the hangar and then put the key into his travel bag, in the same little zip-lock baggie the key for the SLO hangar was stored. They then drove to Granada Hills and parked next to Laura’s Lexus in the garage of their secondary house. They carried everything inside and dumped it in a heap in the formal living room area, right next to the front door. Caydee asked if she could go swimming, since they were, after all, in the only one of their houses with a pool.

“Maybe Meghan will take you later,” Laura told her, “but I don’t know if the water is going to be warm enough.”

“Fuck it,” Caydee opined. To her, there was no water too cold to go swimming in.

“I like your enthusiasm,” Jake told her, “but Meghan has to get in too, and she might not be down with early April pool water temperature.”

“Awww,” Caydee said. “What a rip!”

“I’ll at least go out there with you, Caydee,” Meghan promised. “If nothing else, you can sit on the step in your floaties and stay in reach of me.”

“Fuckin’ A!” Caydee said happily. “Caydee go in poo!”

Since the first three shows of the tour were local, all of the bandmembers would be driving to the Forum in Inglewood and parking in a special VIP area in the loading docks where the tour trucks and tour buses were parked. All had been told to report to the arena and be ready to go to work at 5:00 PM. The exceptions to this order were Laura Kingsley and Jake himself. They had some other tour duties to attend to so a limousine picked them up at 12:00 PM. Inside the limo was tour publicity manager Jessie Kearns and the second-in-command of the tour security troops Chris Dick (it had been confirmed that that really was his last name).

Jake and Laura climbed into the limousine—ignoring the probing gazes of several of their neighbors, all of whom continued to have no idea of who the odd and somewhat frightening people who occasionally and briefly resided in that house actually were (though the speculation was quite rampant)—and sat down in the forward-facing direction, across from the two men. They were greeted politely. No handshakes or hugs were exchanged.

Kearns, who was dressed in a suit and tie and had a bad combover that was held down with half a can of hairspray, was a member of the National Records management team. He was a fussy, fastidious man who was in charge of arranging all the radio station interviews and autograph sessions that Jake and various members of his band would attend at each stop. He had high hopes of one day being promoted to full tour manager and placed in charge of his own traveling circus. He and Jake had already butted heads a few times because Kearns was suffering from the delusion that he was in a supervisory role over Jake and could give him orders.

Chris Dick, by contrast, worked for the tour itself, which meant he was one of Jake’s direct employees. He was dressed in a pair of tattered jeans and a long, baggy t-shirt that concealed the holstered Glock pistol he carried with him at all times. His hair was long and he sported a mustache and goatee. He had a golden earring dangling from his left ear. He was a large man, barrel chested, well-muscled, and radiated an air of intimidation without even trying. He had worked for twenty years for the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department as a patrol officer and then a patrol sergeant. These days, in addition to being a professional tour security officer who drew an LA County pension, he was a patched member of the Ventura County chapter of the Free Riders Motorcycle Club. Jake had not butted heads with him. In fact, he found the guy very likable, full of interesting stories, and quite professional at his job. Jake had no fear of being attacked or accosted when Dick was around.

“Are we all ready for the big day?” Kearns chirped brightly, as if he were a kindergarten teacher addressing his class on day one.

“We are ready,” Jake replied. “Are you?”

“Indeed,” he said. He then turned and pounded on the partition between the front and the back. “Driver, you may go now.”

Jake was already irritated. The tour would be contracting with limousine companies in every city to provide transport for the band and other VIPs. LA was no exception. Jake, a frequent user of LA limousines, knew the driver from riding with him in the past. And he did not approve of people talking down to the help. “His name is Corey,” Jake told the manager, “as I’m sure he introduced himself when he picked you up. And you don’t need to tell him when to go or where to go. He is a professional and quite capable of figuring that out on his own.”

Kearns frowned at him but did not press the issue. Instead, he changed the subject. “Mr. Gavin asked me to remind you that, when you give your radio interview, to be sure to mention something about how you’ll be drinking a cold Budweiser after the show.”

“I already told Gavin I will say no such thing,” Jake said. “The only time I drink Budweiser is when I visit my brother-in-law’s family. And even then, I’m only doing it to be polite.”

“But Anheuser-Busch is one of the primary sponsors of the tour!” Kearns said. “You simply have to endorse their product at every opportunity.”

“I never signed any endorsement contract with Anheuser-Busch to promote their crappy beer,” Jake said. “I am not going to do it. I have already made this quite clear to the suits at National and to Gavin.”

“But that was part of the agreement,” Kearns insisted.

“No,” Jake disagreed. “The contract for sponsorship was so that Anheuser-Busch could have their name on the publicity announcements and the tickets. ‘Anheuser-Busch presents the Jake Kingsley Millennial Tour’. I still think that’s a dumb-ass name, by the way, but I did allow National to have the naming rights for it so ... well ... that one is on me. In any case, that was the extent of what the contract between National, KVA, and Anheuser-Busch entailed. I am under no obligation to push their products in radio interviews or up on stage.”

“That was the unwritten part of the agreement,” Kearns said.

Jake chuckled. “I will be the first to admit that I adhere to a lot of unwritten rules in my life and career.” He turned to the security man. “Chris, you know what I’m saying, right? You follow a lot of unwritten rules in your life and career, don’t you?”

Chris Dick chuckled. He rather liked working with Jake so far, and this conversation with the pompous suit was certainly reinforcing that affection. “Oh, you know it,” he said. “There’s one unwritten rule that I am particularly fond of in my current assignment.”

Jake laughed, knowing exactly what the man was referring to. That would be the unwritten rule that security members would receive blowjobs from any groupie they decided to admit to the backstage area in any given show. “Be that as it may,” Jake said, turning back to Kearns, “the unwritten rule about unwritten rules is that, since they are, by definition, unwritten, one really has the option as to whether or not to follow them. They are, by their very nature, unenforceable by legal apparatus. And so, with that in mind, I respectfully decline to verbally promote Budweiser beer or any other Anheuser-Busch product at any point during the tour. So, I would appreciate it if you would stop asking from this point forward.”

“But...” Kearns started, but stopped when Jake held up a hand.

“That was politely phrased as a request so that we may maintain some decorum in our relationship,” Jake told him. “It was really an order though. Remember, I am ultimately in charge of this operation. Don’t fucking ask me this anymore. I am not going to do it. Nor is my wife or any of the other bandmembers. End of discussion.”

Kearns pouted and went silent, which was all right with Jake. Chris Dick looked out the back window in silence, his eyes taking in vehicles behind them, memorizing them, categorizing them, trying to spot any indication that someone might be following them.

“How are you doing, hon?” Jake asked his wife. “Nervous?”

She nodded. “I never gave a radio station interview before,” she said.

They were on their way to KRON, the most listened to of the LA area hard rock stations, to be interviewed by one of their DJs, live on the air (well... almost live, the station manager insisted on a five second delay so they could censor Jake if he dropped an F-bomb or some other forbidden word or phrase). The manager had asked if Laura would join in on the interview so they could talk with her a little bit about her life with Jake Kingsley and her role in the making of the music and out on tour. Jake had run the request by her and Laura—after being assured that a stipulation was in place forbidding any questions about domestic violence, lesbian groupies, transexual sex-trafficking victims in their employ, or the paternal parentage of their daughter—reluctantly agreed.

“You’ll do fine,” Jake assured her. “Just go up there and be yourself. You’re very charming. People will love you.”

“What if I say something dumb?” she asked.

“Then it will haunt you for the rest of your life,” he said seriously.

Her eyes widened for a moment and then she shook her head. “You’re an asshole,” she told him.

“A hemorrhoidal asshole?” he asked.

“Yes,” she agreed.

The DJ’s ‘name’ was Growl Grouper. He was the most popular of the afternoon jocks who spun CDs for KRON. He was a short, stubby little guy in his late forties with a bald head, a large beer belly, a carelessly trimmed mustache, but a great radio voice. Jake had met him a few times before back in the Intemperance days on similar missions. They shook hands and Jake introduced Laura to him. His eyes crawled over her body for a few moments, long enough to creep her out, and then they started going over the questions that would be asked in the interview. It was customary that artists in such situations be able to look over such questions beforehand and exercise veto power over any they did not like.

“Looks good,” Jake said after reviewing the list. Everything was pretty benign. “What do you think, hon?”

“Nothing in here that I mind answering,” she said.

“All right then,” Growl said. “I’ll have the guys put you in studio four and get you equipped.

They were put into a small booth and given headsets by a techie. It took about ten minutes to dial them in, sound check them, and adjust the microphone and output volumes. Jake and Laura sat as far apart as it was possible to sit in the room in order to keep from having bleed-over into each other’s microphones. They were able to keep in visual contact with each other quite easily though.

“All right, Jake, Laura,” the voice of Growl—who was in the main booth and not visible to them—spoke in their ears. “We’re rolling into the commercial break right now. The timer on the wall shows time until we’re back on the air live with you. Once it hits zero, you’re live and anything you say will be broadcast. Understand?”

“Understood,” replied Jake, a veteran of this, but a veteran who had been out of the game for a while.

“Understood,” Laura said, her voice calm and clear, though Jake could tell by looking at her that she was extremely anxious.

The timer clicked down to zero and Growl’s voice sounded in their headphones. “This is Growl here on the afternoon show here at KRON,” he said, his voice being transmitted to a few hundred thousand listeners in the LA basin. “Tonight is the premier of the eagerly anticipated Jake Kingsley Millennial Tour at the Forum. As we’ve been promising all day today, we have Jake Kingsley and his wife Laura here in the studio to have a little chat with us. Welcome, Jake, welcome, Laura.”

“Thanks for inviting us,” Jake said.

“Hey, everybody,” Laura said, her voice strong and steady but her hands wringing in nervousness.

“Now, Jake,” Growl said, “it is my understanding that this is the first time you have been out on tour since the breakup of Intemperance. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Jake said. “I’ve done a few live performances as a solo artist—I traveled around with Bobby Z, the jazz guy for a week a few years back when Laura was playing sax for him, and I did some shows with Bigg G here and there on one of his tours, and, of course there were the two shows I did at the Tsunami Sound Festival a few years back—but this is my first time going out on a full-blown tour since Lines on the Map was released back in 1990.”

“Are you looking forward to it?” Growl asked.

“Very much so,” Jake said honestly. “I’m made to be a traveling musician and I miss the road. We’ve been working very hard for the past few months putting this show together. I think people who enjoy my music are going to like it.”

“I will be there myself tonight,” Growl said. “I can’t wait to see you in action. Now, Laura, you’re not just Jake’s wife, you’re actually part of the band, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” Laura said. “I’ll be the saxophone player. We don’t have sax on every song, of course, but there are a few.”

“Including a cover tune,” Jake added, “that is special to the two of us.”

“Can you tell me what tune that is?” Growl asked.

“You’ll just have to find out at the show tonight,” Jake said.

“Fair enough,” Growl said. “Laura, you and Jake have been together for how long now?”

“We’ve been a couple for almost nine years now, married since November 4, 1994,” she told him.

“Wow, you remember the date and everything,” Growl said with a chuckle. “What’s it like being married to the infamous Jake Kingsley.”

“It’s never boring, I can tell you that,” she said with a chuckle of her own. “Seriously though, Jake’s a great guy and I wouldn’t trade him for anything.”

“Tell us a little about how you two met,” Growl invited.

Laura shared the story of their meeting and eventual romance with each other, her nervousness seemingly dropping away as she told the tale. She left out the parts about the married dentist, the gay roommate, her Mormon upbringing, and her estranged family. She did tell the story of their flight to Portland one day to get her a soprano saxophone for South Island Blur, how they truly bonded on that day, and how they shared their first kiss that night in the hot tub of the house they were staying in during the recording sessions for Can’t Keep Me Down. She did not share that twenty minutes after they shared that first kiss they were naked together in Jake’s bedroom and having their first fuck.

“And the rest is history,” Growl said when she finished. “You two have a daughter now, don’t you?”

“That’s right,” Jake said. “Cadence is her name, but we usually call her Caydee unless she’s in trouble. She’s two and a half now.”

“She is quite a handful,” Laura added.

“Where is Caydee going to be while the two of you are out touring the country?” Growl enquired.

“She’ll be out there with us,” Jake said. “Our nanny is going to be on the tour as well and she will take care of Caydee while we’re doing tour duties and performing.”

“It’s the only way we would agree to go out,” Laura said.

“That should be quite the adventure for her,” Growl said. “Hanging out with a rock band all the time.”

“She’ll only be hanging out with the whole band on the plane rides,” Jake said. “It’s not like we’re going to be hauling her out on stage with us.”

“Although she does play a pretty mean harmonica,” Laura put in.

“No kidding?” Growl asked.

“No kidding,” Jake confirmed. “She’s going to be a great musician when she grows up.”

They talked a little bit more about Caydee and then moved on to Jake’s band. He let it be known that he had Doug Foreman playing keyboards for him, Steph Zool from Brainwash slinging lead guitar, and Lucky Powell and James Whitlock from Bigg G’s band laying down the rhythm.

“It sounds like quite the group you’ve assembled,” Growl said.

“They’re badass,” Jake replied.

“We’ve been playing your live version of I Am High a lot these past few months,” Growl said. “People love that version of the tune. Can you tell us if you’ll be performing a similar version during the tour?”

“Once again,” Jake said, “you’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Fair enough,” Growl said again.

They talked for a few more minutes, Jake fielding most of the questions, and then their fifteen-minute window was up. Growl thanked them once again for giving the interview, wished them the best of luck on the tour, told them one more time how much he was looking forward to the show, and then went to commercial, promising to play the live version of I Am High when they came back.

“And, we’re off air,” Growl then told them.

“Cool,” Jake said. “Good interview.”

“It really was,” Growl replied. “Thanks for your time.”

They took off the headsets and put them down on a table. The station manager appeared and thanked them one more time. He then led them to another booth. Jake spent the next twenty minutes speaking some promos for the station and then it was time to leave.

They climbed back into the limo and were driven to a West Hollywood Tower of Power music store for an autograph session. A large crowd was already there when they arrived. A pair of uniformed deputies from the LA County Sheriff’s department were standing by to help keep things in order. Dick knew one of them and walked over to touch bases. After they discussed things for a few minutes, the limo pulled around to the back of the store. Jake, Laura, and Kearns got out and entered the store through the back door.

Inside, they set up behind a table near the checkout register, Laura and Jake sitting in chairs, black sharpies in hand, Kearns standing next to the clerk behind the register. A large stack of Jake’s Winter Frost CDs were available for sale so they could be autographed. The line of people was channeled directly past the counter and then to the table itself. Chris Dick positioned himself directly behind the Kingsleys, his eyes tracking over the crowd, ready to move instantly if any threat presented itself.

For the next ninety minutes Jake and Laura greeted people, shook hands, posed for pictures, answered dozens upon dozens of inane questions, and scribbled autographs on CD covers, t-shirts, pieces of paper, even a few guitars. About three quarters of the autograph seekers only wanted Jake to sign, but the remaining quarter were happy to have Laura’s signature as well. The crowd—unlike back in the Intemperance days—remained mostly sedate.

They left the music store at 3:30 and Corey drove them to a popular Mexican restaurant on the Sunset Strip. They went inside and ate tacos, burritos, enchiladas, refried beans, and spicy rice. Though the establishment was well-known for its margaritas, no one imbibed. There was a show tonight and complete sobriety was Jake’s rule.

After paying the bill, they climbed back into the limo and were driven south through the crowded streets, finally coming to Inglewood and the Forum arena. It was 4:52 when they pulled up to the back of the large building and parked near the loading doors.

“Here we are,” Laura said as they stepped out. She had performed in this particular arena several times during her career and had fond memories of it. She felt the mild pre-show stage fright she had been experiencing all day long kick up a few notches.

Jake was feeling much the same way. It had been a good long while since he had last played in front of a big audience. But he knew that once he stepped out there, the fright would disappear and be replaced by elation. “Here we are,” he agreed. “Let’s earn our paychecks.”

The Nerdlys would be attending the show tonight, but they would sit in the VIP section and would have no access to the sound team they had trained up. Nor were they allowed inside prior to admission of the ticket holders. Thus, they were not there for the sound check. It was time for Bart Morgenstern, the man hand-picked by the Nerdlys to be in charge of tour sound, to fly free.

Jake was not anticipating a problem. Bart, like Sharon, had a master’s degree in audio engineering. He had been a sound engineer with multiple music tours over the past ten years, including two of Celia’s and one of Matt’s. Granted, he had never been in charge before, but he was clearly ready for the challenge. He was a thin man, in his late-thirties, who looked ten years younger than he really was. He was not the best conversationalist in the world, but he had a commanding presence that garnered respect from those he was supervising and he knew his shit when it came to running the board to produce the cleanest sound possible.

Jake and the band, still wearing their street clothes, mounted the stage at 5:30 PM. Bart was behind the sound board out on the arena floor with two of his techs. Another tech was up on the stage. The roadies had already assembled Lucky’s drum set and Doug’s keyboard set. The drums were all miked and the microphone stands and Jake and Steph’s effects pedals were already in place and wired up.

“All right,” said Bart into his portable radio. “Let’s get everyone equipped.”

Jake and Steph each had a personal stagehand roadie assigned exclusively to them for help with equipment and instrument care and maintenance. Jake’s stagehand was a man named Ray Brandon. He was a big guy, in his early fifties, and a career roadie. An accomplished guitarist, but not quite good enough to break through into making an actual profession of it, he had spent his entire working life since the age of nineteen traveling around the world with various rock, country, and even a few rap tours. He had roadied for the Grateful Dead, the Eagles, Styx, Bob Seger, Fleetwood Mac, the Doobie Brothers, and Tool. Jake had worked with him before on the final two Intemperance tours and on one of Celia’s tours.

“Here ya go, Jake,” Ray said, handing Jake his wireless instrument transmitter box, or WIT (or, more commonly, just ‘the box’), as it was called. It was about four inches wide, five long, and one and a half thick. It had a clip on the back that Jake used to fasten it to his belt in the small of his back. The clip was then snapped into place so it could not accidentally become dislodged when cords were removed during instrument changeouts.

“Thanks,” Jake told him.

“And here’s your ears,” Ray said, handing him his two custom-fit in-ear monitors, or IEMs.

Jake took the two devices, pushed the little buttons that turned on the power, checked the battery level (both were full, which would allow more than eight hours of use before a recharge was needed) and slipped them into his ears. They fit tightly, sealing off outside sound pretty much entirely. Every member of the band, all of the sound team, and a few of the roadies would wear them during the performance. Jake’s would be set so he could hear all of the instruments and all of the vocal mics, including his own. He would also be able to hear a low level of the crowd noise so he could both enjoy it and respond to it accordingly.

Steph, meanwhile, was getting equipped by her personal roadie, Josh Lindon. Josh was twenty-four years old and this was only his second tour working as a roadie, his first as a personal stagehand to anyone. He was a good-looking guy with long hair and a goatee, gay and proud of it, but not the least bit flamboyant or effeminate. He had not been hired to be Steph’s roadie because they were both gay, but because he was a tireless worker who would do anything asked of him and was an accomplished musician in his own right, playing a badass guitar and piano and even some bass. He had come highly recommended by Ryan Dover, the head of security, who had worked with the kid the year before on the Steely Dan Tour and had kept in touch with him. So far, Steph liked Josh and he practically worshiped her. And there was certainly no need to worry about a sexual tension developing between them.

The only other band member to rate his own stagehand was Lucky, who needed someone accomplished at drumming to help set up and dial in his equipment. Lucky’s assistant was Daryl Green, a thirty-five-year-old multiple tour roadie who still harbored hopes of one day making it as a drummer. He was a sullen, somewhat geeky guy with prematurely grey hair and a full beard and mustache that made him look a little like a cross between Santa Claus and Moses. The other members of the band all had random members of the road crew to help them get their boxes on and their ears in.

Once everyone was equipped, the roadies retreated backstage and Bart started testing out the IEMs, making sure everyone could hear him when he talked. He then adjusted everyone’s sound individually by having them gives thumbs-up, thumbs-down, or the okay sign with each adjustment.