Fucking Grunge!

In March of 1987, my band walked into the office of our new record label to sign away our souls. We were offered a contract by one of the biggest labels in rock music and couldn’t wait to be on top of the world. I sat at the long table and looked at the contract placed before me. “What’s this Jordan Shock shit,” I asked. “Didn’t anyone tell you? You can’t use your real name, kid,” our new boss gruffly said. “Michael Jordan is a basketball player not guitar player. From now on, you’re Jordan Shock, okay?”

I thought it was an okay name; it didn’t matter to me. I was blasted on cocaine and had drunk half of a fifth of Jack Daniels at the time, but I wanted to sign the deal. When I broke the news to my family, my dad was upset as Michael was his name too. My mom didn’t care all that much, and my little sister Kim rolled her eyes.

With a freshly signed contract that admittedly I didn’t read all that closely, we were rushed into a recording studio to make our debut record. I was barely twenty years old.

Our singer and de facto leader was Chris Davis. Boring name, boring guy. Didn’t do drugs, barely drank, and was as ugly as Mick Jagger, but the man had that it-factor sex appeal shit that the chicks creamed for. When that guy rolled out of bed, he had to step over a group of ladies still there from the night before.

Our bass player was Ryan Jackson. Big tough looking guy, who was a great musician and songwriter, but hated the Hair Metal music that would ultimately make us famous. He was 6’4” and looked like a linebacker in drag on stage. He wanted to sound like Led Zeppelin, but it didn’t work out that way. I remember the first time he put on spandex pants. You’d have thought they were covered in needles he bitched so much. Never mind they were pink with black zebra stripes. It was the eighties ... Our drummer was Danny Cash. Stupid name, stupider guy. He was as loyal as a Marine though and was my best friend. He was a great drummer who could play anything. He couldn’t sing for shit, and he couldn’t write a song to save his life, but he’d do whatever we needed him to do to help us have a great show. He was one of the pioneers of his drums being on tracks that could move around the stage or even flip him upside down. He took what Tommy Lee was doing and pushed it farther.

I was the lead guitar player and wrote about a quarter of our songs. I also played piano when needed. Chris loved my raspy voice and was a big advocate of me singing and contributing songs. He hated my drinking and drug use but loved my guitar playing. He fired the original guitar player the first time he heard me play in a club. He told me if there was such a thing as a musical soulmate, I was his. I didn’t buy it, but I joined anyway.

We called ourselves Goblin Nob, after Chris’s euphemism of a blow job. We thought it was clever. The label barely allowed it. They just thought it was stupid. They didn’t get the joke. It was subtle and by the time they figured it out, it was too late to change it. We were famous.

It was better than Ryan’s first choice of Lower Lips. That was a stupid name.

So, we recorded our album, and the label went crazy for it. They threw money at us to buy new equipment and whatever else we needed, and that was managed by our A&R guy Chaz. Chaz was a rat, but I guess that was his job. He had the harrowing job of being our label liaison. He was always with us. In the studio, on tour, in hotels, hell the guy even got laid by the groupies we couldn’t squeeze in.

Anyway, our self-titled debut album was released late in 1987. Our first single was a high intensity rocker that did okay on the charts. We opened for the biggest bands on the label for our first couple of tour legs, but when we released our second single, we hit the stratosphere.

“Your Love Is My Heart.” That was the name of the song I wrote drunk off my ass, with my feet dangling off of a balcony in Akron. Don’t ask me where it came from, I couldn’t tell you. I don’t even remember writing it. I had a little tape recorder I used to record my noodling around and I would listen to it the next day when I was sober. Sometimes Chris would listen and pick parts that he could build something out of as well.

Chris was in my room eating breakfast that next morning. The damn fruit cake was eating granola and yogurt, while I was enjoying my pound of bacon on toast and shitty black coffee.

“Dude!” He shouted. “What was that?”

“What was what?” I asked brilliantly.

“That tune. Play it back.”

I rewound the tape and found the acoustic bit he liked. I thought it was good and said, “I can write some lyrics to that.”

“Do it. I love that progression. It’s the perfect key for my voice,” he chirped.

I laughed, “Whatever man, give me a couple days.” It was the strangest thing that ever happened to me. It was a complete instrumental song on the tape. Intro, verse, chorus, bridge, and I never remembered writing any of it. I had to think hard to remember if I’d heard it before and was just playing it. No one I played it for after finishing it said they ever heard it, so I went with it. I never got sued, so I assumed it was all mine.

Two hours later I had the lyrics scribbled on the notepad I carried around and the song was complete. Decades later, as I recall that, it’s still played on the radio, and at weddings all over the world so I get some decent royalty checks. They’d have been a lot fucking better if I would’ve read the contract I signed back then, but we live and we learn. Sometimes the hard way.

All was great, we were making tons of money, but also found out we owed the label tons of money. Thankfully, we paid it back with no problem. It turned out all the money they were throwing at us was advances on our earnings. Fucking pricks. But again, I should’ve read that contract before signing it.

We put out four more records over the next four years and toured the world in-between. We had at least one number-one hit on each album and were the kings of the world. Until fucking Grunge.

We never got to put out our fifth album ‘Who Dares Wins,’ because of fucking grunge. When we got back from touring Europe in ‘92, people in America were wearing flannel shirts and stopped washing their hair. We’d heard the music from Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden and the rest of the group of Seattle copycats but didn’t think it was a threat to us. That is until we realized everyone was not only listening to them but were dressing like them as well. It wasn’t just the music; it was a fucking lifestyle, a cultural phenomenon. It was gross.

We recorded an album that the record company rejected. Flat out rejected it. We knew it was as good as our other albums, but the music scene had changed. The label wanted us to make a Grunge album and we told them to fuck off. Other bands were doing it and were failing miserably trying to copy the sound and look. We were not going to go out as posers and refused to bend to the label’s demands, so the label dropped us.

It was crazy. A year earlier, we were the top act in the world, and in that short span the label dropped us. The worst thing about it was the money dried up.

Don’t get me wrong, we made millions and I knew I’d be fine financially, but we had no concert revenue coming in, our albums stopped selling, and the royalties almost stopped when the radio stopped playing our stuff. It was depressing.

I had managed to make it through our run without knocking anyone up and more importantly not getting married. That changed when my sister introduced me to her friend Sara. Sara stole my heart immediately and I had no chance of escape. We were married within a year of meeting.

Sara was a gorgeous blonde with a body that could stop traffic. The best thing about her was she was as smart as a whip. Her only drawback was that she let me do whatever I wanted.

I was disappointed that we weren’t Sara’s favorite band, that honor went to Wild Punks. They were just another worthless “W” band that had some success. They didn’t make it through Grunge either. Sara was disappointed that I didn’t know the guys and couldn’t introduce her to their singer. In her words, he was, “sex on a stick.”

My courtship with Sara was pretty normal. I had no idea how to live a normal life, but we went to dinners and movies and did all that romantic shit. She promised me that my former celebrity status wasn’t why she was with me, and she didn’t care about my money. I wish I would have been more sober at that time. I would have listened to my lawyer who begged me to do a pre-nuptial agreement. Not to spoil the story, but that would bite me in the ass several years later as you may have guessed already.

Sara didn’t spend much money, so I figured she wasn’t a gold-digger. She moved in with me after several months of dating. She took over managing the household, kept food in the house, jack in the liquor cabinet, and clean underwear in my drawers. I tried to buy her expensive jewelry and a Mercedes, but she made me take it all back. She didn’t like to wear jewelry and thought having a Mercedes was too flashy. I shrugged my shoulders and wondered how I got so lucky.

Without having my music as an outlet, I got bored. When I got bored, I drank. When I drank, I did coke. When I did coke, I was a fuck up. Back in the day, Chris and Ryan kept me on the straight and narrow while we were on tour and in the studio. Chaz corralled me the rest of the time. With none of those guys around, I was a goner.

Don’t get me wrong, I did plenty of drugs and drank way too much when we were on top, but I was held in check. I didn’t have that with Sara, and it sucked. She let me do whatever I wanted because she married a rock star and to her, that’s what rock stars did.

I hit bottom in ‘97. After 5 years of doing whatever I wanted, I overdosed on sleeping pills and was found by Sara on the floor of the bedroom. I was rushed to the hospital, had my stomach pumped and barely made it. After that, Sara took control and made me go into rehab.

Now, you’d think that me going into rehab would be a good thing. For the most part, it was. Where it wasn’t a good thing, was no one was watching my money, and my business manager stole a lot of it. So much, that it took over a year to audit and figure out what the hell happened and how he could get away with it.

He was definitely gone, and so was about ten million of my money. Sara was my rock during that time as I wanted to kill the bastard, or get fucked up, and no one could find him. Sara stopped me from relapsing.

She cried with me, she held me, she supported me, she encouraged me. She was everything to me. It was then that she decided we should start a family. She wouldn’t allow it while I was in my “lost years” as she called them. With me finally staying sober, she went off the pill and a year later, we had our daughter Melody. Melody became my heart and soul.

I never considered doing drugs or drinking once she was born, I couldn’t risk losing her and Sara made it clear, I’d lose them if I started up again. It was good enough for me. Not that it was easy, but it was the best motivation I could have.

We had a setback when the tech bubble crashed in ‘99. I’d already lost more than half my money to theft and fraud, and I took another hit for about 40% of what I had left. We were still okay, but we sold my mansion in Los Angeles and bought something more family friendly back home in Ohio. Not having a chef or house cleaner anymore sucked, but we adjusted.

In the early 2000’s Chris and Ryan were bugging me and Danny to put the band back together and hit the road on the new nostalgia tours that were happening at that time. They were smaller shows in smaller venues, but there was an appetite for our music again. I kept saying no.

How could I go from playing Wembley Stadium to playing a carnival in Iowa? Or worse, a 2,000-seat theater in the sticks? I just couldn’t take that kind of ego hit. That’s what we played when we started.

Danny had blown through his money. He had a lot less because he didn’t write any songs. It was all Ryan, Chris, and me doing that so he didn’t have the same royalties we did. Danny was touring on his own playing smaller clubs already, so he jumped at the chance to get back with them.

They replaced me with some dude from some other band that kicked him out for his drug use. I laughed and wished them luck. At least I was sober.

I didn’t bother talking to Sara about it. I just said no every time. Chris and Ryan were so pissed off, they wanted me to sign over my rights for them to use the name Goblin Nob without having to pay me for not being on tour with them. In one of my smarter moves, I said no to that. They proceeded to trash me in every interview they did. They kept telling people I was a drunk and I was stoned all of the time and wasn’t dependable enough to tour. So, I sued them.

I had all of their letters and emails begging me to join back up with them. Since they were slandering me and libeling me in the press yet begging me to join by email, I had a pretty compelling case. I didn’t want their money; I loved the guys. I just wanted them to stop making me look bad. Melody was in school by then and the other parents were giving me the stink eye at events.

In the end we settled. They agreed to shut up and start talking nice about me and I agreed to drop the suit. Like I said, I didn’t want their money, and we didn’t talk for five years after that.

Life went on, and things with my family were great. I started to see an uptick in royalties, and I was being interviewed for all kinds of ‘where are they now’ shows and articles. That was because Goblin Nob was having some success again and everyone knew I wasn’t in the band. People wanted to know why not if I was still sober. Was I an idiot, couldn’t I play anymore, etc...?

With Sara’s urging, I did a reality TV show that put me in a supergroup with other 80’s stars in 2007. It was the hardest time of my life. Those dickheads drank and snorted like it was 1989. I managed to stay clean, but it was hard.

One of the drawbacks of being an addict is not having all of your mental faculties to make good decisions. When I went to my storage unit to get my guitar for the show, my number one guitar was missing. I searched everywhere but couldn’t find it. I figured it was stolen.

Now, guitar players love their instruments, especially the ones they play regularly. I had a neon green prototype Ibanez that was my pride and joy. It was the only guitar I played on all of the records and most of the tours. It was beat to hell from years of abuse, but it fucking sang. They sold tons of them, but none of the production models were like my prototypes.

I was looking for the paperwork from Ibanez so I could file a police report, when I found a certificate from the Make-A-Wish foundation. There was a thank you letter, and a picture of me giving the guitar to a bald-headed girl that couldn’t have been more than ten years old. It turned out, in ‘95 I gave the kid my guitar. She was suffering from Leukemia and one of her wishes was to play guitar with me. At some point, I must have decided it would be a good idea to give her the guitar. How the hell could I ask for it back? I grabbed the blue version and made do for the show. I hoped the kid had survived, I made a note to check on her but with what was about to happen, I never got the chance.

Because I was surrounded by my demons while on the show, I had to move Sara into the house with me, which turned out to be the dumbest thing I ever did. Sara left Melody in the care of her parents and moved into the show’s house. She was beyond excited because the singer of our little super group was her favorite, Jimmy Grant from the fucking Wild Punks.

One of the things we did was have nightly parties in the hot tub. There was a lot of raunchy shit that happened that never made it on camera, but one thing made the show that I never knew happened and it ended my marriage.

After the big concert we did for the show’s finale, I said goodbye to the other musicians, and I noticed Sara got into a heated exchange with Jimmy Grant. He was a douche bag of the highest order and I had to restrain myself from punching him in the mouth a few times over the course of the show. Boy, I’ll tell you the producers were pissed I never hit him. They were the worst kind of ratings whores and put us into situations where I’d get upset with him.

I walked over and interrupted, and Jimmy and Sara stopped talking immediately. “What the fuck is going on?” I shouted.

“Nothing, honey,” Sara said calmly. “Jimmy was just doing a shitty job of apologizing for being inappropriate with me.”

Jimmy smirked, and said, “Yeah, my fault, ya know? I’m drunk, so I’m sorry and shit, okay.”

“Don’t speak to her again, prick,” I growled and pulled her away. We boarded our plane and went home.

Everything was as normal as could be. Sara was great, Melody was great, and life was great. We watched the show each week as it aired, and Melody got a kick out of seeing me play guitar and jam on stage with the band. She’d never seen any video of me from the old days, so I promised her I’d find her some video of it, and then we’d laugh at me wearing spandex and makeup.

The penultimate episode of the series aired, and about halfway through there was a hot tub scene. In the tub were Jimmy, Sara, and some groupie Jimmy found. I didn’t remember where I was at the time, but they edited in shots of me and the rest of the band writing the song that was going to be the climax of the show. Sara never sat with us in the rehearsal room as it was a pretty boring process. At the time, I figured she was watching TV or something. Boy, I was wrong.

The camera switched from the professional cameras that the show used to a night vision camera that was hidden in the awning above the hot tub. I heard Jimmy say, “Why don’t you girls kiss. I think that’d be hotter than hell. Sara balked but she took a big drink from her glass of wine and was shocked by the groupie basically straddling her hips and planting her lips on her face.

In our home, while I was stunned at what I saw, Sara wasn’t paying attention until Melody asked, “Mommy, why are you kissing that lady.”

I was in shock, not believing what I was seeing. Sara started screaming and trying to grab the remote to turn the TV off. I snapped out of it and threw the remote at the wall, shattering it.

I stood and watched as Sara on TV didn’t push the girl away. Shockingly, she kissed back and grabbed her ass. That was when Jimmy slid over and started kissing the groupie’s neck. I expected Sara to move away, but nope. She started kissing Jimmy. The worst thing was, they showed the groupie slide over and let Sara straddle Jimmy’s hips. From the angle of the camera, you couldn’t see the actual penetration, but she lifted herself and threw her head back when she lowered herself back onto his lap. Clearly they were fucking. I knew that head throwback move very well; she did it every time I penetrated her.

Sara sobbed as she rushed Melody out of the room. I flopped onto the couch and cried as I watched my wife fuck him on national television. I was snapped out of my shock by the ringing of the phone. I leaned over and grabbed it just as the show went to commercial.

“Hello?”

“Jordan,” my mother-in-law shouted, “tell me that was acting. Tell me that was staged, and my daughter didn’t just have sex on TV with someone that wasn’t her husband.”

“Well, Diane, I don’t know for sure, but judging by your crying daughter dragging Melody out of the room, I’m inclined to think it was pretty fucking real.”

“Jordan, I’m so sorry,” my slut of a wife said as she stood in front of me.

I handed her the phone and said, “It’s for you.” I walked out of the room as she sobbed on the phone with her mother. She didn’t even try to stop me from leaving.

I walked into Melody’s bedroom and kissed her cheek.

“What was mommy doing, daddy?”

I didn’t know how to answer the question, so I said the first thing that came to my mind, “Ending our marriage. I’m going away for a while Melody. Be a good girl for mommy, and I’ll see you soon.”

I got my wallet and keys off of my dresser and walked down the stairs, past my moaning wife, and out the door to the garage. I started my neon green Wrangler and drove off to I didn’t know where. Yeah, it was the color of my favorite guitar, so what if I was eccentric?

I woke up in a hotel room in Akron. Ironically, it was the flea bag hotel where I wrote my biggest song. There were bottles of Jack everywhere. On the table was a bag of coke and on the floor was Danny Cash.

I kicked him to wake him and said, “Danny, what the fuck?”

He stirred up and said, “Bro, it’s too fucking early for this shit.”

I walked into the bathroom and puked as much as I could. I was certainly hungover, so my sobriety was shot to hell. I was absolutely certain I’d been doing the coke too. I was devastated. I walked back into the room to find my phone. It was sitting in a bowl of water.

“Wonderful,” I sighed.

Danny laughed, “You got tired of the bitch calling. You were gonna throw it in the pool, but the pool is empty.”

“Real fucking funny.”

I was in the same clothes I was wearing when I left my house, who knew how many days earlier, and I stank. I looked around and found my wallet and keys and left Danny on the floor of the room. That was another mistake, and I’d regret that decision for the rest of my life.

I started my Jeep and looked around to make sure there weren’t any open bottles or bags of drugs around. When I felt I was clear, I went to the first store I saw and bought a new phone. They moved over some part or another, and I ended up with the same number and I was happy. Happy until the phone started ringing again.

“What?” I shouted into the phone when I got back to my jeep.

“Jordan, baby, please come home,” my soon to be ex-wife cried into the phone.

“No, we’re done. I don’t have a home anymore.”

I hung up, called my lawyer, and had him find a divorce lawyer to end my marriage.

I was pretty happy that once I checked in at a better hotel I stayed clean and sober. That lasted three days.

I was reading the newspaper on a gray Saturday morning and threw up when I saw the headline for the entertainment section.

“Rock Drummer Found Dead”

It was Danny. He had a heart attack the day after I left him on the floor of that hotel. To this day, I don’t know if I would’ve stayed could I have helped him? If I would’ve been there, could I have called for help and he would’ve survived? I just didn’t know. I went to the nearest liquor store and bought a ton of Jack Daniels. I didn’t see or talk to anyone for a week. That’s when the police found me and knocked on my door.

They wanted to know what I knew about Danny and the drugs. I was honest and told them I left the day before he died and had no idea what happened after I left. Thankfully, the security cameras confirmed that, and they didn’t charge me with anything. Weeks later the autopsy would show that he had a blocked artery and had a natural heart attack, not an OD. Of course, the drinking and drugs were a contributing factor to his heart disease, but sadly my former best friend was still dead.

I saw in the paper that the funeral was the next day. I went to a store, bought a suit off the rack, and tried to sober up enough to not embarrass myself as my friend was laid to rest.

I wished I had my Lexus as I pulled into the funeral home’s parking lot. My neon green jeep was garish and out of place there. My plan was to get there early and avoid the room. I only wanted to speak to a few people and avoid the rock star bullshit.

When I walked into the room, I saw an older lady standing by the coffin with a couple of kids. I walked over and stood silently next to them as we prayed. I asked God to forgive him for all he did and take him up to Heaven. It wasn’t his fault, well, as much as being an addict isn’t your fault. I’m sure the counselors would say differently, but what did I know? I was an addict too.

I gave the sign of the cross and the teenaged boy next to me said, “You’re Jordan Shock, aren’t you?”

“I am,” I said.

“Dad talked about you all of the time. Man, the stories he told us were incredible.”

Before I could ask his name, the lady walked up and hugged me. “Oh, Jordan.” She cried as I hugged her back.

I couldn’t believe I didn’t recognize Danny’s mother. I spent a lot of time at her house when we were in Cleveland, where Danny grew up.

“Hi, Mrs. Casselli. I’m so sorry about Danny.”

“He loved you the most, Jordan. You know that right?”

“Yes ma’am. I loved him like a brother.”

“Would you believe it was his heart? All that crazy stuff he did over the years, and a heart attack killed him.”

“Honestly, I prefer seeing that it was a heart attack rather than something else, ya know?”

She pulled back and smiled, “I suppose you’re right, Jordan. It’s better to remember him dying of a heart attack than a drug overdose. Look at you, you look sick. Have you eaten anything today?”

I laughed, “You’re always worrying about me eating, Mrs. Casselli. If it were up to you, I’d weigh a hundred pounds more.”

“Your skinny butt could use the weight,” boomed a voice from behind us. It was Ryan Jackson. He was with Chris Davis.

I walked over and shook his hand; I couldn’t believe it when he started crying and pulled me into a hug. “Fuck, I miss you, man.”

I returned the hug and agreed. “It’s been too long, brother.”

Chris hugged me as well and started to apologize for the bad blood. I stopped him and said, “Not today, man. Today is about Danny.”

We broke the hug and he smiled. I was going to bust his balls about the bad wig he was wearing but thought better of it.

“How’s everything going with your wife? The papers are saying all kinds of crazy shit and we saw the show. Was that real or staged?” Ryan asked.

“Real. It’s over. I’ve got someone working on the divorce. Both of them looked at each other and frowned.

Chris asked, “Jordan, did you have a prenup to protect yourself?”

I shook my head. I knew it would bite me in the ass.

Ryan grumbled, “Fuck!” and walked out of the room to make a call.

“What’s that all about?” I asked.

“If I don’t miss my guess, he’s on the phone with our lawyer about the band’s corporation. You’re still a part owner of the Goblin Nob name and corporation. We’re both wondering if she gets a piece of that asset.”

“Christ, I don’t know. It’s owned through corporations though. She probably can’t get a piece of it, right?” I asked worried. That was a pretty valuable asset on paper. Granted, it wasn’t worth what it was in the eighties, but it still generated revenue after our marriage. I texted my lawyer to get his take on it.

Chris smiled, “Well, don’t worry about that right now. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

I had a bad feeling about it. When I got married, our band was worthless. My only real assets were my house and money, and I was so in love, I didn’t worry about getting divorced.

The rest of the day went smoothly. I avoided most of the crowd, but they were family and friends of Danny’s anyway. The press wasn’t allowed inside and didn’t bother anyone except me and the guys from the band. Some celebrity friends of Danny’s gave the press a nice comment or two about Danny, but we didn’t. Chris would make sure to have a press release done on all of our behalf.

Thankfully, I was invited to ride in the family’s limo with Danny’s mom and kids. I don’t know which wife he had them with, but none of the wives showed up. One of them died in the nineties.

The funeral was solemn and well attended. The procession of cars was long, and I was glad that Danny had touched so many people. Later I’d learn that the procession of cars was estimated to be a mile long. I didn’t know if that was a lot or not, but it sounded good on TV when they said it.

There was a luncheon for close friends and family. Me, Chris, and Ryan were invited to sit with Mrs. Casselli and the kids. They peppered Chris and Ryan with questions that only the kids could have come up with, and to their credit, the guys answered them all graciously. We traded stories, clean ones, of course, about their dad and his antics on tour. Chris oversold Danny’s contribution to the success of the band and the kids ate it up. I thought that was a nice gesture. Chris always was the most political of us.

Once everyone left, Chris and Ryan drove me back to my car. They were extremely worried about the corporation and what my pending divorce would do to it. I finally told them to shut up about it and let the lawyers figure it out. I wasn’t going to worry about it.

When we said goodbye, we exchanged current emails and phone numbers, and hugs. I promised to let them keep voting my shares by proxy. They were happy and I didn’t care. If they fucked the band up, so be it. They were running the show anyway. Danny had sold his share to them a decade before. He was just paid a salary when he rejoined them. I felt bad for him for doing that, but he had different priorities.