Chapter 5B: Never Kiss a Groupie

Jake's stage outfit consisted of tight red leather pants and a black, loose-fitting shirt that came down slightly below his waist and covered about half of his arms. For shoes he was given patent leather, ankle-length boots that had been polished to a high shine. The moment he got dressed he began to sweat. He knew it would only get worse out beneath the heat of the stage lighting.

"Fabulous," crooned Reginald Feeney, the wardrobe manager. "It accents that nice ass of yours but hides the skinny arms. Just fabulous!"

Jake said nothing. Reginald (who was to never be called Reggie) already knew the band's opinions of their stage clothing.

Reginald was undaunted. He turned to Matt, who was wearing black leather pants and a sleeveless black leather vest with metal studs protruding down the zipper line. "Now you," he said, fussing with a portion of the vest, "have the kind of arms we should be showing off. Nice solid muscle, bulging biceps..." He touched one of the biceps in question. "Mmmm, just beautiful."

Matt jerked his arm away. "Keep your fuckin' hands off me, faggot!" he barked.

Reginald huffed and turned away. "No need to start throwing labels around," he said. "Just because a man is a wardrobe specialist and likes to suck dicks you call him a faggot? How crude." He pranced over to Darren, who was also wearing black leather pants in addition to a white, wife-beater tank top that was extremely short on his torso. "Now you are the premium male specimen of the group." He ran his hand out and touched Darren's bare stomach. "Look at these abs. Just fabulous."

Darren slapped Reginald's hand away, almost panicked, too flustered to even say anything.

"You guys will all thank me when you win the best-dressed group award next year," Reginald told them. "And remember, after the show, get out of those clothes immediately so I can clean them before the tour bus leaves."

"You're gonna smell the crotches of these things, aren't you?" Matt asked him.

"And jack off while I do it," Reginald replied with a smile. "I just love the smell of male butt-sweat."

"That is fucking disgusting," Jake declared. He grabbed his water glass and took a tremendous drink.

Coop and Bill, since they were going to be seated during the performance, were allowed to wear jeans, normal T-shirts, and normal footwear, although Reginald insisted that Coop put on a red headband.

After getting dressed they sat down at their tables while Doreen Riolo worked on their hair. Doreen was almost sixty years old, a woman who had grandchildren older than Jake, but a woman who was dialed in as tight as a drum on the latest hair fashions. She clipped and trimmed, combed and sprayed, teased and tussled their manes until they were the very epitome of what she considered perfection. Through it all she hummed Frank Sinatra tunes under her breath or chatted to them about her long career fixing the hair of famous musicians. Jake and the rest of the band liked and respected her immensely, and none of them complained about the job she did.

"Now be sure you boys stay away from any pyrotechnics or open flames," she warned. "You each have enough hairspray in your hair to launch a small rocket."

They shared a group look of concern at this revelation, all of them imagining their hair going up in flames.

After Doreen retreated back to the roadie bus from which she came, they were finally allowed to sit down and relax for a few minutes. Darren, Matt, and Coop all sparked up cigarettes (being sure to keep the lighters well away from their hair). Jake and Bill simply sat and sipped from their water. Greg popped into the dressing room and whipped out his cocaine kit.

"You boys sure you don't want a little pick-me-up before the show?" he asked as he dumped a healthy amount onto the mirror. "You really look like you could use it."

Darren licked his lips longingly but Matt answered for all of them. "We're sure."

Greg grinned away and then crunched up two lines. He made them disappear.

At 6:15 Greg told them it was time to head backstage for the public relations portion of the show. He reminded them once again to keep in character.

"Right," Jake said, vowing that he was going to be nothing but his normal self. After all, if Matt did the same thing, that would be in character enough for all of them.

As they exited the dressing room the four members of Earthstone were exiting from theirs as well, their tour manager leading them. This was only the second time the two groups had come into contact with each other. The first had been when they'd boarded the busses back in Los Angeles and that had not really been an official meeting. Jake looked at them, more than a little starstruck. He - like the rest of Intemperance - had been an Earthstone fan since their first album. He had seen them in concert twice. He knew their names, their faces by sight, what instrument each of them played, and their basic biographies. And here they were, standing in the flesh before him, all of them dressed in their concert garb. He walked over to Richie Valentine, the lead singer.

"How you doing, Richie?" he asked him, holding out his hand. "I'm Jake Kingsley."

Richie's head swiveled slowly toward him, revealing eyes that were bloodshot and swollen. "Wassup, Jake?" he replied, giving a brief handshake and then withdrawing his hand. "You got a pen?"

"A pen?" Jake asked.

"You want an autograph, right?"

"Uh... Jake's the singer for Intemperance," Greg spoke up. "Your opening band."

This struck Richie as deliciously funny. He broke up into peals of laughter. "Oh God, I'm fucked up," he said. "My fucking opening band. Jesus." With that, he continued down the hall.

Jake looked after him, his eyes wide. He was wasted! A little more than two hours before a show and Richie Valentine was wasted!

He quickly found out that this was not an isolated case. Greg decided that introductions were probably in order and did the honors. They all shook hands and muttered greetings and every one of the Earthstone members were reeking of alcohol and marijuana and were sniffing the frequent sniffs of recent cocaine use. Matt tried to engage Brad Winston, the guitar player - a man who had been a considerable influence on Matt's style - in some conversation but Brad was too far gone to even understand what was being said. He could barely walk without grabbing onto the walls for support. Mike Hamm, the bass player, was aggressive and tried to pick a fight with Darren. He had to be pulled away by his tour manager. Only Gordon Strong, the drummer, was amicable.

"I like that tune you guys got," he said. "That Descent thing. Good guitar work, good vocal range, good lyrics."

"Thanks," Matt said. "Are you gonna catch the show?"

Strong shrugged. "If I get enough blow in me I might. You guys any good live?"

"Yeah," Jake told him. "We're damn good."

Strong chuckled and clapped Jake on the shoulder. "Conceit," he said. "You gotta love it. Enjoy it while it's there, my man. Enjoy it while it's there."

The rest of the Intemperance members gathered around the drummer, since he was the only one who seemed to be capable of conversation at the moment.

"We've seen you in concert before," Bill told him. "Back in Heritage, California. The Wandering Soul tour and the Lightening Strikes tour."

"Yeah," Strong said whimsically. "I kinda remember them dates. Did you like us?"

"Fuckin' A," Matt said. "You guys rock."

"That drum solo you did in Lightening Strikes was bad-ass," Coop told him. "You gotta catch our show, man. I try to play like you do."

"I'll check it out," Strong promised. "If not tonight, than tomorrow, or some fucking night. Hell, we're gonna be playing together for months, right?"

"Right," Jake said. "Hey, you got any advice for us? Since this is our first tour and all?"

"Advice?" Strong said, his bleary eyes creaking open a little wider.

"Yeah," Jake said. "You've been on these tours through three albums now. This is our first tour, our first show. Anything you can tell us?"

Strong scratched his head for a moment and then grinned. "Yeah," he said at last. "There's one piece of advice I'll give you, one thing I've decided is more important than anything else when you're out on tour."

"What's that?" Jake asked eagerly. Darren, Coop, Bill, and Matt all leaned in to hear this as well.

"Never," Strong said, "and I mean never, kiss a groupie."

The rest of the Earthstone members cracked up at this advice. Greg did too for that matter.

"He ain't fuckin' with you there," Richie Valentine said between chortles. "Heed the man's words."

Earthstone and their manager continued down the hall, still laughing, leaving Intemperance to look at each other in confusion. Never kiss a groupie? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

As soon as they emerged from the tunnel into the stage left area, they heard the crowd. There were no cheers at the moment, just the low-grade babble of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of conversations, loud enough to compete with the recorded rock music that was playing through the amplifiers.

"Listen to that," Jake said, feeling a little of his fatigue dropping away. "Our first big audience."

"How big is it?" Darren asked slowly, casting a nervous glance at the partition that separated them from the stage.

"This is one of the smaller venues," Greg replied. "We sold it out, so that means there are going to be about 5200 people."

"5200?" Darren said, his eyes widening. "Wow... I mean... you know... wow."

"You okay, Darren?" Jake asked him.

"Yeah," he said, fumbling with his cigarette pack. He lit up with shaking hands.

There were about thirty people - locals, Greg called them - gathered near the rear of the backstage area awaiting the two bands. There were several DJs, reporters from both the Bangor and the Portland newspapers, even a television reporter who had been given permission to film small portions of the concert. The rest were fans - mostly of Earthstone since Intemperance was still somewhat unknown. They greeted people, shook hands, chatted, signed a few autographs, and gave a few impromptu interviews. Jake saw one of the female fans - an auburn haired beauty of about nineteen - pull up her shirt so Richie Fairview could sign her bare breast. He did so with a shaky hand and then leaned down and slurped the girl's nipple into his mouth, making her squeal in delight. Their road manager pulled the two of them apart before things could go any further.

Finally the locals were hustled out of the backstage area by the tour security guards. The members of Earthstone left as well, descending back into the tunnel as they discussed how many more beers they could drink before the shot.

"Twenty-five minutes until showtime," Greg told them. "Is everyone cool?"

Everyone said they were cool. They sat down on packing crates to wait. The roadies continued moving about from place to place, setting things up and doing double-checks on things that had already been set up. Jake heard the sound of his guitar being strummed by Mohammad, who was doing a final sound check. This elicited a muted cheer from the crowd - the first they'd heard so far.

"Jesus," Darren muttered, lighting up another cigarette. "5200 people."

"I gotta check this out," Matt said, standing up. He headed for the stage access door, through which the roadies were coming and going.

"Me too," Jake said, standing up and following him. After a moment, Darren got up as well.

They crowded around the door and creaked it open a few inches, staring out over the stage and into the crowd. As was the norm for venues such as this, the seating was general admission, which meant nothing was assigned. The bleachers were all about half-full, with people still streaming in, but the auditorium floor was packed with well over a thousand people. They were crammed in like sardines, pushing and shoving and fighting for the coveted spots near the stage.

"Oh my God," Darren whispered, backing away, his eyes wide.

"You okay?" Jake asked him again, looking at him with more than a little concern this time.

"I can't do this," Darren said. "I can't go on in front of that many people! Holy shit!"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Matt asked. "You goddamned well better go on! It's a little late to get cold feet now!"

"Dude," Darren said, backing even further away, "it's just that... I mean... shit, dude. Five thousand fucking people! We ain't never been in front of that many before!"

"Darren," Jake started.

"What if we fuck up?" Darren yelled, approaching total panic now. "I mean, there are reporters and everything here. What if we go out there and just fucking bite?"

"If you chill out and play like we do in rehearsal, that ain't gonna happen," Jake said. "Get yourself under control, man."

"And do it fucking quick," Matt added.

All of this commotion attracted the attention of Greg, who had been over talking to the head of security about something. With a look of concern he came over. "What's the problem?" he asked.

"Nothing," Matt replied dismissively. "Darren's just getting a little stagefright. He'll be all right."

"He doesn't look all right," Greg observed.

"We'll get him chilled out. Don't worry."

But Greg wanted to worry. He stepped over to one of the tour security guards and whispered something to him. The guard nodded and spoke into his portable radio. Greg then stepped back over to Darren.

"Don't worry, Darren," he said. "I'll get you fixed up in no time."

"What do you mean?" Matt asked.

"You'll see."

Jake, meanwhile, continued to talk soothingly to Darren, telling him that everything was cool, that he needed to stop freaking out about the number of people out there, that he should pretend they were performing at D Street West instead of the Bangor Auditorium. Gradually, after two or three minutes, his words seemed to have an effect. Darren's breathing slowed. His hands stopped tremoring. He began to look a little less tense.

"Just like D Street West," Darren said, latching onto this thought.

"Fuckin' A," Jake said. "Just like D Street."

A security guard suddenly emerged from the tunnel entrance. He carried a black leather bag in his hands - a bag that looked like an old fashioned doctor's bag. He brought it to Greg, who took it and walked over to Darren. He set the bag down and opened it, fishing through it for a few moments and finally coming up with a brown pill bottle. He opened it up and removed one of the pills.

"Here, Darren," he said. "Take this."

"What is it?" Darren asked.

"Just a little something to help you calm down. Use Jake's water."

Darren reached out to take it but Matt grabbed his wrist, preventing the transfer.

"Wait a minute," Matt said. "What exactly are you giving him?"

"Just a mild anxiety pill," Greg said. "It's nothing."

"What is it called?" Matt demanded.

"Diazepam," Greg said. "It's a very common treatment for anxiety. It'll keep him from having a panic attack out on stage."

"Diazepam," Matt said, shaking his head. "That would be the generic name for Valium, correct?"

Greg's confident grin faded as he heard this. "Uh... yes, it is Valium, but..."

"Don't ever try to jerk me off about drugs, Greg. I've done too many of them. He ain't taking Valium before he goes on stage."

"Matt," Greg said, "this isn't an intoxicating drug. It's just to keep him cool."

"He'll keep himself cool."

"But what if he doesn't? I've got the show to think about."

"So do I," Matt said. "No Valium. He's a professional musician. He'll have his shit together."

While they continued to argue about it, discussing Darren as if he weren't even there, Jake wandered over and sat down next to Greg's open bag. He looked inside to see what else was in there and found a variety of pharmaceutical vials lined up in little holders on one side of the bag, packaged syringes lined up on the other, and multiple pill bottles secured on the bottom. He read some of the vials. There was Narcan, morphine, epinephrine, Demerol, Versed, sodium pentethol, and a lot of Haldol. Jake didn't know what Haldol, epinephrine, or Versed was, but he certainly knew what the rest of those things were. They were narcotic painkillers, except for the pentethol, which was an anesthetic (what the hell does he use that for? Jake wondered) and the Narcan, which was a medicine that reversed the effects of narcotics. He glanced at the pill bottles next but there were far too many for him to read them all. He saw enough though. There was Dexedrine, Flexoril, Vicodin, codeine, Quaaludes, Phenobarbital, Percodan, morphine, Seconal, Nembutal.

"Look," Greg was saying. "You go onstage in twenty-five minutes. He needs to take the pill now or it won't have time to take effect before you start."

"He's not going to take the pill, Greg," Matt said forcefully. "I'm the leader of this band and I will not allow it!"

"And I'm the leader of this tour," Greg retorted, "and he will take what I tell him to take. I know what I'm doing here."

"Oh?" Jake interjected. "Are you a doctor?"

"What?" Greg asked, turning to Jake and blanching a little as he saw him going through his bag.

"You got some heavy-duty shit in this bag, Greg," Jake said. "I'm pretty sure you need a medical degree to dispense most of it."

Greg rushed over and snatched up the bag. "Don't worry about what's in there," he snapped, his grin fully gone for the first time.

Jake turned to Darren, who was sitting impassively, as if he were meditating. "Darren, you cool?"

"I'm getting there," Darren replied, his voice level. "I'll be okay."

"There you have it," Jake said. "He doesn't need your pill. Let him face his fears on his own. That's what the rest of us are doing."

"But..."

"That's the final word, Greg," Matt said. "He ain't taking the pill. If you want to push a breach of contract issue because someone didn't take a prescription medicine that wasn't prescribed to him, you go ahead and do that. I have a feeling the judge won't rule in your favor."

Greg sighed and bit his lip for a moment. Finally a vestige of his signature grin returned. "All right then," he said, dropping the pill and the bottle back in the bag and closing it up. "Just don't screw up out there, Darren. Don't jeopardize the show."

"I won't," Darren said.

"He won't," Matt and Jake said in unison.

The clock turned seven and the recorded music was turned off. The murmur of the crowd picked up a few notches as they sensed that the first portion of the show was about to begin. The band stood in a group near the stage access door, Coop holding his drumsticks, Matt and Jake fingering guitar picks, Bill chewing his fingernails, Darren taking a few last puffs from a cigarette. They had already taken off their backstage passes.

"Ten seconds 'til the lights go down," said Steve Langley, the production manager. "You guys ready?"

"We're ready," Jake said, looking at his bandmates.

They put their hands together, doing their customary show of camaraderie for the first time in months. Langley counted down the last few seconds and everything went dark. As it did, the crowd began to cheer, the sound dozens of decibels louder than any cheers they heard in the past.

Listen to that, Jake thought. That's for us. Holy shit.

"Okay, go!" Langley barked at them. "It's showtime."

They had rehearsed this a thousand times. It was not pitch black on the stage, just dim enough that the audience couldn't see what was happening. Each band member moved to his position, operating half by sight, half by feel. Jake found his guitar and picked it up. He checked to make sure his cord was plugged in and then turned the volume knob all the way up. He touched his microphone stand briefly, just to orient himself, and then put his lips near it, ready to speak. He took a deep breath, beginning to feel a little of what Darren had been feeling. It had been months since they'd performed live and there were five thousand people out there! Five thousand! Sure, they'd rehearsed this set endlessly, had taken dance lessons and done tri-weekly aerobic workouts to keep in shape. But still...

The nervousness had no time to really get a grip on him. Bill provided the opening cue, playing a brief piano solo that was amplified and sent out over the audience. They cheered louder, whistling and clapping.

The solo ended and Matt hit the first guitar chord. That was the final cue. Out on the soundboard one of the technicians hit a switch and the stage lighting blazed to life, showering them in bright white illumination. The moment it happened, Matt launched into the opening sequence of their first song: Who Needs Love?

Jake could hardly see the audience - the stage lights were too bright and the house lights were too dim - and he couldn't hear them at all over the music blaring from the amplifier stacks - but he knew they were there all the same, all 5200 of them, watching as he played his guitar, as he began to sing. He was nervous - as nervous as he'd been launching into that first show at D Street West - but he didn't let it show. On the contrary, he came across as almost cocky with self-assurance, projection confidence with his every movement, his every facial expression, and especially with his voice. And as he performed, that nervousness gradually disappeared, replaced by wonder and awe. All of his doubts, fears, and frustrations about the recording contract, the tour, his relationship with Angie, melted away. He was doing what he loved more than anything, what he felt he had been put on this Earth to do. And while he was doing it, nothing else mattered to him.