The Limits of Respectability

By Chris Strange

It is the pretentious mid-eighties and a make-or-break tour through hell for Bitter Romance, a small-time band trying to find a place in the competitive music industry. It is a narration in overcoming betrayal, impossible odds and a comedy of errors that lead to success in the most unlikely way. Wires Whitmire is the quiet, chain-smoking sound-man who has a knack for getting his band out of the trouble that always seems to find them. His only creative outlet is the caricatures he draws — a picturesque comedy of life on the road in a rockin' roll band.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Back Bridge Publishing
• Release date: Feb 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9780995895003

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The Limits of Respectability

THE LIMITS OF RESPECTABILITY

Chris Strange

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Dina, for her undying support, to Tristan, for helping me rediscover my love of music, and Don, who was my memory when mine failed me.

I’d also like to thank anyone who reads this now and helped me finalize a goal ten years in the making.

Copyright © 2017 by Chris Strange

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or other media.

First Printing: 2017

Second Printing 2019

ISBN 978-0-9958950-0-3

Back Bridge Publishing

212 Beech St. E.

Whitby, Ontario, Canada L1N 3B2

Preface

This book is the fictitious retelling of actual events, with poetic licence, of course, at a time when music was pulling in many directions and technology was still in its infancy. For many, the only way forward was a slow and arduous journey, sometimes in reverse.

Rock of Ages . . . still rollin’ . . .

Def Leppard

Chapter 1- Wires

Our manager used to say, You struggle for ten years and then make it overnight. In my opinion, you should probably add another ten years to it.

Even then, the struggle was ongoing, the same as the battle between good and evil, conquest and surrender, or the veteran incumbent beating back the hungry rookie nipping at the teats.

Years ago, we all had stories to relate, weaving the roads of music history. It was the navigation of the detours, dead-end cul-de-sacs, and the cracked, black, asphalt of pavements in disrepair. Yet, there was always a beginning, middle, and end—although it never ventured back as far as squirting out of the womb in a gooey mess of wailing pink flesh, nor ended with the last breath of thought before embarkation on a cruise ship to the afterlife.

No, like those stories, this one followed the juicy middle, the thick slice of roast-beef between two slabs of white bread and the mouth-watering anticipation of penetrating incisors. Don’t get me wrong; it wasn’t all about me. I, Johnny Malveen, more than most, knew there were many spokes to support the tread and keep the wheels in motion. My story wasn’t so much about me as it was of another—perhaps someone more significant, more endearing, and more essential? The very hub that kept the tire spinning—and that was the man we called Wires.

***

Looking at Wires now sitting across the table from me in the lavish surroundings of a suite in a prestigious downtown hotel, I realize how far the journey has come from its inception. Long gone are the excessive truck rides, the long-forgotten faces and memory apparitions. Even the endless barrage of cookie-cutter towns with the same dirty, gray, brick buildings seem to dissolve to dust with time. Now, my memories are crammed tightly into dirty, yellow boxes—containers stacked awkwardly and harboured in the furthest recesses of my mind warehouse.

After all this time, Wires was still thin and scruffy with the same hair he’d had for as long as I’d known him. His bangs barely sat above his nose—quite sheep-doggish actually. He also had the same sullen look of aspiration, amid the incessant blinking of his eyelids, as if he’d not slept for days. The only differences were his hands. They were clean, no longer caked in grease and grime with a distinguishable French-tip line of filth under his nails—a staple of hard work and heartache. Good ole Wires, reclining quietly in a plush, leather chair with his legs crossed at the ankles, and his hands folded gently in a temple over his heart. He was gazing out through the vast balcony windows into the expanse of the city before us—another metropolis waiting for conquest. His trademark cigarette hung from his lower lip as its silhouette of smoke twisted and gently ascended to the ceiling. His drawings, I used to call doodles, were spread out haphazardly before him on the table and pinned down by a half-filled coffee mug and a plate of toast. Two crescent-moon bites smiled up at him from either side of the bread, yet, Wires was lost in thought with not a care in the world.

I looked at him thoughtfully, You know, I think we only roomed together once in all the time we spent touring. Honestly, I wasn’t sure but decided to throw it out anyway to see if it stuck.

Hmm . . . You’re right. How strange it seems now—band politics, Wires said, and his eyes seemed lambent and wise.

However, when you think about it, he was part of the crew, and I was in the band. Only under extreme circumstances would we share quarters, even back then. And back then, he was Neville Whitmire, the lanky, awkward kid, not our Wires; the man of legend, the indefatigable god who could fix anything and got us through so many tight spaces, town after town, tour after tour.

I was Sparky Malveen, no one who knew me then called me, Johnny. I was struggling to make ends meet like everyone else and climb the ladder of success—a ladder I was beginning to think was leaning precariously against the wrong house.

Yet, here, Wires and I were in the same room after all the water under the bridge, if you’ll excuse the cliché, waiting for noon—waiting for the limo to arrive and pick us up. It had a surreal air to it.

Wires and I always shared camaraderie. It’s not like we were jerk-off buddies or anything. Frankly, we could talk on a deeper level; be more philosophical than reduced to bragging in lurid detail about the women we met on tour.

When I first met him, he was reticent, shy, introverted—an idiot savant, I had thought. He was mumbling to himself as he plugged in cables, bussing and rerouting lines into the main sound-console. The way his lit cigarette bounced up and down from his lips, it appeared to be the one giving inaudible commands and shouting curses.

I was auditioning for a new band at the time and was extremely nervous. Not anxious about my capabilities, you understand. I was confident I could perform the songs. I was, however, self-conscious of my looks. At the time, I did not exude the self-indulgent 80's rock-star motif of big hair and bigger ego packed into a svelte frame of pouts and poses. I was pudgy, with out-of-control hair, and an even more unruly moustache—more of an old Ron Jeremy than a young Robert Plant if you must know.

I was playing bass guitar back then with some vocals, so it was easier for me to remain out of the spotlight, a smudge barely noticeable on the backdrop of life. All the same, I was sure my appearance had been the precursor to countless rejections in my previous attempts to break into music’s domain.

I wanted this audition, but more importantly, I needed it.

The drummer was the leader. Space, they called him. He seemed a little pompous, but it was only the first time I’d met him and too soon to form lasting impressions.

I had talked to the singer Glenda to set up an audition time. She was there, but she and the guitarist were now silent and except for a quick handshake, grunt and nod when I arrived, they hadn’t said much at all.

The guitarist had a plume of spiked black coif atop her head with a white stripe down the middle, fittingly earning her the moniker of Skunk.      Space, on the other hand, had a thin, blonde hairline covered by a bandana, and was becoming increasingly impatient, Neville! Goddamn it! What’s the holdup—?

There has to be a loose connection here somewhere—?

Hurry up! We have four more bass players to audition before our rehearsal time runs out.

This cable is bussed across channel ten . . . Echo . . . Reverb . . . vocal one— 

Neville, get your shit in gear, man!

There was a sharp screech of feedback, and we all covered our ears until Wires turned down the volume.

Goddamn it, Neville, are you trying to make us all deaf?

All fixed. You may continue.

After a moment of glaring maliciously, Space took his fingers from his ears and ascended his throne behind a speckled gold set of drums.

I could see a faint glimmer of a smile at the corner of Wires’ mouth as if he’d known the problem all along. He was merely letting Space understand who was really in command. He quietly sat back on his chair, cupped his hands together and lit another cigarette.

The room was small and soundproofed with purple, cardboard, egg-cartons stapled to the walls. There was a thick shag carpet, matted and grey. I would have bet, somewhere in its youth had been a creamy off-white. It was also bumpy—probably with the corpses of bass players after their failed auditions. The microphone stands all stood slightly askew, giving the room a campy Batman feel. I felt a bead of sweat start to form on my brow, but the room was also uncommonly hot from four flood-lamps fighting each other to cast shadows amid the tang of simmering perspiration and burnt dust.

"Let’s start with Hit Me, and Battlefield," Space said.

If all we’re going to play is Pat Benatar, I’m going to tell Neville to bring back the squealing feedback.

The drummer’s sticks gave us a four-count, and we started. The audition lasted five songs with Space grumbling at his band-mates between each number, Glenda, you were sharp on the end of the chorus—That’s supposed to be an augmented fifth in the bridge, Skunk—Watch the tempo people!

You’re the drummer, Wires said. You keep the tempo.

Stick to sound and leave the music to us, Neville.

Although I wasn’t pleased with my effort, I did manage to punch the rhythm with Space efficiently. After all, drums had been my first instrument when I was a child, as my parents had searched for something to keep me from excessive masturbation and butchering small animals.

They thanked me for coming, and I began to pack up my gear. The next bass player was already there. He was a tall behemoth with hair halfway down his back, and he had to crouch down to get through the doorway for fear of hitting his head.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, I thought as this carpet of hair swayed past me on its way to formal introductions.

Hair, meet Skunk.

Glenda . . . Hair.

Space, Neville, This is—Oh my . . . look at this dude’s hair.

He picked at a scab on the upper left corner of his mouth as he removed a red Fender bass and plugged in.

I snapped the clasps shut on my case and turned to leave. I looked at Wires. He was still leaning against the wall on a teetering chair. He mumbled through another bird-call of tented fingers as he lit another cigarette. You did a great job, man.

What?

See you tomorrow, Malveen. He winked at me as he took a puff and blew out a gust of smoke.

I made my way to my father’s car parked in one of the many empty spots of the industrial complex. I could hear the muffled pounding of other bands rehearsing somewhere deep in the bowels of the building as if they were trying to use their cacophony to delve to the earth’s core. From a distance, I could make out the unmistakable squeal of feedback followed by the bellow of Space, NEVILLE.

***

I’ll never understand how you survived Space’s abuse all those years, Wires?

Wires brushed his bangs out of his face and looked at me earnestly through squinting eyes. He temporarily removed his cigarette from his mouth to make room for his coffee. After a swig, he returned the mug to its brown ring atop his drawings. He gazed back out the suite’s window at an expanse of blue and pillowed white. I didn’t listen to him if you must know, he said.

To this day, I can’t get over that you were right about my audition. I thought the guy after me was going to be the one to get the gig.

Mister wig factory? Nah! I could see that you were the best fit, and they knew it too—deep down. You were the only bass player who could remotely keep Space from racing through the songs. I’ve never heard a drummer with a worse metre.

Yeah, but at least he looked like a poster-boy for rock’s excesses.

Looks are deceiving, Sparky. Did you know Space secretly came to me about most of the band’s decisions?

I find it hard to believe.

"It’s true—I shit you not. Space was all secret agent-like and stuff, calling me late at night, Wires, what do you think? Wires, what would you do? He talked big, but most of the time, he had no clue what the hell was going on. So what did he have to lose in giving you a shot? If it didn’t work out, he always had me to blame."

Wires had been right, and I got the call from Space himself informing me I was the newest member of Shock Alice. Three weeks of vigorous daily rehearsals and we’d be out on the road performing and unexpectedly I was on my way up . . . to the next rung.

Chapter 2- Bon Valon

I learned the sets quickly. It was mostly pop fluff; Blondie, Pretenders, and ugh, Pat Benatar. Within a few weeks, we were ready and loaded up for our first gig on a three-month tour.

The booking agents said, as long we had a female singer—tits and ass, as they so eloquently worded it—we could get gigs, no matter how bad the band was. What didn’t they tell us? Until we became a better band with an expanded repertoire, we’d be playing in northern Quebec. This would create a problem, as I was the only one in our group who vaguely spoke French. I’d actually listened during French class and could at least say more than, the sweater is red, and doggie, where is the chicken?

On our way to our destination, we braved hours upon hours in the back of the truck in freezing temperatures. It was a rented cube-van with tandem wheels and no opening between the cab and box. Since there was only room in the cab for three, Wires drove, our illustrious leader, Space got a seat by default, and Glenda’s voice needed protecting from the cold. As she was fond of saying, You can’t replace a voice like you can a guitar string or a sound-man.

This left me, Skunk and Magic, our only other crew member besides Wires, to huddle under a pile of sleeping bags, atop a pyramid of equipment. It was here; I began to bond with my freezing cohort Skunk, as beyond talking about sex and grumbling about how Jamaicans aren’t designed for the cold, Magic didn’t have much to say.

Skunk had floated from band to band before landing in the lead role with Shock Alice. Being a female lead guitarist was still a rarity in those days unless you were in the band Heart or, The Runaways. She’d not yet had the success in what was still a man’s world, but she certainly was prepared for it. Skunk was cutting-edge, haute couture, from the clothes she wore to her rock-star persona and laid back on-stage presence—the chick reeked of cool. Although in the back of our truck with only her petite nose poking out of her hooded parka and the puppet show of our breath for entertainment, she’d probably tell you, she felt more frozen than cool.

It became evident with each truck stop and the slow dwindling of the English language into Québécois, or a bastard offspring of the two, no one in our little group, other than yours truly, would endure this cultural language barrier. Sadly, soup de jour was a struggle.

My God, how are these people going to survive? They can’t even order food.

Even the indefinable attempts of our entourage to ask for directions to the bathroom were hopeless, Ew-eh-la-sal-duh-bank madamoyzel?

I helped when I could, but most of the time, eating was like a game of Russian roulette, pointing to whatever was on the menu and just accepting your fate.

That’s disgusting. There’s fucking hair in my soup.

Well, Magic. You did order the hair soup. That’s what soupe à cheveux means.

When we finally arrived at our destination, we went to work setting up the equipment while Space went to work, finding a girl to spend the night with him. Upstairs from where we were playing was a strip club with male and female dancers. Space was quick to make friends with one of the male strippers who, at best, spoke broken English. We called him, Go-go Boy.

We spent time between sets watching our neighbours prance provocatively amid the blinking strobes and the stench of the sour draft. By evening’s end, Go-go Boy and his half-erect penis—the product of an elastic band around his genitals, had procured one of the local girls to be the willing participant in three-way action with our drummer.

To me, three-way sex was like ordering pizza. It tasted great once in a while, but you knew if you ate it every day, you’d quickly get sick of it. What I’m trying to say is, I had no problem with these nocturnal activities, or at least I wasn’t disapproving . . . until . . .

Space and Go-go Boy burst into Magic’s room next to me, while I sat propped up on my bed against a wall quietly reading in mine. They ripped up Magic’s bed—tore it to shreds actually—and trudged off, carrying his mattress with an urgency of heroes trying to break the fall of a suicidal jumper from the fourth floor. Fortunately for them, Magic had been out for his after performance ritual of eating hair soup and was unavailable for protest.

How disappointed I was, when I found out their uninvited intrusion was only to construct a multilevel experience—one to make the logistics of their sexual congress more pleasurable.

Within minutes, my fortress of literary solitude was a noisy buzz of muffled moans and the disco-thumping of a bed slamming into the wall next to me. As the decibel level increased, my patience lessened. "That does it—This is war!"

I stomped over to Space’s room and with a pounding fist, and an ominous baritone screamed, Où est ma fille!? or, where is my daughter!?

Go-go Boy had laughed like hell, but Space had not found my choice of ammunition too amusing. When I’d knocked, he had been at the mouth-end of what you might call, a tea-bagging session. The girl in her hysterics had nearly choked and swallowed his scrotum.

"Goddamn it, Sparky! It’s bad enough, I’m always worried someone’s husband, or boyfriend is going to find me with their woman and castrate my family jewels. No! You have to come along when I’m in a very delicate position, to say the least, and act like a crazed father. Have more fucking sense next time, asshole!"

It was hard to decipher what had angered Space more, the disruption of their sexual bliss, or the fact the girl had taken the opportunity to grab her clothes and scamper away during Space’s tirade.

I think Go-go Boy described it best, We put her down side-by-each, but when we turn around, there she was—gone!

Space gave me the cold shoulder for the rest of the week. Not that I minded. I had already grown tired of his attitude, there’s me, and then there’s God. Besides, there were others in the band I could terrorize with my practical jokes.

***

Space was such a dick.

"I think, un grand penis, is the proper term?"

Wires, your French—it’s improved greatly. I’m impressed. You’re a real man of the world now, huh?

Wires shrugged and gave me a sly look, almost mischievous. It was the look I’d seen so many times before. He picked up a pencil lying helplessly next to his plate of toast and blew on the tip. The small hint of a grin widened, Too bad Magic never learned to speak the language.

I laughed, reminded of my little tutoring session, where I tried to teach our light-man to speak French.

Magic had been distraught. Three months in a foreign environment would severely hamper his ability to get laid. To him, coitus was like ingesting power pellets in a video game, and he would need to replenish his strength before he ascended to the next level. Magic begged me for a crash course in the delicacies of the linguistic process. Sensitive to his situation, I agreed to give him some lines to get him to first base.

Magic was an eager student and soon had enough memorized to carry on a conversation. He practiced his words and phrases all afternoon in front of the mirror, although I’m still not sure why he used a hairbrush like a microphone in the process.

Later the same night, he was ready to test his fluency on a cute French girl who had taken a liking to him and waited after the show beneath the bust of a deer mounted on the wall.

Magic sucked in between his teeth, I’m gonna do it, Sparky. Wish me luck.

Go get her, Valentino.

With a clasp on the shoulder, I sent him off into the lion’s den for the following conversation as Wires, and I looked on.

Salut.—Hi.

The young waif smiled and answered, Salut.

Comment vous appelez-vous?—What is your name?

Sally.

C’est magnifique. Sally, est un beau nom.—That’s magnificent. Sally is a beautiful name.

Merci.

So far, so good, my student was off to a running start.

Et tes yeux sont incroyables.—And your eyes are incredible.

The girl again smiled broadly. So did the deer, for that matter, its black, soulless eyes twinkling in the brightness of the lobby.

Et votre âne est comme un melon circulaire.—And your ass is like a round melon.

Oops . . . Brick wall. The girl looked confused.

Magic thought to himself; I’m losing her. I better bring out the ‘A’ material. He began to ramble off everything I’d taught him in no particular order, Mon nom est Magic. Je suis une tête de nourriture chinoise. Je mange le castor. Vous resterez avec moi ce soir dans la salle de bains. Et me faire cum avec votre langue. Chalice du tabernach!

Loosely translated, this meant: My name is Magic. I am a Chinese food head. I love to eat beaver. You will stay with me tonight in the bathroom, where you will make me orgasm with your tongue. Fuck the Church!

With this elegant sincere delivery, the girl’s face changed from delight to disgust and Magic felt the heat of her hand smack across his face.

Aller se secouer! or, go jerk-off, for those of you who want to know what to say when you’ve just been insulted in French.

SPARKY!

I turned to Wires, Looks like there aren’t going to be too many people talking to me this week.

***

Magic should have known better. When you are learning a new language, people tend to give you the slang and the profanity first. It’s not my fault.

Wires chuckled, But still . . . He was inadvertently beginning to doodle on a blank page. With his head tilted forward, his hair hung like a mop. He looked like he had no face.

I had this friend in high school who taught me some Polish once, he said. "When I met his mother for the first time, I thought I’d win her over by hanging some mother-tongue on her, if-you-will. I don’t think she was too pleased when I told her, my birdie has a nest, and I lick the syrups between the legs. Not exactly the mother tongue I was hoping to express."

Wires, you didn’t?

As God is my witness, it’s amazing how fast you can run when someone’s chasing you with a butcher knife.

You know, it’s not like I didn’t experience problems with communication when we were touring. Remember the Bon Valon guy?

***

The French love to make requests. Following one particular set, a man approached me at the side of the stage. Do you know how to play Bon Valon?—Fuck. The French also loved to throw in some English profanity to try to establish an instant bond with their Anglo brothers.

After I informed him, I didn’t know the song, and neither did anyone in our group, he said to me in thickly-accented, broken English, No. They are a—how you say?—band of talented musicians. You know, Bon Valon? Fuck.

I was extremely knowledgeable when it came to music, but I’d never heard of them. Are these guys a local band? I asked, trying not to anger the man who was becoming increasingly frustrated.

He gesticulated madly, No! No! Bon Valon. Bon Valon! BON VALON! Fuck! He couldn’t believe I was so stupid.

BON VALON! What kind of screwed-up band name is that anyway?

No! Come on! he insisted, Bon Valon. You must know! Alex Bon Valon? Eddie Bon Valon? Fuck!

"Oh! Van Halen! You want to know if we play, Van Halen?"

Oui! Yes, yes! Fuck!

My God, man, I’ve cracked the code. Victory is mine. The blue wire’s cut with two seconds left on the clock. Three points from outside the line—Swish—nothing but net.

I was so happy, I not only hugged the guy, I nearly got up on stage to announce to the world there had been a significant breakthrough in relations between two distinct societies. David Lee Roth and the boys had brought peace to a world on the brink of disaster. Salvation is mine. Let us all bow our heads, pray, and sing, Ain’t Talkin’ Bout Love . . .

The guy was happy too. We were celebrating and chanting together, Bon Valon, Bon Valon, Bon Valon! We started pointing at one another in a; you’re the man—No, you’re the man, sort-of-way.

Others had noticed our revelry and began to gather. Some with raised glasses joined in, "Bon Valon! Bon Valon! Bon Valon!

So, he said finally. Do you play Bon Valon? Fuck.

No . . . no, we don’t.

***

Christ, Wires, how did we get through those years without getting our ass kicked, especially with all the bullshit and Space at the helm?

You’re here; he’s not. That speaks volumes.

But there was so much crap, so much hostility, so much wasted momentum and so much—

Wires held his hand up to stop me in midsentence. He blew out a big cloud of smoke. He set his pencil down and took another crescent chunk out of his toast, which was probably soggy as well as cold. He grinned wide and chortled. To this day, it was so unusual to see him smile and laugh. It was like his well-weathered face would crack from the strain of it, and I would be left to sweep up the fractured shards of visage with a dustpan.

He said, "Remember we used to name all our tours? Enter the Onion, Menace in the Mouth."

We chimed in unison, Attack of the Road Chubs.

God, Wires. What was the name of that tour where all hell broke loose?

The Return to Nasty Tree Tour, I think?

That’s it, The Return to Nasty Tree, the absolute, worst, fucking tour ever.

Chapter 3- The return to Nasty Tree

Journal entry- Day 1: October 15th, 1983—I don’t know why, but it’s always the beginning or the ending of winter when we hit the road. Likewise, it’s a long drive to the first town. Shit, do we need to drive for sixteen hours? Thankfully the winter hasn’t blasted us full force yet, but we still have another twelve hours of driving before we hit our first stop. We have affectionately titled this tour, The Return to Nasty Tree. I hope it’s better than our last time out, The Nasty Tree Tour.  We have a new guitarist, Peter Manierka. We call him Thumper. He’s a little guy with a stage presence reminding me of Angus Young from AC/DC. He’s been with us for two weeks and thinks we’re all insane—Wonder what took him so long? Although Thumper’s a good guitarist, I still miss Skunk. Glenda, on the other hand, not so much.

October can be unforgiving and cold in the northeast with a foreshadowing of winter’s existence. As we travelled further north, piles of dirty snow greeted us by the roadside from the battlements of dark tree lines on either side. The cities with their light pollution had long ago melted away, swallowed whole by the earth and clasping onto the ribbon of asphalt now leading us forward. Only the lines on the road illuminated by our headlights guided us, as they dropped out of the darkness—dotted, then solid, then dotted again. Occasionally two luminous eyes would appear in the coldness like some unseen animal creeping closer until it swished by in a blur of metal, rubber, and oil to a destination unknown.

If there’s a way to feel crowded yet all alone, that was it. There was nothing to do and see except for the occasional faint flicker of light, or a smoking chimney far off in the night, peeking out through the foliage. It was somehow a creature comfort, and it left you to ponder the lives of the people living inside those four walls, cursing their offspring, beating their significant other, or maybe beating-off in front of a Hustler magazine? I, on the other hand, surrendered to the lulling hum of our vehicle as