(Epilogue—Los Angeles, New York, Tilburg, Phoenix)
“Well, I don’t really think that the end can be assessed as of itself as being the end because what does the end feel like? It’s like saying when you try to extrapolate the end of the universe, you say, if the universe is indeed infinite, then how—what does that mean? How far is all the way, and then if it stops, what’s stopping it, and what’s behind what’s stopping it? So, what’s the end, you know, is my question to you.”
“This is the end, beautiful friend.”
I patiently wait for the drug dogs to sniff to their canine heart’s content. They’re frisky and friendly and want to play.
“Don’t pet the dogs,” barks a customs cop without the faintest trace of humor or humanity.
Gina looks amazing at the baggage claim in a black corset and tight, torn jeans. She is thinner, and her hair is darker than when I saw her last. I hug her and give her a long, luscious kiss. Dahl even tells her she looks great. Indeed, both our eyes are a little sore, I’m sure.
We give Jeff a ride to the terminal where he’ll catch his flight to Arizona. I give him a hug, which seems to catch him a little off guard, though I don’t know why. Loosen up, Jack. See you in a month for Japan! I guess those weren’t our last sound checks and shows after all.
Finally alone, Gina and I get in her Oldsmobile to head from LAX to Hollywood. “I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to tell you,” she started. “I lost my job. I got laid off three days ago. The record label they were starting isn’t going to happen, so they let me go. That means the record you were going to do with Tim and Ray is off, too. I thought I was doing so well. I fixed up the apartment, took off some weight, got some independence, built some confidence, and got tossed out on my ass again.”
She fought hard to hold back the tears. “Don’t worry, darling. Everything will be all right. I’m just so happy to be home with you.” We went home and made long, passionate love.
But things truly were not all right. During my absence, I’d counted on an investment (in which all of my life savings were tied up) to pan out and garner enough of a profit for us not to have to worry about financial setbacks such as a layoff. During the two months I was in Europe, however, the ten thousand plus dollars I had been advised to invest in a major pharmaceutical concern had evaporated. It’s net worth now hovering around thirty bucks. I learned that diversification is key the hard way.
Gina tried for months to get a job. I went back to work at the indie record company and pumped out as much rock magazine piddle as I could, but things were tough. Money problems continually dragged us down. Gina did what she could to remain optimistic, but ultimately sank into a deep depression, from which she could not seem to recover.
We were watching television one night and an ad came on for some check-yourself-in-and-give-us-all-your-money institution.
“Do you find that you sleep all day? Do you have trouble motivating yourself? Do you cry for no perceivable reason?”
“Yes!” she yelled at the television. By Thanksgiving she moved back to Cincinnati, to live in her parents’ basement, build up her finances somehow, and strike out somewhere else. We didn’t technically break-up, but as she wasn’t happy with herself, she truly wasn’t happy with me. I was making less than half the money I was when we met, and that had to show me in a different light. Though we talked of starting over some other time, some other place. It never happened. After returning from Japan, I asked her to marry me, but she said no. I learned later that she thought my proposal was inspired by guilt, a guilt born of unfaithfulness on the road.
Still, lasting with her until November turned out to be better than average. Z and Rita broke up almost immediately upon his return. The nearly $1,000 phone bill accrued during Trans-Atlantic communication didn’t help their matters, either. My Toyota van and I were hauling furniture out of their apartment about a month after we got back from Japan. Z later joined a group that was well-financed and toured England and America the following year. He claimed it was a completely different experience from Euro-Blur.
“Having a per diem and traveling in a big van where you can stretch out made so much of a difference. It’s the only way to do it.”
Rat and Lizzie were broken up around the end of summer. She toured the States with her band and he kept their apartment in the Village. He never talked about it much to me, and seemed to deal with it with the same quiet self-assurance he dealt with most things on the road. He toured Canada and the East Coast with his band, Pillbox, the following year. He kept his job at the record store and upon request sends me rare gems when they cross his counter. I always look him up and go out with him for a beer and a catch-up conversation whenever I’m doing time in New York. In an odd, unexpected twist, his cultural adaptability and ease at learning languages paid off for him years after these chapters closed. Rat married a Japanese woman, had some kids, moved to Japan, and eventually ended up being a Swiss ambassador to Japan.
Simon wrote me from Tilburg, Holland a few months later following the tour. Some excerpts: “Since I last saw you guys, I’ve become a manager, a lyricist, and single again. That last point should tell you that I’m no longer with Melanie. I decided to break it off mid-May. Things weren’t going too good, and I also met another girl, Marjolein. She’s real cute, but it’s still just ‘friends.’ The manager part is a band called Merry-Go-Round. They asked me to do the job, so I’ve been trying to arrange them some support slots. So far I’ve had limited success, but I will succeed (even if they don’t).”
“How’s the other guys?” he wanted to know. “Is Z still with Rita? Is Ratboy still in NY? Are you still with Gina? Is Brenda still with Dylan?! Anyway, McGruff, I’m going to cut this letter short. I want to catch the post. So, until I hear from you again, take care and keep smiling.”
He went on to say that he went back out on the road with Dutch homeboy, psyche-rockers The Soft Machine, who he’d toured with prior to us, and that he’d be going out in the summer with U.S. prep-metalists, Helmet. He was also writing lyrics with the keyboardist of The Soft Machine, but what came of that union I don’t know. He said he’d be over to the States soon and would look me up, but I never heard from him again.
No one I know has any idea what ever happened to Tim. I saw him once at a music convention in Los Angeles, hanging out with a couple of similar-looking dudes (none of whom were the Pope), but I chose not to approach him. There just weren’t quite enough good old times to revive between us.
Following our reunion for the Japan dates, questions arose at the record company involving the European tour advance and where all the money went. Was there really no profit? It turned out that the money we were all struggling so hard to recoup was to be recouped off of record sales, not from tour profits, so Z and I wanted to know where were the tour profits. Dahl was furious, as he felt we overstepped our bounds into his business. To a large degree, this was true, but the owner of the label (our boss) was more than slightly curious himself as a result of our questions—and probably enjoying the resulting drama which was ultimately no sweat off of his brow—and began faxing Dahl inquiries regarding these financial questions. Come the end of the day, despite past friendships and record company business, as far as the tour went, we were hired guns he didn’t need to pay, nosey at that, and, like all musicians, ultimately expendable.
Dahl severed all communication with Rat, Z, and me. Occasionally faxes would come into the label addressed to one of us, strictly business, but none of us directly spoke with him ever again after Japan (which went smoothly, by the way, with Dahl exploring the city and joining in the nightlife with the rest of us). Money and business had broken up our relationship, not too differently than it had destroyed mine and Gina’s.
Dahl’s next album after Euro-Blur, Leather Frankenstein, contained one of the angriest, most vehement selections ever recorded, a sonic slice of hatred entitled “European Vacation.” In it, Dahl puked forth his anger for Factsheet with lines like “Lame motherfucker with stars in your eyes, kiss my ass, you can fuck off and die / Piss and moan on the telephone, call your momma, she ain’t home.” His parting salutation via the song was, “You’re so damn boring, you’re so lame / Just get out of my face and stay out of my way.” It wasn’t Shakespeare, but it left little to the imagination. Working at the label, of course, Z and I heard it before it was released. Personally, I wasn’t surprised, what with Dahl holed-up in endless hotel rooms writing about who-knew-what, I figured we were potential targets at some point. Z didn’t seem to care, as he’d already come back from a successful tour with another band and was over it, so to speak. Rat heard the tune a few months later when it came into his shop, and he was less amused. Disturbed, he fired off a letter to Dahl, wanting to know just exactly what the problem was, and what was eating him so much. Dahl never responded. Ironically, Z and I found out after the fact that due to his financial situation, Rat had been given something of an advance to cover some bills before we left for Europe, whereas Z and I weren’t. Z felt somewhat betrayed that Rat, an old roommate no less, had never spoke of this to him prior to or on the road. Again, none of our business. On the other hand, Z and I received two weeks vacation pay before we left the states, which provided something of a financial cushion the others didn’t get, that is if you can cover nine weeks with two weeks pay, and ultimately it was probably more than Dahl advanced Rat come the end of the day. Well, maybe. The sad thing was that my friendship with Dahl—we’d been close for years—was permanently damaged. It had been initially solidified by music and genuine camaraderie and ultimately, irrevocably ruined over money and road bickering. Years later, I spoke with him occasionally on the phone—I don’t believe any of the others did—but it was never, ever the same between us. Eventually, after I left the left the label to produce and publicize shows for a venue, Dahl and I became friends again, and without question the geographical distance between us helped the friendship mend.
Jeff Dahl returned every year to Europe and Japan like clockwork, always with a different band, typically complaining of drunken swine backing musicians who missed their stupid girlfriends back home. Nonetheless, while those around him watched their relationships crumble, Dahl and his wife Sylvia stayed together, much as they had for twenty years.
Me, I eventually got back on my feet, got back in the studio, got back on the road, and continued down the indie rock path of obscurity. I returned for more punk rock touring in the old country with a newer band, under even harsher circumstances. But by then, I was a seasoned pro on the Euro Tour circuit, not much could get under my skin. As far as touring goes, be it low budget, no budget, or an expedition on the fringes of reality, it’s the adventure that’s important, that and the subsequent music that it inspires you to make. Let the big rock stars have their touring buses, arena shows, plush backstages peopled with silicone goddesses, and drug-wielding hangers-on. Let them have their hard working crews that afford them every comfort and keep them from ever having to lift a finger. Punk rock and it’s various offshoots live slightly more off to the left of the main highway, and it is in these out of the way environs and on the desolate side roads that it will continue to thrive. Or maybe not. I could be completely full of crap. Tour bus, minivan, or motorcycle with an acoustic guitar strapped to it, it doesn’t matter. The important thing is to just get on board and ride.