I love watching television. I’ve always loved it. The fruits of my labors are the afternoons spent changing the channel thirty or forty times an hour, keeping up with all major-league baseball games, vintage TV shows, the Game Show Network, any live concert performance being played, and the news of the day. I travel all over the world doing gigs to hustle up the rent and keep coming home to the premium cable TV package and my pals who enjoy our eclectic way to pass the day. I’m not alone in this. I read early on that John Lennon and Elvis Presley were well-known TV addicts. This knowledge only helped justify my life choice at a young age. I won’t name all the names, I don’t click and tell, but most of the time, any number of other household names in pop culture are on the other end of the line watching with me. As Harry Dean Stanton likes to say to me, “Don’t just do something, sit there!”
Today was an especially gratifying TV day. I had just gotten back from my first visit to Buenos Aires. I had gone very far this time to pay the cable bill. It was a reminder that it’s hard to make a living as a living legend. Being a member of the Stray Cats, I helped launch a thousand ships—not all of them are yachts, but it has enabled me to keep it all going in a relatively hand-to-mouth lap of luxury. We really created a new breed of rock fan that has continued to transcend the comings and goings of countless trends. We will outlive many, many bands that sold more albums than we did but will never reach the souls of these kids in the way we have.
Argentina was a classic example. I played for 200 kids, and 175 of them had a Cats’ head tattoo. The other twenty-five were children and will get one the minute they are old enough. Their parents will take them to get the tattoo. The people who have chosen rockabilly as their 100 percent lifestyle are uninterested in any other facet of pop culture. The children were all dressed in different incarnations of me from past album covers and photos. There were kids in little leather jackets with red bandanas around their necks. There were kids in little rockabilly cowboy suits. There were kids wearing little baggy pants, fleck jackets, and black-and-white shoes. There are twenty-seven hot rods in all of Argentina, and they were all in the dirt patch parking lot behind the roadhouse-style gig. Big tough guys in the front row were holding their women and shaking, a few of them crying with joy during “Runaway Boys.” These people have based their entire lives on the influence they’ve gotten from the fact that me and two guys from school rediscovered, retooled, reworked, and ultimately saved American rockabilly music from extinction and made those classic records during the 1980s. We call it Rockabilly World.
In 1979, if you had told the eighteen-year-old version of me that thirty-five years later I’d be traveling the globe, playing the drums, and introducing brand-new kids every day to all things rockabilly in exchange for my soul, I would’ve signed on the dotted line. I fell hard for the whole thing, all the way, when I heard Elvis Presley and then Gene Vincent, Eddie Cochran, and Carl Perkins. It was all we thought about, and we never looked back. Rockabilly music and style and how to earn a living through it was our crusade in life. If meeting and befriending most of my childhood influences, the feeling of true equality with any band that’s ever done this, and having adventures along the way were also part of the devil’s bargain, I would’ve signed in blood. It’s still a huge underground movement, and I’m confident I’ve done my part to keep it alive. The only thing you can hope for in rock and roll is to make up your own lasting original character. Can someone draw a cartoon of you? Can someone draw a cartoon of your whole band? The Cats have achieved this part of the game in spades. This part cannot be contrived. This must develop honestly and organically. I think I’ve succeeded, but to do that you do sacrifice any normality your life may have had. I’m that Slim Jim guy, the one who always looks cool, wears odd socks and plays the drums standing up, and always has a superhot chick with him. It is the only way of being that I’ve ever known.
I’ve had similar experiences in Japan, Australia, every country in Europe, and all over the USA. As I’m playing on this tiny stage with a couple of locals who have learned the songs and play fine, my mind wanders. The classic devil-on-your-shoulder argument begins:
“I can’t believe I’m here having to do this to hustle up the bills.”
“Shut up. You’re lucky to be here. We created this fantastic thing that brings true pleasure to all these people all over the world.”
“Yeah, but if the other two guys are with me, it’s for five thousand people, not two hundred.”
“You have no control over that; everything’s cool. I need this gig!”
“Imagine just being the drummer in a band that no one ever recognizes but sold twenty million records, living off royalties—what’s that like?”
“We saved rockabilly; if it wasn’t for us, it would have died.”
“It’s gotta be worth more than this!”
“So what? Play the next song!”
Before I know it, it’s over—I’m on a plane back to the friendly confines of Beverly Glen in Los Angeles.
So I’m happily changing channels the next day. In between innings at the Yankees game, I hear “Rock This Town” over the PA. That’s cool. Johnny Ramone would approve.
I change over to the live music channel, and it’s showing a live Stones gig from the ’80s. Bill Wyman is wearing a Stray Cats pin on his jacket. Wow! We’re onstage with the Stones.
I click over to VH1 and then MTV. Every guy in every band has a tattoo, and in one video the guy is standing up and playing the drums. I think yours truly was the first musician to do these things at the same time.
I click to the hockey game; “Rumble in Brighton” comes on before a face-off.
I’m on a roll; I gotta keep going.
On the action movie network, they are showing a Bond film, The Man with the Golden Gun. My former wife is there on the screen dodging bullets in a bikini.
Over on the oldies TV channel, my former girlfriend is playing the nanny on Growing Pains. On the Fashion Network, my current girlfriend and love is living in a house with a bunch of models.
I can’t help thinking that this must be worth something.
Maybe Time Warner will give me a month’s free cable? Maybe I’ll write it all down, do some talk shows, and get some easier, higher-paying gigs? Maybe I’ll get my own show about world-famous TV addicts? We could all do it together.
Maybe the guys in the Cats will all get along, and we’ll go out and do all the top-dollar, primo gigs we should be doing and finally cement our place in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I hold out hope for this but never hold my breath.
I do know that if I stick to my five rules of rock and roll, I’ll be okay:
1. Face reality.
2. Show gratitude.
3. Always be with the hottest chick in the room.
4. Always wear at least one thing around your waist that has nothing to do with holding your pants up.
5. Continue to listen to and be awed by Elvis Presley’s Sun Sessions record.
In telling my story, I’ve tried to stay away from the tiresome rock bios that are in airports and on the racks in the few remaining record stores. Most rock bios I’ve read are loaded with braggadocio followed by a chapter of remorse or just a scorecard for how many chicks and empty bottles the writer has acquired, like a horror story where the dead bodies just pile up. I’ve tried to take a subtler approach and entertain you with less blood and guts. It’s all about entertainment. As is true of my approach to the drums, rock and roll, and life in general, I’ve tried to take a slightly different approach.