Thirty-Two

Approaching the Wiltern Theater at the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Western Avenue (hence the theatre’s name), traffic was stalled in all directions. Overdressed music biz dudes in leather, denim, and cowboy boots, accompanied by underdressed dates in fishnets, bustiers, and too much jewellery, climbed out of limos and walked the remaining block or two to the venue, the 1930s deco movie palace that was hosting the Roc Molotov memorial concert. Fans clogged the streets with signs begging for tickets; bootleg t-shirt hustlers moved through the crowd hawking cut-rate memorabilia, cashing in on pre-concert enthusiasm before customers reached the legit vendors inside the hall. A pair of scruffy kids with guitars was standing on two newspaper boxes bellowing out a punky version of “Damn Straight” to the approval of no one. Flashbulbs popped when anyone vaguely recognizable emerged from a stretch with sunglasses on, waving. Most of the performers had been in the hall for hours, but among the glitzy latecomers, Jack and Sheryl arrived arm in arm, Susan and Tim followed minutes later, and the wow factor swelled with a sighting of Justin and his surprise date, Hilary. Publicists, politicians, and celebrity chefs had called in favours to join the “Song Celebration,” as it was being billed.

Bobbie had followed the build-up to the event on MTV, wondering if she was going to be able to handle watching, knowing she couldn’t bring herself to call Roc’s manager, the unctuous Uncle Strange, to ask for a ticket. He’d only ever been cordial to her, but she always felt slimed by his gaze. When a courier arrived at her door with an envelope containing a ticket, she was surprised, but stunned wouldn’t describe her reaction to the note inside.

Hey June bug,

Don’t say I never did nothing for ya.

Peace, DJ

DJ? Delray? Peace? How could that be? Dumpster diving one day, showing up in his skivvies with a cop the next; and now he’d got his hillbilly mitts on the hottest ticket in L.A. No one else called her “june bug,” that was for sure. Staring at the ticket, Bobbie realized how badly she really did want to be there, as though it somehow might get her closer to Roc one more time. What would he want her to wear? She started tossing wardrobe possibilities on the bed, humming “Swan Dive.”

Emma and Stick locked up their motorcycle helmets and walked through the crowd, getting caught up in the buzz. Glamour-free, they passed easily by the camera crews and paparazzi into the theatre, stopping only for a quick security search, before taking their tenth-row seats. Emma clutched Stick’s arm nervously as she took in the opulence of the hall, lit by giant vintage chandeliers. In this sea of L.A. hipness, she felt like an alien and was glad to have her new friend in the next seat.

An ambulance backed up to the rear of the building through a tight wedge of fans. The doors to the backstage opened, blocking the crowd’s view of two masked medics who made their way quickly past security, accompanied by a scene-stealing Uncle Strange in a Stetson and black caftan.

“Overdose in the nosebleed section,” he said with authority to the guard at the stage door, flashing an all access pass as they hurried up a small set of back stairs, medical kit in hand.

Bobbie gave her hair one last toss and locked her car. She smoothed the chiffon skirt she’d chosen (after much deliberation) over her jeans and walked quickly to the Wiltern, barely noticing the street scene she wove through. She was directed to her seat in a VIP section close to the stage and smiled at the young couple sitting next to her as she picked up the glossy black program on the seat. Noticing the place next to her was vacant, Bobbie looked down the row to an aisle where she spotted, to her horror, Delray in a white suit with giant roses embroidered up the sleeves and mirror glasses wedged in his heavily moussed coif. He was being slapped on the back by a slick young Hollywood hipster and chatting loudly with a matching pair of pouty bimbos. When she recognized one of them as the girl in the photo with Roc, her stomach flipped, and she turned away quickly, closing her eyes to gather composure for the long, uncomfortable night ahead. Picking up the program and looking at the cover shot of Roc, avoiding the camera as usual, provided no relief, so she let her hair fall in her eyes, blinking rapidly.

“Yo, june bug!” It had to be. Delray Jackson squeezed down the row toward the seat next to her. He flashed a peace sign to the silicone sisters, who were mercifully settling in at the end of the row. “Wassup, sugerplum?” he added as he kissed her airily on both cheeks. Bobbie was too taken aback to offer more than a vague smile in reply. The new Delray was as jarring as anything that she’d dealt with early in this evening; someone had scraped the shit off his aura and tweaked his swagger in the weirdest way. “What do ya think of the new duds, Bobbie Jean? Speechless, baby?”

“Thank you for the ticket, Delray. That was very thoughtful of you,” she replied tensely, wondering how he’d pulled it off.

“No sweat, sweetheart,” Delray grinned and leaned in conspiratorially. “Listen, I know this could be a bit rough on you, this whole tribute thing, so if it gets to be too much, we can always slide back to my new pad and work through any grief issues you’re hankering to deal with.”

Bobbie noticed the young girl next to her suppressing a laugh and digging her partner in the ribs at this overheard tidbit from the nouveau hick who was hovering over her. “Oh, I think I’ll be all right, Delray. You just keep those healing hands on your side of the armrest, and I’ll hold up just fine. What in the blazes is going on with you anyway?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “All duded up like this and talking like them mister cools at the Starbucks all of a sudden?”

“Please turn off all cellular devices and two way pagers for the sake of your fellow patrons. The Wiltern Theater and Strange Savage Productions thank you,” a deep voice intoned from above.

“Hang on, hunny bunny,” said Delray, reaching into his pocket to extract a flashy new chunk of colourful technology. Squinting at the keypad, he randomly pushed buttons unsuccessfully, until Bobbie took the phone from his hand and switched it off.

“Gracias, gorgeous,” he grinned, slipping the phone back into his pants pocket. “I’ll just keep that little puppy next to my heart now.”

As the lights dimmed, Bobbie noticed the silhouette of what looked like Uncle in a flowing outfit and cowboy hat sliding into his seat between the babes at the end of the row. As he sat down amid a flurry of greetings, one girl leaned over, removed his hat, and kissed the top of his head. The night got stranger still.

In the pit in front of the stage, a pony-tailed conductor in a silver lamé tux stood up and gestured dramatically with his baton. The room quieted, and the orchestra began a medley of Roc’s best-known songs. Faces in the crowd lit up with smiles of recognition and perhaps at the absurdity of it all. An usher pointed a flashlight at an old couple bending over and sharing a little wooden pipe, and latecomers hustled into the few remaining seats.

When the hall darkened, a curtain parted on a private box that overlooked the room from a point near the arched ceiling. It was impossible to make out the two figures seated far back from the railing, but Eddie Dyck and his associate in a black toque and shades had an excellent view of the stage below.

“I knew this was going to be weird,” said Roc, “but I feel like I’m in that Pink Panther movie where Clouseau attends his own funeral.”

Eddie chuckled quietly, adding in his best bad French accent, “You want to know what is strannnge, I will tell you.”

“Check out this program, the cover should have a doorknob on it, Ed.”

“Yeah, that’s Warren Blade’s doing. It’s pretty cool; I’m even in there in one of the studio shots, well, my left arm is, anyway. I think he used a lot of the shots they put together for the box set. All taste no waste.”

“Man, that medic outfit was hot and itchy as hell. If CPR failed, they could pop the vic in, zip it up, and steam him back to life.”

“You want a drink? Much as I’m enjoying the medley,” Eddie smiled, “I think this would be a safe time to slip down and grab us a couple of lagers.”

“Yeah, that’d be great. I’ll tell you what you missed.” Roc smiled back as he quietly closed the door to the box.

The medley ended to loud applause, and a spotlight hit the centre of the stage. Nervously twirling his drumsticks, Danny Cocktail walked to the mike in front of the curtain. He cleared his throat loudly, and it shook the room; this occasioned a ripple of soft laughter. “Uh … hi … good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to a ‘Celebration in Song.’ Umm … usually you can’t see me through my cymbals, but I’m Danny from The Cocktails and …” Interrupted by a burst of warm applause from the house, Danny flushed but seemed glad of the chance to catch his breath. “I’m glad to be here tonight with you … I mean I wish I wasn’t … but it’s my … privilege to honour the man who gave me and the other guys their start and who wrote all the great songs you’ll hear tonight … and who had really cool hair.”

The encouraging laughter throughout the room broke the tension, and Danny continued. “I guess like most of you, I can’t really believe he’s gone, and I know it’s a cliché, but while we’re playing tonight, I feel like he’ll be looking down on us and reminding me to hit my bass drum a little harder so he can hear up there.” Smiles greeted this attempt at humour, and Danny braved on. “Thanks in advance to all the incredible performers who are going to be on this stage tonight, to MTV — you’ll see their cameras everywhere, so behave yourselves — to all of you who supported us through the years, and most of all …” here he faltered and the crowd held its breath as if to help him along, “my best friend,” Danny’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Roc Molotov.” The crowd roared, partly in relief, as the curtain parted, revealing the other two Cocktails wearing the Edwardian suits from the first album cover. Frankie leapt from atop his amp and hit the opening riff from “Main Street Serenade.” The crowd got to its feet, clapping along. Danny jumped behind his drums and slammed into the groove as a grinning Simon LeBon raced to the mike and sang the opening lines.

“It used to be a carnival but now it’s a parade

Listen to the Main Street serenade.”

Delray grabbed Bobbie’s hand and gave her no option but to join the standing crowd. Either Roc’s demise or Delray’s newfound status had enabled him to appreciate Roc’s music wholeheartedly, and he pumped his fist in the air until the solo drove him to an unrestrained air guitar performance. Eddie and Roc were standing grinning in the private box, and Uncle fondled Marie in time to the song. A string of artists paid tribute in their own way as the evening went along. Bryan Ferry’s ultra-slow version of “Sky Train” was one of the night’s true musical surprises, and was topped only by a Meatloaf and Susanna Hoffs duet on “Deep Down” that had the entire Wiltern Theater singing along. Courtney Love’s nude spoken word performance behind a screen of “We’ve All Got a Way to Fall” was bizarrely fascinating until she tumbled into the screen, sending it and her naked self into the orchestra pit. Intermission was announced silently by Jim Carrey, who transcended laryngitis by holding up a series of cards à la Dylan in Don’t Look Back.

When the lights dimmed for the second half, a pious Uncle Strange welcomed a well-lubricated audience back with a gauzy anecdote about the first time he’d heard Roc singing in the coat closet of Mr. Golubchuck’s music room. In the upper box, Eddie turned to Roc. “Heard this one. Do you fancy another pint, mate?” Roc nodded and turned his attention back to the stage. He’d heard the story before, but it was always interesting to note Uncle’s newest embroidery on the old tale. Suddenly Eddie’s phone rang, and it echoed through the hall, momentarily throwing Uncle off his mark and causing heads to turn upward.

“Shit!” Roc lunged for the phone and hit “answer.” Panicking, he held it up to his ear and said a quiet “Hello?”

“Roc?” a familiar but distant voice said. “Roc, I need to talk to you. Roc?” Tabatha.

In desperation he affected a sort of caveman Slavic accent. “No Roc. He gone.”

“Please, Roc, I have no time for this. It’s Tabby. I’m on this dig in Umbria, and I’ve been out of touch for a while. Roc, are you listening?”

Curled in a ball on the floor of the private box, he pulled the medic’s jacket over his head as he heard Uncle droning in the background. “Roc dead, lady. Sorry.”

“Roc, have you been drinking? That’s the worst accent I’ve ever heard. Listen, it’s about Emma, she emailed me a week or so ago, and I just received it. She says she’s coming to see you. Has she made contact?”

“He no is, madam. Oh, oh, not hear you.” After making a series of static sounds with his mouth, Roc hastily hung up and switched off the phone. He worked to calm himself down. The thought of never meeting Emma caused an ache he’d have to get used to; file that along with some other regrets. Down below he could see The Cocktails picking up their instruments in front of a giant screen showing him singing “My Next Life” with acoustic guitar. Cheese factor aside, the combination of his solo performance on video with the band live was pretty cool, and he was starting to forget the Tabbie call when Eddie reappeared, drinks in hand.

“Your beverage, sir. Did I miss anything?”

Roc smiled weakly and nodded toward the proceedings below. Archival footage of the band — in the studio, goofing off in a hotel pool, opening for Kajagoogoo on their first concert tour — rolled on the screen while The Cocktails thundered away on an extended jam at the end of “My Next Life.” Roc’s guitar, in a moment of ultimate kitsch, rose dramatically on a stand, from beneath the stage, as the lights narrowed to a single spot and held for prolonged applause. Roc looked away, and Eddie spilled his beer while laughing heartily. A long line of guest singers romped through the song catalogue, and again, it was a surprise duet, this time Morrissey and Joan Jett, that stole the show. The obligatory finale featured members of The Black Crowes, Counting Crows, and Sheryl Crow on stage for the first time together.

As the weary audience headed for Wilshire Boulevard, Roc looked at Eddie, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to say. I do know that I have to whiz desperately.”

“Hmmm. I have specific instructions from Uncle to hang here till it empties out completely. Getting you in was one thing, but … hey, could you pee in this bottle? Pretend it’s a check-up or something?”

Backstage, The Cocktails, looking drained, were assembled on a couch in the glare of TV lighting. Chad Sparx had shed his t-shirt and boardshorts for a black linen suit with no shirt.

“Epic show, dudes. Danny, bitchin’ opening.”

Danny nodded. “Yeah, I meant every word. Roc did have the coolest hair.”

Frankie jumped in. “He never acted superior, and you know he coulda pulled all the chicks.”

Chad turned to Barry, who clearly wished to avoid any attention. “Roc convinced me to exchange my recorder for a bass when we started the band. Our sound would’ve been totally different.”

“Well put, amigo. So, the show, the DVD, the CD … you guys must be easing the pain with a hefty share of mechanical royalties for this extravaganza.” The camera panned across a trio of blank faces. “Clearly a stricken trio, but one who will continue on their own musical path wherever that may take them.” The host paused and put his hands in a prayer position. “Thank you, Cocktails, for a wonderful and memorable evening.”

A few feet away, Justin made gagging motions at Uncle, who shrugged and raised his palms. Marie and Julie returned freshly sprayed and glossed and clearly ready for the real party to begin.

“I’ll meet you revellers at Onyx. We’ve got the whole upstairs. Have you got your passes? I’ve got something to take care of.”

Marie pursed her lips and held up her laminate, featuring the squiggle of a rock with a fringe of hair on it and the words “Afterlife Afterparty” on it. “Don’t be too long, my ’airless genie. You are leaving us with some savage, you know.” Justin beamed at this reference, took the girls’ arms, and headed for the line of limos along Western Avenue.

Upstairs, Uncle let himself into Roc’s sanctuary. “Amazing enough for you, gentlemen?” He hugged Roc. “And it was all for you, my brother. What a show. Man, I’m thirsty.” Uncle grabbed the first bottle he could reach and took a swig before Eddie or Roc could stop him. “Yech, nothing worse than warm beer. Tastes like piss.” Roc couldn’t look at Eddie. “I’m going to page Nick in the ambulance, then we’ll head down to the backstage door. He’ll let us know when it’s clear. Once you guys are in, he’ll take off. I’ll see you later; I’ve got some business to take care of.” Seeing Roc’s disgust at the uniform, he added, “Hey, it’s a paramedic, not a parachute.” Roc just shook his head and pulled on the white jacket and mask.

From inside a white stretch limo with an open door, Delray was beckoning to Bobbie. “C’mon, sweetness, I feel you blocking me with that dang negative energy. There’s room to roam back here.”

She started down the sidewalk in the direction of her car. “Delray, I do appreciate you inviting me to this concert, but I’ve got a mess of laundry waiting on me. I’m happy about your new career and all, but it doesn’t change a thing between us.”

Delray jumped onto the sidewalk with a forty-ouncer of Lone Star in each hand. “Ah, hell, Bobbie Jean Burnette, you just gotta purge some of your toxins is all. You know you can’t resist me.” She retreated into the thinning crowd.

The ambulance was stuck in a throng around the stage door after Eddie and Roc had climbed in the back. Roc peered out the window to the crowd on the sidewalk as a young couple passed and looked in casually. “Eddie, hey, come here, that’s the couple that were in the studio the other night, you remember I told you about them.”

Eddie looked out the window just in time to see Emma and Stick fade into the crowd. “Those two? I don’t know the girl, but that’s Rich, my son. I wonder how he got tickets. He’s got a new love interest and he’s being kinda mysterious about her. This is weird, like watching him on TV or something. Is she cute?”

Roc kept his thoughts to himself. “I couldn’t really see her, sorry, Ed. Speaking of weird, I forgot to tell you that I picked up your phone while you were getting beers for us.” Eddie arched his brow and waited for the rest of the story.