Roc Molotov compared the face in the bathroom mirror to the one on the bottle of Midnight Velvet shampoo. He pouffed his hair to match the famous vinyl-black nest but couldn’t manage the cool, enigmatic smile that stared back from his younger self. Dimming the lights, he tried sucking in his cheeks before tossing the container away in disgust. He lit a pair of Mission fig candles, lifted his guitar from the empty bathtub, climbed in, and checked the tuning. Some of his very best vocals had been recorded in bathrooms, and the echo always seemed to make the lyrics sound deeper. Closing his eyes, he let the magic of a handful of major sevenths wash over him, banishing his dark mood.
Minutes later, he was jolted from his musing by the phone and lunged over the tub to answer it. Before he could even say hello, he heard the silky voice of his manager, Uncle Strange. “Have you got MTV on? You’re gonna want to see this.”
“I’m in the tub … with my guitar.” Roc tucked the phone under his ear and produced a long, melodious strum.
“Nice reverb. Listen, come down to my room — we should experience this Cocktails interview together.”
Roc had been trying unsuccessfully to ignore the upcoming release of his old bandmates’ new disc. “Yeah, I guess. Order me a Tuborg and a tumbler of Nembutals, will you?” He let the phone dangle over the edge of the tub and eased out, putting the guitar back in and blowing out the candles.
He padded barefoot down the hall of the Sunset Lagoon, the West Hollywood boutique hotel that he and Uncle had called home since their full-on touring days. He found the door to Uncle’s suite propped open and took in the usual aromas of incense and pretence. Uncle had made modifications over the years to suit his carefully crafted identity, with the décor running to early Zen pimp. The hotel’s faux O’Keefe nature prints had given way to Uncle’s personal collection of Klimt’s erotic drawings. Bamboo blinds, little stone stacks, and a bonsai garden underneath the glass-topped coffee table rounded out the feng shui.
Roc was greeted by the cawing and burbling of Uncle’s current favourite nature CD. The lone connection to their mutual past, the beaded curtain that had been rescued from Uncle’s first apartment of a couple of decades ago in Duluth, was now the gateway to satori in the Buddhoir. Above it hung his treasured photo of native rock ’n roll sons from the Gopher State, featuring Prince, Paul Westerberg, and a distracted-looking Bob Dylan flanking Uncle, whose head was unfortunately halved by the top of the frame. Gone mercifully from the room was the bento box that had held Uncle’s stash in the old days.
On the carpet in front of the TV, seated on an embroidered pillow in the lotus position, Uncle Strange stared at a glowing laptop. “You sound stressed, my son. You want a traditional tea service, reflexology? Maybe Sandra’s around to do some Reiki.”
“No thanks, Uncle. A beer should take care of it.” Roc picked up the remote and hit ‘mute’ as the theme from MTV’s Rocktalk played.
When he unmuted, he heard the host intoning, “Now, everyone knows that Roc Molotov was the lead singer, songwriter, and founder of the band. How do you feel his departure will affect your sound?” The host, with whom Roc had done countless interviews over the years, turned up the sincerity and leaned toward the three ill-at-ease members of The Cocktails, peering dimly at each other through the fringe over their shades. Some clearing of throats and shifting on the studio couch followed.
“Uh … well ... you know.”
“I mean ... it’s like ...”
Finally, drummer Danny “Double” Cocktail asserted himself. “Not at all, really.”
Rhythm guitarist Frankie “Flaming” Cocktail found his confidence too.
“Yeah, rock and roll as usual, right?”
The third member of the group, the terminally shy and somewhat overweight bassist, Barry “Shaker” Cocktail, giggled. “We don’t miss him much, do we?”
“So, the Y2K concert turned out to be the final show for Roc Molotov and the Cocktails?”
“Yeah,” said Danny wistfully, “the time just felt right, you know.”
“Sure,” said Roc, fuming. “After I told them before the show.”
“And there were some creative differences,” said Barry.
“Oh right,” said Roc, disgustedly, “like the difference between being utterly devoid of creativity and ...”
The host nodded, changing topics. “And how did you prepare for this big event?”
“Well,” said Frankie, brows furrowed, “I bought a really big generator, in case ...”
“And I filled the garage with bottled water,” said Barry.
“Oh my God, someone stop the madness.” Roc covered his eyes with his hands.
Mercifully, the host wrapped up the interview. “Well, whatever you’re doing now, it’s working. Congrats on your first #1 record. Now let’s take a look at the video, our sneak preview of ‘Stop Before I Start’ by The Cocktails. Thanks, guys.”
“Wankers!”
The screen went blank as the remote bounced across the room, coming to rest under the window, which overlooked a tranquil southern California garden.
“Total wankers, the lot of them.” Roc got up off the couch and began to pace.
Uncle spoke serenely. “Calm down, Roc, you know how it’ll go. They’ll have their moment of glory, and poof, it’ll be over before you can say ‘where are they now.’”
“‘Calm down?’ Easy for you to say, genius. Whose idea was it to fire them and go solo? And how come you didn’t know they had a record in the can ready for release a week before mine?”
Uncle continued working his computer while picking up the remote with one foot and using the other to turn the TV back on. “Roc, relax, you’ll leave them in your dust. Musically, you already did years ago. Trust me.” He gestured at the television. “I mean, look at this nonsense.”
On the screen, the members of The Cocktails, dressed as cops, were awkwardly arresting a gaggle of ten-storey-tall nymphets as the chorus of “Stop Before I Start” kicked in. Uncle looked up and appeared to be silently mouthing the words as he nodded along with the song.
“Stop before I start
Look before I leap
Listen to me
Baby can’t you see you gotta …”
Here Frankie held his guitar like a chainsaw and played his big lick — “wawawawa” — as the other band members froze in a tableau.
“Stop before I start.”
Uncle shrugged. “Catchy.”
“So’s herpes,” mumbled Roc. He crossed and recrossed the room, his wiry frame practically twitching, all the while stealing glances at the television. “Uncle Strange, I’ve trusted you since the fifth grade, but right now I’m nervous. The last two albums have tanked, the hair product deal is toast, and now those morons have a #1 record riding on my reputation. Did you remember to check with the lawyers about the rights to the name?”
Uncle assumed his customary guru pose and opened his palms. “Remember? Roc, this is me. I always remember. We’ve got bigger fish to fry, my brother.”
Roc tensed. For one thing, he hated being called “my brother,” and he was convinced that Uncle had been polishing his bald head lately, so that in certain lights it would create a creepy halo effect. As it was now. “What fish, exactly?”
Uncle, still focused on the laptop, replied distractedly. “Like getting Higher than Heaven off the ground.” He turned his attention to his number one client and oldest friend. “This is the best record of your career, Roc, and I want the world to hear it. There are no free passes out there at radio, and there’s been major turnover at the label since your last release.”
Roc didn’t want to think about what this would mean. He ran his hands through his spongy hair then noticed the black stains on his hands. “Shit.” He retreated to the bathroom to wash it off and muttered to himself, “No wonder no one’s buying this crap.”
Uncle called out from the other room, effortlessly slipping into stroke-and-placate mode. “Hey, top ten phones on the advance single at WSFT, and you just entered their ‘soft parade’ at 98 with a chub.”
“Never heard of them. Major market?” Roc re-entered the room and leaned over Uncle’s shoulder to look at the screen, a maze of call letters, radio station wattage, and colour-coded cities laid out in Uncle’s own peculiar format.
“Flagship station on the gay network out of Miami.” Taking in Roc’s pained expression, Uncle continued, “Consumers, my good sir, using the same currency, last time I checked.”
“Yeah, well, just don’t take any three-dollar bills, my good sir.”
He was praying that Uncle wouldn’t remind him of last year’s Pride parade in Toronto that had chanted the lyrics to his song “Damn Straight” as they marched on city hall.
Uncle shut down the laptop and unfolded his six-foot-five frame, a bit creakily, from his cross-legged position. “Let’s go down and have a little recreational beverage poolside, what do you say? Check out the local talent. Unless you’re hitting for the other side now.”
Roc wanted to be mad but just laughed and grabbed his shades as the unlikely duo headed for the door.