Ending the artistic license excuse
Tawny Brown
Recently, I hit a personal low in hedonistic debauchery: I got a stripper fired. That she started it isn?t the best defense, I know, but I refuse to take all the blame for this one. Actually, since it was my designated ?rock star? night out, I half think I shouldn?t take any responsibility for my actions. That?s the rock star way, right?
Anyone who has spent any time on a tour bus on some desolate stretch of highway in Nebraska knows that boredom will drive even the nicest musician to new levels of insanity. While I don?t entirely condone that type of behavior, I at least understand it. What I don?t understand is the inclination to behave like a ?rock star? and consistently run amuck with no regard for the people and things around you. It isn?t even a matter of going crazy while on tour: many musicians seem to think the fact that they play in a band entitles them to a lifetime ?get out of jail free? card. For the longest time, I bought into this artistic license excuse. It?s amazing how much a chick can rationalize her guy?s bad behavior when it comes with a musical interlude. Somehow, the music always played louder than the mistreatment in my head. For all those times I took a backseat to an ego or was used as a stepping stone to a better place, I managed to write it off just another ?quirk? of being with a musician. What a load of crap. These guys aren?t creative geniuses, they aren?t tortured poets, and regardless of their position on the musical food chain, there is no excuse for such flagrant, unwarranted self-interest. Without a doubt, the most unpleasant musician I?ve ever known is Jackass from the band Deadbeat. The only thing I can say to his credit is that he is, when he sets his mind to it, a phenomenal musician. Unfortunately, as I came to discover, that talent is completely overshadowed by the most shallow, ornery, distasteful personality on the planet. Not that these things were entirely apparent at first. The roses on Valentine?s Day, the sessions in the studio listening to him work, and the late-night conversations about everything and nothing were more than enough to reel me in for a while. They were even enough to convince me to take a trip to Jamaica with the guy, despite the objectionable behaviors that had begun to ooze from his closet. Jackass, I?d learned, was not only flighty and arrogant, but also a rampant recreational drug user. Mind you, he wasn?t an addict. Had he been a drug addict, I could generate a bit of sympathy for the guy. Rather, he ingested as many mind altering substances as he could and reveled in the destructive results for the pure pleasure of it. Honestly, I?m still amazed I got on a plane to leave the country with him. Certainly not my most brilliant moment, but at the time, I can?t say I saw much past the fantasy of spending time on the beach with my own personal Jim Morrison. Upon landing in Montego Bay, Jackass made friends with the first sleazy drug dealer to approach him. The guy followed us onto our hotel bus to Ocho Rios, and sold Jackass a batch of bad coke. It took several hours for him to get past the shakes and sweats, but it definitely didn?t deter him from buying large stashes of hash, pot, ?shrooms, and more coke from random guys on the beach later that night. In all my time in this insane music business, from days on tour busses and nights in thousand dollar hotel rooms with confirmed druggies, I have never seen a bigger pile of drugs than I did that first night in Jamaica. Aside from the occasional few hits off a joint, I have never been a fan of drugs. The only time I like to give up control is in the bedroom, so I had no interest in helping Jackass go through his pile. I also had no desire to play ringleader to his circus, a fact that pissed him off so much he called me a few mean names and took off into the night. I didn?t see much of Jackass for most of that week I Jamaica. He found a gaggle of college kids who recognized him and were awed by his rock star prowess. The lot of them ran around the hotel complex causing trouble while I let the nice Jamaican bartenders serve me many gallons of rum and tell me that I had ?too good a soul? to put up with a guy like Jackass. The loneliness got the best of my senses, unfortunately. I couldn?t take spending another night reading in the lobby, so one evening midway through the trip, I met up with Jackass and his conga line of sycophants. ?Want to do a line?? he asked. ?No way,? I said. ?But how ?bout rolling me a joint?? I should have paid attention to what he was doing. I should have put the joint down when I noticed how odd it tasted. ?Just do it,? he said. ?I put some hash in there, that must be what you?re tasting.? Sure, because hash makes your lips numb. Half an hour later I was shaking, my heart was racing, and I was freaking out, not knowing what was going on with me. Jackass had vanished under the guise of getting us drinks, and I was alone with a pervy guy who couldn?t keep his hands to himself. When I cornered Jackass the next day, he said he ?had a song to write? and spent the night on the shore watching the ocean. I meanwhile, had nearly broken my wrist slugging his sleazy friend and spent the rest of the night alone and scared, crashing from an unwittingly smoked combo of hash and coke. He had no remorse; he said he thought the experience would be good for me. And it was, in the long run: I never had anything to do with Jackass again. I?m reminded of Jackass only by my own recent dabblings as a pretend rock star. To celebrate my birthday, my girlfriends took me to my favorite strip club. ?Have fun,? they said. ?It?s your night.? Maybe it was the whiskey I was drinking, or maybe I have spent too much time in the company of musicians, but as soon as I walked into that club, all my normal courtesies went to hell. It was like I was living the outtakes of Motley Crue?s ?Girls Girls Girls? video: there were no niceties, I didn?t want conversation, I wanted a sexy, topless girl in my lap. When a sweet Catherine Zeta Jones look-a-like swept me off to the VIP room, I knew I was in trouble. She instantly pulled my shirt off and leaned into my ear to whisper, ?You can kiss me when my hair is in your face.? She climbed into my lap, letting her hair fall across my cheek, and against all better judgment, I started kissing her. There is something so spectacular about kissing another woman that I admit we both got carried away. Over the course of three songs, the two of us made out intensely. Bodies pressed together, our nipples rubbing against each other, it was insanely naughty and good. Until the manager came in and broke us up. Apparently they have rules about that sort of thing. As the manager had it out with the girl, I slipped her some extra cash and quickly made my way back to the table. I?m not sure what I?m more appalled at myself for: ditching my cute little girlie while she got fired, or blowing her off when she came by my table to say goodbye. Such callous behavior is truly the hallmark of any stereotypical rock star. I had my night, but guys like Jackass have that life. It is unfortunate when someone?s character can?t measure up to their talent. The only small consolation I have is in knowing that in most cases, these guys do get back what they put out. When Jackass and I returned from our trip to Jamaica, I learned that he had contracted a violent case of salmonella. It couldn?t have happened to a better guy. ? Note: The names have been changed to protect the innocent, the not-so-innocent, and the lying, cheating scumbags from their wives? wrath when they get off tour. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, in rehab or in jail is purely coincidental. | 
