White Punks on Southwest

White Punks on Southwest

I drop my car off at the house I used to own and the wife I used to have drives me to the airport. “So how long are you going to be gone?” she asks. “Five days. Tell Meg to call me on Sunday…it’s Father’s Day.” Four years this very week the two of us parted ways and went down our own paths but the beauty is that the healing is genuine. “Say hi to Lars,” she adds, emptying me in front of LAX’s Terminal 1.

I have two books nestled next to the Macbook in the backpack: Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five (the literary inspiration for the novel I’m currently outlining) and Synchronicity by Carl Jung. You’ll understand very shortly why I choose to point these things out. For those who’ve following my writings over the past several years, the “S-word” has been as frequent a visitor to my first person narratives as Amy Winehouse has been to rehab. I see the signs, connect the universal dots and report accordingly, and damn the naysayers who think me on crack.

I check in and wherever will I depart from? Gate 11…of course. Being an “11” person this makes me want to type the “S-word”, but I’ll spare you for the time being. Having been forced to trash my aerosol can of “Off!” and “Banana Boat” sunscreen because the benign canisters exceeded 3.4 ounces, I begin to get that feeling, that rodent squeak in the subconscious that even before I get to Tennessee, never mind the festival site in Manchester, another blog shall manifest. So dig what follows next…

Two very tall fellows are in the departure area waiting to board my flight, both I recognize, one I know personally. “Fee...it’s Lonn.” The lead singer of the 70s sensational Tubes smiles wide. “Hey, man, what’s up? You going to Nashville? We’re playing there tomorrow night.” I saw The Tubes at the Greek Theater while still a student at UCLA on the heels of their iconic debut. “We’re white punks on dope/mom and dad live in Hollywood/hang myself when I get enough rope.” Avant pop satire cloaked in prog rhythms, vocals delivered by the Bay Area wailer who I met for the first time in London hotel the evening of the day I spent with Alyssa Milano and her Remy Zero hubby Cinjun and band member Cedric in the summer of ’99. The encounter wasn’t random then. Nor is it now.

“Bonnaroo?” he asks with a cocker spaniel tilt of the noggin’. He’s unaware of the masses gathering in the fields of Manchester, the enormous bill ‘o musical fare. “Oh man, this sounds incredible. But why the fuck are we playing in Nashville tomorrow night? It’ll be a ghost town! I’m calling my agent.” Classic moments follow depicting rock star venting mild concern over whether anyone’s gonna show up for his gig tomorrow night. I hip Fee to Friday’s itinerary while he’s yapping to his agent. “Yeah, man, we go on at the same Metalllica does. Oh well, maybe the locals will come out.”

Back to Jung. The former Mrs. Friend once owned a store on Westwood Boulevard. One afternoon, the front man of one of her favorite bands growing up wandered into the place. “Lonn, guess who was just in store?” I recall her quivering. “Fee Waybill!” Years later, in the winter of ’04, the separation year, I’m in Las Vegas, decomposing on the sand and composing my memoir, Joyce gets set up on a blind date. With Fee Waybill. Too much suffering to enjoy the experience, it was a one off. But in an odd way, it bonded Quay Lude and me.

“Watch the Laker game later with me, Fee,” I offer, boarding the plane, passing the second tall character. “You know, that guy looks like Senator Bill Bradley. He played for the Knicks. So did my late Uncle Larry. Nah, that can’t be him.” Not on Southwest. Not with us punks.

Hour into the flight, I drift up the cabin and say ‘hey’ to Fee. “Lonn, you were right. That Is Bill Bradley. Only guy on the plane taller than me.” Laughter. Wonder if he knew my uncle? Somewhere over Texas, I went to the bathroom. On my way back, I pause at his seat, take a deep breath and wait for his eyes to abandon the Washington Post. I extend my hand and he shakes it. “It’s a great honor, Senator,” I say. “What’s your name?” he asks. “Lonn Friend. I think you may have known my late Uncle. Larry Friend.” Recognition. Synchronicity. “Yes of course, Larry Friend. Did you say late uncle?” Glare gets a bit more urgent. “He died of prostate cancer about ten years ago.”

A couple more sentences, mine being last. “You’re a great man, sir, “I utter in my most sincere Keith Olbermann. I’ve met few politicians in my life. Al Gore at a book signing, Governor Pataki at the post 9/11 Concert for Heroes, and surfing Congressman Dana Rohrabacher at the recent NAMM show in Anaheim who was hanging out with guitarist Jeff Skunk Baxter and photographer Robert Knight. The strangest groups often travel in threes. I always look into the eyes for that is where the truth lies. Senator’s Bradley’s windows were the cleanest.

Arkansas down below, I meander to the back to engage the flight attendants, Cheryl and April. They live in Phoenix, home of the Suns; the NBA team co-founded by the aforementioned dear departed Uncle Larry. I recognize another face, or should I say, head (as in bald), belonging to veteran industry promotion guy, Phil ‘The Skull’ Costello. He and the (former) Senator are waiting for the rear facilities. Skull enters to do his thing and the former Knick and me talk hoops. “I think the Lakers will win tonight,” he says. “Jackson is so good at managing his players.” I recount quickly my lifetime devotion to the purple and gold. “Did you read Sacred Hoops?” I smile. The senator grins, “I wrote the foreword to it.”

Costello vacates the john and I say hello. “So are you still in the mix, man?” I query innocently. “I know you don’t work at Warner Brothers anymore.” His face goes stern, like a spilled a drink on him. “In the mix?” he flashes back. “Uh, I released one of the best albums of the year, In Rainbows. Uh, yeah I’d say I’m in the mix.” The hey day of the influence peddling promo domo has thankfully passed (God bless the digital domain) but one cannot dismiss the inimitable bravado of a man whose devoted his life to hammering people into seeing things his way. “Didn’t mean to bruise to your ego, Phil. See ya.” Thank you Universe for reminding why I will never work in the record business again. Love the records, loathe the business. That’s a mantra one can live with.

“What do you want from life?” crooned the wailing Waybill. “To kidnap an heiress, and threaten her with a knife?” Absurd, fantastic. A Tubes concert was visual as well as musical, bombastic theater, all senses tapped, and all risks taken. When Outside Inside came out in 1983 and the video for “She’s Beauty” was all over MTV, I saw the band once more and they rocked hard once again and I’m sure they will rock hard tomorrow night. “My first concert was Van Halen’s 1984 tour,” wiggles Cheryl. “I was 16 but oh do I remember that show. David Lee Roth was amazing. Jumping and bouncing all over the place. Have you heard the new Journey? That Filipino singer is really incredible.”

Fans…rock n’ roll’s life force. Decent begins and I hand the Senator a copy of Life on Planet Rock, having inscribed, “Much respect and gratitude for your service to hoops and humanity.” Baggage claim, Fee and Roger Steen, the original Tube duo still in tact, offer me a lift from the airport. There I am, in a van with a band on the road, again. “Do you know this guy Phil Costello, Lonn?” says Fee. “He’s an independent, sold a half million Radiohead records on the web. That blows my mind.” Private chuckle. “Yeah, I know him,” I reply. “He’s a punk.” Hell, who am I kidding? We’re ALL punks.

Another Jungian adventure has begun. What do I want from life? This.