Occupation, or Not

Hey, Mr. Rock Star

“Rock star”

Obviously, this title is a joke. Doug used to say in his fake Mafioso voice, “Hey, Mr. Rock Star.” in a way that reminded us that while we were on Atlantic Records, home of some of the most famous, that we were somewhere else on the ladder. There are different levels of stardom in this world. Superstars. One-namers. You hear Aretha, you know who that is. Madonna. Prince. Even Bob or Neil, or Van. People who can’t walk anywhere without being noticed and surrounded by fans. Then you have that level of stardom where you rake in the cash, but maybe you can go to the store. We were the stars somewhere below that.

I remember when I first started playing gigs, for $50 opening slots at the Cubby Bear; uncles at family gatherings would say, “There he is, the rock star.” Because I was doing it, baby, living the dream. There may have been a bit of mockery there, but lots of respect and maybe a bit of awe. I was playing on stages. For people. They weren’t. Ever notice how many middle- aged lawyers are in a “band”? It’s got cachet, baby.

As Eleventh Dream Day started getting airplay, and we had a record out on tiny Amoeba records, I became aware that when I went to shows, some people were whispering to each while looking in my direction. Hey, isn’t that the guy…from that band. And then sometimes at the grocery store in line. “Hey, I like your band.”

When we got signed to Atlantic I knew it was a big deal, but I had a hard time feeling it. Life didn’t seem different. I still wore my genuinely ripped jeans (before they manufactured them that way) and tee. I was still not rich and certainly not famous. I tried to convince myself it was something. I remember telling my parents, who had no clue what it meant, that, you know Dad, it’s kind of like if I was a baseball player, and I got signed to the Cubs. The majors.

On Atlantic, we did all kinds of things that were much higher profile. We were at the top of the college radio charts for a long while which meant airplay on MTV 120 Minutes each week, and eventually a tv interview. Rolling up to Atlantic h.q. at 75 Rockefeller like the Beverly Hillbillies was a thrill. Hey, there’s Ahmut’s office. I think I saw the back of his head. No, he’s not here today. The wonderful folks we worked with at Atlantic on the whole made us feel like stars, although some of the older satin jacket vets seemed skeptical. Playing a show in NYC, getting out of the van, professional autograph seekers hedging on the bet that we’d someday make their hour wait worth it, felt good.

Our first time playing in London we had a fancy ass photo shoot. We were set up in a posh hotel just to hang out in to wait and do a couple of pressers. We got to the photo studio where they did our hair and makeup. I pretty much looked like me. Janet, on the other hand, was in the hands of a stylist with a vision. She got a hairdo. She forgot a certain top back at the hotel that she wanted to wear. “Rick, can you go back to get it?” Sure. Get me out of there for awhile. We had been driven in a Bentley limousine with tinted windows, keep the meter running, Jeeves. I got spirited back to the hotel for the retrieval, and if there was one day I felt like a bonafide R.S. it was that day. I could see out at all the people gawking to figure out which star was in the Bentley. Rick, bitches.

Touring, of course, is a grind. The shows were the treat. I wrote a piece called, The Tick, where I detail a day in the life. It’s mundane. It’s zen

.https://elmoodio.blogspot.com/2023/03/the-tick.html

Looking back, the best of the best, the starriest of all, was living at Prince and Mott in Little Italy for a month while recording El Moodio. We had three floors next to Ray”s Pizza. Initially, we were offered Keith Richard’s NYC apartment above Tower Records, but management was worried because there was a spiral staircase and we had a toddler. Rock star plus baby equals not rock star. I assure you.

And finally, Doug, lest you think yourself a star, put us all in our places, when before a glorious show at 1st Avenue in Minneapolis, at a meet ‘n greet with radio and record store and label folks, asked the waitress what the most expensive beer on the menu was, and when she brought a Belgian raspberry Lambic, he took a deep inhale on his Drum, rolled cigarette, and with pinky out, dropped it hissing down the long beautiful neck of that bottle. That’s Mr. Rock Star.

Atlantic Records November 1989-1993, retired.