Needle (10 page)

With that and much to my pleasure, Matt gathered his things and left the studio. Unfortunately, Danny seemed unable to appreciate the moment.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, pointedly. “You were way out of line.”

“Fuck you!” I shot back. “I’m getting sick and tired of being a babysitter, and who the fuck are you to tell me what to do anyway?”

“Well,” Danny said matter-of-factly, “all I know is that Matt has more talent in the tip of his little finger than you do in your entire body.”

A dark hush fell over the room, time stood still, and nobody said a word as that little bastard threw down the gauntlet.

“Oh
really
?” I asked him. “In the tip of his little finger?”

“Yep,” he confirmed.

“First of all, Danny—yes—Matt can be the most talented guitarist in the world…when he’s not fucked up. But since he’s always fucked up, he’s not much use now is he?”

Having Matthew Anson perform as your lead guitarist was tantamount to having Rainman function as your bookkeeper: Every
now and then he might pull off a remarkable feat of technical wizardry—but most of the time he just acted like a fucking retard.

“And secondly,” I continued, “if my contribution to the band can be measured against Matt’s little finger, then how should we measure yours, Danny? I mean, what exactly do you do here besides toot your horn and run your fucking mouth?”

As Danny fell silent I desperately wanted to continue with the verbal onslaught, but couldn’t quite remember a pivotal word that had stubbornly anchored itself to the tip of my tongue. It would have perfectly defined the little fucker’s role in the band, but I just couldn’t summon it forth and it was upsetting me. I decided to let it go. I knew I would eventually recall it and that Danny would eventually give me an opportunity to use it. It was becoming increasingly apparent that he was dissatisfied with his scope of contribution to the band, and I could tell he held me personally responsible. I so wanted him to accuse me of it directly. That would have given me an opportunity to provide him with a couple of other reasons for his limited capacity; however, that would have also implicated members of the band. Rather than throwing Sections into further turmoil, I decided to shut my mouth and with that—Elvis left the building.

I met Perry at the apartment later that evening. It was the night of The Authority’s big showcase at Limelight which we had promised to attend. Although we were tempted to blow-off the performance, we didn’t want to jeopardize our relationship with the band. Not only had Frank Cotto been helping us with auditions, but The Authority’s road manager seemed interested in working with us. They were obviously well positioned with David Graham, so it would do us no good to ruffle any important feathers. With that in mind we got dressed, headed to Hell’s Kitchen, and secured enough heroin to be able to endure The Authority. From there, we made our way downtown to Limelight.

18

At about 8:30 p.m. on the following Saturday, Perry and I left the apartment and headed over to The Speakeasy for our 11 o’clock performance. Even though I felt Pat and Casey were still missing the point musically, and the tension with Danny was mounting, it seemed as though things were generally moving in the right direction.

After the first Speakeasy show, I realized that my relationship with Danny had become very complex. For the first time I had been exposed to his stage presence and charisma which, I must admit, were very impressive. However, given the traditional constraints under which a supporting player typically performs, he would’ve never had the chance to affect the audience so significantly had he been with any other band, or at the side of any other singer. Fortunately for Danny, I was an incredibly reluctant front man. Especially in the beginning, I wasn’t good at the chit chat part of the game and quite frankly, saw no reason why I should be.
What more could they possibly want from me?
Wasn’t it enough for me to share my illicit thoughts and felonious feelings with a dark and smoky room full of drunken strangers…
in song
?
Didn’t that make me the committed artist without having to engage the audience with mindless banter in between gut-wrenching musical testimonials to the misery and torture that was…
my life?

When on stage, I receded to my own private place and just wanted to be left alone. Danny permitted me this luxury by picking up the slack and doing the other things that were expected of a singer and of course, he loved every minute of it. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it so much that while on stage it may have appeared as though Sections was actually
his
band.

As far as our stage performance was concerned and at least for the moment, Sections was an unusual configuration of disparate talents and personalities, intermittently coming to the fore and then stepping back again as the musical dynamic shifted and swayed. The formula seemed to work perfectly, and this was never more evident than during the second Speakeasy gig.

After we finished up with “The Wish,” which was mid-tempo and on the softer side, the band broke into the funky rap that had erupted during rehearsal. Danny worked the audience into a frenzy, and
though we had time for another song or two we decided to put the evening to bed on a high note. We promptly bid the audience adieu and left the stage.

For the first time in my life I really felt like a rocker. We all felt that way and Perry passed around a mailing list as it seemed as good a time as any to begin the arduous task of building a following.

After we left the stage and congratulated ourselves on an outstanding performance, Casey scolded me for introducing him to the audience as “Casey the Cop” because it apparently hindered his chances at getting laid.

“Come on, man!” he pleaded with me. “It makes everybody think I’m gonna take away their drugs!”

Take them and
use them
, maybe
.

Actually, though, besides alcohol—
Casey didn’t do drugs
. Interestingly enough, he was an unexpected byproduct of the JUST SAY NO generation, who bought in to the evils of
illegal
drugs wholesale and came out a raging alcoholic.

Casey’s distress aside, however, it was clearly one of our greatest shows ever. The Speakeasy was packed and everyone was there. Cynthia, Venus, Helmer and everyone from Barry’s was in attendance. Even Danny invited two of his childhood friends, Louie and Drew, but our personal guest list made up only a small fraction of the audience. We left everyone screaming for more from an unknown band that seemed to have literally come out of nowhere,
which we had
. Unfortunately though, the warmth and appreciation we received from the audience was not to be matched by the club’s manager, Herbert Weismueller, an old German who had immigrated to the U.S. after World War II.

Weismueller already had a reputation for being a bit unreliable on payday, so within minutes after leaving the stage Danny decided to strike while the iron was sizzling.

“Hey Mr. Weismueller,” Danny said as he tapped the old German on his shoulder.

“Danny! Good show. Tell the other boys, will you? Same time next week? OK?” Weismueller asked.

“I’ll talk about it with the guys. But right now we kinda wanna get outta here, so can we settle up?” Danny asked, obviously referring to the $200 we were due.

“Of course,” Weismueller said.

He unfolded an ancient wallet and produced a crisp, hundred
dollar bill. Unfortunately, there wasn’t another forthcoming.

“Oh… Al said you offered us 200,” Danny said.

“What the fuck is that stupid bastard talking about!!” he bellowed. “He’s fucking crazy! I never said it.”

He was very clearly telling a fib, as not only Al—but Danny, Perry and Pat also heard him make the offer.

“That’s fine,” Danny responded. But all would certainly not be fine.

Personally speaking, the $17 differential per person wasn’t the biggest deal. After all, at this point we were hardly in it for the money, and as far as I was concerned it didn’t seem to warrant that much of a scene. But of course, I’m from Queens. I mention this only because Danny, Drew, Louie and Casey the Cop—all grew up in Brooklyn and this may have had an impact.

I watched Danny weave through the crowd, intermittently shaking hands and shoving drunks aside until he came to a table where the Brooklyn contingent was seated. Within a moment, the four of them inconspicuously took the stage and quietly began dismantling the club’s microphones, including the expensive drum-mikes which took some tinkering.

By this point the entire band, and a good portion of the audience, had already heard about Herbert’s treachery as well as the Brooklyn-bred method of retribution that Danny and the others were attempting to exact upon the club.

Once the mikes were disconnected, Danny had Pat stash them in a drum bag and then casually strolled over to the bar where I was nursing a Dewars.

“That dirty fucker isn’t paying us the full 200,” he told me.

“I heard.”

He then politely addressed a gothic-looking bartender:

“Excuse me, miss. We’re gonna be taking the tequila,” he said.

The bartender turned to gather up the bottles of liquid compensation. “Here. Take it…I hate that motherfucker,” she said, apparently referring to Herbert. She then continued onward, lining up approximately 20 bottles of rum, gin, and vodka to further reward us for a job well done.

At some point it became a free-for-all. Realizing that all subsequent performances that night would have to be cancelled since we now owned much of the club’s sound equipment, the other bands slated to perform began helping themselves to the remaining liquor.
Even some of the drunker audience members got involved. Within five minutes both bars were empty wooden shells.

As the free liquor continued to flow, Perry and I decided to head home to get high, and to avoid any possible police encounters in the near future. We arrived at the apartment by 2 a.m., and as soon as we walked in the phone started ringing. It was Big Al.

“Hey man, I’m really sorry about all the crazy bullshit,” I told him immediately.

“No worries. Everyone knows that Herbert’s a motherfucker. But the microphones are
mine
, bro,” he informed me.

“Oh shit! I don’t think Danny realized that. I’ll take care of it,” I told him.

I then left a message on Danny’s answering machine making him aware of the situation and assuming that all would be taken care of by morning.

At some point during the early morning hours, my heroin-induced nod actually transformed itself into sleep. Unfortunately, after what seemed to be just a few minutes of slumber, the phone behind my head again started ringing as the sun simultaneously blasted through the living room window. It was only 7 a.m., and Big Al was already back at The Speakeasy and on the hunt for his microphones.

“Hey man, I’m sorry to call so early, but I gotta do a gig tonight and I just wanna make sure you guys know where my shit is at,” he explained.

I disengaged with Al and called Danny again. This time he answered the phone and informed me that he had, in fact, gotten my message and relayed it to Pat, who, to his knowledge was still in possession of the equipment. More than that he couldn’t say, but he promised to call Pat again and then get back to me.

I waited a few minutes, and just as I was beginning to fall asleep the phone rang once more. It was Big Al, who seemed to be growing more concerned with every passing phone call.

“What’s the word, brother?” he immediately asked.

“Danny said Pat has your stuff and he’s trying to get a hold of him. Relax, Al. I’m sure every little thing is gonna be all right,” I tried to reassure him. “I’ll call you the second I hear anything.”

Just then I heard a call-waiting.

“Hang on a second, Al. I think that might be Danny,” I told him.

I clicked over to the incoming call and it was none other than Pat himself.

“Hey Craig,” he greeted me sounding as cool as a cucumber. “Don’t worry, man. After I got home last night I spoke to Danny and brought the stuff right back to The Speakeasy,” he said.

I was about to get seriously worried.

“You brought it back last night?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he confirmed.

“Who’d you give it to?”

“I didn’t get back until after it closed. There was nobody there, so I left it right in front.”

Now I was definitely, seriously-worried.

“Right in front of
what
?” I asked, terrified at the prospect of what might be coming next.

“In front of the club. You can’t miss it,” he said, incredibly.

“On the fucking street?!” I asked without really believing anyone could be so stupid.

“No!” he said. “Are you crazy? Why would I leave it on the street? It could get run over by a cab or something. No, I left all the microphones in a paper bag on the sidewalk right in front of the club. You can’t miss it,” he said again.

“Pat. Are you kidding? Al needs his microphones
today.
What’s he gonna do? What the fuck are
we
gonna do?” I asked, assuming the expensive equipment had already been stumbled upon and was now sitting in a pawn shop.

“Craig! It’s right outside the front door of The Speakeasy in a brown paper bag. Right in front, man! Come on, you can’t miss it.”

I decided that if he said “you can’t miss it” one more time, I was going to stick my hand through the phone and punch him in the face. I clicked back over to break the news to Big Al. Apparently, the duration on hold did him no good.

“Craig, talk to me—man—talk to me! I ain’t shit without my mikes, man—
I ain’t shit muthafuckaaaa!!!”

Given his state, I thought it best not to jump to the obvious conclusion and decided to hope for the best.

“Hey Al,” I said. “Good news!!! I just got off the phone with Pat. He said he left the mikes in a brown paper bag, right in front of the club…on the sidewalk…so why don’t you go take a look…all right??? Al???”

For about ten seconds I heard nothing but complete silence and what sounded like a hyperventilated attempt to breathe. This was followed by a barely coherent and almost dreamlike,
“He…whaaaaa???”