Aside from the adoring fans and the glory they shine on Steve in my eyes, the other great thing about hanging out with him is that he is the first guy since Tommy who can keep up with my ever-increasing alcohol consumption.
What started out as a way for me to swallow my pride and be the hack I needed to be to make it out here is turning into an excuse not to write, a reason to turn down freelance work in favor of drinking in dives with Steveโor sometimes at the Black-lite, alone. At least nobody at the Blacklite is asking me to sell out my artistic integrity for a half-page three-color ad. After one date he gets picked up on outstanding traffic warrants and ends up cooling his heels in the Los Angeles County Jail.
They sound like another Red Kennedysโstyle joke band, but in fact, Trulio is a side project for members of Fishbone and the original bass slappers, Parliament Funkadelic. Just when you think Fortuna has spun you downward, things start looking up again. Unfortunately, what goes up must come down, and the fall is often a complete surprise. As far as we know, the night is going swimmingly. In fact, we are practically gloating at our current position, on the guest list, with the band, as it were.
Suspicious indeed. Gulp of beer. Earring tug. Goatee scratch, shuffle, gulp. Upstairs in the dressing room, the members of Trulio Disgracias, their girlfriends, and the rest of the Seen are crowded onto two couches, drinking, smoking, and generally doing what bands do backstage, which is actually sit around and wait a lot. This is one of the many myths that have been shattered for me since my CREEM-reading days: the myth of what happens backstage.
Now having been backstage more times than I care to count, I can say with some authority that the backstage experience resembles nothing so much as an airport waiting room. Apparently, though, my date feels the need to live up to the hype. Seated on a folding chair by the door, Steve is displaying the dexterity that makes him such a good guitarist by managing to seamlessly alternate sips of beer, drags of his cigarette, and tongue-wrestling a busty blonde in a Daisy Mae gingham halter who is giving him a music-free lap dance in front of God, Blackbird McKnight, and everybody.
