“Always stay the way you are, dear,” he whispered in her ear. Mary giggled and blushed again as John hopped down the stairs.
Backstage was a long wooden shed, partitioned into individual, closet-size dressing rooms and a larger “green room” located just behind the stage entrance. The member of the Wonder Creek Revival were gathered in the green room, waiting for their nightly gig; Duane was practicing licks on his unplugged guitar, Berry, Lowell, and Pigpen were playing poker, Dennis was catching a nap on the couch in the corner, and Janis, as usual, was
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getting drunk. Like John himself, all were wearing simple kilts, sandals, and redfish shirts or vests.
The days of elaborate stage outfits were long gone, along with stretch limousines and overworked roadies, Dom Perignon in chilled buckets and five-course catered meals, crystal punch bowls filled with cocaine, and contract riders that stipulated that five pounds of M & Ms had to be available, with all the red ones removed first. On the other hand, also missing were the usual backstage hangers-on: overdressed radio jocks with their flunky photographers, ready to accost you while a camera flashed in your face so that a self-serving picture could be published in the next issue of Billboard; studio reps hovering in the corridor, hand-grabbing and shoulder-hugging, trying to hustle another sleazy deal; fawning winners of local record-store contests with copies of your most hated album, babbling inanities while you tried to find your way to the lavatory; and, of course, the groupies with their mall hair and blowjob lips, eager to fuck a rock star so they could write it all down ten years later in their memoirs, or at least to make their regular boyfriends insanely jealous.
All things considered, John was only too happy to see all that posturing and pretense removed from the scene. What was left was the music, pure and simple, like a neglected rose garden that had been cleaned of broadleaf vine and chokeweeds. Some things, though, had remained much the same….
He passed through the green room and walked down the short, narrow corridor to the dressing rooms. Sid was hi his room, apparently passed out on a cot, his bass guitar propped against a wall. John stuck his head through
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the door, stuck his fingers between his lips, and whistled sharply.
“Wakey wakey, you killer junkie!” he shouted. “It’s showtime!”
Sid’s eyelids fluttered. “Fuck off, you fuckin’ ol’ hippie,” he muttered from the depths of his dreamgum hallucination, but John had already strode down the hall, passing a short side-corridor leading to the exit door. He heard voices down the hallway, but he didn’t pause to look. Probably the King, raising hell with someone else for some real or imagined transgression….
The door of Brian’s room was shut. John stopped and pressed his ear against the hollow-core panel; from within, he could hear faint gasps of pleasure amid the ruthless pounding of flesh against flesh. He grinned; Brian was getting his customary preshow lay. Different girl each night; all he had to do was scout the nearby audience camp until he found a bird who didn’t mind being fucked by the man who had taught Mick Jagger how to sing. If it weren’t for the fact that all Valleydwellers had been made sterile on Resurrection Day, Brian could have probably populated an entire village with his illegitimate offspring by now….
Enough was enough, though. Time to go to work. John took a deep breath, then reconsidered the urge to shout. Instead, he gently rapped his knuckles against the door, pinching his nostrils with the thumb and forefinger of his other hand. “Telegram for Mr. Jones!” he called in a nasal voice.
An exasperated sigh and a feminine giggle from the other side of the door. “Coming!” Brian called gaily.
“I’m certain you are,” John replied. “Five minutes.”
“See you in four and a half.” More muffled laughter.
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“Very good, sir.” John didn’t have to worry about Brian making it to the stage; it was always Sid who gave everyone trouble, Next, to find Keith; from farther down the hall, he could hear the hyperactive ratta-tap-tap of drumsticks against a piece of furniture. Keith was wired and ready to perform, as usual. Now, if only he hadn’t destroyed his dressing room again…