Autumn Leaves and Dry Heaves: Chapter 6

A 'Comeback Tour' implies failure: it means that the performer - or performers - have screwed up, hit the wall, got creamed, and now are trying to reinvigorate a corpse like Dr Frankenstein touching those electrodes on the monster's neck.

Why do performers agree to comeback tours? Money, plain and simple - unless, of course, they're incredibly stupid and sincerely believe that dragging their fat asses onto a stage will somehow launch them onto a new plateau of popularity. It doesn't happen that way. Never did. But music isn't about money. And what really makes me puke are those performers who say 'I just love to entertain, and as long as the people want to see and hear me, you will find me on a stage'. There's a special place in hell for these people, sitting on Hitler's knee.

In1975 I was feeling pretty despondent. Everything was shit. The IRS was sleeping in my doorway; a woman I can't even remember was suing me for child support; I had narrowly escaped jail stemming from a destructive, drunken spree I went on with Oliver Reed and Keith Moon (during which we actually hijacked a city bus), and I was broke. So, when promoter Mickey Feldon asked me if I'd like to do a 'Comeback Tour', I heartily agreed - with the bile kicking against my throat.

Off I went, assembling a six-piece band - drums, bass, two electric guitars, keyboard, and a stunning backup singer named Lola something. Our first gig was in Buffalo - perhaps the worst excuse for a city this side of Gary, Indiana.

The 'It's All So Groovy' Tour was based on a faulty premise - and one that I don't understand - 'nostalgia'. I mean, it was 1975, the 60s were barely over, and the kids were into terrible, self-indulgent shit like Yes and Genesis. Anyway, it takes twenty years at least for people to get nostalgic about the previous generation. Nothing is like you think it was - and those who tell you different are either lying or they want something from you.

So Mickey Feldon convinced me that people were truly pining for the 60s, not the Woodstock 60s (a concert that I attended at the invitation of my friend, the gentle James Hendrix, whom I met in Toronto, in 1969, when we were both sharing the same lawyer - more on that later) but the lighter side of things. You see, there was a gang of us who didn't buy into the druggie, tie-dye, back-to-nature horseshit, but were still pretty cool cats. Yet we just didn't fit in. I mean, I can remember meeting Stephen Stills in Big Sur, and there I was standing in this beautiful, midnight-black tuxedo, and Stills is scratching his 10-inch mutton-chop sideburns, hauling on a reefer so huge that Bob Marley would have gagged. So East met West. North met South. Swinger met Hippy.

The funny thing about those people is that they loved me, whereas my contemporaries, like Bobby Darin and Paul Anka, made them hoarse with laughter. Neil Young told me that I represented the dark side of the American Dream; that my behavior cast me as some kind of romantic outsider. I told him to shut the fuck up because that definitely was not my bag baby. I represent entertainment. Plain and simple. No politics. No tricks. Just swing the thing. Anyway, Neil Young's voice truly irritates the piss out of me.

Back to the goddam nostalgia - I'm sorry, 'Comeback - tour. I didn't know what kinds of crowds we were going to get because my original fans were either dead, in prison, married with kids, or had acquired that generally stunned compliance that middle-aged people get who are too fat and too rich. On the other side, the young people liked volume and dry ice - and I hate that shit unless there's a commercial opportunity, which there was but I just didn't recognize it.

So we had a play list of about twenty songs or more. That first night in Buffalo we got about four thousand people. I remember looking out at the crowd and sensing something was wrong: they were mostly very neat, trim and well behaved young people - the kind that willing attend religious events when they should be out shotgunning Buds and brake-burning in cars. But there they were, all sitting quietly in the chairs, wearing white shirts and wearing those Styrofoam 'political convention' hats.

I turned to Mickey and said, 'What gives? This is creeping me out man.' He said that most of the people were some kind of campus politicians; that they were in town for a Republican convention the next day. Brother, my heart sank. I hate politics and politicians. Seriously ask yourself what kind of scumbag wants to go into politics? The answers aren't pleasant. I knew Richard Nixon on a first name basis - and although I think he got a bum rap from the hysterical East Coast press, he was still one dark son of a bitch.

On we went and kicked into something like 'Shakin' All Over' - and the kids were immediately on their feet, clapping, laughing, holding hands! I felt sick. I felt cheated. It happened too fast. A performer wants to feel foreplay. I compare it to telling sophisticated jokes to a bunch of pre-schoolers and having them laugh riotously in all the wrong places. These people were too fucking stupid to appreciate rock and roll. They were spoiled rich white kids from uptight, nervous families. Still, they had paid me to perform, so perform I did.

It was time to set the vibe and jabber a little. "Hey everybody," I said, "I hear that Nixon and Ted Kennedy are setting up a law practice together. It's going to be called Dickem and Dunkem." The place went real quiet. Maybe they hadn't heard me - because the sound was bad in that place. Maybe they were too stupid to realize the bleak gig that Teddy had swinging with babes at Chappaquiddick. "No seriously," I continued, unwittingly committing public suicide, "Why did the post office have to cancel the Richard Nixon postage stamp? Because people kept spitting on the wrong side!" Baby, it was so freakin silent you could hear a mouse fart. I looked over at my guitarist and his face expressed a combination of terror and great humility.

Then I heard Mickey Feldon hissing at me from the wings, "They're all Republicans! Young Republicans!" So what the hell did that mean? They were young so they hated Nixon. Right?

The next thing I know one of those styrofoam hats boinks me on the face - and I just went apeshit. "You little fucking pinhead!" I screamed. "What weasel-sucking chunk of dung did that!" Then I see this huge bastard approach the stage. He looked like Moose from the Archie comics. "Me," he said, "I threw it because you're Un-American. You are what makes this country dangerous." And he started to climb the stage. I didn't want this creature to even get near my extremely expensive tuxedo, so I swung the mike stand into his big, dumb face and he howled with pain, blood pouring from his nose. Then I floated his scrotum over my kneecap and he slumped to the floor. Hello Altamont.

Next thing I know, all of these deviants are throwing shit on the stage - chairs, plates, cola cans - anything they could touch. The band was racing from the stage and I noticed my drummer kind of stumbling blindly, doubled-over, holding his crotch. I learned later that one of the chairs had nailed him right on the jewels.

Anyway, somehow we made it to a car and an airport. It wasn't until I was safely ensconced in my room at the Aladdin, back in Vegas, that I could really savour a drink.

Mickey Feldon was so stressed by the incident that he had some kind of minor stroke, which was good because he eventually became so demoralized with the entertainment racket that he dropped his lawsuit against me. So much for that comeback/nostalgia tour of 1975.

What did I learn? Only that there's one thing I hate more than politicians, and that's people who like politicians - especially young people.

For about the next two years I just drifted. I didn't like the music of the time, shit like Debby Boone and Leo Sayer. I mean, who the hell were these people? Did they have any integrity? Were they even musicians? Listen, people dump on disco, saying it's crap - but at least it squashed people like Debby Boone into a thin red jelly.

Promoters would call me up and say, 'How about a one-week gig in Frisco?"' or 'Bobby Vinton is looking for an opening act', but I'd lost my mojo. That little kid who had sang for Jack Benny, who practically invented rock and roll, who had fronted the Beatles, who had partied with JFK - well, that little boy was starting to feel his age.

I lived for a while at the Chelsea Hotel in New York City - not because it was this glamorous place to go if you were a musician - but because I knew the night manager, and he cut me a deal on the room rate.

But then, on a chance encounter, I began to find my feet again.

One late evening I was sitting hung over in the Chelsea lobby, down to my last ten dollars, and this really tall, skinny kid sat down beside me. He started squinting at me, and then asked if I'm Dusty Carr. He told me that his name was Joey and that he was in a band called The Ramones. I said, so what? Everybody in the Chelsea lobby was in a rock band. Then he told me that I was a hero to his friends because of my lifestyle. That was an insult, like saying to a guy that you like the color of his car but the engine is shit. I told him to piss off because I didn't want to be celebrated due to my 'lifestyle'. But this guy just kept talking and laughing and finally invited me to a Ramone's gig at the club CBGB the following evening.

Normally I wouldn't have gone because all of those young kids would have me pegged as an undercover narcotics officer and puked on me. But there was something about Joey - I don't know what because he looked very creepy - that made me go. Plus I knew the owner of that place, Hilly Kristal.

So the next night there I was among a large pack of smelly, seedy people. Joey saw me and pulled me into a backroom that was packed with even more seedy people - so-called musicians. I noticed that when I walked into that room, everyone sort of grew quiet and just stared at me. I figured they were going to smack me up and mug me, so I said, 'Sorry kiddies to crash your Halloween party, but I've only got five dollars on me and I'm hanging on to it with a fist tighter than a camel's asshole in a sandstorm." Then this guy who introduced himself as Richard Hell, said, "Holy shit! You're Dusty Carr! The King has arrived everybody!" And all these people started cheering and spraying beer in the air. I couldn't figure it out. People were hugging me and sticking cigarettes in my mouth and drinks in my hands. And they didn't want anything from me - they just wanted me to hang around. So I did.

At one point that evening I was leaning against a wall - actually the wall was supporting me - and two guys walked over and began jabbering to me about my music from the fifties and sixties and how it made them want to be musicians. They asked if I had ever heard of a band called 'The Velvet Underground' and I said no. One guy said he was John Cale and other said he was Lou Reed - but it meant nothing to me. (I know now that those dudes are famous, but when you've met as many famous people as I have, the appeal wears off). Then they introduced me to their friend, a woman named Nico. We looked at each other for a moment, and at the same time said 'I know you' - except Nico said it in a heavy German accent. And I really did know her, rather well.

You see, I had met her back in 1960 in Rome. I had been hired by the Italian filmmaker Frederico Fellini to 'consult' on a project of his called 'La Dolce Vita' - which was about a kind of smartass dude who wanders around Rome at night. Anyway, this Nico had a part in the film. Her name was Christa Paffgen back then and she was a real beauty - spooky, but a lot of Germans are spooky.

So there I was, almost twenty years later, in some scuzzy New York nightclub, cranked on JD and talking with the beautiful spooky Nico. That's what great about life: it's as if some demented angel is making all these plans for you.

For about the next six months I just hung out with these people - and received free booze, drugs and sex. I was in heaven. And strangely enough, I got to like the music. I recall seeing bands like Television, Mink de Ville, The Shirts, The Marbles, The Mumps, The Planets, Tuff Darts, The New Harlots, The Fast, The Demons… and on and on. It was like I was being reborn against my will. Everything was sped up because the drugs of choice were all uppers of some kind - long gone were the peaceful, kickback lazy days of the sixties. I also noticed that the people who defined themselves as 'New Wave' were a lot better looking than the bottom-feeders who said they were 'Punks'. And this was especially true of the New Wave women - like Debby Harry - who kept following me around, begging me to write songs for her group Blondie.

Everything was going well. For once I wasn't thinking about dumb-ass stuff like my career. I didn't care anymore. I realize now that I was just stumbling through a yearlong binge but didn't know it. It took the death of a drinking pal to jolt me back into reality.

Early one morning - or possibly late afternoon - in September of 1978, I got a call from a former bandmate in London telling me that Keith Moon had died. I just put down the phone and stared out the window. Moon the Loon had always seemed indestructible. Besides Oliver Reed and possibly Richard Harris, Keith is the only man I've ever known who could match me drink for drink.

I suddenly felt that I'd been wasting my time with a pack of poorly dressed geeks who had adopted me as some kind of figurehead. They were draining me. I felt weak and tired. It had to stop or I was going to end up on the celebrity trash heap like so many others before me.

Right then and there I called Mickey Feldon and said, "Get me a gig, I don't care what it is, but I have to work. Now!"

Well, I didn't expect he'd put me on a fucking Monkees tour; perhaps it was revenge for the young Republican thing.

Anyway, there I was, opening for a bunch of aging TV stars. It was pitiful. The guy that really bugged my ass was Mickey Dolenz. I mean, he considered himself to be a serious artist, when really he was just an incredibly lucky zipperhead. I'd watch him backstage doing vocal exercises or meditation - and I just wanted to smack his dumb Monkee face. The other two, Davy Jones and Peter Tork, were okay. They knew it was simply a goofy gig that would dump some green into their bank accounts.

After the third date on the tour, things took a turn for the worse. We were staying at the Grand Bay Hotel in Miami, just sitting around someone's room, and drinking. My first mistake was to get loaded on cocktails: never ever juice-up on cocktails, because with all that limejuice and other shit, you can't pace yourself for a good two or three day spree. But I didn't heed my own good judgement and kept inhaling margaritas.

The Monkees began talking about their careers, about how they were going to cut some new material and make a comeback. I listened to this crap for a while. It was unbelievable. (It was like the time I listened to William Shatner go on about a major motion picture he was going to write, produce, direct and star in - that would smash box office records - "Bigger than Star Wars!" he had roared). Then Davy began looking into a mirror, singing 'Daydream Believer', trying to look cuddly and cute through his bags of wrinkles. O sweet Jesus have mercy! I just snapped.

I don't know what happened next, but I remember Peter Tork racing around the room screaming with half his bottom lip torn off. I can vaguely recall smashing a desk drawer across Mickey Dolenz's spine and then driving my elbow into Davy Jones' throat. The next I knew, some hotel security dudes were holding me down and I was yelling that the goddam Monkees had attacked me, not the other way around.

Anyway, as they dragged me out of the room, I looked over at Dolenz. He had bundled himself on the floor in a fetal postion, and was rocking back and forth, whimpering like a baby: I tried to give him a head-butt but somebody punched me in the neck.

Well, that ended the tour because everyone decided the Monkees looked too terrible to perform, especially with Tork's Frankenstein lip hanging out with black stitches.

It didn't matter to me. I pocketed my bread for the three shows, picked up my suit from the hotel dry cleaners, and hopped a plane to Los Angeles. It was 1979 and I was about to catch a Saturday night fever. Hey Hefner, save me a spot in the grotto!

Dear reader, I cordially invite you to a very intense party.

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