In the beginning God created bands and the audience. And the bands were without talent, and instruments; and darkness was upon the face of the industry. And the manager of God moved upon the face of the crowd. And God said, Let there be rock: and there was rock.
Every office needs one. An employee with fans in the workplace. Groupies, as it were. You’re a wily, grizzled vet of the Headbanger Wars (I & II) to show the young ‘uns how we once relied on fax machines to do our dirty work in the good ol’ days of telecommunication. For the average employee, making photocopies of anything is a mindless task unworthy of a true intellectual. But for you, it recalls warm memories of posting flyers for your ‘73 show at Watkins Glen. Up in the Finger Lakes region, you shared the bill with some of the era’s most legendary acts. Just as your hands were reaching maximal cramping, Butch Trucks handed you a staple gun to finish the job. That changed your life, right then and there. No more hammers, no more nails, no more wrist surgery.
There are moments when the account team discusses the design of a print ad or digital banner without understanding your history with artwork. You were in the same room with Tom Wilkes and Storm Thorgerson, when that still meant something. When someone says, “it was a real difficult shoot,” they have no idea that you once put your head into the open mouth of a crocodile for an album cover. Croc & Roll sold well, yes, but you still could’ve been seriously injured. They don’t get that. When Rolling Stone is mentioned as a suitable location for the ad buy, you scoff, since they never once put you on the cover. Gatekeeping rag, you mutter.
When your boss expects you to stay put and grow into an agency leader, they’re ignoring your backstory. How did they think you ended up here anyway? You were in three different bands by the time you turned 22. The Benzedrine Boys, The Royal Saint Bernards and The Hopeless Grifters. You’re not in it for the long haul. There was no HR department at Altamont, okay?
When some intern asks you if you have a frequent flyer number they could use for an upcoming trip, you inform them, in no uncertain terms, that you’ve never willingly flown commercial. You had a bus with your likeness painted across the side that crisscrossed America during the Reagan years.
When a creative director says this project might not suit you because it requires a more sensitive voice, you’re mystified. Do they really not know that your first solo album was a significant departure artistically? You showed real range and courage by releasing, Blue Dancer, which comprised of twelve somber piano ballads. While it’s true that your next album, Stephen Foster Rides Again, was a death metal interpretation of the iconic 19th century songwriter. That said, your version of “Beautiful Dreamer” really rocks.
When writing a commercial with your partner, they make the mistake of talking about art and advertising. You’re not having any of it. You were taking bong rips in a drum circle when Robert Hunter wrote "Box of Rain" for Phil Lesh. They couldn’t get the last word though. It was going to be called “Bag of Rain” if you hadn’t intervened. Thankfully, you did.
When some vendor lectures you about the environment and how big corporations should lead the way forward, you inform them that you used enough hair spray in the 1980s to have your own personal hole in the ozone layer.
When a colleague starts a brainstorm with the line, “I know this is a bad idea, but…” you interrupt them and say that they don’t know what a bad idea is. How you once jumped out of an airplane hanging onto a drum kit for a music video when music videos meant something. If it matters, the song was called “Terminal Velocity.” Yeah, you could’ve been killed. But that’s rock and roll.
When someone on the experiential team mentions the use of AR or VR, you roll your eyes. You're an authority in reality, having pushed it to the limit many times before. You were a bona fide space cowboy back in the day, taking routine inter-dimensional trips with the help of a few mushrooms. And they weren't chanterelles.
When an account executive asks you what you want for lunch, you say, “I survived on ramen, whiskey and cocaine for years, why don’t you make the call?” And when finance questions your expenses on a recent business trip, you explain that between December 1975 and August 1976, you lived at the Chateau Marmont. So you’re not staying in a Best Western just to make some pencil pusher’s job easier. You’ve gone bankrupt before and you’ll go bankrupt again.
When going over roles for a big client presentation, you make it clear to everyone in the room that you are not speaking first. You say how you once opened for Ratt at your lowest ebb, deep in the throes of drug addiction, and the boos were so loud they rang in your ears for days. And on clear, lonely nights, you can sometimes still hear them.
When someone says they don’t remember what the original timeline for the project was, you say, without skipping a beat, that if you think that’s bad, well, “I don’t remember 1979.”
And when a team retreat is proposed with meditation, hiking and yoga as a time to go offline for a while, you politely nod. Hell, yoga practically saved your life.
You’re a Rockstar.
No comments:
Post a Comment