But that's life on the galactic rock 'n' roll circuit. Another world, another gig, another chance to duck when some punter whips out his blaster and yells, Yeeeeee-haaaaaaaaa!
And it's not like it was better on Earth. Well, it was better for the drummers, with the significantly lower gig-related mortality rate. But back there, crowds were either so jaded it was like playing to a hipster still life, or so chatty and oblivious we may as well have been in lunar orbit. Or worse, they were drunk and wanted to hear "Freebird." In space, no one wants to hear fucking "Freebird."
So being abducted by aliens worked out okay for me. You remember when NASA launched Voyager 1 and 2 into deep space in 1977? Those two spacecrafts each carried a gold record that was supposed to serve as a summary of life on Earth, and the record included "Johnny B. Goode." Rightly so. When extraterrestrials heard "Johnny B. Goode," they responded the only way intelligent life possibly could: We need more Chuck Berry! Rather than wait for a follow-up from NASA, the ETs dispatched their own scouts to scoop up Terran rock 'n' rollers and bring 'em to the stars.
Li'l ol' me was taken in '79. My band had just broken up, and the scouts beamed me up in mid bender. The alien probe was actually not unpleasant. It's been forty years, but I haven't aged much at all, thanks to the miracle of outer space livin'. Aside from the inherent danger when angry drunken aliens set their phasers on fricassee, me and my bandmates--a mix of Terrans of varying ancestry--are kept safe and comfortable. None of that To Serve Man bullshit; pretty much everyone in space is a friggin' vegan, believe it or not. We get an unlimited free bar tab, free room and board, all travel accommodations taken care of. We're our own roadies, but our gear is well-kept, and I got a Rickenbacker 12-string out of the deal. We want for nothing. All we have to do is play.
And we do. Rock 'n' roll's like a universal language, and the interstellar crowds can't get enough. They don't mind when we do originals, and they go nuts for the classics. No one wants to interrupt a Chuck Berry song with a raygun blast. We play The Kinks, The Isley Brothers, Crickets, Ramones, Miracles, Sam & Dave, Dusty Springfield, Otis, Aretha, Bay City Rollers, KISS, Beatles, Larry Williams, Sex Pistols, Little Richard, Sly Stone, Bowie, Flashcubes, Rick James, old stuff, new stuff, what have you. The fringe benefits are what you'd expect: adulation, and groupies. Man, the groupies! There was this particularly energetic shapeshifter on some planet I can't spell or pronounce, and our brief but intense time together was like being intimate with Bettie Page, Ronnie Spector, Ursula Andress, P. P. Arnold, Suzi Quatro, and Playboy's Miss February--all of the Misses February--in rapid succession. Also with Marie Antoinette and Cloris Leachman. Don't judge. And just imagine shakin' the sheets with an eager young lady from a planet where everyone has the ability to multiply themselves in triplicate--three girls for the price of one! I'm going to try to hook up again with her and the shapeshifter at the same time on some return engagement. Some day! Another girl, another planet.
We can go back to Earth if we want to. We were kidnapped originally, sure, but we're not prisoners, and we can retire from rock 'n' roll planet-hopping any time we wish. A few have gone home for visits, a few maybe even with an intent to stay there, but the allure of our unique lifestyle makes a mundane existence on the third rock from the sun seem unsatisfying. We hear about the good new rock 'n' roll back home--and there is still great new rock 'n' roll being made back home, no matter what any idiot tries to tell you otherwise--and we incorporate it into what we do out here. I haven't gone back, and haven't wanted to. By leaving Earth in '79, I spared myself from Reaganomics, "The Super Bowl Shuffle," reality television, talk radio, auto-tune, and The Bachelor, whatever the fuck that is. I've never had to live with the idea of something as stupid as a President Trump. Or kale.
Tonight's gig's been going well. Just one fight so far, and the drummer was only wounded; he's out for the night, but we'll get by with just two guitars and a bass if we gotta. Some Big Star, some Everly Brothers, Prince, Grip Weeds, Supremes, Pop Co-Op, Small Faces, and always, always some Chuck Berry. We're about midway through "Promised Land" when an asshole in the audience tries to interrupt us.
Freebird!
What the actual fuck...?!
Freebird! He yells it again. I squint and I see him: an Earthling, of course, drunk out of his motherlovin' gourd. Some folks can hold their Antarean ale, and some plainly can not. FREEBIRD! WOOOOO! I stop our set to talk directly to our obnoxious loudmouth.
"How we doin', m'man?" He grins the stupid grin of the easily flummoxed. "Enjoyin' the show?"
He bellows his approval, and demands "Freebird" one more time.
"How'd you like to be our drummer tonight?"
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| Art by Brian Butler |
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