SLOOPY'S HOT
STUFF
It
was 1984. Orwell's book didn't come true;
for me, it was much worse. Flat broke,
living off one bowl of rice a day, nothing else (I'm not kidding), I decided to
call it quits for L.A.. The heavy metal
band I was in that was trying to get signed fell apart, I was facing having nowhere
to live, my car had been broken down for months (this means basically house arrest in Southern
California), and my mom had died on my birthday (heartbroken at the time, eventually
I realized what a good thing it was, as the woman made the lives of those around
her miserable. What a final "fuck
you"!). It was time to make some
money. I joined a booking agency, and
they got me a gig with a lounge/show band, Sloopy's Hot Stuff.
Three hundred bucks a week, including a hotel room and a meal, at that
time it looked like great thing. I showed
up across the country at a ski resort in Pennsylvania.
That should have tipped me off, they were booked at a ski resort in summer!
Sloopy's
Hot Stuff was fronted by none other than Sloopy. In the '60s she used to be a dancer in Paul Revere and the Raiders,
allegedly "Hang On Sloopy" was written about her. Most of her career she was a show dancer in
Las Vegas, but she was getting pretty old, so she got plastic boobs, a face lift,
and started this show band. We played
the top-40 shit of the time, Journey, Huey Lewis and the News, crap I really hated.
One of the sets every evening was the "show" set, doing classics
like, "New York, New York", and she'd do comedy skits with her husband,
Walt, the keyboard player. That was actually
kind of funny, but what was really embarassing was "Thriller", by Michael
Jackson. In the middle of the song, Walter's
keyboard would go on automatic, playing the tune, while the band put on halloween
masks and tried to "spook" the audience! One time during this, his synthesizer freaked
out and started playing all kinds of sounds. Very avant-garde!
More
humiliating than the music were the outfits we were forced to wear. They were this purple and silver leatherette
shit, the one I wore was an Indian get up; the bass player, Zinneman, a heavy
set black guy from Philly, had to wear a court jester-style outfit that was way
too tight on him. Off stage he was an
impeccable dresser, it made it all the more difficult for him. He was also a great musician. In my experience, anyone who can play well
is usually doing those kinds of gigs because financially they have their back
up against the wall. It was real money
compared to working at Tower Records for minimum wage. But basically I sold my soul for peanuts.
Worse to come were the new outfits Sloopy had lovingly tailored for the
band. Shiny turquoise leotards! Mine
had a tank top that was cut so low my nipples stuck out.
I
developed a drinking problem immediately. Me
and the drummer (who stayed on for a week so I could learn the parts), after spending
the whole night drinking on the gig, would get a fifth of Old Grand Dad and split
it, drinking well into the morning. This went on daily. One time I awoke to find that my head, from
the neck up, had fallen asleep! I was
yelling, crying, slapping my head! Eventually
the feeling came back.
Sloopy's
room was above mine in the hotel. One
night there was a party going on up there, which eventually turned into the sounds
of the whole room fucking, in unison! Okay,
in theory this sounds exciting, heck, I like to watch porno sometimes, but the
next morning I saw this group-sex crew hanging out by the pool; ugly, peanut-shaped,
cellulite ridden middle-aged couples! One
guy had such a big, pitted, red nose that you could have sliced it down and sold
it for lunchmeat!
I
was sending a lot of money home so I could move to New York eventually. With the help of booze I had been able to deal
with the situation, but soon I had to face the facts. We were in Bizmarck, North Dakota. During our
outings there people would stare at us and point. They didn't act prejudiced or unfriendly, I just think that many
of them had never seen a black person before.
Actually there was just one Chinese restaraunt in town, but it had amazing
food. Anyway, one afternoon Zinneman and
I started our binge at happy hour, 4pm sharp, with gin and tonics.
Many of them. I had a bottle of Beefeater in my room. Zin prudently took a nap, I continued imbibing.
During the show, I'd drink at the bar, go upstairs to hit the bottle, come
back down and play the set. By the end of the night I could barely play,
and after the last number I stumbled up
to Walt, slurring, apologizing, and saying I had to quit, I couldn't take it anymore.
So the next night I talked with them, I gave them sufficient notice, they
were good about it and we were all happy. After
all, they were decent people, I actually liked them.
Well,
decent to a certain extent. The next scene
was pretty indecent. My last show with
them was at the Holiday Inn in Greensburg, PA. Somehow while driving cross-country, Walt picked up this teenage
girl. They put her up in a trailer with
Zin and me. Not bad looking, she was definitely doable. Especially as during my tenure, the band only
attracted fat middle-aged married women. This
girl wasn't very smart, but it didn't matter. I hadn't had any action for longer than I care
to say. I was basically straightforward
in my intention for casual sex. She wasn't into it; turned out her new boyfriend was Walt, Sloopy's
husband.
The
next morning I awoke to find that Sloopy's poodles had been bathed in my shower,
dog hair being left everywhere. Again
turning to alcohol, heedless of fines that would be imposed on me if I pulled
another stunt like the one in Bismark, I drowned my frustration and disgust with
beer and a bottle of Mad Dog. Walt invited
the band to have dinner with him before the gig. After dinner, Walt stepped outside with me
as I attempted to walk back to the trailer. "Scott,
you should have some coffee and sober up, I don't want to have to fine you, man."
I didn't know what he was talking about, I was so wasted I thought we had
already played! I crashed for a couple
hours, sobered up well enough to get through the gig, but I wound up puking on
my drumset! Luckily it escaped Walt's
scruitiny, I wasn't fined.
Their
next show for them was in Cheyenne, Wyoming, and they basically had to drive straight
through, set up, and play. Fortunately
no one was hurt, but Sloopy fell asleep at the wheel and crashed the motor home
into a toll booth, totalling it. Good timing on my part!
Scott
Byrne