With doper’s logic, Anthony and I had become convinced that underneath the amphetamine whomp of guitars and the brittle vocal harmonies of the track, Gram was speaking to us directly, advising and watching over us as we took turns shooting up speed in our squalid little pad behind the flimsy door that read 305.
Flea, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as big a fan of the early country-rock sounds as Anthony and I were, preferring instead the punk rock drive of Minor Threat and their song “Straight Edge.”
But I’ve got better things to do
Than sit around and fuck my head
Flea’s obsession with that song and its message should have clued Anthony and me in to what would follow. One afternoon, Flea just spilled it. “I’m moving out,” he said.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Back home with my mom. It’s too much here. The drugs and everything. It’s all you guys do,” he said as he looked around at the squalor, the empty bottles, the mess. His mind was made up, and there was no need for discussion. He walked out and left Anthony and me there to stare at each other in stunned silence. We decided to get high. It was weird. Flea still hung out with us, and he and Anthony were still focused on the Chili Peppers, but Flea was clean and sober.
Their band was already generating excitement on the club scene, and I spent so much time with them, it was hard for me to not think of myself as part of the group. In the meantime, though, I made sure that I held on to my DJ jobs. Those were perfect gigs for someone like me. In the shape I was in, about the one thing I could do with any sort of skill was play records. Still, I started to form the idea that I could manage the Chili Peppers. In my mind, I was the fifth member of the band. I thought I was more a part of the band than was the drummer, Jack Irons. In retrospect, it may not have been the greatest or most accurate assessment of the situation. Worse, my sights weren’t set that high with regard to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. “You guys can be as big as the Cramps … or maybe even X!” went one of my managerial pep talks.
Anthony had bigger plans. For six months, he and I booked the band’s gigs. I’d go to the shows, hang out backstage, and feel like I was part of something. I was connected to the music in a way that my DJ jobs didn’t fulfill. I would constantly feed them ideas about music and introduce them to records by Bob Dylan and Hank Williams. Anthony may have had an innate understanding of show business and image—he was a handsome guy who knew how to be cool—but I knew about songs and songwriting, something neither he nor Flea had mastered yet.
One night, at one of their gigs, I noticed a twitchy, fast-talking guy who instantly reminded me of Paul Shaffer’s Artie Fufkin character from This Is Spinal Tap. He nosed around the band. I thought, Who the hell is this guy? I made a few inquiries and learned his name was Lindy Getz and he had credentials. Solid credentials. Getz had discovered Bachman-Turner Overdrive, the Ohio Players, and countless other big-league bands. Now he had his sights set on Anthony. “I want to manage you boys,” he said. My first thought was, This dude’s a fuckin’ tool. Why would Anthony even talk to a guy like that? I may have had some connections to get the band booked in the smaller clubs of L.A., but it was painfully obvious that, compared to someone like Lindy Getz, I lacked even the most basic skills and know-how for managing an act that was, by the week, becoming increasingly popular. I hung around and drank too much and did whatever drugs I could get my hands on. Getz was in as the band’s new manager and I was out.
I tried to find a role within the group as a sort of aide-decamp. Why not? The Clash had Kosmo Vinyl. The Chili Peppers had me. I gave them ideas. I introduced them to Funkadelic’s music. Because of my input, there’s a cover of Hank Williams’s “Why Don’t You Love Me” on their first record. The album’s closer, “Grand Pappy Du Plenty,” was based on my suggestion that they do an avant-garde instrumental. But with Lindy in as manager, my official title was changed to road manager. I didn’t like that role at all. It basically meant I was a glorified gofer. If someone in the band needed water, it was my job to see that it arrived, but I was usually too busy chatting up people around the band and partying. I was barely competent as a road manager, and it bugged me that I had been demoted even though, deep down, I knew that the Chili Peppers could do better than someone like me. My actual day-to-day life hadn’t really changed. I still hung out with Flea and Anthony, but I still felt diminished.
Anthony partied almost as hard as I did, but he was on his way to rock stardom, so he was forgiven. He was the front man and had the luxury of being a hard-core intravenous drug abuser. Within the band’s structure, I was expected to work and get things done. I could barely make sure their equipment got onstage. My poor managerial skills spilled over into our life at La Leyenda. I couldn’t even get the rent paid on time.
I stumbled home one night and Anthony confronted me. “We had a visitor today.”
“Really? Who came by?”
“Some rep for the building’s owner. Says you haven’t given him any rent money. Dude, I gave you some dough a few weeks ago.”
“Don’t worry, man. I’ll take care of it,” I said.
The money I had—including Anthony’s—I had spent on drugs and liquor.
