“Man, you’re supposed to be taking care of this stuff,” said Anthony.
“Hey, they can’t get in. We’re the only ones who have keys. I’ll give ’em some money as soon as I can.”
Anthony sighed.
It worked for nearly four months—until I came home one day and saw a red “pay or quit” notice tacked to the door.
“Did you see the sign?” asked Anthony, who had wised up and stopped me giving me rent money that he knew would not go to the landlord.
“I’ll handle it,” I said. The next morning, I woke to the sound of drills and hammers just in time to see a work crew remove the door and walk off with it.
“Okay, now what?” asked Anthony.
I grabbed some old bedsheets and tacked them to the door frame. “There you go,” I said. Anthony looked unsure. “What?” I said. “It’s not like we have anything anyone would want to steal.”
It was obvious the whole road manager thing wouldn’t work out when we went on the first tour. To the band’s credit, they gave me a shot, but I blew it. Hotel bookings, sound checks, equipment logistics—the tour was in a constant state of chaos because I was drunk and high all the time and not doing my job. I was a stumbling wreck who couldn’t get anything done. The band hired a guy named Ben Marks to replace me when we had barely gotten out of Los Angeles.
“Look, Bob,” said Anthony. “We’re bringing in this guy to be the road manager.”
“But I’m the road manager.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” said Anthony. “We need someone who’s professional.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?”
I was demoted to roadie. I didn’t do any better in that position. Ever moved equipment? It’s hard work and it’s boring. After the show, when the band got to party, I was supposed to break down the stage and load the equipment for the next gig. Instead, I’d sneak off to get high or hang out in a bar. I knew it was starting to piss off Anthony.
I was dead weight. By the time we got to New York, I was fired. “Bob, you’re not doing anything,” said Anthony. “Why should we keep you on the payroll?” I didn’t have an answer for that. We were at the same hotel where the Replacements had rooms. Chili Peppers fired me? I thought. Fuck it. I’ll just go to work for the Replacements. I approached Paul Westerberg. He was a great guy, witty, funny—and he liked to drink as much as I did. We got into a serious drinking bout and bitched about life on the road, tours, and hotels. I brought up the subject. “So, you know I’m not with the Chili Peppers crew anymore,” I said.
“That’s too bad, man,” he said. He sensed where I was going with this conversation and cut me off. “It’s a real shame … but you can’t come with us.”
He was right. It never would have worked. I was a terrible roadie. I was the worst drunk and drug addict out of that whole crew, and that included the musicians. When Paul Westerberg—a man who could consume absolutely superhuman amounts of alcohol—thinks you’re an out-of-control drunk, you’d better believe that you’ve made an impression.
And so I was cut loose in New York like some sad, drunken hobo. I told myself I didn’t really care, but the truth was that I was scared and a little resentful that my friends were on their way to rock music stardom and I wasn’t. I felt left behind. Within a year of being with the Chili Peppers, I had gone from band manager to road manager to roadie to fired. It was not a good career trajectory. With some money in my pockets, I drifted around Times Square for a week before I headed to Boston for an aimless seven days. I stayed drunk. Eventually, though, it was time to come home to L.A. I had no idea what waited just around the corner for me.
A MONSTER COMES TO LIFE
Back home in Los Angeles, after my failure as part of the Chili Peppers crew, I didn’t know who I was supposed to be or what I should do. Anthony and I had ditched the La Leyenda with back rent owed. He found new quarters and I stayed where I could, but we were okay with each other. In May of 1984 Flea and Anthony invited me to go along with them to see Van Halen play a three-night run at the San Diego Sports Arena, and I jumped at the chance. For one thing, it was a solid conformation that we were still friends after the debacle of my time on the road with them.
We drove down the 5 freeway from Los Angeles, a long, traffic-choked slog through the city and its outer suburbs that didn’t lighten up until we hit the coast and saw the vast shimmer of the Pacific Ocean to our right and the buff-colored hills of Camp Pendleton to our left. I sat in the backseat with a bottle of vodka, a bag of coke, and a couple balloons of heroin. It was a long time to be cooped up in a car, and I was wrecked before we reached Orange County. To amuse myself, I sang. I didn’t think Anthony and Flea could hear me, but they interrupted me midchorus.
“What song is that, dude?” Anthony asked.
“It’s just a song. It doesn’t have a name.”
“It’s good,” said Flea. “And you can actually carry a tune.”
It was a nice compliment and it felt good. In the back of my head, I had always thought about being in a band, but a singer? I
