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Bruce Dickinson
The Grifters
Pearl Jam
Van Halen

BRUCE DICKINSON/PULLER
House of Blues, 9/16 Chicago
by Joey Germ

Published in RW#10, 1998

Now and then the phone will ring here at the office and sometimes, when it's not a bill collector or a telemarketer or Muggsy McMurphy's old lady calling in sick for him, it'll be someone from a record label wanting to know if anybody around here is interested in reviewing any of their bands' shows when they're in town. These bands seem to play mostly at places like the Dome Room. Due to a general lack of interest among the staff and the mediocrity of the bands themselves, we usually decline such invitations. That was until I got invited to see Bruce Dickinson at the House of Blues.

I had kind of unofficially vowed never to set foot in the H.O.B. Sure, I had heard the rumors of its intimate atmosphere which provided for an excellent place to see live music: small, yet big, best sound system money can be thrown at, etc, etc., but somehow the whole thing just smacked of a corporate motif—the whole House of Blues concept just reeked of money and drunk, white businessmen. But this is Bruce "Run to the Hills" Dickinson we're talkin' about here, former singer for the Heavy Metal Rock Outfit, Iron Maiden. If ever I had to make an exception to a self-imposed rule this was the time. I had driven three hours in a Duster (or was it a Chevy Nova?) to see Iron Maiden back in '88 when Seventh Son of a Seventh Son hit the bins and I'll be damned if I couldn't spend twenty minutes on the Clark Street bus to see what Bruce was passing off as spectacle these days. I thought maybe, at the very least, Eddie would make an appearance. You remember Eddie? The skeleton guy, two hundred foot party dude that would rise from the back of the stage of Iron Maiden shows and mechanically grab shit and look scary but really fuckin' cool and was on all of Maiden's album covers...yeah, you know who I'm talkin' about, fuckin' Eddie! Besides, there was one sad and lost kid kickin' around the Wiglar offices who hadn't had his head banged in quite a long while. I invited Malcolm Tent to go with me.

The House of Blues lived up to my expectations, with its closed circuit TVs, yuppie bar, suit-and-tie contrived atmosphere, dozens of emotionless employee work drones–to say that these people were friendly and helpful would be absolutely ridiculous. I will cut 'em some slack though, a Bruce Dickinson crowd can get pretty ugly–hell, they come in ugly.

I tried to tell several different employees, who looked like they held some office of authority, if even just a little bit, that I was on the guest list. They suppressed interest and each one pointed in the direction of another employee I could ask. I saw a guy sitting behind a podium and figured, fuck it, this guy gets to sit behind a podium he's got to know something. There's got to be some kind of responsibility that goes with that seat. Nope.

After wandering around like an idiot for several minutes, I found the "will call" window and shouted over the sound of Bruce to the woman inside. "I think I'm on the guest list for tonight's show," Well, I'll spare you a transcript of the various pleasantries that ensued, but to make a long, nightmarish story short; not only was I not on the guest list for the show, there was no guest list for the show. Did I make a scene? Hell no. Out of respect for Bruce, I accepted the situation immediately and quickly focused my thoughts on what to do in regards to the "Malcolm Situation." I knew that upon hearing this tragic news Malcolm would go apeshit.

I saw the poor guy standing over at the far corner of the lobby hypnotized by a closed circuit TV monitor, staring with mouth open wide. Bruce was there on the screen "workin' it" in a significantly smaller space than he had enjoyed back in the arena days of the 80s. There was no room for light gymnastics or fencing parleys in this House of Blues.

Malcolm's eyes were glazed, and not from that fat doobie he took down on the walk from the bus in ritualistic preparation for the evening's main course, he was in awe.

"When can we go upstairs?" he whispered loudly, never blinking or removing his eyes from tiny Bruce on the television screen.

"In a minute, buddy, I just gotta use the can, then we'll go up and watch Bruce kick some ass. Okay, pal?"

"Okay, dude," was his reply. "Oh and dude, thanks for inviting me. This rocks."

"No problem, dude."

Five minutes later I was on a northbound Clark 22 and twenty minutes after that I was putting down a pitcher of Bud Light in some bar off Belmont feeling guilty for the smile that crept to my face when I thought about what kind of scene Malcolm was creating for House of Blues Security at that very moment. It's sad though when you think about it, but what are you gonna do? Fuck the House of Blues, anyway.

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THE PEARL SCAM!
By Travis Fickle

Published in RW#11, 1998

We thought we had a chance at a break here at Wiglar HQ. We thought we were being thrown a bone in the form of a chance to cover Pearl Jam's tour opening show at the Cultural Center in Kahului on the beautiful Hawaiian island of Maui. We thought that a little more mainstream material in the Wiglar might attract more readers and subsequently more advertising dollars and before you know it we'd have a slick cover and full page ads for liquor every other turn.

As luck would have it, when you cast your lot with degenerates and deadbeats you reap a bitter, bitter harvest. Such is our fate. At any rate, for the sake of filling up space, here's what we could salvage from Island Correspondent, Travis Fickle's otherwise worthless account of the Pearl Jam show. Mahalo, ya'll

The phone woke me up at 3PM. I like to pick it up and just listen sometimes. I heard a familiar voice, "Hello?"

It was Muggsy. Shit.

"Listen, man!" I screamed into the receiver. "The last time I saw your Mom I handed her five bucks and stuck her in a cab! That was two weeks ago! I don't know where she is!"

"Shut up and listen," Muggsy hissed back. "This is serious." He sounded serious. "We just had a meeting and decided that we're taking the Reglar Wiglar legit. That whole sweepstakes thing was a farce. They're fucking with my mind, man. the Wiglar needs money pronto and Auman wants me to get it for him. I'm calling in my favor."

"What favor?" I asked.

"Remember...the public urination incident? Who bailed your ass out?"

"Hey, I got dirt on you too, Muggsy, if you wanna play hardball."

"There's no time for that. I need you to fly over to Maui and cover the Pearl Jam concert for the next issue. You gotta do a real mainstream fluff piece, know what I'm sayin'? We've had it over here. We need money. We're sellin' out."

It was useless to try to argue with Muggsy. I could tell from his voice that he'd been drinking.

"Oh well, I guess I could go. There'll be girls there, right?

"Hell yeah! The real young chicks eat that Pearl Jam shit up. Tell 'em you're a rock journalist, that you write for Rolling Stone."

I had to admit, it was a tempting offer. As long as they sold beer at the show I could probably make it through at least half the set.

"Alright, but you're going to owe me one Muggsy and I plan to collect, know what I mean?"

So there I was flying from Oahu to Maui with a bunch of college kids wondering how I had gotten myself into this mess. I decided to turn on the ol' tape recorder and ask the girl sitting next to me a couple of questions.

RW: So are you flying over for the Pearl Jam show?

Girl: Oh yeah, they're great. Eddie Vedder is a modern day prophet.

RW: Yeah, whatever. Say you got a boyfriend?

Girl: Yeah, he's staying on Oahu though, something about a parole violation.

RW: Sure, that's great. Do you like writers?

Girl: I guess.

RW: Well, I'm writing a story for Rolling Stone magazine, that's a big magazine you know? Maybe you've heard of it.

Girl: Wow, have you ever met Noel from Oasis? I bet he's a real nice person.

RW: He sure is! I got his phone number around here somewhere. Hmmm, where did I put that number? It must be in my baggage. What hotel are you staying at?

Girl: I'm not sure, the Humahumalikilikei or something like that.

RW: No shit! I mean, what a coincidence, me too! Perhaps we could take a swim together after the show?

Girl: I don't know...

RW: I could get you Noel's number.

Girl: Cool!

(That's Journalist Perk #1)

I was in like Flynn. She'd see me with those press credentials hanging around my neck and forget all about her boyfriend, the felon, back in Oahu.

After the landing on Maui and stopping briefly to pull a baggie out of my underwear, I set off to pick up Journalist Perk #2; the rental car, the first thing you want to do is ascertain its turning radius. This is a must in the interest of safety. I immediately tested my ditchweed-green Geo Metro by doing 180s in front of a van-load of Japanese tourists. I bet they'll be sitting in their bonzai trees for years to come telling their grand kids about the show I put on for 'em.

Back at the motel, I got into my rock journalist duds; khaki pants, a faded Flipper t-shirt and a pair of Airwalks, grabbed my tape recorder and hit the scene.

When I got to the will call office, I told the lady, "I'm here to cover the concert for the Reglar Wiglar. There should be a press pass for me somewhere back there."

The will call lady left the window for a minute and returned flanked by two large Samoan gentlemen. She said she was sorry but, "you are not on the guest list and no one in the back has ever heard of Reglar Wiggle."

Damnit Muggsy! I should have known. Seeing as how I was outnumbered I causally walked away and began loitering near the gate waiting for my big chance. As a flock of kids with piercings stuck in every orifice of their bodies, neared the gate I knew this was it. While security helped the youngsters remove their jewelry (for their own safety) I made my move.

I ran through the gate, head down, knees up, not looking back. I shot through the crowd and dove to the grass behind a group of fat hippies who were busy arguing about whether or not Pearl Jam would play "Jeremy". Somehow I had managed to elude the venue's elite security force.

The lights dimmed, the band started and I thought this would be a good time to smoke some Hawaiian Crippler. Fuck Pearl Jam. Who does Eddie Vedder think he is anyway?

By the end of the first song, I knew I had to drink more. After hanging around the beer stand for most of the show I decided to do a few interviews.

(Editors note: The tape turned into our office was a barely coherent. We have sent the tape to a forensic lab in the area for a translation but we're still waiting to hear from them. The following dialogue cannot be verified and frankly we don't believe a word of it.)

The following interview took place between yours truly and a group of teenage girls.

RW: So where you gals from?

Girl1: We flew in from Seattle.

RW: Just to see Pearl Jam?

Girl2: Sure, we're huge fans. Who did you say you write for?

RW: I don't have to listen to some thirteen-year-old give me the third degree, all right?

Girl2: I'm fifteen.

RW: Whatever, just tell me, does watching Eddie strut around up there on stage in leather pants get you girls all hot and bothered?

I think that's when one of them accidentally spilled a coke in my face. The whole incident is a little hazy and the interview ended abruptly after that.

Undaunted and determined to get a good article, I tried again. I decided to try speaking to the lonely-looking girl standing by herself.

RW: So how are you enjoying the show?

Lonely Girl: Oh, it's so spiritual, when they played "Even Flow". I almost died.

RW: Yeah, me too, that song really says something.

Lonely Girl: Really? A lot of guys don't get Eddie's lyrics. They think he's just some megalomaniac.

RW: Hold on, could you spell that for me?

Lonely Girl: M-E-G-

RW: Forget it, I'll look it up. So let me ask you, when you hear such a great band rock out like that does it liberate you.

Lonely Girl: Oh my God, it sure does.

RW: Glad to hear it. What do you say we finish this interview over breakfast?

Once again I ended up with my drink accidentally spilled on me. These girls sure are clumsy. It must be because they were in the presence of such a big shot journalist.

Somehow I managed to stumble back to my hotel (or maybe I drove, beats the hell out of me). Later lounging by the pool with a bottle of bourbon between my legs, I spot the girl from the plane. I yelled something, I'm not sure what, and get this–she pretends she doesn't know me. Maybe it was because I had lost my shirt and one of my shoes in the liquor store after the show. Maybe it was because she knew deep down that I was too much man for her, you know what I mean.

Whatever the reason, I ended up alone, passed out with my head in my room and my legs in the hallway, a "Do Not Disturb" sign stuck to my face (glued there by a coating of vomit) and the room key in my underwear. I figured it was better to just leave the hotel via the back exit, by hopping over a wall onto the parking lot, I returned the rental car (Muggsy, expect a bill, buddy) and after making a dash through the Maui airport, Indo in my pocket and smelling like a brewery, I hoped on a plane back to Oahu. All the while trying to forget the horrible experience.

Well there you have it folks, that's as close as were every gonna come to a legitimate piece of music journalism.

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VAN FRICKIN' HALEN
Blaisdale Auditorium, Honolulu, Hawaii, Fall 1993...we think
By Travis Fickle

Published in RW#12, 1999

"It's Van Halen, dude!" Malcolm was practically foaming at the mouth. I knew it was important, after all, he was calling before noon.

"Come on, Malcolm," I screamed at him. "You and I both know how these things go. I show up, there's no ticket for me, I get pissed, pissed drunk and usually end up pissing somewhere I'm not supposed to. Forget it!"

"Dude, you think you can play guitar? You ain't shit! Eddie Van Halen, now that's guys got licks that'll blow your mind. He can make that guitar sound like a pig with a drumstick up its ass. Maybe you'll learn something."

Jesus, he sounded positively rabid. Sometimes it's just better to play along with the guy.

"Okay, I guess I could go." After all, there's all sorts of ladies at a Van Halen concert, right? Those guys are like magnets for nasty girls with troubled childhoods. "I'll do it."

It seemed easy enough: get drunk, take in a few pedantic guitar solos, check out what the new singer looks like (I got Malcolm to give me odds he'd be wearing something with fringe) and write up a fluff piece such as, "Like Vikings making landfall at Greenland, Van Halen takes the stage to the God-like thunder of an arena full of white trash losers hopped up on gold paint and roofies." You know, that kind of thing. Bo,y was I wrong.

First of all, the lighting is all wrong in the front of the arena. Everybody has this really metallic sheen about them. they all have the complexion of the 7-11 clerk who rings you up for smokes just as you happen to be peaking on three hits of Orange Sunshine. The place was like a time capsule. If you were at your hippest when "Hot for Teacher" was ruining young kid's minds everywhere, then you were at this show wearing your original Members Only jacket. And there were mullets! My god were there mullets–the permed, short in front, long in the back, good old fashioned mullet. There were the tight corduroy pants, the Marlboro reds in a box, you know the type.

I make my way to will call, doing my best not to make eye contact with anyone. Most of the guys here look like paroled felons. I knew when I saw the magnitude of the event that the Reglar Wiglar was a bit outgunned. After all there were guys in Italian suites with blonds on each arm waiting at will call.

"I should be on the list..."

"Hold on a second. Who sent you? I mean, who got you on the list?"

Time to make a plausible sounding name, "Mr. Goldberg or Goldman...or Goldstein? I can't remember."

"You're not on the list. Here's what you can do though. Take a walk around the arena to the very back, ask to talk to the stage manager and tell him your name. Maybe he can help you."

I just wanted to get out of there. The mescaline was starting to kick in and I was beginning to get really self-conscious. It seemed like everybody was staring. I couldn't really tell if I was walking right, my legs were starting to feel like stilts, the ground was looking farther and farther away, and it was pulsating with cigarette butts and chewed gum. At this point I can feel the rotation of the earth and I don't like it.

I finally get around to the very back. An alley leads towards the arena to my right. It gets even darker that way. I walk around a collection of dumpsters towards a fence. A few feet down I realize it's just a dead end.

The bastards! They were just toying with me.

Down but not out. I formulate a plan. There's a pond with huge goldfish in it between me and the arena garden. I slip over the rail into the water like a Navy Seal and approach by sea. I get close to the other side and turn on the bullshit.

"Who the fuck pushed me? Alan, was that you? You fucking asshole, don't run away from me. I'll get you."

Before I know it, security is pulling me out of the pond. "I have a ticket...oh shit, it must have fallen into the water. I'm not going back in there, there's all kinds of diseases and germs in there."

But they're still grabbing me, holding me tightly by the arm. They're not buying it. Maybe they saw me jump...who cares? Fuck 'em.

I didn't want to see Van Fucking Halen anyway. I scream into the face of the security guard to my left, "FUCK VAN HALEN! Who's their singer now anyway. Oh, I forgot, I don't give a fuck!"

They lead me back to the gate and suddenly everything goes black...