Being Frank (10 page)

Opportunities for
optional recreational activities
arose constantly in that pre-AIDS epoch, although the typical ‘tourist' tended to resemble the young woman in her early 20s, dressed all in rusty black and with raccoon-like black circles painted around each eye, who showed up at a sound check one afternoon and ambushed Frank backstage. “I've been saving
all
my bodily secretions for you for a
month
,” she crooned to him.

“That right?.” said Frank, giving me a quizzical look over her shoulder. “Is there any particular reason you've singled
me
out for this honor?”

“I just
knew
you'd be able to appreciate them,” she gushed. Before she could offer a free sample, Dick Barber was summoned and she was escorted out the fire exit. All that afternoon and evening, Frank kept repeating disgustedly, “She was saving
all
her bodily secretions for me — for a
month
! Oh,
maaaan!
...” He was suddenly no longer Dr. Zurkon, recording psychosexual and anthropological abnormalities for future reference; he was just a
seriously nauseated
guy; a couple of times he actually retched. Frank absolutely despised dirt. He tried to keep his clothes as clean as possible (not always an easy task on the road), and he practically lived in the shower. Even the
concept
of filth (physically, that is) was abhorrent to him. I later heard stories from seemingly reliable sources, alleging that during his early days in the music business, he'd been a veritable Welcome Wagon of venereal afflictions. That was in distinct contradiction to my experience, although, knowing him, anything
could
have been possible.

When less revolting customers showed up and insisted on demonstrating their special talents, he was charming, genial, a bit perverse — he'd invite them up to our room and let them share their abilities freely, if they were so inclined, but afterward he would politely point out that we had to catch a plane at 6:30 the next morning... He was so forthright about these socio-sexual situations that it was hard for me to feel jealous. I found some comfort in the fact that he never dissembled, and that whatever he did, at least he did it in front of me.

Despite his characteristic honesty, he was the victim of a strange little double standard matter what
he
did, he tended to exhibit a proprietary attitude toward me, sort of a cross between an overprotective Italian older brother and a jealous boyfriend. He didn't make a show of it, but he was always watching me out of the corner of his eye to make
sure I wasn't being too charming to any of the guys in the band. It became readily apparent that the reverse psychology he employed in marketing his persona and music also affected his
personal dynamics
. If I found his attention wandering elsewhere, all I had to do to refocus it was seem to be interested in somebody — anybody — else. Suddenly Frank would materialize out of nowhere, grumbling and glaring and
not going away. Whatever was difficult or impossible for him to obtain was precisely what he wanted the most.
I saw this demonstrated very graphically when one of the guys in the band developed a crush on me. He was very sweet, but I only paid attention to him when I needed to get Frank's. Twice was enough. I should have been ashamed.

My performing experience (besides the youth orchestra) up to this point had consisted of private parties, small clubs and coffeehouses, and occasionally somewhat larger venues like the Ascot Raceway in Gardena. Until now, for me an enormous audience had been three or four hundred people.

Thus, when early in the tour I encountered my first
hockey rink
— an outdoor arena with a capacity of about 10,000 — I was instantly seized with an incapacitating terror. As we pulled up near the rear entrance, the huge spotlights were so bright I couldn't tell if there was a full house, but when we were back in the dressing area, the vast, rumbling roar of the crowd made it sound as though even the sky boxes were full.

Frank watched me shaking in my boots, and made a few reassuring comments. Hockey rinks held no fear for him; after all, he'd been touring steadily since 1965. I doubt whether he'd ever felt much stage fright, even at the beginning — the only thing that he disliked about performing (besides malfunctioning equipment or lousy acoustics) was having to sing, and in this group he had plenty of other people to do that for him.

“Hey, you know when they turn the lights up the audience can't even s
ee
you,” he explained. “And with that crappy PA system they can't hear you either. Besides which, most of the members of the audience are probably in an advanced state of
chemical nirvana
anyway. They couldn't care less if you get two notes wrong in that little run there, they're just here to have a good time. What you got to be nervous about?” I looked at the reflection in the fingerprint-smudged mirror in front of us, there
in that makeshift dressing room that reeked of second-hand beer and sour, athletic sweat. I saw myself, white as a sheet, desperately clutching the red SG and beside me Frank, cool and collected with his black Les Paul, a fresh cigarette stuck in the pegboard. The opening band had finished its set, and out in the bleachers the crowd was clapping, stamping, whistling, and shouting for
us
. I could feel the concrete floor vibrating with their enthusiasm.

“Come on,” said Frank. “Let's go
entertain
them.”

There was a concrete tunnel linking the dressing area to the stage. Frank went first, with his characteristic purposeful stride; I was behind him, and the rest of the band followed us. As we approached the end of the tunnel the crowd noise became deafening. A short flight of steps led up to the stage. Walking to the front of the stage, the plywood creaked under my boots; my knees were shaking, and my mouth was so dry I couldn't have spit to save my life. From the rigging overhead, the spots threw huge hot sheets of daylight right down into our faces, making it impossible to see out into the crowd. I felt like I was climbing up to the gallows — how could Frank be so nonchalant? There he was, stealing a puff of his cigarette, adjusting the tuner on his B string, trying the harmonic, clearing his throat -- all the while looking as cozy as if he were in his own living room.
“Hello, boys ‘n' girls,”
he greeted the crowd, which responded with a cheer that felt like a 9.6 earthquake. “Could you please turn up the monitor?” he asked the sound reinforcement guys at the mixing board.

When he counted off the first song, my fingers refused to move. I got them around the guitar neck finally, and began to play, although my shaking hand was applying an inadvertent tremelo. The song progressed, and slowly I began to feel a dull amazement: why, I was still alive, and even more amazing, I actually remembered my parts.

By the end of the number I was almost enjoying myself. After the first show I'd begun to understand the intense decibel level a rock band generated, and I'd quickly picked up some ear plugs, but this wasn't the same as playing in an auditorium. In fact, performing for 10,000 people in a hockey rink was practically an anonymous act — Frank was right; they couldn't really see you or hear you. Nor could you see or hear anything yourself. It was like being blind and deaf, with an audience that was also blind and deaf. The relentless pounding of the bass and drums was all that came through, and I felt
that
in my gut, rather than hearing it through my ears. It was quite strange to realize that when I
played a lead, I was the only person in the whole arena who knew whether it was any good or not, Even Frank couldn't hear clearly enough to tell if I were playing Hindemith or “Louie Louie”. Hey, this was fun. No wonder rock ‘n' roll musicians swaggered and strutted around on stage — most of them were getting away with
murder
up there.

Frank looked out for me in a lot of little ways. There was a quaint, charming quality in the way he fussed over details for my benefit — although I never would have dared to tell him I thought it was quaint and charming. He knew that I had a tendency to lose guitar picks, and he always kept a bunch of them handy for me, pulling them out of his guitar case with an exaggerated flourish, a shake of the head, and an affectionate “Oh man are you ever
hopeless.
” He observed that I was often too distracted to remember to eat, and cheeseburgers (no mayo, ketchup, or mustard, onions only) would magically appear at my elbow.

One night I ripped my best shirt half an hour before we had to leave for the show. I began melodramatically howling that now I would have to go onstage naked (actually I could have borrowed one of Frank's numerous T-shirts — I'd been doing that a lot because I hadn't brought nearly enough changes of clothes). Frank came over, frowned in his mock-paternal way, and examined the damage. “Gimme that, “ he ordered, and crossing over to his suitcase he pulled out a tiny sewing kit, sat down on the edge of the bed, and squinting under the bedside lamp, proceeded to stitch away on my injured garment' looking like a mutant version of some old Sicilian immigrant tailor. He handed back my shirt a few minutes later with a smug little gesture. I looked for the torn spot, but in vain. The stitches were so small and neat that the repair was practically invisible; his sewing was more skillfully executed than most women's. I don't know why this surprised me, but it did. (
Real men don't sew
... ?) Later he explained that he'd learned to sew as a kid when he'd built his own puppet theater and made elaborate costumes for all the characters. He was still putting on puppet shows, only now, like the Puppetmaster in
Petrouchka
, he was using live marionettes, and sometimes
we
also needed our stage clothes sewed.

He was acutely sensitive toward me without being dramatic about it. When he could see that the relentless pace of constant travel on too little sleep, or the steady barrage of sensations, was about to make me blow a fuse, he would put his arm around me and hold me close to him, not belaboring me with further talk or stimulation, his reassurance eloquent in its calm silence. Finally he'd ask simply, “You OK now?” I usually was, Once, when I was feeling miserably homesick and low-spirited, he cut short a phone interview so he could take me out for lunch. This was entirely out of character for him; he was somewhat agoraphobic, and he tried to avoid social situations whenever he could because he loathed the inane chitchat that inevitably accompanied things like eating in restaurants. That particular afternoon, though, he was affectionate, funny in his inimitable way, and altogether comforting. When we got back to our room, he hung out the DO NOT DISTURB sign, and by showtime that night, the whole concept of homesickness had completely ceased to be relevant.