Well there's another piece of hotel stationary in the leather desk kit here in Frankfurt and it's only 9:52PM US Time, (3:52AM here), so I'll press on. I've shown the first six pages of this epic destruction of my future career to a few friends, Chris Chappel, the always cool, witty and urbane Brit-turned LA-turned NYer, tour manager who counts as friends (and past tourmates) Pete Townshend & the Who, Mick Jones & the Clash, Bruce Springstein & the E. St. Band, The Dame (David Bowie), and most recently, Luther Vandross; Bill Soden, sage of the NYC made-to-order music business, and Jim Boggia, (former) teenage head of experimental synthesizer testing at Ensoniq Corp, (America's only surviving native Synth company), he's also a scarily good singer and songwriter; They are all amused, and all want the racy sections extended. As is, I'm drowning in parentheses, but thanks for reading this far. (If you have, that is.)
Actually, that last paragraph wore me out. Tomorrow's a big day: I've gotta fake playing organ on a German TV awards show for their footballers while Bryan actually sings "live to track." Tonight Marek Lieberberg took us to a great Italian Restaurant in Frankfurt: Alter Haferkasten. Marek, the Jewish German Promoter who furnished our band with lederhosen to wear for the encore of his Munich show of '93. When I wouldn't don them because of their cultural association (in MY mind) with Anti-Semitism, Marek and his lovely staff walked around with long shamefully embarassed faces. "Ach he Hates Germans, but zat vas 50 years ago", I could almost hear them thinking. So the next day I took a walk and bought a $400 accordion, to prove I respected (elements of) their Teutonic culture. The gesture was lost on Marek and the lovely Ula and Anna Lu, his matching goddess/assistants; but not on our band, who promply outlawed my practicing the poor accordion anywhere within earshot. I was banished to telephone booths!
In Germany we move from city to city in a fleet of 3 Mercedes, usually piercing the autobahn at about 220 klicks (130mph.) I don't feel particularly comfortable at that speed, or in most Mercedes' with their tight rigidly upholstered seats, but a) I donít have a choice, and b) most of the airports are closed, even to private planes by the time our show is done and we've calmed down and are ready to move. Or so they tell us. So Mickey Curry, our drummer, who deserves his own chapter, heck, he deserves his own sitcom!! was sitting in the back of the Mercedes with me, hurtling towards Dusselforf or somewhere at 130mph, engulfed in the tragic sounds of me trying to learn accordion, and after about five minutes, I had the clear realization that he was going to throw it out the window. And I was attached to it. So I stopped. I actually played a solo on that accordion on a record a few months ago. But it was for the Hong Kong artist, Haaken Lee. They have taste over there. Soul. Or hey, maybe I got better! PS'99: Check out Bryan Adams Unplugged (the video) (if you can find it) for some of my further exploits in accordionistic absurdity.)
There's this
spa in Iceland, near the airport, swirling clouds of bluish steam above
hot mineral waters, where people go to get a jolt. From the Arctic
cold, into the volcanic mineral laced waters and then back into the
cold. The Blue Lagoon, they call it. We stopped there on the way
home in December of ninetysomething, and before I knew it, I was naked
and having the time of my life swimming around in the bubbly blue
brine. Carl Leighton-Pope, the European booking agent (and Chippendale
Baron) stole my clothes whilst I was under, hoping to catch a glimpse
of the fabled Mandel bum to add to his collection of Scandinavian Fantasies.
So I had to run back to the bus in a towel through the snow. I felt
great for days after that. But I couldn't communicate how good it
felt, with friends or family back home. When I'd try to describe it, the
yawns would begin, the eyes would wander. Later, someone gave me
the pictures of my romp that appear here.