Rock Star

  Rock Star

  Chapter one

  Callie

  Life wasn’t always a crazed, on the road, frazzled mess, when days melded in on one another and, I lost my connection to the calendar, even to the day of the week.

  Before I lived on the road, before life swept me away into the music world and my own selfish desires, when I could walk down the street without a soul bothering me. Those days, behind me, were just as wonderous. The climb to success was everything I dreamt it would be. We thought we were kings of the road, fanciful illusions dancing before my very eyes like sugar plum fairies I’d sung about years before when I was young and innocent.

  But heartbreaking hardship followed me.

  I grew up in a small town in Illinois, Elmhurst, home of the poet Carl Sandburg. My parents moved us to Los Angeles, California when I was just eleven years old, where fantasy molded into reality, prancing in our lives like dandelions swaying in the wind. By then I’d been taking voice lessons for years and had dreams of a life as a musician for as long as I could remember. I could sing before I could talk. Play the guitar before I could walk. I had drive and romantic ideals that kept my passions flowing like a roaring river through my veins.

  I was in fifth grade when I took the stage for the first time. I had tons of friends in elementary school; even then I held an audience, surrounded by girls who wanted to be just like me. As a cheerleader I would leap proudly in front of the school kids, poms poms shaking in the air, chanting the school song. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

  My friends cheered for ME. They would stand up on their feet even then, shouting my name, fists pumping wildly. My heart would swell with pride; all this adoration, confirmed my life’s goals. When I thought back to those little girls, I wondered what happened to all those females who skittered away like the howling wind. My best friend and I stayed in touch by text, but there were days when I daydreamed about the rest of their lives and where they’d ended up.

  There was one little girl I remembered well, who seemed fascinated by me. She’d follow me around like a cute little puppy except, if memory serves me correctly, she wasn’t so adorable. Not then, anyway. She was short and chubby; she hadn't had a growth spurt yet that stretched her body out to give her elegant grace. Her dull brown hair and eyes always saddened me. Even then, at such a young age, I worried about her safety. I feared her home life was fucked up. But I never followed through to find out what she faced daily. Maybe I just didn’t want to know if her parents were evil. Ignorance was bliss. I remembered the day she came to school dressed just like me. She’d bleached her hair white, not a true match to my long, platinum blonde, but I could see the effort she’d put in to copying me. Her obsession freaked me the fuck out. Her eyes seemed haunted, deep dark caves that held the secrets to her pain. I attempted to stay clear of her energy. She was captivated by my essence and tried everything to become me. I didn’t know what to do with all that attention at such a tender age. Instead of keeping the friction in my life, I ended up pushing her out of my crowd. I didn’t need the hassle; I just wanted my music, the end. Her name was Magdalene, but she went by Mary. I wished I had taken the time to make sure she wasn’t suffering, and, now knowing what I know about life, I wished I hadn’t been so cruel. I hoped she found a happy, carefree life. I really didn’t know, and my heart wept silently for this little, stalker girl.

  But honestly? Music was my everything. I lived in a world of melody, emersed in sound and lyrics. Notes percolated in my mind, splashing all around me in a never-ending stream. The strum of a guitar could set my imagination flying up to the clouds, in search of a rainbow to perch on. My bedroom walls were covered with the music giants of my generation, posters of Kurt Cobain took up one entire wall. I had BB King and Ray Charles tacked to the opposite wall, and of course, Rage Against the Machine provided the music score of my life. Rock Monsters, all of them. I listened to music from the moment I woke up until the end of the day, my earbuds tucked discretely inside my ears, hidden from the naked eye.

  I thought nothing would stop me. Not my parents, not circumstances beyond my control, not even love. My only true passion was and always would be music. When I was a Senior in High School, I had a boyfriend, Hank. But I never let him get in the way of my future. He always came second in my life, and I’m sure it rankled him. But my obsession wouldn’t change, ever. He was my extra curriculum and that was that.

  When I climbed into bed at the end of a long-suffering day, I looked up to the ceiling, my heart pounding when I thought of the big songs Patti Smith belted out. I would fall asleep with her watching over me. She guided my nighttime dreams. I wanted to be discovered and live on the road, crisscrossing the country from city to town, singing the songs I had crafted. My tunes would be immortalized in the Hall of Fame.

  I believed life like that would be so romantic. I just knew it from the bottom of my beating heart. Boom boom.

  Poetry poured out of me from the start of my teens, full of angst and the search for that one famous true love carefully penned inside my diary or scrawled inside the textbooks I carried in my backpack. I wrote music from the heart and soul. Grief pulled me down on occasion, and I’d jot down all those big, emotional feelings. I believed all along I knew my destiny. I was certain to grab that brass ring and never fucking let it go.

  I dreamt of making it big. I wanted to see scores of fans singing my original tunes. I would write the songs people sang, of life, love, and romance.

  I would be their rock god!

  Oh, I had huge, fanciful dreams. My fantasy, my life, would take me to Nirvana, allowing for freedom and a heart full of zeal. Enthusiasm for my future helped plot my course, rejoicing in the knowledge that I was truly talented and could turn this fire burning in the depths of my belly into a career and a life I was sure to live. Destiny drove me through all my young days. Nothing was going to stop me. My teenage life was a happy one. I embraced everything that would keep me on this well-trodden path. I barely noticed the humans that swirled around me on a daily basis.

  We faced the fire! I would belt out the words, looking over the throngs of concert goers. I’m gonna be a rock star, I would croon sweetly to the crowds; charming them to join me in my quest. Melody entwinned with rhythm, beat in my soul like Marko’s drumsticks striking on the downbeat. My smoldering guitar licks, lit up the room with passion and delight.

  When I was sixteen years old, we finally made a demo tape. I had a group called The Turtledoves, and we taped six songs, including our song ‘Rock Star,’ which played on local radio stations, a song I had penned when I was just fifteen years old. Deep down, I knew it was a huge hit. I believed the executives in the industry would eat it up. The applause given to me on a local level, confirmed my wholehearted conviction. My heart, filled with pride, pumped wildly to the beat of the drums. It was all I ever thought about.

  Music consumed me.

  A self-satisfied breath of fresh air fueled me on my pre-determined journey.

  I’ll show them. I’ll become a rock giant; I’d whisper during pep talks required to lift my spirits on those difficult days when I felt myself falter and allowed despair to drown me in an ocean of grief. I talked to myself on the regular; someone had to prop me up when I felt myself falling. It was a rough business. I had to confront my convictions on the daily. And face the sting of rejection, knowing there were better days ahead of me when my heart felt like it was going to wither and die on the vine.

  We sent out that demo to every single executive I could find. Rejection letters started piling up, so I decided I needed a new plan. It felt like a personal attack, not a business decision. I had no agent, no manager to speak on our behalf, and I decided hand delivery was my best strategy. My heart hurt from the many dismissals stacking
up. After weeks of these form letters landing on my doorstep, I dressed in my khaki below-the-knee shorts with my curves on full display and took to the streets with rhythm pulsing through my blood. With my desire for success fortifying me, I walked into the first record label, my kicks squeaking on the marble floors, and right up to the reception desk, full of the bravado that had only intensified over the years.

  “May I help you?” The beautiful girl behind the counter gave me a small, welcoming smile. She was hot for sure, a slim beauty with short, shiny blonde hair, dressed in couture.

  “Yes, I’d like to see Mr. Crawford.” I gave her my brightest smile. I was cute, at 5’3” with my white-blond hair falling in waves down my back. My t-shirt proudly said, ‘Nirvana,’ the script flowing across my large breasts. My short stature didn’t affect me; my large ego barely fit through the doors, along with my blazing blue eyes. I knew that the excitement drilling straight out of me would infect the receptionist.

  “Do you have an appointment, ma’am?” she asked in a monotone voice. I thought, Wow! She’s really taking me seriously. With a bright, dazzling smile, I said, “No, but why should that matter? I know he wants to meet me.” I batted my eyes at her, flirting the way girls flirted with each other. I was so sure in my quest that nothing would stop me now. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind holding me down. I was so confident I didn’t stop to think about anything except winning. I was dedicated to a fault, I’ve got to say. Now, years later, thinking back on that girl, I chuckled over how little she really knew.

  “You can’t see him without an appointment, ma’am.” I was thinking, why the fuck was she calling me ma’am? It was like a slap in the face. Didn’t she know who I was? I wanted to demand an audience. I wanted to spit in her face and rail against the machine. I slunk out of there with shame imprinted on my pretty, tanned face.

  As I walked down the street, my heart died a little more with each no.

  And so, it went like that. Every single label had the same reception type girl, blonde and beautiful, standing in the way of my big future. All day, as my blisters multiplied, I walked the streets in my scruffy black chucks, going from label to label, on Music Row. I knew I needed to rethink my strategy, I just wasn’t sure where to turn or what the fuck to do. My anger drove me further as the day wore on. How was I ever going to break through? I never even got a tiny glimpse inside the massive music machine. I was kept out in the cold, shivering in my dark, zip-up hoodie.

  After so many miles walking the strip, I dragged myself home and into the house. As I pulled off my shoes, rubbing my sore, sorry feet, my father came strolling into the kitchen.

  “What’s up, peanut? You look down,” he said lovingly. Yeah, that was good old Dad. He was an amazingly loving man, and I adored him. He stood behind me 100%. He was also an ethical, good man who went to church every Sunday and volunteered at the animal shelter. He was an incredible role model, and, if I wanted that kind of life, I would have followed in his footsteps wholeheartedly.

  The thing that kept me from emulating this incredible role model? I didn’t give a crap about any of it. I didn’t give one shit about abused animals or going to church or even being a nice person. Well, I cared, let’s not exaggerate here, but I didn’t want a boring life, that was for damn sure, definitely not the mundane life my parents lived. It just wasn’t for me. Even as a young child, I wanted the bright lights of Hollywood, the enormous sound of the Hollywood Bowl, and fans that adored me and followed me not only on Twitter, but from concert to concert like the Grateful Dead. I envisioned my success as I slipped my aching feet into the tub of sizzling water. Relief poured through my veins as I soaked my wrecked toes. My blisters bubbled up, and the thought of putting sneakers on made me cringe.

  But I held onto my dreams.

  Nothing was going to stop me. This was a minor setback that would teach me, school me. I had to learn what commitment really meant at a young, tender age. I flicked my bitterness aside, like lent off my black jeans.

  I was confident but completely out of ideas. My mind clouded over, searching for that one thing that could open a door, any door. By this time, I thought to hell with it, and retreated from the entire mess. I decided, fuck them, the ‘them’ being those who blocked me from my own sure success.

  With new, energized pride in my heart, at age seventeen, I booked my own local gigs for the next six[SO1] weeks. I called it our Tour, and we played the local bars and lounges. My band, the two young musicians backing me, my best friends, took to the stage at our next gig. Ted played rhythm, and Marko tapped his drumsticks, counting us in, and we all started on the same downbeat. They were beautiful in my mind, loving music as much as me.

  With my guitar slung over my shoulder and the mic-stand smack dab in front of me, I would belt out other peoples’ tunes while patrons sipped their beer and slammed their shots of whiskey. They chatted through my sets, and I’d get enraged, watching them ignore me. I’d grab the stand and push it to the side, gripping the mic in my small hand and singing with everything in me. Every little bit that spilled out came directly from the bottom of my soul.

  That got me noticed, goddamit! During my break, instead of guzzling down the alcohol like my band mates, I would stand in front of the stage and sell our demo to the drunk or nearly drunk patrons. I bitterly scoffed at my fantasy of throngs of people, as I had never in my life faced anything on that grand scale. But I made more money selling the CDs than the gigs ever paid. Honestly, I didn't care about the money as much as recognition of my raw talent. Slowly, I was gathering fans who cared about what we had to say. Some of them literally showed up at every location. Old friends urged me to keep up the fight, cheering me on at every turn.

  Wasn’t that the most important thing?

  One night in an adjacent county, I was belting out ‘Rock Star.’ It was the best song we had ever written, about a small-town girl who hits it big. I want to be a rock star, I would respond with a bow, to the applause in the room. I was swoony and happy and glittered through all the verses. And by the time I hit the chorus everyone was up on their feet shouting and clapping. I knew the crowd could be swayed. After our last set, I sold out of CDs and was gathering my things together to go home. Marco already had his drums loaded and stowed in his van, and Ted, my bass player, was packed up for the night. I felt a tap on my arm and turned around. The air was stale, with the rank scent of musty sweat from the drinking, dancing patrons. But I didn’t care when I saw this gorgeous specimen of a man.

  “Hey, Callie, can we speak for a minute? My name is Hunter. Hunter Lightfoot.” I looked up into brown orbs with his raised eyebrows. He was in his late twenties, wearing grunge style clothes. His long, ebony hair was brushed back away from his handsome, sculpted face. He had a goatee that framed his puffy lips, and I thought, What the hell? For some reason, I thought he looked like he was in the ‘biz’. And if he was flirting with me? Well, come on now, he was hot as hell. There was no way I was turning away this striking man. His eyes were a sparkling cocoa, and when he smiled, a dimple formed on the right side of his luscious mouth.

  I had no clue that this would be the most important day of my life.

  “Sure, hi Hunter, let’s sit over here.” I gestured to a wooden table with chairs all around. The smell of weed lingered in the air, and I heard the tinkling laughter from customers who were slowly easing out of the place for the night. I was curious about what this was about. What could he want? I had never been approached in any official capacity, but something told me this Hunter cat, was a somebody. I steeled myself for the conversation to come. I didn’t want to mess this up, so I concentrated on keeping my entire focus cleanly on him. I was mystified but intrigued, what the hell? I looked him over, my stern attitude slipping away with the wind. He was beautiful, the muscled hand he offered me showed off tough sinew and slipped gracefully into mine. He gave my hand a soft squeeze and I felt myself melt.

  Hunter introduced himself as a music manager. “I think you’ve got somet
hing, Callie.” My body tingled, as his words infected me, his voice a molten volcanic lava pouring over my soul. The words rolled around in my mind. I had waited to hear them my entire life. Then he added, “I’d like to manage you.” My mind exploded, his voice, a deep baritone, almost a growl, resonated deeply inside my bones. My heart skipped a happy beat, this was my moment! Those few simple words would change everything. They captured my imagination. I was standing on the precipice of success. My dreams filtered all around us as I clasped his hand tighter. He smelled like the ocean, and visions of waves crashing onto the sand almost swept me away. I could feel my emotions wash over me, roaring up and over like a surfer’s dream.

  Come on in! The water’s fine.

  I had arrived. I’d finally done the impossible and broken through the barbed wire that had kept me isolated and alone. I wanted to jump for joy. Hunter changed my entire life that night. With one firm handshake, I had become someone to watch. I became a somebody in the blink of an eye.

  This is the story of Hunter and me. Here is our long, winding history, starting from the first day we met. Back when I was seventeen, I was bowled over by his knowledge and love of music, matched only by my own. We shared in a passion for everything music. We immersed ourselves in this world. We never even peeked out to see how other humans lived.

  Hunter changed my life that day.

  He changed everything.

  This is our true Hollywood Story.

  Chapter two

  Hunter

  I’d been searching for a new act for years. My pursuit had consumed me for an entire decade. I managed some local grunge bands, but really wanted to discover someone talented, shapeable, and new. The industry was always looking for that next big thing, big voice, big songs. I wanted to find talent that had it all, with that ‘it’ factor the media was always raving about.

  I was a successful agent, booking bands from the local talent pool or cutting deals with acts that had been big once upon a time and now worked for smaller fees, like Maria Muldaur. She still had amazing chops, and, in her early forties, danced her heart out to the blues. During her concerts she would sing ‘Midnight at the Oasis’ in the middle of her set, and fans would whoop it up in recognition during the intro that put her on top of the pack for a short time. A few notes in were all it took for her audience to respond to the song that had touched their lives. She still used her sex appeal to sway her audience. It made me cringe watching this broad with her short tight, leather skirts, tits hanging out of her snug cropped tops.