[Vorcla]

Synopsis: a successful rocker from one of the biggest bands of all time embarks on a world tour with a lovely young singer as his opening act.

Disclaimer: Profanity; mild sexual situations.

Riverbend Music Center
Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, May 26, 2007


“I need some clean bottom end on the guitar, Gil. Sounds a little muddy.”

Dan Henderson strummed a full chord on his guitar and winced. Something was wrong. The bass end was too thick, and the treble quacked like a duck – and there was a great big empty in between. It was a beautiful guitar – a Takamine EF341SC acoustic-electric with a gloss black finish – and it usually sounded heavenly.

Henderson gazed out across the seemingly endless rows of reserved seating under the cantilevered roof of the massive stage. It was a perfect spring morning – sunny, exquisitely warm, with a cloudless blue sky. A great day to kick off a sold out world tour in support of his new million-selling CD, “Lovers and Losers.”

“A-hem! Earth to Gil!”

Gil Culligan, the harried young soundman, frowned as he dialed in the sliders on the huge control board sitting on the second concourse. “Try it again, Dan – it should be sweet where I have it set right now.”

He strummed again. More mud.

Culligan glanced up and glared, suddenly coming to a realization. “Dan – if you have your EQ sliders set to a ‘smiley-face,’ I’m gonna come up there and wrap that fucking guitar around your pencil neck! Zero ‘em out, and we’ll try again!”

Henderson’s blue eyes widened behind his aviator shades. Culligan had him. His bass and treble were set 3 notches above the line, and he had his midrange knob down around -4. He surreptitiously slid the controls to zero.

“A-ha!” Culligan crowed. “Caught you, didn’t I, Grandpa? You old folkies – back in the Mesozoic, somebody told you to set your EQ sliders in a ‘smiley-face’ pattern!”

“Call me a folkie again and I’ll shove this guitar up your ass, Junior!” Henderson deadpanned from the stage. Culligan laughed, and so did the other crew members working on sound and lighting rigs all around the cavernous expanse of the huge outdoor shed.

“Okay – strum it now.”

He did, and a rich, full, blended acoustic tone shimmered across the empty seats.

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Culligan enthused.

The guitarist nodded in agreement. “That’s righteous,” he said. He began working through a rippling fingerpicking routine, then switched over to a flatpick as he graduated to a blistering country-rock workout.

Henderson grinned. This was what he lived for, what he loved to do. Clad in faded blue jeans and a worn, green denim shirt, he perched comfortably on a stool in the center of the stage as he ran through his sound check. His long, wavy chestnut hair hung to his shoulders. Behind him, arrayed on tubular stands, sat a myriad array of guitars, both acoustic and electric.

He loved this venue; it was a beautiful facility, nestled in the trees at the edge of the sparkling waters of the Ohio River, with the rolling green hills of Kentucky serving as a backdrop on the other side. Not that he was superstitious, but he’d always had good luck here. It was a great place to start a tour.

Dan Henderson was on a roll, at the top of his game. He had taken care of himself; he was in good shape and still ruggedly handsome at forty-seven. One of the founding members of the seminal ‘80’s country-rock group Arizona, he was riding the crest of a successful solo career that he had nurtured since the band disintegrated in 1994.

And disintegrated it had – in a backstage brawling fistfight at the end of a benefit concert for a Democratic gubernatorial candidate. It was the last straw, the culmination of fourteen years of grinding pressure to do better, to sell more albums with each successive release. There had been too much money and too much fame, and it had all happened way too fast. The grueling schedule of releasing a new CD every fourteen months, endless touring, buses and hotel rooms, lousy food – it had all been too much. The beginning of the end had come with the release of their second-last album, ‘The Road That Lies Ahead,’ which sold a phenomenal 15 million copies. The members of Arizona realized that this feat would be difficult to top, but they tried anyway – and burned out like a nova in the process, leaving behind a legacy of 12 multiplatinum studio albums, a live disc, and a Greatest Hits compilation that continued to sell millions every year and was one of the best-selling CDs of all time.

‘I don’t need that shit anymore,’ Henderson told himself. ‘I’m my own boss now.’

And yet, he missed those days. Especially the early days, when it had been all about the music. The camaraderie, the sense of discovery as they blazed new trails with pristine four-part vocal harmonies and intricate guitar work. They had reconciled after the break-up, to a greater or lesser degree, and there had been several abortive attempts to reunite Arizona. Henderson had always put the kibosh on those efforts. Much as he would have loved to play with them again, he didn’t want to set himself up for the disappointment and heartache that would follow when they crashed and burned – as he feared they would. They played together as a group for the first time in eleven years when they were inducted into the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame on the first ballot in 2005. It had been magic, sheer fun, and they had brought the house down. He had come this close to getting the group back together at that point, but he had walked away once again.

“Okay, I got your six dialed in, Dan. Let’s try the twelve.”

Henderson lifted the EF381C from its stand. The gleaming black guitar was a 12-string twin of his six string.

“Play a chord,” Culligan said.

“How about an E5sus4 drone?” Henderson suggested. When Culligan stared blankly, he supplied, “The ‘Sundown’ chord.”

“Ah – good one!” the soundman returned. The opening chord to Gordon Lightfoot’s classic was perfect for tuning in a 12-string guitar. Henderson played, and the guitar responded with a beautiful, chiming sound, almost like a harpsichord.

“You’re ready to roll, Dan. We’ll get the band out here later, and…hey, you! How’d you get…Ohmigod, it’s...“

“Still using Takamines, eh, Dan?” an instantly recognizable voice said. “So am I. Great road guitars.”

Henderson paled and whirled around to confront the voice behind him. His old songwriting partner and co-founder of Arizona, Gene Foster, stood grinning at him. He was dressed in a loud Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts and sandals. Where Henderson was lean and well-toned, Foster was buff. Once one of the biggest druggies in rock ‘n’ roll, he had cleaned up his act and spent several hours a day in the gym.

The full gamut of emotions– shock, joy, rage, affection, mistrust - played across Henderson’s face in a matter of seconds.

“Well?” Foster prodded. “You gonna shake my hand or kick my ass?”

Henderson got to his feet and advanced on his old partner, whom he hadn’t seen since their Rock Hall induction. Foster frowned and took a hesitant step backward.

Then Henderson pulled him into a bear hug and growled, “Asshole!”

“Motherfucker!” Foster responded with affection.

The crew applauded wildly as the two rock legends pounded each other on the back.

“How the hell you been, Gene?” Henderson asked.

“Fine,” Foster replied. “Not as good as you, obviously. I’m living quite handsomely off the royalties. You, on the other hand, are the talk of the rock world. ‘Dinosaur rock geezer from the greatest band of all time has multiplatinum number one CD.’ Not bad at your age, buddy.”

Henderson chuckled. “I’m pretty happy with it. It’s done pretty well.”

“Doesn’t hurt that three of the biggest hits on it sound like Arizona tunes,” Foster goaded. “Was that by design?”

“Yeah.” Henderson smiled. “I’ve always been fond of that group.”

“Then why don’t you put it back together?”

“Gene, I’m going out on a world tour!” Henderson protested with a laugh.

“So – you gonna tour forever? What about next summer?”

“Is that why you came here – to try to resurrect Arizona?”

“Partially,” Foster admitted. “I was in Cincinnati on business and I got a backstage pass for tonight. I came to see you play – for old time’s sake.” He smiled. “And to see if I could convince you to put the train back on the tracks at least once more – for old time’s sake.”

Suddenly the years melted away for Dan Henderson. They were once again two struggling, scruffy, twenty-year-old musicians plotting out their future in the Troubadour Club in L.A. It was a magic time, a great time to be young. They pushed all the right buttons and took the music world by storm.

“Ah, the good old days,” Henderson said with an affectionate smile.

“Yeah – remember?” Foster said. “Haulin’ our own amps. Shaggin’ the groupies in the back of that old van. Smokin’ weed and peyote out in the desert. Playin’ for the sake of the music. Chainsaw Jim remodeling hotels with his saw, tearin’ down walls!”

“Then we graduated to roadies, thousand-dollar hookers giving blowjobs in closets, coke and crack, playing for the sake of the bucks – and Chainsaw Jim remodeling bigger hotels with a bigger saw,” Henderson said, almost sadly. Then he brightened as an idea crystallized in his mind.

“Hey, Gene - since you’re here, why don’t we do an acoustic set right before the beginning of my electric set? It’ll bring down the house. Then you come back out for the encores.”

Foster’s eyes went wide.

“You mean that, Dan? But…I don’t have any guitars with me!”

Henderson shrugged. “You play Taks, right? I have two sets of spare guitars to replace my main axes if need be. I’ll have my guitar tech set up a 341 and a 381 for you.”

“Man, that would be great!”

Henderson picked up the six string and handed it to his old friend. “Let’s run through a few Arizona songs to warm up. It’ll give the sound crew something to work on. Gil – can you get Gene a stool and a vocal mic?”

“Comin’ up, Dan.” Culligan dispatched a roadie to get the stool. Then he turned to his assistant. “Zach – tell me the recording rig is set up and ready to go. We’ve got to record this!”

“Good to go,” Zach Wegener replied. The lanky, bearded young man shook black curls out of his eyes as his fingers danced over the recording console. The green and yellow telltale lights were reflected in his glasses.

“Ready,” he said finally.

A roadie arrived with a stool and microphone for Foster, and he settled in. Just as they were about to start playing, a door at stage left opened.

A stunning young woman in her early twenties strolled out onto the stage, carrying a guitar case. She was wearing a snug black beater tank top and cutoff jean shorts, and flip-flops. Her raven hair was parted in the middle and cascaded in thick waves to her shoulders. She had a beautiful olive complexion; her eyes were slightly almond shaped, suggesting some Eurasian heritage, and her pouty lips were coral pink. Unlike so many of the young female performers who took to the stages of the world, she wasn’t model-thin. She wasn’t voluptuous, either; just nicely-rounded in all the right places.

Foster stared, looking as if he had been hit in the face with a two by four.

“Ho-lee shit!” he murmured, sotto voce. “Who is that?”

Henderson snickered. “Eyes in, cockhound! She’s my opening act – Ali Bryan. I picked her when I heard her CD. Didn’t even know she was this beautiful at that time. With a voice like hers, she could have looked like a warthog and I’d have chosen her.”

“A warthog?” Foster echoed, his voice dripping with skepticism.

“Well…maybe not a warthog,” Henderson admitted. “Thing is, back in the day, a musician could make a name for him or herself on the basis of talent alone. Now they have to be ‘model material’ first. Whether they can sing or not is irrelevant. We can run their voices through eighteen layers of vocal processing and pitch correction to make it sound halfway decent. Ali’s the real deal.”

Ali glanced up and locked eyes with Foster. Her mouth flew open, and she dropped her guitar case, quickly catching it by the handle before it could hit the stage floor.

“Ohmigod! Ohmigod! It’s Gene Foster!” She set down the case and rushed over to where they sat. She grabbed hold of Foster’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “I'm Ali Bryan. This is such an honor, Mr. Foster! Oh, Arizona was my biggest influence – you and Dan especially!”

Foster raised his eyebrows in mock dismay. “Oh – he’s Dan, and I’m Mr. Foster. Call me Gene, Ali.”

“Okay…Gene!” Her eyes were dancing with delight as she turned to Henderson. They embraced, and she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Dan, you stinker! You didn’t tell me Gene was going to be here!”

“I didn’t know, hun,” he said. “It was a surprise to me, too – a pleasant surprise.”

“Are you two going to play something?”

“Yep,” Foster replied. “We’re going to do an acoustic set tonight right before Dan’s electric set.”

Ali pumped a fist in the air in youthful enthusiasm. “Yes! Oh, God, that is so cool! It’ll almost be like Arizona getting back together again!”

“Almost,” Henderson murmured.

“Well, don’t just sit there – play something!”

They did.

For the next forty-five minutes, the heart and soul of Arizona put on a country rock clinic, with their soaring, lockstep harmonies, interlaced acoustic guitars, and heartfelt lyrics. One by one the classic songs, driving rockers and delicate ballads alike, drifted across the Riverbend complex. Work came to a screeching halt; Henderson’s road crew sat and listened, and members of the event staff congregated on the lawn at the top of the stands. Digital cameras zoomed in to capture the historic event.

Ali Bryan sat cross-legged at their feet, enraptured, her eyes as wide as a child’s on Christmas morning. Foster watched her as they played. God, she was a beautiful little girl! And she rarely took her eyes off Dan Henderson. ‘She’s got it bad,’ Foster thought. ‘Don’t know if it’s a daddy thing, a hero thing, or the real thing.’

They saved the best for last – their mega hit, “The Road That Lies Ahead.”

Too many days out on the highway,
Too many months away from home.
You were goin’ your way,
And I went on alone.
There were things we left unsaid,
Out on The Road That Lies Ahead.

Then it was over. The magic spell slowly dissipated; the road crew and workers alike were on their feet in a standing ovation. Ali was all over them, hugging and kissing them. “Jesus, those harmonies!” she whispered in Henderson’s ear. “My nipples are still hard!” He started as she whirled away to assault Foster.

And then the two of them faced each other, longtime friends and bandmates reunited, and they embraced.

They were suddenly surrounded by backslapping well-wishers. Cameras flashed.

“Oh, Gil, please take my picture with them!” Ali begged.

She stood between them, a diminutive figure sandwiched by the two rock icons who were her heroes. Her arms were around their waists, and their arms were across her shoulders. Gil Culligan immortalized the moment with several shots.

“Okay, everybody – back to work!” Henderson said. “Your turn, Ali.” He and Foster walked off the stage, basking in the triumphant moment. They sat down front row center as Ali took out her guitar.

She set up quickly, strapping on a Taylor acoustic-electric dreadnaught with a deep cutaway where the neck joined the body. After a few perfunctory strums, she nodded to Culligan, then launched into “I Need a Lover, Not a Daddy,” the title song from her last self-produced CD, which Henderson had re-released on his Arizona Recording Company label. It was a blistering rocker; she carried it well with her churning rhythm guitar and vulnerable voice which recalled Emmylou Harris. The crew laughed at the bawdy lyrics, and applauded wildly when she finished.

“Okay – something mellow now,” Culligan prompted.

Ali nodded and started fingerpicking “I Tried to Warn You,” a bittersweet ballad from the same disc. As she played, Foster watched and listened, mentally reviewing what he knew about her. She was an Indie princess; only twenty-one years old, she had driven her own career and self-produced two excellent CDs. She took it as far as she could go in that arena.

Then Dan Henderson discovered her, and her world changed overnight.

Her last CD was remastered and re-released on Dan’s label, and had already gone gold. It would go platinum and then some once they got out on tour. He heard her singing, and the poignant lyrics started to register.

Welcome to my world,
Step inside if you dare,
Let the chaos drive you wild,
Hell, it’s not like I care.

I tried to warn you,
I tried, babe,
I tried to do right by you,
Never say I didn’t try, babe.

So ya think the glimpse you seen,
Prepares ya for this life,
I am just a crazy has - been,
And I ...I thrive on strife.

Foster could feel a lump forming in his throat. He had heard the studio version of this song, with strings and keyboards and percussion, but there was something so achingly fragile, so perfect, about this bare bones acoustic version. The raw, shattered emotion, the hurt in her voice, was too real to be an affectation. He turned to Henderson, who had tears glistening in his eyes.

“Jesus, Dan,” he whispered. “Where does she get off writing something this good? She hasn’t lived enough yet to have seen that much pain. She’s just a baby!”

Henderson smiled. “We were babies once too, as I recall, Gene. She’s been on her own since she was fifteen. We can’t know what she’s been through.”

The instrumental bridge was over, and she was singing again.

I tried to warn you,
I tried babe,
I tried to do right by you,
Never say I didn’t try, babe.

I am not your keeper,
Do what the fuck you like,
If ya want to explore deeper,
Just don’t look to me for advice.

So...

Welcome to my world,
Step inside if you dare,
Let the chaos drive you wild,
Hell, it’s not like I care.

There was stunned silence for several moments. Ali glanced around uncertainly. “Uhhhh…was it that bad?”

The arena erupted with applause then, and Henderson and Foster led the charge to the stage to congratulate her. Ali beamed, bewildered but ecstatic at the reception her song had received.

“Sweetheart, that was incredible!” Henderson said. “I think you should do it that way tonight – solo acoustic, without your band. That would be a great finale!”

“Yeah!” she said, still reeling from the unaccustomed adulation. “I think I’ll do that.” She turned to Culligan. “Do we need any more tweaking on the sound?”

He shook his head. “No, you’re dialed in. I’ll get your band set up later. It’s only 10:30; we’re way ahead of schedule.”

“Cool,” she said. “I think I’m going to catch a few z’s. I didn’t sleep too well coming in on the bus last night. Bye, Dan. Bye, Gene.”

She walked across the stage and deposited the Taylor back in its case.

“She’s got the hots for you,” Foster said to his partner. “She was giving you ‘The Look’ the entire time we were playing.”

“And you’re so full of shit your eyeballs are brown!” Henderson said, biting off his words. “Hell, I’m old enough to be her father!”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Foster queried. “Look at you. You’re a handsome guy, still in good shape. You’re, what, forty-seven? Don’t look a day over forty-six!”

Henderson punched him in the arm. “Asshole!”

“Motherfucker!” Foster shot back as he returned the blow. They laughed, and headed back down into the seats to work out a set list for tonight’s “surprise” set.

Ali stood in the wings, staring out at the tiers of seats as if seeing them for the first time. Tonight this place would be rocking with a sellout crowd of fourteen thousand screaming fans – fans who were ardent admirers of Dan Henderson and/or Arizona. What would they think of her? Would they even notice her? Would they boo her off the stage? She suddenly realized that the largest crowd she had ever played for had numbered about 500 in a club in L.A. Her knees began to shake, and her stomach churned.

She barely made it to the ladies’ restroom. She went to her knees, retched, and threw up.

When her stomach finally stopped heaving, Ali stood up and wiped her streaming eyes. She washed her face and rinsed out her mouth in the sink.

This would never do. She had to go on tonight. This was her big chance, and she would not let it be ruined by stage fright. Ali’s mind seized on a desperate plan. She was going to do something she never would have thought she’d do in a million years.

Before she had time to talk herself out of it, she found herself knocking on the door of a small dressing room. Her bass player “Spike” Martin answered, staring owlishly at her from behind a pair of totally opaque John Lennon sunglasses. His long, straight blond hair was parted in the middle, and a two-day growth of beard stubbled his cheeks. “Spike” dressed like a ‘60’s throwback in flowered shirts and bell bottom jeans – she had no idea where he found the stuff. He cut quite a figure. Some people thought he looked ridiculous, but many others thought he was cool. He slowly became aware of her presence.

“Well, well, well – the beautiful Ali Bryan. To what do I owe the pleasure? It’s not time to play yet, is it?”

“No,” she said, glancing around nervously. “Will you let me in?”

“Ah! you finally came to your senses. You want me for my body!”

“Shut up!” she grated. She pushed him inside and slammed the door. “I need some…help. I..I’m scared shitless to go out there tonight. Stage fright. I need…something to help me with the anxiety.”

Martin plopped down in a chair and clutched at his chest. “Ohmigod – I’m having a heart attack! Am I hearing this right? Little Miss ‘lips that touch drugs will never touch mine’ requires some pharmaceutical assistance?”

“Look, Spike, this is my big chance – your big chance. If I blow this, we could be off the tour and back in the second-rate dives we’ve been playing. Now…do you have something?”

He frowned. “You’re serious. Okay. I do have something.” He opened his bass guitar case and took out a foil pack of brightly-colored, monogrammed tablets hidden under a false bottom of the accessories compartment.

“This is what you need.” He read from the back of the packet. “’Enhances empathy toward others; imparts a sense of overwhelming euphoria; reduces anxiety; reduces inhibitions; increases physical energy; enhances profound feelings of intimacy with others; enhances a strong sense of inner peace and self-acceptance.’ Sound like what you need?”

She nodded apprehensively. “What is it?”

“Chemical name is MDMA,” he answered. “Street name..well, there are lots of them. ‘Lover’s speed’ is one.”

“It’s ‘Ecstasy,’ isn’t it?” Her lips tightened into a thin line. “That stuff’s dangerous.”

He shrugged. “Anything’s dangerous if you use too much of it. One tab every now and then won’t hurt. Take half a tab now, and the other half before the show. You won’t be afraid, and you’ll play better, too. It will let you do things you’d be afraid to do otherwise.”

“Things I’d be afraid to do otherwise…” she murmured as she considered his words. “How much?”

He pulled her into his arms. His breath reeked. “A kiss would be a good start. We can negotiate further from there.”

Ali pulled away from him, furious. “Forget it, asshole! I’ll find another way.

“Spike” Martin snickered. “This is the only way, babe.” He tossed the packet to her. “On the house. When you run out, come see me, and we’ll talk. Follow my directions, though. Otherwise you won't be able to stand up, much less play.”

Ali rushed from the dressing room, grateful for the fresh air. She punched out a bright pink tab and broke it in two, then folded the packet in half and shoved it down into the pockets of her jean shorts. She ducked into the ladies’ room again and filled a Dixie cup with water.

Then she popped the pill fragment in her mouth and washed it down.

*****

Dan Henderson let himself into the VIP suite reserved for the headliner and locked the door behind him. He yawned and stretched. It was still eight hours until showtime. A sumptuous buffet table had been laid out, along with a variety of soft drinks, lemonade, and iced, bottled water. No alcohol; he had forbidden alcoholic beverages and drugs on the tour. It had earned him the nickname ‘Grandpa,’ but at least everybody would be playing with a clear head. Henderson grabbed a water and some shrimp cocktail and sauce.

Gene Foster’s parting words still rang in his ears: “We ain’t getting’ any younger, buddy. See ya tonight.”

Maybe now was the time to put Arizona back together. Maybe after this tour. “Chainsaw Jim” Walters had been clean and sober for over two years, and he desperately needed the money. When he was straight, nobody could beat him at bottleneck slide guitar. Tommy Sullivan, their bass player, was just hanging out at home with his wife and kids. If they could find a drummer with a touch like Jim Keltner’s, they’d be in business. Hell, maybe they could get Jim Keltner himself! They were Arizona, after all.

Henderson winced at a dull pain in the small of his back. Every once in a while the disk acted up, a ‘souvenir’ of the good old days when they hauled their own amps. There was a small Jacuzzi in the back. He would put it to good use.

As he walked stiffly into the rear suite, he heard water splashing, and… giggling?

Ali Bryan was in the tub, naked as the day she was born, smiling up at him.

“Uhhhhh…Ali, how’d you get in here?”

She shrugged, and a long, shapely leg broke the surface of the roiling water. “I can’t give away all my secrets now, can I, Dan?” She stood up slowly, like a sea nymph rising from the ocean. Henderson gasped as her supple, naked body was revealed to him.

“I need a lover – not a daddy,” she whispered.

He couldn’t remember taking off his clothes. He couldn’t remember climbing into the Jacuzzi with her. All he could remember was that they were suddenly kissing and exploring each other’s bodies, and hearing the sound of her soft cries as he made love to her.

The Jacuzzi wasn’t the most comfortable place to discover that they liked each other very much.

But somehow they managed…


TO BE CONTINUED…

Thanks to Claire, the xtremelady, for allowing me to use the lyrics to "I Tried to Warn You." Please check it out in its original form at http://www.storiesmania.net/communit...361#post112361

Thanks to Kara for her input. Please check out the latest installment of her outstanding "Tinseltown" series at http://www.storiesmania.net/communit...ad.php?t=12817 and then go back and check out the other five!

Lyrics to "The Road That Lies Ahead" by yours truly.