Al Steiner
Intemperance #1
Climbing the Rock
Chapter 1A: The Power of Music
September 13, 1980
Heritage, California
Heritage, California was certainly not the center of anything, especially not the rock music scene of the west coast in the year 1980. But little did the citizens of this moderate-sized metropolitan region in the most populous state know, the mediocre venue known as D Street West in downtown Heritage would one day become a Mecca for rock and roll music lovers worldwide because of the performance that would take place here tonight.
D Street West was arguably the most exclusive venue in the city although that really wasn't saying a whole lot. It was a single story building occupying a corner lot in downtown Heritage, at the corner of 3rd and D Streets, in a low-rent portion of the high-rise district. The bar could hold 400 people, though on nights The Boozehounds played, it often held about 200 more than the fire marshall would have legally allowed. The Boozehounds were Heritage's most popular local rock group. Fond of songs about drinking and smoking pot and fornication and sometimes all at the same time, they were a competent band with a lead guitarist who knew most of the chords and could play them with something that resembled proficiency, a singer who had enough range to hit five or six high notes per set without his voice cracking, and a drummer and bass player who could keep time with the songs well enough to make what came out of their amp sound like actual music. Though The Boozehounds had been trying for eight years to secure a recording contract with one of many Los Angeles based record labels, they had been turned down at every turn, told they were "small time" and "great for a cow town, but not worth shit in a real city". And so they stayed in Heritage, squeaking out a living by playing three nights a week at one of the ten or so clubs that featured live rock music.
At 5:00 on this Saturday afternoon, ninety minutes before the club would open, three and a half hours before The Boozehounds were scheduled to take the stage, two vehicles-a 1966 VW Microbus and a 1971 Ford van-pulled in the back parking lot of D Street West and parked near the backstage door. Five young men piled out of the two vehicles. All were dressed in blue jeans and dark colored T-shirts. All but one had long, shaggy hair. These were the members of the rock group Intemperance, a band that virtually no one in the Heritage area-or in fact the world-had ever heard of. They were opening for The Boozehounds tonight, their set to begin at 7:00 and last for 45 minutes. It was to be their first performance before an audience.
Jake Kingsley was the lead singer and rhythm guitarist. He was tall and a bit on the thin side, his shoulder length hair dark brown. At twenty years old he still had the last vestiges of adolescent acne marring his face in a few places. He puffed a filtered cigarette thoughtfully as he examined the backstage door, still marveling over the fact that they had an actual gig, that they were actually going to be paid to perform their music before an audience. And not just any audience either. They were at D Street West opening for a band that had almost legendary status in the region. "Did you see our name out on the board out front?" he asked Matt Tisdale excitedly. "Right under the Boozehounds. Can you believe that shit?"
Matt was the lead guitarist. He was twenty-one, a little shorter than Jake and a little broader across the shoulders and the middle. His hair was dyed jet black and had not been cut since he was seventeen. It fell almost to his waist in the back and was constantly getting in his eyes in the front. It was he who had suggested they audition for the gig despite the fact that the flyer they'd found on the bulletin board at Heritage Community College had specified "only experienced acts need apply".
"Fuck The Boozehounds," he said contemptuously as he flicked his own cigarette into a nearby drain. "They ain't shit. If they were any good they wouldn't still be playin' in this fuckin' place after eight years."
"He does have a point there," said Bill Archer, the piano player. Bill was the one among them without long hair. His hair was in fact cut almost militarily short in an era where even businessmen sported their locks well below the ears. At nineteen years old, Bill was the youngest member of the band. He wore black, horned-rim glasses with lenses about as thick as they could come. In his spare time he liked to study astrophysics, computer science, and the principals of electrical engineering. As far as the rest of the band knew, he had never been laid in his life, had never even had a girl's tongue in his mouth. He was also a prodigy on the piano, a fact that had been recognized by his parents well before his sixth birthday. Jake-who had known Bill all his life since he was the son of one of his mother's best friends-had been the one to convince the other band members that Bill needed to play with them. Though most hard-rock groups these days eschewed the piano on general principals, it had only taken one session with Bill accompanying them to convince the founding members of Intemperance that his skill and ability to blend the ivories with the crushing guitars and the pounding drum beat gave them a sound unlike any other group. Plus, he was fun to get stoned with. He could entertain them for hours with his large vocabulary and his lectures on just what E=MC squared actually meant.
"It could be that the music industry is deliberately keeping them down," suggested John Cooper, the drummer, who was known pretty much universally as "Coop". He had thick, naturally curly and naturally blonde hair that resembled that belonging to a poodle. It cascaded down across his shoulders and onto his back. Coop-who had been smoking pot at least once a day since approximately the age of ten-thought there was a deep, dark conspiracy for everything. He genuinely believed that men had never walked on the moon, that the government had killed John F. Kennedy, that fluoride in drinking water was intended to pacify the populace, and that the world was going to end in two years when all the planets aligned.
"Why would the music industry keep them down?" asked Darren Appleman, the bass player. He was twenty and perhaps the best looking of the group. His physique was well formed to begin with and made more impressive by the weight lifting he did five times a week. His dark hair was shoulder length only, always carefully styled. You would never catch Darren without a comb in his pocket. Though he wasn't any great shake as a bass player, he was very consistent with the rhythm, rarely missing a beat, and had a decent voice for back-up singing.
"You know how it is?" Coop said, which was what he always said before launching into one of his conspiracy theories. "They probably didn't like a contract or something back when they first started and tried to change something. Now they've been blackballed. The industry keeps a list, you know."
"A list?" Matt said, raising his eyebrows, although with his hair you couldn't really tell he'd done it.
"Damn right," Coop assured him. "They only want the right kind of people in the industry. People they can control. If they think you're gonna try to push them too hard, boom, you're on the list and you'll never get a record contract no matter how good you are." He then ended his lecture with his signature end of lecture statement. "It's the way the world works, dude."
"Shit," said Matt, shaking his head. "Or it could be that they just suck ass, which they do. Singing about bonghits and boffing fat chicks. They're a fuckin' comedy act, that's why they don't get signed."
Matt was treading on what was considered sacred ground in the Heritage area. You just didn't talk shit about The Boozehounds. But of course, all of them knew he was right, even Coop. The truth was, The Boozehounds really weren't all that good. Matt could blow their lead guitar player away with one hand tied behind his back. And Jake could sing their lead singer under the table with laryngitis.