I’m at a petrol station somewhere just south a Chicago. My back is still sore from carryin’ those goddamned drums an’ I got welts on my belly from where the drummer whipped me with one a his drumsticks after I dropped a cymbal. It’s my first week workin’ as a roadie fer Huey Lewis an’ the News. Two nights at the House a Blues in Chicago – the first one was a nightmare ‘cos I didn’t know what I wuz supposed ta do, an nobody told me either, the second night wuz even worse. Now we’re headin’ south ta play a gig at a Knights a Columbus Hall in Springfield. We’re supportin’ some local band there that just re-formed called Money Walks, er Talks ….somethin’ like that. Nobody’s happy about that.
There’s five a us roadies – only one a them speaks good English (aside from me) – William Fairnsworth III, but everybody just calls him Grumpy Bill. He’s a homeless guy that they picked up in Denver. Grumpy Bill says one day he gets a extra $10 after pickin’ up the deposits on a lotta empty glass bottles an’ sellin’ his sperm (not to a sperm bank, but some fast food joint called Jack in the Box, oddly enough.) So he decides ta celebrate his good fortune an buys a bottle a Thunderbird. He blacks out an’ next thing ya know, he says, he wakes up chained up in the back of a van with one a his kidneys missing. The rest a tha guys are all foreigners. Dong Bu Pong is from someplace called Viet Nam, which I think is in China – I dunno, ‘cos I can’t understand a word he says, ‘cos he mostly speaks in Chineseish. Mhuto is from someplace in Africa. I calls him Tyler ‘cos I can’t pronounce Mhuto. Miguel is from Mexico an’ is six years old. He’s in charge a carryin’ an’ settin’ up the amplifiers an’ sound equipment.
Mr. Lewis rides down in this huge black stretch limo with tinted, bullet-proof glass. Grumpy Bill told me that he’s got a mini-bar fully stocked with all these expensive champagnes, a hot tub an’ a 40-inch plasma screen TV with surround sound back there, but I ain’t seen it yet ta confirm it. The rest a the band is in a custom-made bus. It’s got three separate bathrooms, a Nintendo Wii, an’ a studio space fer the News ta practice in. This I have seen, ‘cos a couple a nights ago, Sean, the keyboard player, asked me ta bring a coupla a groupies on board the bus. ‘Make sure they’re blonde,’ he said. The when I came back with them, he dragged me inta the bathroom an’ started punchin’ me in the stomach an’ pushin’ ma head inta the toilet bowl. ‘I specifically said blonde,’ he screamed. ‘That one on the left has dishwater coloured hair, ya stupid sonovabitch! DISHWATER!!’
The roadies follow behind in a light blue 1986 Ford Escort. Drivin’ duties are split between me an’ Tyler. Ta make sure we don’t escape, they’ve put these bracelets on our ankles that have trackin’ devices an’ send out a sharp, electrical shot if one a us tries ta do somethin’ funny. We’re all stopped at this petrol station ‘cos ta gas up the band’s bus. Also, ‘cos Mr. Lewis wants ta take a shit an’ buy a Big Gulp an’ a couple a Slim Jims. The band stays in the bus – all of them, ‘cept fer Sean an’ the bassist, a real mean bastard named Mario. They’ve managed ta corner Dong, the Chinese guy, an forced him ta strip down ta his underwear. It’s fuckin’ cold out here, below freezin,’ an I can see Dong shiverin.’ Sean an’ Mario are pointin’ an laughin’ at him. They’re holdin’ onto his clothes an’ they won’t give them back. Dong is on the verge a tears, an is gibberin’ somethin’ in Chinese ta them. Then Mario takes one a Dong’s shoes and just whips it at him, hittin’ him squarely in the forehead. Dong stumbles backwards an’ falls on his ass onto the sidewalk. This causes the two band members ta laugh even harder. I’m feelin’ really bad fer the guy, y’know? Like I should do somethin’, step in an say somethin’, or I dunno? But if I do I know they’ll turn on me, so I don’t. Mario is about ta chuck the other shoe at Dong when the band’s manager shouts at ‘em ta get back on the bus, ‘cos they were about ta leave. When they’re gone I go help Dong onta his feet and take him back ta the Escort.
The band’s manager is the same guy who abducted me from Glasgow and put me on the plane here. His name turns out ta be Bradford, I learn. He’s real scary, a total badass, an’ what he says pretty much goes. Even the band does what he says. Everybody’s scared a him; well everyone but Mr. Lewis, that is. Before he wuz in the music business, he was supposedly a steel cage fighter, an never lost a match. There’s this story ‘bout him that Grumpy Bill tol’ me, an’ it goes somethin’ like this: one day Bradford went to the grocery store ta buy a jar a mustard. An while he was waiting in line at the check-out, this little kid that was standin’ behind him started carryin’ on, throwin’ a tantrum or somethin’, I dunno, but the kid wuz only like three or four years old. Anyway, Bradford wuz havin’ none a it, so he spins around an smacks the kid across the mouth – hard. The kid’s parents were right there, an’ saw the whole thing. At first they were so flabbergasted that they didn’t say nuthin’. Then the kid’s dad steps forward, an’ the kid’s dad turns out ta be none other than Chuck Norris (okay, it was Chuck Norris the proctologist, not the movie star – but still, a proctologist?…brrr.) As he’s about ta give Bradford the ol’ what fer, Bradford kicks him in the nuts an then grabs his head an’ slams it against the cash register a coupla times. Chuck is out cold. Then a couple a cops show up an they’ve got their guns trained on Bradford an’ yellin’ at him ta lie down on the floor. Instead, Bradford calmly unzips his trousers and whips out his salami. The cops are so stunned by how big he is that they immediately lower their guns an start cryin’. Then Bradford strolls outta the grocery store, having paid fer the mustard using exact change…I mean how crazy is that?
We’re in Springfield now. The gig at the Knights a Columbus Hall wuz pretty bad. None a us had anything ta eat fer the past day or so – the band ain’t been feedin’ us an’ none a us have any money ta buy any food ‘cos we ain’t been paid – so we’re all pretty weak from hunger. Grumpy Bill has got the shakes ‘cos he’s goin’ through withdrawals. So when he drops a microphone stand, the band gets absolutely brutal on his ass. Miguel is so exhausted that he passes out. Tyler an’ Dong take him back to the Escort before sees him, an after I finish settin’ up the drum kit, I take over Miguel’s job an’ set up all the amps an’ sound equipment. The amps are fucking heavy an’ the job damn near does me in.
Ta make matters worse, the band plays terribly an’ the gig is plagued wit’ all kinds a sound problems an’ shit. The mics cut out on a couple of occasions an’ the guitars get all this reverb an’ feedback an’ shit. Someone throws a banana peel on stage an’ Mr. Lewis trips on it. An ta top it all off there’s no decent-lookin’ chicks in the crowd, an’ no blondes fer Sean. In fact, all the wimen here seem ta be groupies fer the local band that we’re supportin’, an’ have zero interest in Huey Lewis an’ The News.
Mr. Lewis is furious. After we’ve broken down the equipment at the end of the show, we’re told to meet with Bradford in the parking lot of a Hardees’ across from the Knights of Columbus Hall.
“Listen up, you little pieces a shit,” Bradford bellows. “Mr. Lewis and the band are absolutely furious with your performance tonight…furious!”
Bradford pauses ta take a sip of Pepsi, then paces around the parking lot. Us roadies are standing side by side at full attention, like we’re in the army or somethin’. Miguel is still pretty weak, so I’m propin’ him up so’s that he don’t pass out or nuthin’. I don’t see Grumpy Bill anywhere.
“This kind of performance will not be tolerated! There’s no excuse for this, understand?” Bradford screams.
Then Tyler says something in broken English. “Sorry, suh…we weak…we hungry….very hungry.”
Bradford wheels around an’ gives Tyler this look, real mean like. An’ I’m thinkin’, oh man Tyler, ya stupid or somethin’? Please just shut up before we all get it. Then he marches over ta Tyler and punches him in the stomach, so hard that Tyler actually vomits, even though he ain’t had nuthin’ ta eat in days. Then he grabs him by the throat an’ screams inta his face. “Do not interrupt me again, motherfucker or I will torch your entire village, understand?!?”
Tyler coughs an’ tries ta nod that he understands, an’ Bradford drops him to the ground. As our punishment, we’re told that we are ta spend the rest of the night standin’ in one spot in the shiverin’ winter cold in the Hardees’ parkin’ lot; that is of course after the band has their way with us. Then early the next mornin’ we’re told ta get back into the Escort an’ get ready ta drive off to the next gig. Tomorrow night the band has a gig in Champaign Urbana, sharin’ the bill with The Fixx an’…..Ray Parker Jr. Nobody’s happy about that.
* I can't imagine anyone stupid enough to think that this story is actually true, but just in case, let me make it clear - what you've been reading is satire. I've never actually met Huey Lewis or the News. So Mr. Lewis, if by some weird one-in a million chance you're reading this (I dunno, maybe you Google yourself during your free time) please don't sue me, because I don't make a dime from this stuff.
