“Look around… open your eyes…”
1990 at The Trocadero in Philadelphia, I fell in love. I had listened to Tesla for years, but it was one particular hot and steamy night in the city when casual teenage affection turned into a coming-of-age love affair. I’m not talking groupie shenanigans. I’m talking the kind of love that washes over you with a silent knowing. Despite the shrill screams of fans that surrounded me in the front row that night, I stood basking in the presence of greatness. Plain and simple, Tesla rocked my world… and never stopped.
I was wearing a white tank top with black polka dots. It was a midriff tank, one I mainly wore with biker shorts whenever I taught my step aerobics class, but it was still cute enough to pair up with torn jeans and cowboy boots. My hair was long, curly and huge, as required for every Jersey girl living in the late eighties/early nineties. Often I refer to said hair as having more circumference than height and width. I know the poor people behind me surely couldn’t see the band.
I had terrible acne, and a wretched case of gingivitis. I know both were directly proportional to my diet, which consisted mainly of chocolate chip cookies, cafeteria french fries and vita pups. It didn’t help that my mother consistently purchased Cap’n Crunch for breakfast and Bugles for snacks. My gums were a mess. I didn’t feel pretty in the least, but as I inched my way toward the front row that night at the Troc, I had no way of knowing the impact my actions would have on my life.
My friend Jen and I made friends with everyone around us. We laughed and batted our eyelashes through the crowd, manipulating our way past sweaty, brawny men with mullets and mustaches who kindly let us stand tightly pressed against them. We offered cheerful artificial banter to their ugly girlfriends who wanted to see us dead by their own hands. We waited for the crowd to swoon and swell, and with every ripple of excitement we let the current carry us further to the front of the room. Finally we arrived to what would have amounted to the third or fourth row. We were a solid mass of perspiring angst. Girls around us were furious. Guys were elated. When the lights went down our rib cages mashed like fat renaissance maidens in corsets and at last I found myself pressed against the railing. I made it.
The magic began and I was transported. Transfixed. Jeff, who had sung straight into my heart for years, who couldn’t possibly have any idea how much he had helped me make sense of my cruel, crazy, bizarr-o world, was incredibly mere inches away. Tommy was, by far, the hottest drug addict I’d ever seen. Troy was a percussive mastermind by all rights, and Brian was right there in front of me – so confident, so sweet and so real. I locked eyes with Frank after his prelude to Love Song. He smiled at me and said, Did you like that? All I could do – all I had to do – was nod and give him the thumbs up. He nodded as if to say Right on and my heart found a new place – a higher place – to rest inside my chest.
It was too good to be true. I was overcome with joy. The night proceeded in sober delirium for me. At the tender age of seventeen, I was innocent and impressionable, but somehow also intuitive enough to realize that Yes, I’m having the time of my life… what a sweet, sweet life it is. I would never again be so young and blissfully oblivious.
After the show, I walked right back stage. No one even tried to stop me. I acted like I was supposed to be there, as if I’d been there the whole time. No one even asked me about a pass. I milled about looking for the guys. I just wanted to say thanks and maybe share a hug. I didn’t want the label of being “one of those girls” who goes backstage and “performs” for the band. I sincerely just wanted to say hi and thank them. Corny, maybe, but my feet and my heart had a mind of their own.
I found Jeff first. He was sitting with his wife, I think, and stood up to greet me.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I replied. “Great show.”
“Thanks,” he said and took my hand. He clasped it gently, but not weakly. “Want a drink?”
“Nah, I’m cool, thanks.”
I was amazingly composed and impressed with myself for how fast my pulse was racing. I turned to peer outside the doorway and abruptly came face to face with Tommy, the whites of his eyes blazed and bloodshot. My pulse died. It took me but a fraction of a second to realize he was standing arm in arm with my friend and co-worker, Melissa. I wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. Good because that meant she could introduce me as her friend and I could have and “in” for chatting with him, bad because it wasn’t me on his arm.
“Omigod! Denise!” Melissa squealed. She leapt into my arms and embraced me dramatically.
“Omigod! Denise!” Tommy repeated with exaggerated flare, and embraced me likewise.
The feel of his body against mine was surreal. His long, curly hair smelled like stale cigarette smoke, but it was the same texture as mine and felt comfortably, wondrously familiar against my cheek. He pulled away and held my gaze. I could plainly see he was bombed out of his gourd. Melissa rapid-fired giddy information to me, about how long she’d known him, how she meets up with him and the band after every Philly and New York show, how she was headed to an after-party back at the hotel and would spend the night there. I wasn’t jealous. At least I don’t think I was. Maybe I would have liked all that, but I knew he didn’t care about her. Maybe I felt sorry for her. Or him. If he got to know me instead, maybe his eyes wouldn’t look that way.
He kept staring at me and finally asked me where my boyfriend was.
“He’s home,” I answered. “Deadhead.”
Tommy nodded. “Cool.”
Melissa pulled his face to hers and kissed him on the mouth. He responded in kind, so I backed out of the room and went to try and find Troy. I knew my friend Paul would appreciate seeing his signature on my ticket stub. I found him and obtained his autograph, stunned at how calm, cool and collected he was. He was quite the gentleman, reserved and subdued. Impressive.
I found my friends again and they were either furious with me for dissing them or ecstatic for me for making it all happen. I think I may have even pulled one of my friends backstage with me, but it’s all hazy now. The strongest memory is of Jeff’s hospitable kindness, Troy’s quiet gentleness, and Tommy’s horribly bloodshot eyes. Stronger still is the certainty that I didn’t want to be like Melissa. I didn’t want to be “that girl.”
Several months later, Tesla’s music video “Signs” made it’s exclusive debut on MTV. I was eating potato chips at the time and choked on them as I watched my side profile appear on screen – a big-nosed, big-haired dork smiling longingly at the band. You could hardly see the acne and the gingivitis. It wasn’t as noticeable bathed in the hue of the blue stage lights. I fast became a small-scale local celebrity, moderately notorious for loving this rock band from California. Each time the video aired, my phone would ring. “I just saw you on TV.” People would pass me in the hallways at school and call out, “Saw your video yesterday.” Strangers at house parties would introduce themselves saying, “So I hear you’re in a video.” It was odd… and I’m not gonna lie… fun. I floated on a cloud for months, maybe even years. Some might argue that I never came down.
I saw Tommy backstage again one night after a show at Lehigh University. Brian had singled me out of the crowd and elbowed Tommy as they played. He nodded in my direction and mouthed the words, “You’re in our video, right?” I nodded and when I did, Tommy grinned. I can remember wondering whether that grin wasn’t partly sinister. Shortly thereafter I felt a lanyard being placed around my neck by a roadie. I remember feeling elated, and also more than just a little bit anxious. My girlfriends were incensed with excitement and envy, so I asked the roadie for two more passes. He shook his head no and I felt pressured not to go backstage after all, since I didn’t want to make my girls wait for me.
In then end, I got them backstage anyway. I pleaded with the security guard and batted my eyelashes. My two friends, Jen and Jen, joined me as we waited impatiently in the University’s cafeteria for Tommy to show up. Troy and Brian came out first and we made our way over to them for autographs. Ever the gentlemen, they were both kind and gracious, not long on conversation, but quick to show their appreciation to their fans. A half hour passed. No Tommy. Forty minutes. Nothing. After about an hour, the cafeteria doors flung open and a sea of people gathered around him, cameras flashing and ticket stubs flung in his general direction along with CD jackets, t-shirts and magazines, all eagerly awaiting his John Hancock. He absentmindedly signed a few as he stood on tiptoe and lifted his sunglasses off his nose, scanning the crowd. I was sitting on a table across the room, refusing to participate in such a frenzied competition for his attention.
He spotted me and I held up my fingers in a cute little wave. He parted the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, or at least that’s how my dramatic mind prefers to refashion the event. He walked directly to me, stopping for no one. When he reached me, we exchanged a few polite greetings and introductions. He signed my ticket and then scooped me off the table and into his arms. He inhaled deeply and pressed his lips against my ear, his long, gorgeous hair caressing my face again. In my fantasy world, it was as if I’d always belonged there.
“Come with me,” he whispered.
Had I died? Was I in heaven? He took my hand and waited for me to acquiesce.
“Where?” I asked.
“To Ohio,” he replied.
“I can’t,” I whined and motioned to my girls.
“Oh,” he said, still holding me around my waist. “Does your boyfriend know your backstage with me right now?”
“Yeah,” I said. “He actually told me this would happen. He asked me not to run away with you.”
“Oh really… and what did you say?” He asked playfully.
“I told him he didn’t have to worry about that.”
“Oh,” he laughed. “He should worry alright!”
I laughed nervously and tried to see his eyes behind his sunglasses. I wished he hadn’t worn them so I could tell if the whites of his eyes were still all red and bloodshot. As if that might be a deciding factor?
“C’mon” he encouraged me, taking my hand.
“I really can’t, Tommy” I said. “As much as I’d love to, believe me.”
“Well… if you can’t, you can’t. Right?”
“Right.” I answered, not so certain myself.
“Are you coming to the Scranton show?” he asked.
“Definitely,” I said without even thinking how I’d get there.
“Cool. See you there, then.”
He pulled me toward him again and kissed me on my cheek.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered, his lips touching my earlobe.
He gave me a tight squeeze and that was it. People flung their stubs at him again and wrapped their arms around his waist, posing for pictures. He was off to his next show, to his next “perfect” girl waiting to step on the next bus to the next city. I shoved my stub in the back pocket of my ripped jeans and went home with my girls, not exactly second-guessing myself, but certainly rattled.
Tommy went on to get kicked out of Tesla for his co-dependence on tranquilizers. I saw him one other time at the Hard Rock Cafe. I met up with him and the guys after the show, but he either didn’t recognize me or didn’t care since his girlfriend was with him. I’m fairly sure he was sober, which might explain a lot. My cousin asked him if he recognized me from the Signs video and he just smiled politely and said, “Of course. How are you?” But he didn’t really care.
Two nights ago, my friend Desi and I went to see Tesla again at the TLA. Eighteen years, a loving handsome husband, a couple of babies, and what feels like a lifetime later, and there we were, right up front again. As could be expected, I had the time of my life. The band sounded amazing and for the first time ever, I got completely inebriated for the event. We had several margaritas and many, many beers. I played air guitar like a prodigy. Frank and I locked eyes on one of his solos and in honor of my hot rockin’ invisible fretboard abilities, he threw five guitar picks my way, all of them intercepted by lesser fans who refused to accept they were all intended for me. I nabbed the sixth pick with startling dexterity and held it up for him to behold. After the show, they shut the doors to the concert hall, but we sneaked back into the room through the bar. A security guard questioned us about our passes, but we just flirted with him and laughed until he left us alone. As soon as he walked away, I scurried back stage, waving Desi on to follow me. She never did, so I ran up a flight of stairs in search of the guys.
I entered a room and found a few people sitting around, chatting with Brian. He glanced up at me and I could tell he was trying to place whether or not I was supposed to be there.
“Hey, Bri” I said, as if he were my brother. “Awesome show, as always.”
“Thanks,” he said, shaking my hand.
That’s when I noticed the girl sitting next to him.
“Omigod! Donna!”
“Omigod! Denise!”
I ran around the coffee table and hugged her. Donna is a total sweetheart, a gorgeous elementary school teacher, who used to date a friend of ours. It was sincerely awesome to see her.
“Brian, Denise was in your Signs video,” she said to him.
“You were?” he asked, looking at me differently now. “I’ll have to go back and look for you.”
I nodded and said, “Yeah, my husband says I’m in the concert footage more than Troy.”
He chuckled, “I’ll definitely have to watch it now! We’ve met before?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Actually we’ve met a couple times. You recognized me while you were playing Lehigh University.”
“Lehigh. Where is that?”
“Here in Pennsylvania,” Donna chimed in.
“Oh. Back in ‘91?” he asked.
“Yeah,” we both answered and I was suddenly painfully aware of just how old we all were.
“You pointed me out to Tommy and one of your guys gave me a pass.”
“Ah, let me guess,” he said. “Tommy was all over you backstage and I was a perfect gentleman.”
I laughed and said, “Yep, that’s about right.”
My own intoxication prevents me from recalling the rest of the conversation with perfect precision, but I can say with certainty that Brian was awesome. Very polite, very friendly. Good man. I went back downstairs, hoping Desi wasn’t completely furious with me. I found her at the bar laughing, thank God.
“Where did you go?!” she asked me, laughing.
“Upstairs. I thought you were right behind me!”
“No… these guys were like, ‘Miss you need to leave’ and I was like ‘Man, my girl, she went backstage, n shit.I can’t leave her.’”
We laughed and I told her all about Donna and Brian and suddenly Frank was sitting there right beside us.
“Hey Frank!” I said, sitting down next to him.
“Hey!” he said, having no clue whatsoever who I was.
“This is Desi.” I added. “Desi, this is Frank.”
“Hello,” she laughed and reached out her hand.
“What’s your name?” he asked, taking it.
“Desiree” she said.
“Desiree. Nice name,” he said gazing lovingly at her. (Who doesn’t?)
“Awesome show, man,” I said.
“Thank you,” he replied.
This is the part where things get pretty fuzzy. I know I talked a lot, but I don’t remember much of what I said. I remember telling him about how Tesla had changed my life when I was a teenager. I remember thanking him for positive rock and roll and I seem to remember him taking me seriously when I said it. I remember looking into his eyes and thinking to myself, he’s listening. I told him about how he had asked me if I liked his prelude to Love Song during the Troc show and that it was caught on video.
“Oh yeah?” he said.
“Yeah, you were totally talking to me.”
“I’ll have to go back and watch it now,” he said.
I believed him too. It’s interesting how drunkenness can make a person so insistent. I was blabbing incessantly to a guy in a band, most of whom are far more interested in the side of women rendered speechless. But I told him about Brian recognizing me and how he wants to watch it now too. And from that point on, neither Desi nor myself could stop laughing. We walked all the way back to the car, only to not even get in it. Instead, we kept walking and laughed all the way back to South Street and ordered Lorenzo’s pizza. We stood outside eating it, when Brian and Donna walked up. We hung out with them and laughed some more and on our way back to the car, we ran into Frank again. We stood around with him for a while, trying to recall how many picks he threw my way, reminiscing about how we had shared an intimate jamming moment. I told him he was my BFF and he asked me what that was. We talked about our kids and our spouses. Then he asked Desi if she was a nympho and we still don’t know why. Des and I laughed for hours and hours and have been laughing ever since. We text each other laughing out loud. We send each other chat messages on facebook, laughing. We call each other on the phone and before a single word is even spoken, we’re laughing. The entire night was ridiculous and hilarious and the most fun that I can’t remember having.
Love is gonna find a way back to you, yeah. I know. Doo, doo doo, doo… I know. Mmmmmmmmmm.
