By Bruce Duff, Cheetah Chrome, Tony Adolescent
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Don’t worry, man,” I reassure. ” He plays Johnny Thunders’ “You Can’t Put Your Arms Around a Memory,” and a few of his own toned-down numbers. They’re warmly received. We bullshit with the locals a little more, then bail back to the hotel. m. Not really much of a night out. We haven’t even been here a day, yet been up for two. I figure it’s the jet lag and everyone’s pretty shagged. We all go straight to bed like good little boys. m. the evening’s beer consumption sends me to the halls trying to remember where they hid the toilets.
She always encourages me to do what I want and to take my music as far as it will go. Gina dishes out the vittles and we all sit down at the dining table, but Dahl declines to join us. He sits across the room, eating only a salad. He seems uncomfortable socializing with anyone, and he’s shyer than I’ve ever seen him. I figure he’s probably just nervous and anxious. When January 19th finally comes around, we all board KLM airlines and head to Amsterdam, the city where the tour will begin and end.
Now, he was fronting his own marginally successful independent recording group. This particular pilgrimage to the City by the Bay took place in 1987, and by then I’d known Jeff for about four years. We’d met in 1983 when I was the bass player of the campy death rock band 45 Grave, which featured members of Vox Pop, Jeff’s band at the time. He’d abandoned live performance and recording in the mid-eighties, got himself a respectable job in the tape library of Warner Bros. Records, bought a house in Woodland Hills—an upscale suburban area of the suburbs—and settled in with his wife, Sylvia, whom he’d married right out of high school.