Not Dead & Not For Sale Read Online Free Page A

The Stones stayed together. The Beatles broke up. When Jim Morrison died, the Doors were never the same. When Kurt Cobain died, Nirvana died.
    I believe most bands are born at a time of youthful optimism and fresh energy. The motivation is strong and the future unlimited. Why not think big? Why not live in hope rather than fear?
    I wasn’t fearful at Edison High when we began a band called Soi-Disant. The question we got over and over again was, “What the fuck does it mean?” The answer we gave was that in French it means something like “self-style” or “style of one’s own.” An artsy-fartsy French name perfectly fit our vision of an edgy postpunk band. The more obscure the name, the better. We were modeling ourselves after the first Duran Duran album and bands like Ultravox, the Cure, and U2. Combining that vibe with a dirty rocking punky backbeat, I wrote stories focusing on teen angst. None of us were exceptional, but we were okay. It was me singing, Cory on guitar, bassists Dave Stokes at one point, Scott Tubbs at another, Britt Willets on keys.
    It had all started with a simple conversation between me and Cory. I’d been singing in the choir.
    “You think you can sing in a rock band?” Cory asked.
    “Sure,” I said.
    “I don’t mean sing with your choir voice. I mean sing in a rock voice.”
    “Sure,” I repeated.
    I have a chameleon-like ability to sing in any style. As a singer, I’ve always had confidence. I spent lots of time listening to Bowie and John Lennon, models for using your voice like an instrument.
    After a few months of playing, we cut a demo at a sixteen-track studio with a great name: Gofer Baroque . Turned out good. I saw that I could lay down distinct harmony parts and build up a layered vocal. I felt like a professional beginner.
    Over the next few years, I’d slip into the Orange County alt scene, where I’d find great musical and chemical stimulation. It was a lot better than backyard beer bashes. There was a famous club called the Cuckoo’s Nest that featured bands like Social Distortion and the Bell Jar. That’s where I heard the astounding English guitarist Adam Elesh, who lived in Newport Beach. I remember getting stoned and watching Adam play along with a Pink Floyd record, re-creating David Gilmour’s solos note for note. I’d never seen anyone manipulate effect pedals so deftly.
    “How’d you get so good?” I asked him.
    “I learned everything I could. And then I promptly forgot everything I learned and started over.”
    At a critical juncture, Adam gave us a strong taste of big-time rock-and-roll virtuosity. Soi-Disant had a regular gig in Newport Beach at Déjà Vu.
    Pretentious-named rock band meets pretentious-named club.
    We got two hundred dollars a night plus all the booze we could keep down. It was the summer before my junior year, a golden time, the ultra-eighties, the season of experimentation. We had progressed past practicing in my garage to rehearsing in the studio of Scott Tubbs, our bassist. Scott had been in the choir with me—actually the Madrigal Ensemble—where every Christmas we went caroling on Balboa Island with a group of “choir mice,” our term for the straitlaced singers. One December we got everyone drunk on peppermint schnapps and, as a result, were kicked out of the ensemble.
    The two Scotts spelled trouble. During one rehearsal, a trio of computer nerds showed up. Looking to ingratiate themselves with cool rockers, they offered us blow. Bring it on. One of the boys railed out a fat line seven inches long. I snorted it up and never felt better. “Want another?” he asked. “Yes,” I answered. Line two sent me from Venus to Mars. The substance was flaky and just the slightest bit oily. It looked like abalone shell. Turned out the boys were dealing it and asked if we’d be interested in doing the same. My thought was, Yes, this is the way to snort for free and feel good all the time . One problem, though: I was broke. “No