Sting, Boy George, and Me
Next weekend's Fenway concert by The Police reminds me of my own brief but colorful rock star past.
One summer, I lived like a rock star, crisscrossing the country with a band in a bus long enough to uncomfortably sleep 10. There was an album on the Billboard charts and a MTV interview. Both appearances were brief. We dined on deli platters in dingy dressing rooms, wore dark sunglasses to hide dark circles, and sometimes began days deep into afternoon. We played with The Police, too.
The back story is longer than a live recording of "Freebird," but here's the bullet-point version: In the 1980s, I was a skinny suburban kid subsisting on 16-inch pizzas and 12-inch remixes. I traveled the tight circles of Boston's music scene with Adventure Set, a band I cofounded. We filled clubs like The Channel, The Paradise, and The Rat. CBS paid us to record a three-song demo, and a Boston Globe headline read: "This Set's modern funk has potential."
Before long, however, I was manning a bank of synthesizers and singing backup with another group, Ministry - the version leader Al Jourgensen would disavow after reinventing himself as an industrial-strength screamer with albums like The Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Taste. Ministry was based in Chicago, but spent the spring of 1983 hibernating at Syncro Sound, The Cars' studio on Newbury Street in Boston. That's where Iggy Pop offered me lyric-writing advice: "Always carry a thesaurus, man."
On tour that year, we headlined sweaty clubs and mid-size halls, and in larger venues, opened for established groups. Monotonous all-night drives between cities were broken by layovers at truck stops, where our pale-faced entourage would clunk down the corrugated-metal bus steps like reluctant vampires on a field trip. At the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles, we were paired with Culture Club, sacrificed to rows of girls frothing for Boy George. In Minneapolis, we were booked into First Avenue, the centerpiece of Prince's Purple Rain movie. A "fan" there rapped his finger against a table top and offered to spell my name in cocaine, middle initial and all. I declined. Days later, we returned to Chicago to share a bill with The Police before a sun-baked audience of about 50,000 at Comiskey Park, home of the White Sox.
Next weekend, The Police will take the field again, this time at Fenway Park. I'll keep score from home, unless Sting adds me to the guest list. If nostalgia strikes, I can replay scenes from Comiskey. The black-and-white photo accompanying this essay was taken just before that concert. I make no apologies - it was the '80s; we bought Aqua Net Extra Super Hold by the case. Soon after the picture was taken, Ministry was introduced as "Chicago's own!" From the stage, no faces, just a sea of flesh. I played a chord and heard it bounce off the back of the ballpark. Basement beer halls had not prepared me for anything on this scale.
The lineup included A Flock of Seagulls, The Fixx, and Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. Behind the stage, each band was assigned a trailer. The Police had two; one for egos, apparently. Between sets, we mingled around picnic tables. I felt like a freshman at a senior outing. Joan Jett snarled, surrounded by a phalanx of bodyguards. The Fixx invited me over for a drink. Sting ate healthy food. The Police didn't play until the sun fell below the stadium facade. I wanted to be disappointed. They were establishment; we were upstarts. The Synchronicity album was pointed toward number one; Ministry's With Sympathy was headed nowhere. Truth is, both destinations were probably warranted. During "King of Pain," two women pressed their faces against a chain-link fence that kept the hordes from backstage. "Can we have your autograph?" one shouted, punching a napkin through the wire. It wasn't a question I heard often. "I know you," she said. "You're in Flock of Seagulls."
Horrified, I scribbled my name and retreated to the bus. Long before it rolled into LA for our final shows in September, I knew my role in Ministry would be more of a hired haircut than collaborator. On a sleepless night in a decaying room at the Tropicana Motel - former home to the likes of Jim Morrison and Tom Waits - I catalogued my career options. In the end, leaving the band was easy. Kicking the Aqua Net habit, that took resolve.
Mark Pothier is now a senior assistant business editor at the Globe. E-mail him at mpothier@globe.com. 