ELEVEN
Shooting Star had always been a band with a code—feelings first, business second—so I hadn’t given the band much thought, hadn’t considered their feelings, or their resentments, about my extended leave. I figured they’d get my absence without my having to explain.
After I came out of my haze and wrote those first ten songs, I called Liz, who organized a band dinner/meeting. During dinner, we sat around the Club Table—so named because Liz had taken this fugly 1970s wooden dining table we’d found on the curb and covered it with band flyers and about a thousand layers of lacquer to resemble the inside of a club. First, I apologized for going MIA. Then I pulled out my laptop and played them recordings of the new stuff I’d been writing. Liz’s and Fitzy’s eyes went wide. They dangled vegetable lasagna in front of their mouths as they listened to track after track: “Bridge,” “Dust,” “Stitch,” “Roulette,” “Animate.”
“Dude, we thought you were just packing it in, working some crap-ass job and pining, but you’ve been productive,” Fitzy exclaimed. “This shit rocks.”
Liz nodded. “It does. And it’s beautiful, too. It must have been cathartic,” she said, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “I’d love to read the lyrics. Do you have them on your computer?”
“Scrawled on paper at home. I’ll transcribe them and email them to you.”
“Home? Isn’t this home?” Liz asked. “Your room is an untouched museum. Why don’t you move back?”
“Not much to move. Unless you sold my stuff.”
“We tried. Too dusty. No takers,” Fitzy said. “We’ve been using your bed as a hat rack, though.” Fitzy shot me a wiseass grin. I’d made the mistake of telling him how I’d thought I was turning into my dead grandfather, with all his weird superstitions, like his vehement belief that hats on beds bring bad luck.
“Don’t worry, we’ll burn sage,” Liz said. Clearly Fitzy had alerted the media.
“So, what, that’s it?” Mike said, tapping his nails against my laptop.
“Dude, that’s ten songs,” Fitzy said, a piece of spinach in his giant grin. “Ten insanely good songs. That’s practically an album. We already have enough to go into the studio.”
“Those are just the ones that are done,” I interrupted. “I’ve got at least ten more coming. I don’t know what’s going on, but they’re just kinda flowing out of me right now, like they’re already written and recorded and someone just pressed play. I’m getting it all out as fast I can.”
“Obey the muse,” Liz said. “She’s a fickle mistress.”
“I’m not talking about the songs,” Mike said. “We don’t even know if there will be any album. If any of the labels will still want us. We had all this forward momentum and he basically killed it.”
“He didn’t kill anything,” Liz said. “For one, it’s only been a few months, and second of all, our Smiling Simon album has been ripping up the indie charts, getting tons of play on the college stations. And I’ve been working the college angle pretty well,” Liz continued, “with interviews and all, to keep the embers burning.”
“And dude, ‘Perfect World’ has even crossed over; it’s getting play on satellite radio stations,” Fitzy said. “I’m sure all those A&R guys will be happy to see us, shitting bricks to hear this.”
“You don’t know,” Mike said. “They have their trends. Quotas. The outfits they want. And my point is, he”—he jabbed a finger at me—“ditches the band without a word and just waltzes back like it’s no big deal.”
Mike had a point, but it wasn’t like I held anyone back. “Look, I’m sorry. We all go off the cliff sometimes. But you could’ve replaced me if you’d wanted to. Gotten a new guitar player and your major-label deal.”
By the quick look that passed among the three of them, I could see that this option had been discussed, and likely vetoed by Liz. Shooting Star was a democratic outfit; we’d always made decisions together. But when it came down to it, the band was Liz’s. She started it and recruited me to play guitar after seeing me play around town. Then she’d lassoed Fitzy and Mike, so ultimately a personnel change would’ve been her call. Maybe this was why Mike had started playing gigs with another drummer under the name of Ranch Hand.
“Mike, I don’t get what you want out of this,” Fitzy said. “Do you want a box of chocolates? Do you want Adam to get you a nice bouquet to say sorry?”
“Piss off, Fitz,” Mike said.
“I’ll buy you flowers,” I offered. “Yellow roses. I believe those symbolize friendship. Whatever it takes, I’ll do what I’m told.”
“Will that make it good?” Fitzy continued. “Because what the fuck, man? We have these amazing songs. I wish I’d written those songs. But Adam did. He came through. And we have him back. So maybe now we can get back to making kick-ass music and see where it takes us. And maybe, you know, let our kid get a little joy back in his life. So, dude. Bygones.”
Mike’s worries turned out to be unfounded. Some of the major labels that had been courting us in the fall had cooled on us, but a handful were still interested, and when we sent them the demos of the songs that would become Collateral Damage they went ballistic, and we were signed and in the studio with Gus before we knew it.
And for a while, things were good. Fitzy and Liz were both right. Recording Collateral Damage was cathartic. And there was joy. Working with Gus was intense; he brought out the noise in us, told us not to be scared of our raw power, and we all ran with it. And it was cool being up in Seattle recording and staying in a corporate apartment and feeling like The Shit. Everything seemed good.
Not long after the record came out, the tour started. A five-month slog through North America, Europe, and Asia that, at the outset, seemed like the most exciting thing in the world. And in the beginning, it was. But it was also grueling. And soon I was tired all the time. And lonely. There was a lot of empty time in which to miss her. I kind of holed away in my hotel rooms, the backs of tour buses. I pushed everyone away. Even Liz. Especially Liz. She wasn’t stupid; she knew what was going on—and why. And she wasn’t some fragile flower, either. She kept after me. So I burrowed, until, I guess, she got tired of trying to dig me out.
As the tour went on, the album just started going haywire. Platinum. Then double-platinum. The tour dates sold out, so our promoters added additional ones to meet demand. The merchandising deals were everywhere. Shooting Star T-shirts, caps, posters, stickers, even a special-edition Shooting Star telescope. Suddenly, the press was all over us. Interviews all the time, which was flattering at first. People cared enough about us to read what we had to say.
But a weird thing started to happen in interviews. The reporter would sit the band down together, ask some perfunctory questions to us all, and then turn the microphone or camera on me. And I tried to open it up to the rest of the band. That’s when reporters started requesting interviews with just me, a request I uniformly turned down, until it suddenly became impossible for us to do interviews any other way.
About four months into the tour, we were in Rome. Rolling Stone had sent a reporter to spend a few days with us. One night, after a show, we were closing the hotel bar. It was a pretty mellow scene and we were sitting around, decompressing, pounding grappa. But then the reporter starts firing away with all these heavy-duty questions. All to me. I mean, there were about a dozen of us in there—me, Liz, Fitzy, Mike, Aldous, some roadies, some groupies—but this guy was acting like I was the only person in the room. “Adam, do you see Collateral Damage as having a single narrative? If so, can you elaborate on it?” “Adam, do think this record represents your growth as a songwriter?” “Adam, you’ve mentioned in other interviews you don’t want to go down ‘that dark rock star path,’ but how do you keep from suffocating on your own fumes?”
Mike just lost it. “You hijacked the band!” he screamed at me, like it was just the two of us in a room, like there wasn’t a reporter right there. “This isn’t just the Adam Wilde Show, you know. We’re a band. A unit. There are four of us. Or did you forget that, on your way down the ‘dark rock star path?’”
Mike turned to the reporter. “You wanna know about the illustrious Adam Wilde? I’ve got some choice details. Like our rock star over here has to do this crazy voodoo shit before each show and is such a prima donna that if you whistle backstage before a show he has a tantrum because of the bad luck—”
“Mike, come on,” Liz interrupted sharply. “All artists have their rituals.”
The reporter, meanwhile, was scribbling away, eating all this up until Aldous diplomatically said that everyone was tired and shooed everyone but the band out of the bar and tried to get me and Mike to make nice. But then Mike just let loose for round two of insults, telling me what a spotlight-hogging asshole I’d become. I looked over at Liz to come to my defense again, but she was staring intently at her drink. So I turned to Fitzy, but he just shook his head. “I never thought I’d be the one to say this, but grow up, you two.” Then he left. I looked pleadingly at Liz. She looked sympathetic, but tired. “Mike, you were out of line in there,” she said flatly. But then she turned to me and shook her head. “But, Adam, come on. You’ve got to try to see it from his perspective. From all of ours. It’s tough to be big about this, especially when you’ve retreated from us. I get why you have, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”
All of them—they were all against me. I waved my hands in surrender. I ran out of the bar, strangely close to tears. In the lobby, this Italian model named Rafaella, who’d been hanging with us, was waiting for a taxi. She smiled when she saw me. When her taxi came, she gestured with her head, inviting me inside. And I went. The next day, I checked into a different hotel from the band.
The story hit RollingStone.com almost immediately and the tabloids a few days later. Our label freaked, as did our tour promoters, all of whom warned of the various forms of hell there would be to pay if we didn’t honor our concert commitments. Aldous flew in a professional mediator to talk to me and Mike. She was useless. Her genius idea, a legacy that continues to this day, is what Fitzy refers to as “The Divorce.” I would continue to stay at one hotel for the remainder of the tour, the rest of the band at another. And our publicists decided it was safer to keep me and Mike separate in interviews, so now reporters often talk to me solo. Yeah, those changes have helped a lot!
When I got back from the Collateral Damage tour, I almost quit the band. I moved out of the house I’d been sharing with Fitzy in Portland and into my own place. I avoided those guys. I was angry, but also ashamed. I wasn’t sure how, but I’d clearly ruined everything. I might’ve just let the run end there, but Liz stopped by my new place one afternoon and asked me to just give it a few months’ breathing space and see how I felt. “Anyone would be going a little nuts after the couple years we’ve had, especially the couple of years you’ve had,” she’d said, which was about as much as we acknowledged Mia. “I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m just asking you to not do anything and see how you feel in a few months.”
Then the album started winning all these awards, and then I met Bryn and moved to L.A. and didn’t have to deal with them much, so I just wound up getting sucked in for another round.
Bryn’s the only person who knows how close to the edge that tour pushed me, and how badly I’ve been dreading this upcoming one. “Cut them loose,” is her solution. She thinks I have some sort of guilt complex, coming from humble origins and all, and that’s why I won’t go solo. “Look, I get it. It’s hard to accept that you deserve the acclaim, but you do. You write all the songs and most of the music and that’s why you get all the attention,” she tells me. “You’re the talent! Not just some pretty face. If this were a movie, you’d be the twenty-million-dollar star and they’d be the supporting players, but instead you all get an equal split,” she says. “You don’t need them. Especially with all the grief they give you.”
But it’s not about the money. It never has been. And going solo doesn’t seem like much of a solution. It would just be out of the frying pan and into the fire. And there’d still be touring to contend with, the thought of which has been making me physically sick.
“Why don’t you call Dr. Weisbluth?” Bryn suggested on the phone from Toronto, where she was wrapping her latest film. Weisbluth’s the psychopharmacologist the label had hooked me up with a few months earlier. “See if he can give you something a little stronger. And when you get back, we need to have a sit-down with Brooke and seriously talk about you going solo. But you have to get through this tour. You’ll blow your reputation otherwise.”
There are worse things to blow than your reputation, aren’t there? That’s what I thought. But I didn’t say it. I just called Weisbluth, got some more scripts, and steeled myself for the tour. I guess Bryn understood, like I understood, like everyone who knew me understood, that in spite of his bad-boy rep, Adam Wilde does as he’s told.