Photo of Tom Waits by Jason Grow
A friend of mine calls. "I have backstage passes to the Rolling Stones/Metallica concert in San Francisco, do you want them?"
I’m like, “Fuck yeah.”
She says, “Well the passes aren’t real or anything, my brother made them on his computer, but they look real good.”
“Perfect, I’ll take ‘em.”
Kathleen Brennen and Tom Waits
My other friend Dr. D used to be a roadie and has two lanyards with authentic, laminated backstage passes to all of the big names in music from the last 10 years.
The plan is to put the new Rolling Stones passes onto the real laminated pass lanyard and presto, rock and roll, up close and personal, just like I always envisioned it should be. I tell Dr. D, “We should hang out with Keith first, smoke a couple of doobies with Ronnie, check out what Mick is doing, then if we have time, meet the new bassist of Metallica and talk to James and Lars about what songs we want on the new album.”
I tell Dr. D, “We should hang out with Keith first, smoke a couple of doobies with Ronnie, check out what Mick is doing, then if we have time, meet the new bassist of Metallica and talk to James and Lars about what songs we want on the new album.”
Dr. D’s like “Fuck yeah.”
We meet at AT&T Park in SF in front of the nine-foot Willie Mays statue, the heroic scale of Willie towering above us metaphorically. We ad-lib the strategy, find the load-in area around back and eye the situation.
This is a Rolling Stones concert.
Metallica is the opener.
Security is EPIC.
So are our BALLS...
We walk right in.
It’s not really backstage; it’s just a big open area behind center field. All sizes of seemingly private tents and trailers sit mysteriously; the interiors hold all that is rock and roll, sycophants and hot chicks, hangers-on and tables full of cocaine.
Outside the trailers, the atmosphere is surprisingly low key, a few people milling about, and business as usual.
Suddenly we hear, “FREEZE!”
A cadre of security dressed in black with earpieces and sunglasses, sort of like the secret service only hipper and cooler, line the area between the stage and Metallica’s trailer.
Everybody stands still.
Metallica ends their set and strut like victorious warriors off the stage, through the security lineup and into their trailers.
Lars and James totally ignore me as they pass.
Apparently, whenever Metallica goes somewhere, everybody else has to freeze.
After unfreezing, we walk like we have something to do, our plan ended after getting in. We explore for places to hang out and run into a tent marked “Hospitality.”
We look at each other. Yep, this is our tent.
Inside it’s small with a long banquet table and chairs, a beverage cooler in the corner full of chilled Heinekens. There are 8 or 10 people talking.
Dr. D lays low, but I immediately start talking to Tom like an old buddy.
“Tom, what up dude, Mule Variations, loved it, Marc Ribot, that guy never disappoints, I can’t believe you got Larry to play too, fantastic, and Charlie Musslewhite, opened for him back in the day at the Cactus Club in San Jose, next time you see him, tell him I said hey, are you still playing the conundrum?”
One is Tom Waits.
And another is Sean Penn.
I’m thinking, “Finally, I get to hang with the cool kids.”
Dr. D lays low, but I immediately start talking to Tom like an old buddy.
“Tom, what up dude, Mule Variations, loved it, Marc Ribot, that guy never disappoints, I can’t believe you got Larry to play too, fantastic, and Charlie Musslewhite, opened for him back in the day at the Cactus Club in San Jose, next time you see him, tell him I said hey, are you still playing the conundrum?”
I bust Tom Waits trivia like a boss. My swagger knows no bounds, I’m expecting him to invite to me to jam, or at least hang out.
He looks at me, and then down at my morass of laminated passes, doesn’t recognize me, and doesn’t say a word.
Kathleen Brennen, his beautiful wife, collaborator, producer, doesn’t miss a beat. “He plays anything and everything,” and she’s off talking. She is beautiful, smart, charming. We talk Tom, right in front of him like he’s not there. She also glances down at my backstage pass during the conversation.
After that, we exit smoothly, “See ya guys, gotta scope out Mick and Keith.”
Famous people are acutely aware of non-famous people and I’m sure that this small private soiree were made up of folks who have known each other a long time.
I doubt we fooled anybody.
We definitely didn’t fool the tour manager. Word must have got out that there were two intruders wandering around backstage. He rolled up on us with more security.
“Hey you guys, lemme see those passes.”
I’m like, “Dude, you’re all up in our personal space,” my bravado still flowing jet fresh.
He glances at the passes, laughs, says that out of all the bogus shit he’s seen over the years, these are without a doubt the worst passes ever. Now get out, and if we see you again, you’ll be arrested for trespassing.
I was going to say we’ve been kicked out of better places, but on second thought, this was the best place I’d been kicked out of, so we just said OK.
We had a problem though; we had no tickets to see the show.
As we walk back to the front the stadium, we see a very tall, chain-link monstrosity that is technically called a fence but reminded me of those huge barriers outside of prisons. It’s at least fifteen feet, sharp prickly points on the top; I’m surprised there’s no razor wire. Inside the fence there’s an unguarded side entrance that leads to the back of the audience area. The pre-concert music pumps so hard we can feel it. The energy of the crowd is palpable.
“You’ll be arrested for trespassing” still rings in our ears.
Fuck it.
We climb the fence; our big balls following close behind.
