Table of Contents
Introduction
Blink of an Eye
This was the boring part of Mitch Carpenters job, telling assholes like the guy in the red Pontiac Grand Am they couldnt park their cars wherever they felt like it. If one were to break it down, what Mitch did, it was like being a glorified hall monitor sometimes.
The Grand Am had pulled to a stop next to the fence bordering the patio area at Alrosa Villa. The low-key, stucco-sided building had been hosting heavy metal shows in Columbus, Ohio, for more than three decades. Albert Catuela and his wife, Rosahence the name Alrosaopened the club in 1974 and just about every hard-rock band worth a damn had graced (if that word was appropriate) the stage since then.
The driver of the Grand Am, a burly six-foot-something with a shaved head, had been heading for Alrosa Villas front door, probably in search of tickets for tonights show. Hed have to wait. Mitch turned him around and made him move his car.
Mitch walked back to his post in the parking lot. It was only 9 P.M., but hed already been working for almost three hours. Having his brother, David, here with him, working security in the parking lot, too, might make the time pass a little quicker, but it didnt do a damn thing about the weather. If winter wasnt here yet, it was at least close enough to count. Maybe later he would duck inside, get out of the chill, and check out some of the show. Two of the guys from Pantera were in a new band that was headlining tonight andwait.
Christ. Now the red Grand Am was parked by Alrosas sign, which, besides marking the clubs location off Sinclair Road, also happened to be a no-parking zone. Dammit. What did he want, valet parking? Mitch waved the driver away: Hey, cant park there either. The beefy guy at the wheel nodded andagaineased out of his illegal space without putting up a fight.
Maybe it was going to be one of those nights, a trying shift that found Mitch having to practically hold everyones hand like a kindergarten teacher. Or maybe not. Maybe it would be a boring night, the kind you hope for when you work security. Whatever. It was cold and getting colder. Yeah, hed duck inside for a bit later, just inside the door. At least hed be out of the wind. Mitch noticed the Grand Ams misguided owner was heading his way. Looked like he ended up parking across the street. Why couldnt he have just done that in the first place?
Hey, buddy. You OK?
Yes, sir. Sorry about that.
AARON BARNES was the last guy left on the tour bus tonight, which wasnt unusual. The Abbott brothers, Darrell and Vinnie Paul, hall-of-fame hell-raisers for more than two decades, liked to be out among the fans, buying shots and posing for photos. Barnes had been with them almost the entire time. The only thing the Abbotts, and Darrell in particular, liked better than having a good time was making sure everyone else had a good time, toowhether they wanted to or not.
It was a few minutes after 10 P.M., and the show was about to start. Then there would be an after-party, because there was always an after-party, and Barnes wouldnt be alone again until he hit the sack, whenever that happened. Definitely wouldnt be for hours.
There wasnt much time to enjoy this rare moment of solitude, but no one really got into the music business for that anyway. It was time to go to work; Barnes, the bands sound engineer, was needed inside. He stepped off the bus, locking the door behind him, and turned into the face of a muscle-bound man in a Columbus Blue Jackets jersey with a hooded sweatshirt underneath. He was bald, or close to it anyway, and anxious about something.
The Columbus Blue Jackets fan wanted to know if the Abbotts were still on the bus, or if theyd already made their way inside the club. Barnes wasnt surprised by the question. People always wanted to hang out with the brothers, before and after the show, and they were rarely turned away. That wasnt exactly standard operating procedure with most bands, but it was in the Abbott camp. Barnes told him the brothers were already backstage, preparing for the nights gig. He shrugged off the missed opportunity, a losing lottery ticket bought with a dollar he found in the street.
See you inside, the big man said, and walked away.
LIKE MOST rock-show audiences, the crowd that night was acting as a human motion detector. Any hint of action onstage brought forth a chorus of whoooos and/or chants of the bands name, each syllable separated by an exclamation point: Da! Mage! Plan! Even though it was only tour manager Chris Paluska arranging water bottles on the drum riser, or security chief Jeffrey Mayhem Thompson crossing from one side to the other to set up the bands ever-present video camera.
If you do get carried away down there, make sure theres no fists swinging or kicking or anything like that began an announcement over the clubs PA system. It will bother our security. We want you to have a good time. There is no wall of death in this club.
Da! Mage! Plan! Da! Mage! Plan! Da! Mage! Plan!
MITCH CARPENTER was standing just inside Alrosas north entrance. Damageplan, tonights headliner, was about to start its set. Another couple of hours and he could go home.
Something caught Carpenters eye, over by the privacy fence bordering the clubs outdoor patio. It was the guy from the parking lot, the one who couldnt figure out where to park his damned Grand Am. What was he up to now? He wasnt trying to...
Oh, crap. He was climbing over.
VAN HALEN? Vinnie Paul Abbott asked. It was a question rooted in the shorthand favored by brothers, bandmates, and best friends. Darrell and Vinnie could check all three boxes on that list. To him and Darrell, those two words meant, Let it all hang out there tonight. Or, more to the point, and in their vernacular, Rock and fucking roll.
Darrell stopped warming up his hands. Van-fuckin-Halen, he said, slapping his brothers big hand, the engine that had been driving their shared career since they were teenagers. It wasnt a question that needed to be asked (or answered), but it was their ritual. The Abbotts hadnt played Alrosa Villa in years, not since their previous band, Pantera, was getting off the ground as a national touring act. Theyd been playingand usually fillingarenas since then.
But Damageplan wasnt Pantera, not yet at least, and so it was back to the clubs. Their careers, like so many careers in the music business, had come full circle. The Abbotts didnt seem to mindThe highs and lows of rock and roll, as Darrell often said. After a few years stuck at home while Pantera messily dissolved, they were happy to even have a band again, happy to be out on the road, happy to be playing onstage.
The set was about to begin. Everything was ready to go. A couple of dozen red Solo cups were lined up on a table just offstage. Their role in the show had been a highlight of Darrells act for years now. Hed fill the cups with beer and then toss them to the crowd. The Abbott brothers might have been downsized into smaller venues, but they still approached every gig like they were playing in an arena. Thats how they did it on the way up, and thats how theyd do it now.
Van-fuckin-Halen.
PENNY REED yelled, Fugitive! Fugitive! when the husky guy in the Columbus Blue Jackets jersey grabbed the top of the fence at the edge of the patio and started to pull himself over the top. She wasnt necessarily trying to alert Alrosas security staff to the presence of the intruder. Just heckling the stocky kid awkwardly trying to sneak into the gig, having some fun with her husband, Jimmy, and her brother-in-law, Andrew, before the band started playing. So someone was trying to get into the show for free. Guys like that never got away with it.
