Brenda Perlin - L.A. Punk Rocker

L.A. Punk Rocker

Published by arrangement with BlossomingPress

Copyright 2015 by Brenda Perlin

Copyright for each story is held by theindividual authors and/or publishers.

Photographs Brenda Perlin BlossomingPress.com

One Night in Richmond Park Image Billy Idolin a concert by John Brennan adapted from the Wikimedia Commonsfile

All rights reserved. No part of thispublication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by anymeans, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,or by any information storage and retrieval system, withoutpermission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance ofcharacters to actual persons, living or dead, is purelycoincidental.

Cover design by Steven Novak

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To all the youth who were as misunderstood asI was.

Much thanks to the people who have sharedtheir story in this narrative and to all the friends that were bymy side during this period in my life.

Gratitude to KS Brooks and Stephen Hise ofIndies Unlimited. Their support of authors is beyond measure.

Thanks to Arlene R. ONeil for her expert setof eyes. She is an angel.

MAB, my Spartan warrior princess puts up withme with grace and fortitude. My stories are in safe hands with hersmarts and gumption. I am forever grateful.

My honey, who still loves me with all myquirks. He is my true #soulmate

Mark Barry inspired me to write one morebook. This one is for him.

"Initially an uncommon creature formed in thegrit of London and Manhattan, the freedom of Punk Rock soon madeitself manifest in the glitter and glam which formed the patinaover dark Hollywood Nights.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Mark Barry is a contemporary fiction authorof numerous works including the critically acclaimed Carla andcurrently resides in Nottingham, U.K.

Billy Idol

You are not a symbolic rock star.

The mirror in front of you enframed by ahundred miniature lights that were once tiny mounted wax candles, arelic from a Broadway show tells you what you need to know.

You are not a ghost or a spectre.

Neither are you a symbol, though you havebeen described as such. You pinch the fleshy skin underneath yourbicep to check further, and you pinch and squeeze and you nip andtweak, and you dont let go. On impulse, you try to rip rightthrough the flesh until the endorphins burst their banks, but theadrenaline coursing through your veins like battery acid ensuresthat you are superhuman and your pain is fleeting and gossamer.

The pinch mutates to the early stages of abruise.

You are not a symbolic rock star.

You are The King Rocker.

You are Billy Idol.

You are in L.A.

You do not want to be disturbed in the fiveminutes before your entrance.

The management knows this and observesit.

Your Generation X days.

Back home, in the land of darkness, youremember changing in toilets where the smell was indescribable, andthe blocked bowls were awash with piss.

Back home, in the land of darkness, youremember changing on cramped stages while zombies and monsters spatat you and called you a cunt.

Back home, in the land of darkness, youremember changing in a Transit in freezing Dudley, and yourchilblained fingers nearly bled as you gripped the microphone.

You do not want to be disturbed.

This is your time.

Your band changes elsewhere in the warren ofcorridors and rooms behind the stage. That does not concern you.They do their thing, you do yours. You and the boys will mix afterat Dannys. Youll eat burgers, drink soda pop and be merry on allsorts, but for now, you need to remember, and you need to prime thebomb. You are tight now. Tighter than a guitar string, taut almostready to snap. You have rehearsed to the point where you are sickof each other. By now, the internal dynamics of the band are akinto those inside a thermonuclear device and you are ready toexplode it on that L.A. stage, where the kids are screaming.

Uranium 247

Billy Idol 247

A half-life of one hour and a quarter.

You are the detonator.

Bang.

Outside, in the amphitheatre, they wait intheir hundreds.

New York Dolls played here in 1974.

Sex Pistols played here in 1977.

Buzzcocks.

(You remember people saying Ever Fallen inLove is the greatest pop song ever recorded. One day, they will besaying that about you, Billy.)

Bob Marley, Neil Young.

Patti Smith.

The Ramones.

Lou Reed played here in 1976. He must havesat here in this very dressing chair.

Four years ago, the Clash played here, thisvery theatre.

History etched into the timbers, thefloorboards, the tiles.

The Clash.

Reclining in your seat in front of thesilvered glass, you can hear them. The local warm-up has been andgone, and the crowd packs the front of the stage. They buzz andanticipate. They have been waiting for you for months. The firstticket was sold within minutes of the announcement and tonight,there isnt a ticket to be had between here and Seattle.

They have come from miles around to seeyou.

The kids of America have been waiting for youto sing to them.

They await your Satanic Majesty.

You are the Queens Envoy and the gates ofthe castle are about to open.

They say Sabbath played here.

They say Zeppelin played here.

British musical imperialism.

The last vestiges of Empire, in the era whereAmerica couldnt get enough. Where the sons of press operators,slaughter men and pipefitters from the near-dead, fume-swept,soot-encrusted streets of Birmingham strode like demigods acrossthe stage of the world.

The Stones played here.

The Rolling Stones.

The Rolling Stones.

You are about to play here.

The thought squeezes your balls and turnsyour blood to ice water.

The DJ plays Pretty Vacant and you smilethinly.

Here, in LA, in the land of infinitesunshine, where the girls are bright, fun, curvaceous, buxom,Delphic and very, very willing.

Here, in Los Angeles, where the drink flowslike water, and the happy powder descends like a storm of crystalsnowflakes from the leaves of the boulevard Bougainvillea.

Here, in Los Angeles, where, in a TwilightZone twist, a parallel Universe, you have become more popular thanthe Sex Pistols ever were. Englands fiendish, hellhound heralds ofinstitutional carnage, washed away on a tide of indifference inButtfuck, AZ and MooCow, OK.

The Sex Pistols.

Who you used to follow religiously all overthe South of England.