‘Dream On’

By Nan DePlume

Installment Four: In which our heroine becomes a middle-aged groupie.

Weirdly, I find myself here, at a Hollywood Vampires concert. No, not Vampire Weekend; that band’s actually sort of cool. The Hollywood Vampires are the “supergroup” that gave the embarrassing tribute to Lemmy from Motorhead at this year’s Grammies. If you want to check them out, click here or just google “Hollywood Vampires disappointing Lemmy tribute,” and you’ll see the band I’m talking about.

The Hollywood Vampires’ front men are Alice Cooper, Joe Perry, and Johnny Depp. I’ll not only give you three guesses why I’m here, I’ll give you a hint. Like much of the crowd, which is three-quarters very excited women of a certain age, it ain’t because of Alice Cooper or Joe Perry.

I’d tried to scare up a friend to come with me tonight, but when you mention big outdoor concerts to my peers these days, few think of sonic thrills, pumping fists, and druggy communal bliss. Instead, their minds go to obstructed views, port-a-potty lines, and parking-lot traffic jams. Hey, I get it; I’m inclined that way, too. But come on: Johnny Depp!

I’d even asked a couple of younger friends if they’d join me, but they turned me down, too. As gently as they could, they had conveyed the point that a Hollywood Vampires show would likely be annoying and profoundly uncool.

Looking down at the band—we’re in an amphitheater where the seats rise above the stage in a semi-circular ring—I start to think my younger friends may be right. The music is loud as hell, but muddy and unexceptional. And the musicians, all clad in permutations of black leather, put me in mind of middle-aged boys dressed up for Halloween.

Aerosmith guitarist Joe Perry, with that fetching Cruella De Vil white streak in his tousled mane, probably most resembles rock royalty. He should, because he’s had more than forty years of practice. But Joe’s not my idea of rock royalty. “Dream On” may have been the official class song when I graduated from St. Pius X in 1976 (those were heady days, when I was Busting Out All Over. But the fact is, I didn’t much like Aerosmith back when I was hitting puberty and the band members were strutting peacocks. And I like them even less now, when I’m closing in on menopause and they are gyrating fossils.

From what I can see from my perch far above the stage, Joe moves well and looks like he’s in pretty good shape. But the close-ups on the Jumbotron tell a different story: He looks nearly as depleted and warmed-over as that melted sock monkey, Steven Tyler. Aerosmith’s lead singer may or may not look like a lady these days, but he most definitely looks like shit. (Though I bet he had a hell of a time getting there, so props to him.)

As for Alice Cooper, his career has been about as long as Joe’s, but he has never, not for a moment, resembled rock royalty. More like a pretty unamusing court jester. His manufactured menace and goofy grand-guignol bloodiness were never convincing; they mostly left me feeling embarrassed for him. Sure, songs like “School’s Out” and maybe even “Welcome to my Nightmare” were fun when I was a kid. But even at that age, I knew enough to dismiss any man adorned with snakes, stage blood, and runny black eyeliner.

However, Johnny Depp is well, Johnny Depp, so it’s kind of amazing to even be in the same zip code as him. Sure, he looks a tad older and heavier than he has in the past, but hell, so do I. And he’s still Johnny. Handsome and sly and dark in ways that seem to go way beyond his coloring.

But here’s the sad truth: Johnny is way more convincing as an actor than as a guitar player. There, I’ve said it.

I kind of wish I’d figured that out before I paid a lot of money and drove a couple of hours to this concert, but I didn’t, so I try to make the best of the situation. I take a big bite from one of the pot brownies I baked last night, using the last of the marijuana I got from an ex who grew all kinds of fancy strains. Since I only get stoned on rare occasions these days, that weed has lasted me a ridiculously long time, maybe two years. Deciding the moment had come to finish it all off, I’d emptied the remainder of three baggies labeled “Dawg,” “Kush,” and “Diesel” into my Betty Crocker brownie mix.

Now, since I’m bored and hungry, I scarf down two more of those brownies. What harm could they do? That pot’s so old, it has probably lost its potency. And man, the brownies sure taste good.

* * * *

It’s maybe a half hour later, and the show starts to get way better. I can almost see the licks spiraling up from Johnny’s guitar towards my ears. Not just to my ears, but to all of me, forming tendrils that curl around my entire body, the way a cartoonist might represent a powerful odor. (When I’m stoned, the world tends to flatten out and get more dramatic, like a cartoon.) Johnny’s guitar solo is soaring, scorching—and directed at me.

Wait, how would he even know I’m here? I’m so far away, and there’s no Jumbotron showing him my magnified image. But then again…damn, I forget what I was thinking.

Doesn’t matter: Now it’s intermission, and the time has come for action, not thought. I’m thirsty as hell. Somehow, I must muster control of my limbs and speech in order to walk down steps, wait in line, and comprehensibly order a beer. All without falling down, bursting out laughing, or otherwise alarming people. This is going to be interesting.

My perceptions really start to go whacky as I’m standing in the beer line, practicing my order in my head. Based on some of the looks I’m getting, maybe I’m actually saying it out loud: “One large Stella Artois, please.”

By the time I make it to the front of the line, the words “Stella Artois” seem so deliciously silly to me, there’s no way I can say them without breaking into giggles that I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to stop. So I order a Bud and push a crumpled bill of some denomination across the counter. I guess it’s enough, because I am handed a beer.

Moments start coming in strobe images: I’m waiting in line for the bathroom, then I’m taking a long time in the stall. I can’t remember that urination ever required such effort and concentration before.

I’m looking at myself in the bathroom mirror. I marvel at how beautiful and monstrous I look, but that’s nothing new.

I’m halfway to my seat…stepping slowly…slowly… What sadist made these steps so steep and shallow? Don’t fall now, girl, you’ll spill your beer.

I realize I left my beer in the bathroom. I get in line again. And this time, miraculously, I actually score a Stella.

I’m back in my seat for the finale, which is fucking epic. Don’t ask me what they’re playing, but it’s fucking epic.

Now, I’m at a side entrance, trying to talk my way backstage. I don’t remember deciding to do this, but hell, I’m gonna go for it. “I’m not a groupie, dammit,” I say. I’m delighted to notice that messed up as I am, I’m not slurring my words; after all, I’ve only had one beer. Maybe I’ve ingested a pound or so of exotic pot, but I’ve only drunk a single measly beer.

“Do I look like a groupie?” I add, pointing to my sensible shoes and roomy mom jeans. “I’m the band nutritionist. If you don’t let me through, they’ll be furious. They’re waiting for me to mix up their post-performance smoothies!”

Then, hey presto: I’m with the guys. Alice actually seems very human and funny. Everyone does, even Joe, who always struck me as a fellow with a stick up his ass. I share my brownies, and Johnny produces a bottle of bourbon that we pass around in gleeful, rock-star style.

Next I’m telling everybody something crucially important and…snap….I lose the thread. I see Johnny looking, really looking, at me. Even though I can’t muster the words, I can tell he totally gets me.

* * * *

Waking up in late-morning sunshine, that look in Johnny’s eyes is my first thought of the day—and the last thing I can remember from last night. I wrack my brains for clues on what happened, when it hits me that the biggest clue is the room I’m in. It’s a hotel room, not my bedroom. So it wasn’t all a dream.

I turn over in bed, excited to see how Johnny Depp looks in the morning light. Will he be bummed or happy to find me here? But my Dark Lord is still passed out, facing the other way.

I study his back, determined to drink in every detail to make up for the ones lost last night. But hold on: There’s no way this is Johnny. This guy is way thinner. Plus, my Dark Lord has a pretty deep tan, and the back pointed my way is almost bluish white.

Maybe it’s Joe from Aerosmith? That might not be all that bad, although when he turns over, I’m going to have to deal with the face I saw on the Jumbotron. But the hair’s all wrong, and this guy is almost scrawny, while Joe is pretty buff for a 65-year-old. So no, it isn’t Joe.

A horrible thought strikes me: Maybe, god help me, the pale, slight, short-haired man I’m in bed with is Alice Cooper without his wig. I sit up in bed, horrified, then spot something truly terrifying on the floor: a white puffy shirt splattered in stage blood. “Welcome to my Nightmare” indeed.