The Famous Musician
The Famous Musician
The famous musician came to town. It wasn’t a big city, but rather an out-of-the-way burgh; a sleepy little place with a -ville at the end of its name. Being so famous, he was immediately recognized, despite not wearing his flashy on-stage attire or holding his signature electric guitar, which was created for him by a famous guitar manufacturer. In fact, he was wearing dark sunglasses and a long-sleeved shirt, so his tattoos would be hidden. But the people of the small town recognized him nevertheless. Maybe they had seen the bright green and orange tour bus with his band’s name in two-foot-high glittery letters. Anyway, a crowd soon gathered: autograph seekers and long-time fans, people who knew only one of his hit songs, and an older couple who happened to be walking their pomeranian nearby at the time. They listened as he told hilarious on-the-road anecdotes, and they laughed with him. They also gushed when he sang the chorus to one of his bigger hits. They called him by his first name. That’s how famous he was.
The famous musician had a concert planned for that evening in the big city, not there in Whateverville. Smaller towns did not have the venue capacity necessary for one of his important events. His promoter charged a lot of money for his concerts, but the fans enjoyed seeing him perform and thought it was worth a couple of weeks’ pay. He tried arguing with his promoter about the high ticket prices, but he never won those arguments. Of course, this was all forgotten when he deposited the paychecks from his tours. But at that moment, in the quaint hamlet, the only thing the famous musician wanted was breakfast—coffee, toast, and eggs—with his wife and his manager. Hash browns would be nice. And bacon, too. Places in that part of the country always had good hash browns and bacon.
The famous musician was gracious. He signed his name on various papers and objects, and even on someone’s skin. He used a medium-point blue Sharpie; he always kept one in his pocket. There was an air of camaraderie, and everyone was having a splendid time. He did enjoy hanging out with “his people,” as he referred to them. For a few minutes, anyway. His fans told him their names. He tried to remember them, but he never did. They smiled at him and told him how wonderful he was. He smiled back and made funny faces when his photo was taken. The fans really liked that.
The famous musician signed his name on a girl’s tee shirt with his medium-point blue Sharpie. She was wearing the shirt during this process. She had braces on her teeth. He thought she looked cute with the braces and her hair in a ponytail. He thought she was seventeen or maybe even sixteen. She wasn’t. She was twenty-four. He signed the shirt with the word “love.” A super silly word for a stranger to write on another stranger’s shirt, but that’s how intriguing he was. He wanted to give her a backstage pass, but his manager had those tucked away somewhere. Plus, his wife was only a few yards away. Naturally, this didn’t stop him from giving a little squeeze when he signed the cute girl’s shirt.
The famous musician had a funny feeling in his stomach on the morning of the concert but attributed it to intestinal gas. He had learned a lot of random phantom pains can be attributed to intestinal gas. He and his wife did end up having breakfast in the small town on the morning of the concert and ended up having coffee, toast, eggs, hash browns, and bacon. The quirky diner called it The Classic. He called it deelish. His wife had the same, only less of it, but no bacon. She was “trying out” the “vegetarian thing” (a couple of her silly phrases) as if she was “trying out” a suede jacket at Saks and hoping it didn’t appear too suede-y to her vegan friends. After breakfast, they decided to take a stroll and look for an interesting antique shop. They didn’t find one so it was back to the tour bus and back to the big city where they did find a suitably equipped store with a funny name and a funny little man running it. They spent an hour browsing and ended up purchasing a monstrous pewter and wood and crystal chandelier and had it shipped to one of their homes located in another country. That’s how extravagant they were. After their shopping excursion, they visited an art gallery and chatted with their Belgian artist friend for another hour, after which it was back to their hotel. And, sadly, that was the end of the famous musician’s last morning alive.
The famous musician was the author of many popular songs. Most of the songs he wrote by himself, usually in the studio he had built above the garage at one of his main homes. The garage held his many motorcycles and collectible cars, as well as a 1967 canary-yellow Buick Skylark in which he had lost his virginity. When he became wealthy enough to do such things, he tracked the car down and purchased it from a nineteen-year-old college student, giving him three times what the car was worth at the time. But let’s get back to the songs. A few he wrote with the not-as-famous keyboard player in his band. One of these went to number one “on the charts,” as they say. Silly phrase, that one. It was used in a cell phone advertisement campaign and also in a feature film. This made the not-as-famous keyboard player extremely happy, and moderately wealthy. But of all the songs the famous musician had written, he was most pleased with his second hit single. It was a sad love song about a girl who became ill and died, but it was actually written with his pet cat in mind. The cat was his pet for nearly ten years but met its unexpected demise under the rear tire of a 1967 canary-yellow Buick Skylark. Ouch.
The famous musician made a lot of money. Some would say it was an obscene amount. But, to be fair, he did donate considerable sums to charities and was remarkably generous to his staff and friends. He threw lavish parties. This is the word they always used in the trade papers—lavish. He had a lavish lifestyle. His wedding was a lavish affair. Another sublimely silly word. Many of his famous musician friends would attend his parties. They would stay for a little while, long enough to have their photo taken attending his party, and then they would leave. Most times they would never see him and he would never see them, but later they would laugh and remember the crazy things they did together at his lavish parties.
The famous musician didn’t care too much for his own parties, though. Most times he could be found in a back room playing Scrabble with one or two of his roadies. He loved Scrabble, but only when he was playing against someone with a limited vocabulary. But most times, he preferred spending time alone at home with his pet Burmese python, Bonzo, named after a drummer in another famous rock band. Spending time alone at home at his current age was the equivalent of having a foursome with three groupies in his early twenties—it didn’t happen often, but when it did, he enjoyed it. He, in fact, owned five homes in four countries. One of those homes had eleven bedrooms and two swimming pools, plus an entire wing for Bonzo. That’s how rich he was.
The famous musician didn’t want to be known as one who would “sell out.” Among industry professionals, this term meant capitalizing on your fame in exchange for pretending to like and use something you didn’t like or would ever use. It happens all the time. No biggie. So several years ago, under the guidance of his financial advisor, he was convinced that becoming involved with a certain condiment company would be a lucrative and risk-free venture and could reap rewards for years to come with negligible effort. The nature of this venture was a line of barbecue sauces with the famous musician’s likeness on the label and an embossed guitar on the cap. Not his signature guitar, oh no, a generic one. Everyone seemed to be okie-dokie with that. The BBQ sauce escapade turned out to be an unmitigated failure. The sauce tasted as if it came out of an animal, and not something you would slather on it while you were cooking it. Some fans made jokes and called him a derogatory term, which combined his last name with the name of a famous animated pig. It was not a nice name. It even became an online “meme.” What a silly word that one is. He would never again eat barbecue in public after the infamous BBQ sauce fiasco.
The famous musician had a wife and six children, aged from twenty-seven down to two years old. He loved his kids. He liked kids in general. Well, he could tolerate them. He also had four ex-wives and two other children which nobody knew about. Nobody except for him and the two mothers. Oh, and his financial manager. He paid these women a large amount of money each month, you know, for child care and whatnot. One of the women saved every penny for her child’s college education. The other woman used the money to buy lots and lots of cocaine.
The famous musician bought a lot of cocaine as well. He always used a proxy for the actual transaction, but he paid for it. You would see piles of the stuff at all his lavish parties. (Just kidding, you wouldn’t. You weren’t invited.) When there was cocaine in his system, he didn’t play Scrabble. He would be seen chasing pretty young women around his house. His wife didn’t particularly approve of this side of her famous husband, so she kept an eye on him at his parties. She didn’t “do” cocaine. She did bourbon. And weed. She used to enjoy it when he chased her around the house, but later on, she was content if he didn’t pass out on her side of the bed.
The famous musician loved his wife, even though she didn’t “do” cocaine with him. When he met her at the gentleman’s club where she was employed, he was still married to wife number four, but wife number four spent most of her time in Spain, with a man half her husband’s age. After their divorce, he would take this beautiful young woman, now wife number five, to lavish parties. They wouldn’t stay long, only long enough for someone to photograph him and the beautiful young woman together. Fun fact: Wife number five was in the second grade when the famous musician had his first hit song.
The famous musician enjoyed his celebrity status—the perks, the comps, the upgrades, the free booze, the adulation. Not to mention the abundance of pretty young women. The pretty young women were ubiquitous ever since the days of his first hit single, however, in his later overweight period, they weren’t quite as pretty nor, unfortunately, quite as young. This harsh reality did not irk him as one would suppose because, by this stage, he was consuming alcohol heavily. Not to mention the piles of cocaine at his lavish parties. There was an unsubstantiated rumor making its way through the music industry, around the time of his fifth hit single. The report insinuated he once hosted a soirée (which means a private party, for you common folk) on board his freshly christened eighty-foot, canary-yellow yacht and demanded his guests kneel in front of him and kiss his titanium and emerald pinky ring. As a joke, mind you. Most did, the rumor asserted, but they most likely were “doing” cocaine.
The famous musician had a “pet project.” Isn’t that a silly phrase? His pet project was gun control. When another famous musician was shot and killed, he was deeply disturbed by the murder of one of his idols and vowed to start “fighting back” against the absurd gun laws in his country. Well, he actually started the fighting back process decades later when he had millions of dollars, but this is beside the point. His wife also had a pet project—saving the honey bees. She had heard they were becoming endangered, and she certainly loved honey. Especially in her tea. She even put it in her bourbon once or twice. In fact, she happened to be wearing her Bee Nice to Me tee shirt when they went out for breakfast in Somethingville. It had a funny cartoon bee on it. Ha ha.
The famous musician had several affairs over the years. This is not something he is overly famous for, but it is worth mentioning. He didn’t want to be unfaithful to his wives, he merely believed it was important, and somewhat enjoyable, to introduce his charm and wisdom (and his anatomy) to as many pretty young women as possible. His last affair was with the wife of his lead guitarist. This ended abruptly on the night of his last concert. It seems the lead guitarist was not at all happy upon learning of his wife’s infidelity. According to the lead guitarist’s credo, you simply don’t allow your wife to run around with your employer, especially if he’s a rhythm guitarist. To add fuel to the rock and roll fire, the famous musician did not appreciate the lead guitarist’s foolish practice of keeping a loaded gun in one of his guitar cases backstage. There was a loud, heated argument regarding the two issues in the players’ dressing room, right before the show. Unpleasant words were said. Things were thrown. Fingers were pointed. But later onstage, the famous musician and the lead guitarist were back to back, playing their signature guitars, and smiling at each other as if they were the best of friends. The crowd cheered joyfully when they saw this.
The famous musician was certainly not one to shy away from an argument. So it’s not such a far-fetched idea for a person like yourself to think he would “buy the farm” (such a silly and absurd phrase) with some help from a spiteful bullet fired from a gun owned by, let’s say, a jilted lead guitarist. After all, a firearm introduced in a fictionalized story, play, or film, certainly will make its appearance known with a surprising bang later on. So it’s not so peculiar to think the famous musician met his end under such violent and ironic circumstances. But this is real life, and such assumptions will get you nowhere, especially backstage at a rock concert, where the real story took place and the end was not as loud or as poetic as one might have predicted.
The famous musician suffered a heart attack at the concert that night in the big city. It happened between the first encore and the scheduled—but never played—second encore. Sometimes there were three encores if he felt the “vibe” was right. Silly word, huh? But on the fateful evening, there were only supposed to be two. He clutched his chest and said another silly word: Ooof. He then farted loudly and dropped like a sack of damp laundry. Well, a sack of damp laundry which happened to be forty-five pounds overweight.
The famous musician had an image to protect. This was what his manager and best friend (and also the person with whom his wife was currently having an affair) thought. So the official band statement of the mournful incident reported the famous musician had said after the first encore, “Let’s go give ‘em what they want, boys,” grabbed his signature guitar, sat down on an amplifier crate, smiled, gave a thumbs up gesture, and quietly passed away. Interestingly, the farting was not mentioned in the band’s announcements on their social media pages. The myocardial infarction in the official medical report was transmuted online into something called a “massive heart attack.” It’s a silly way to describe the human heart, which is in reality pretty small, especially in relation to a man who was forty-five pounds overweight and consumed hash browns and bacon on a regular basis, not to mention all the alcohol and the mountains of cocaine. But the papers, and the newscasts, and the online articles went with it, and “massive heart attack” would evermore be connected with the famous musician’s name.
The famous musician had many vigils held in his honor in cities around the world following his premature departure from the music industry. People brought candles, albums and CDs, homemade fan art, flowers, and other musical paraphernalia. Some musically adept fans brought acoustic guitars and would sing the famous musician’s songs by flickering candlelight. Many of the older female fans sobbed when they heard the songs. That’s how emotional it was. The majority of the fans wore tee shirts displaying his image, the band’s logo, or the name of a particular tour, with the cities and dates of the tour printed neatly on the back. There were even some Bee Nice to Me tee shirts being worn by some of the mourners, which interestingly enough, had made the famous musician’s widow a lot of money. Ha ha.
The famous musician was buried in the cold, apathetic ground, as is the custom in some parts of the world, and a large phallic stone was erected to indicate the spot where the once famous, forty-five-pound-overweight former guitarist, singer-songwriter, and performer was laid to rest. At first, there were more vigils with more fans and more memorabilia, but as the days, weeks, and months passed, the number of people and artifacts dwindled to almost zero. Wife number five, the last in a grungy line, went on to marry someone who was born in the same decade as her and who wasn’t employed in the music business. They had a child who would never know the unique thrill and occasional spiteful scorn that came with carrying the famous musician’s last name. The band, needless to mention, broke up. The surviving members valiantly attempted but failed to create solo careers because all of them had the unpleasant trait of not being so famous. The condiment company went out of business, lending a disagreeable aftertaste that lingered on to conclude this miserable story of excess and stardom.
The famous musician was treated somewhat kindly by music critics and rock historians in the years after his demise. There would be books—biographies, memoirs, photo essays, and kiss-and-tell types—but it seemed everybody was too busy to read them. One would have hoped to see more interest in the man behind the microphone, even in a mere salacious manner, but there was none. His grave site was visited by more groundskeepers with weed whackers in hand than actual fans, friends, or family members. However, one young devotee, wearing a latter-era tour tee shirt with the cities and dates printed neatly on the back, etched a belated, exclamatory inscription on the gaudy gravestone’s base with his six-inch, pearl-handled pocket knife, undoubtedly ruining the fine edge. All Hail the Famous Musician is what it read or words to that effect. Perhaps the silliest phrase of them all.
