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Cinderella - Night Songs (Mercury,
1986) |
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I was sort of like the local Oliver Twist
character, always having to sleep downstairs in the utility room,
unbeknownst to the parents, or in the tool-shed, or whatever, (the more
things change...) and during this particular "long, cold winter", all the
local burn-outs had really pulled together, like cool kids do, to help
fashion me a place to live. The kid whose house it was had been a straight
A student from a good home, with a promising future, and all that -until
the legendary divorce, when his Dad was suddenly gone, and his Mom started
bringing home strangers from the bar every night, not always significantly
older than my friends' older brother. |
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| This was when the once preppie, seemingly, set-for-life kid, with the globe on his desk, and Christie Brinkley poster on the wall, had first started rebelling, and identifying more with the poorer kids, from the nearby white trash enclave, and it had to look almost comical, when this kid was accompanying the bad seeds to the beer store, or wherever, cos the rest of us were all kind of these black t-shirted little ruffian mullets, with band names sharpied all over our jeans and Converse, and like, dangling sword earrings, IN THE LEFT EAR ONLY, while this cat wore pink Izods, with the collar up, DESIGNER JEANS, boat shoes, and that Members Only jacket, always preferred by jocks and serial killers. |
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I liked him well enough, cos I felt his pain and confusion, and he had a wicked sense
of humor, and an endless supply of beer, but we had class issues, and he
was really my little guitar player's friend. The older brother ended up
with the keys to their absent Dad's sports car, as all teenagers innately
seem to grasp exactly how to capitalize on the lack of structure, caused
by freshly broken homes, and are savvily able to, usually, at least milk
some good, "guilt gifts" outta these awful situations. So the older brother used to drive us around blasting "Livin' After Midnight" and "Constrictor" and sometimes, we'd pile these three hot metal babes in the backseat, on our laps, and they'd always have a purse mysteriously full of gum and cigarettes and make-up and heavy metal cassettes, and inevitably, demand to hear, like, "The Final Countdown", or some Godawful, wretched power ballad, so they could act all reflective, and moody, as they smoked their sultry menthols, like their Moms, and signaled their availability to us doofy, socially awkward, young dudes. Most of the cats in our little gang were still too awkward, in fact, to really try to put the moves on these red brassiered, hot, and more than willing, hell, eager, heavy metal chicks, who, exotically, always smelled of hairspray and bubble gum lip-gloss; except for me, and the preppie kid, we were the only ones who weren't yella, so we kinda got a little competitive. We'd buy like, twelve 40-ouncers, which, obviously, makes no sense at all, and the first couple, we could always chug down, but most times, forties always went unfinished, cos they'd get so warm by the time you got to the third bottle, and they became something of an industry-hazard, as you couldn't always tell which ones, from last night, were good for a hair of the dog breakfast, and which ones, had thoughtlessly, or cruelly, been urinated in. __________________________________________________________________________________ |
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Back in the attic, over the garage, we'd
turn on the heat, and sit on these milk crates stolen by "Dougie", from the convenience store, in a
circular drinking contest frenzy, and the chicks would turn on Cinderella,
and the stoners would all headbang along to "Shake Me", and, queerly, play
air guitar, or fashion bongs outta beer cans, while my younger
guitarist, the proud owner of an actual Stratocaster, would always,
annoyingly, practice his scales, and "Crazy Train" solo, and me and the
preppie kid would make out with the girls. It was exciting stuff.
Sometimes, I got to kiss 'em, two at a time. I resented the prep though,
because he had those "icey blue eyes", chicks just went dumb over. They didn't wanna party with this kid. They didn't wanna talk to this kid, they wanted him to take them inside, to the heated house, and promptly, bang 'em, on his older brother's water bed! It was unreal. He got so much pussy, the rest of us were awed by it. I mean, I did alrite, lookin' back, even the second hottest chicks I always ended up with, semi-frequently; were usually still unbelievable. One of the coolest and most important women of my whole life spent nights with me in that cold attic, watching our breath. I wish I had a time machine. |
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Like the song goes, when you're young, and you're sad, and you get
high, even the lamest songs take on this mythic sort of meaning,
especially, when you're still just doing everything for the first 100
times. Y'know? Power ballads you change the channel because of now, were
still heavy and meaningful, spiritual, even, back before you found your
own words to describe your own experiences. Kids communicate with each
other through music. Shit, some of us never grow out of that. So like, at
three or four in the morning, all these spooky ballads with the middle-ages, sorta
fake, "classical" guitar lines, really took on this impossibly
heightened sort of sinister-ambience, which was cool in a way, cos like I
already mentioned, it kinda allowed the chicks to become vulnerable, you
know, in need of consoling, ahem. But the real truth was that sometimes,
those of us from church towns, would sometimes actually become scared to
fucking death, by all our own satanic heavy metal cassettes, in the stoned
out of our brains, middle of the night, when the gang was gone, and you
were alone again, to stare down your own demons. Or get stared down by
your own demons, more often. Fuck, now I got that awful Dokken song,
"Alone Again, Without You" going through my lame brain. "Nobody's Fool"
became really deep, when you were by yourself, or fucking some similarly
desperate, sad, battered, lonely chick, from an unspeakably fucked up
home, y'know? All the broads were, essentially, sluts and groupies, though, there's no way around that heartbreaking fact. They only wanted to date the kids who had long hair, or looked vaguely like some particular rockstar. Everybody was growing their hair out as fast as they could, and if you had big lips like Tom Keiffer, or a big smile like Bon Jovi, that was always to your advantage. I didn't. At this point in the game, I just felt lucky--beyond my wildest dreams, really, that I was getting away with as much action as I did, so I took it more in stride, back then, that these same chicks were off bangin' every other dude in town, who had a car, or enough for a 12 pack of Milwaukee's Best, or even a joint. But, really, I didn't even put that together most times. For years, I think I thought I was the only little star in town. Crazy, huh? So it really started fucking with my grandiose delusions and ceaseless vainglory, when every girl I went out with, over the course of the next ten years, was simultaneously, uh, keeping a scrapbook of pictures, taken backstage, with every Danger Danger or Bullet Boy member who came along. It really eventually killed my whole fantasy, that these chicks really dug me, that I was special, and not just putting out cos they were horny and dug my rebel teen image, or whatever. Over the next few years, I had to learn the hard truth that there is just no real way for a homeless kid to compete with a rockstar, 15 years his senior. This took me a long time to process. I got attached to some chicks I never should've allowed myself to become emotionally involved with, but like Hunter Thompson sez, "Buy the ticket-Take the ride". That's show biz, big boy....I'm still workin' it all out. _____________________________________________________________________________________ |
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| Nowadays, it might seem easy for some to dismiss Cinderella, these Philadelphia, PA Bon Jovi discoveries, as typical eighties Aerosmith hair-band clones, but when we were 16, or 17, or whatever, they seemed like gothic rock gods, garbed in their black wizard robes, and majestic finery. Eric Brittingham and Tom Keifer seemed like these tortured black magicians, some kinda kinky wizards from mythic lands, who could better articulate our own secret pain. Only drummer, Fred Coury, with his ridiculous afro, and big white tennis shoes, reminded you that these guys were common schleps just like you, they'd just had more experience onstage, and the confidence to make some (much!) braver fashion statements. Also, we considered them to be peers of Aerosmith, not third rate wanna-bes. We were dumb kids, we weren't paying attention to that kind of trivia yet. We didn't know, we didn't care, and "Shake Me" and a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 got us laid, almost constantly. I always thought Tom Keifer had the best hard rock voice of all the eighties metallers, besides Axl. "Save Me" and "Somebody Shake Me" were about as cool as they came, back in the days of dogs and menthols. |
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The hardest rockin' shit we were really that hip to back then, was still "Pyromania" or Bon Scott. Summa my older friends were listening to like, "Reign In Blood", or W.A.S.P., who I liked alrite, but I was always, instinctively, more of a raunchy groover than an angry rager. I would get as indignant, if someone suggested, that I could have remotely even, ever owned an Anthrax or Megadeth CD at some point, (NO FUCKIN WAY, no. NOT even the one with Alice Cooper on it!) as my good Brother, The Great & Terrible Sleazegrinder did, when I , insensitively, assumed he could have owned a Poison record at any point. Right! What the fook was I thinking? I know he owned some W.A.S.P., though. W.A.S.P. were probably like, his Cinderella(?) I STILL LOVE CINDERELLA... And that fuckin' "Gypsy Road", man. You can't beat that song. Undeniable. As good as anything by Guns "N' Roses, Dogs D'Amour, or London Quireboys, that one. As good as anything Aerosmith's done since "Chip Away". Including "Jaded", and "What It Takes". I don't care what anybody else has to say about 'em, CINDERELLA fucking rocked, man! Take it, Stu.... _____________________________________________________________________________________ |
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www.cinderella.net -Pepsi Sheen) |
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Our esteemed British correspondent,
Stu Gibson, is gonna take you Flash Metallers
on a demolition joyride down the Gypsy Road anyday now, but I wanna
go back a bit, to the early days, when I was living in the attic, above
some kid's garage, outside, in the dead of winter. My soaking wet
Converse, and only pair of gross, mildewed, green and black tube socks,
had to come off to dry at night. So, I'd wrap my feet in towels. They
were sometimes kept warm by a similarly foul-smelling stray dog,
predictably named - by my skate-boarding, stoner entourage -
Budweiser, who slept at the foot of my sleeping bag. My denim
jacketed contingent of little stoner pals had, compassionately, all helped
me wrangle this space, unbeknownst to any of the adults inside the nearby
house; and, being a once-bourgeois, suburban family, the attic was
fortuitously stocked with all kinds of top of the line camping apparatus,
including a coalman's stove. 