Almost Famous
The hunt for Red Ledbetter.
The best things in life a free. The second best are very, very expensive.
Coco Chanel
The first time I ever heard rap music was when the Apodaca brothers got back from Los Angeles after seeing the ‘84 Olympics. They returned with this tape: Newcleus, Jam On it.
Now, at the time, my steady diet was heavy metal and punk rock, which was already a controversial mix because one wasn’t supposed to enjoy both, so I probably looked at the cassette player about like the dog in those RCA ads when I first heard that track.
It was so different… and so catchy and weird. I will never forget it. We three were tumbling around in the back of their mom and dad’s empty van - in the bay - going somewhere or another, just listening to it over and over on a Radio Shack shoebox cassette player.
MDC, Millions of Dead Cops, a punk band, had a song - My Family is a Little Weird - and the Apodacas certainly exemplified this aspect of the human condition. Guatemalan immigrants with four children in an all white neighborhood where nobody had more than two kids, they were all kinds of different. Most peoples’ parents were nurses, dentists and accountants. Their dad was a Professor at the local university. Everybody else had a working mom or a single mom. They had a stay-at-home mom. Everybody else played Atari for four hours per day. They all got up at 4am for hours of tutorials in cello, drawing, architecture, and piano. They lived this monastic life yet their house was always pretty disorganized - probably nobody ever had time to put away the lawnmower in between session becoming Beethoven.
Eddie was my grade, and although I’m sure he can, I never saw him play an instrument. Instead, he surfed, played soccer and kept hot girlfriends. The only reason I even knew Eddie played soccer is because Eddie played soccer - otherwise I wouldn’t have been paying any attention to that. Fernie, on the other hand, could play Jean Sibelius' Violin Concerto in D Minor but he could never get his homework done. Not that it mattered, because he was the pride and joy of the whole school anyway. Whenever more than two parents were gathered, even if just to pick up their kids, the teachers would wheel him out to show off his skills. At assemblies, at PTA meetings, at Cub Scout elections, and in the parking lot, there would be Fernie, aged 8, flexing his violin, presenting some impossible movement, at the behest of the school’s proud administrators.
But, to me, Fernie was just Eddie’s younger brother - a little kid who tagged along. Boys will be boys (which, alas, is now true once again), and we loved him as much as we abused him - those were terms of endearment in my day (and look what happened… y’all Millennials and Zoomers got soft). Eddie once punched him so hard Fernie pulled a Swiss Army, which made me and Eddie laugh so hard that Fernie started crying - about the ridicule, not about the bloody nose. They also had two older sisters, one of whom, Silvia, I think I said “hello” to once and the other, Margret, was so much older that I had to look up her name to write this. Their dad met their mom in art class, when they were both graduate students. Years later, in 1973, a year before Fernie was born, his dad sketched this picture of his mom - brings back memories.
Their dad secured a research grant in 1988 to go to Honduras and, with that, the Apodacas disappeared, as Eddie and Fernie were shipped off to boarding school in Monterey: the student body lost its most popular student and the administration lost its show pony.
Another one of those snapshots indelibly etched in the mind, like hearing Newcleus, happened on the dorms lawn. A brand new intake at UC Davis, it was October of 1989, and the sun was out - my shirt was off. I remember thinking it was killer to get a tan so late in the Fall, when, my roommate, also from San Luis Obispo, came up to me and told me he got a call from home. Eddie’s parents had been lost in a plane crash somewhere between Costa Rica and Honduras. They were gone.
Everybody rallied around Eddie. I mean, the best we could. We were all, also, leaving home for college at the time. Fernie, the virtuoso, went from a life of intense structure to one of unimaginable confusion, grief and abandonment but I didn't know what happened to him for a decade, until, by luck, we were put back in touch because he needed a ride to NYC from JFK. I was working at Goldman, Sachs at the time and Fernie was returning from a 10 year residency with Peter Beard at his Hog Ranch in Kenya. Fernie had been discovered… again.
Having regained contact, I saw the Apodaca brothers in San Diego soon after because I was visiting for a wedding. They were living together and hosting these crazy Halloween parties. The events got so big the local news was covering them, and some cool celebrities were showing up.
I remember thinking, “what a trip, rather than taking everything down once per year and putting it all back up again the next, these two just committed to turning their residence into a haunted house.” That meant they were living in a functioning haunted house - every day, 24/7/365. Told you, my family is a little weird.
They had about 100 Shepard Fairey 24x18 freehand sketches just leaning against the wall in their living room. I asked if I could buy one. The answer: “I dunno, we’ll have to ask Shep.” In artist-speak that means: “We already forgot to ask.”
Now, Pearl Jam used to be a band called Mother Love Bone before their lead singer, Andrew Wood, died. Shopping for a replacement, they found Eddie Vedder in San Diego. A native of Evanston, Illinois, he had moved there with his mom, three half-brothers and step-father, whom he had been mislead to believe was his biological father.
‘Son,’ she said ‘have I got a little story for you
’Who you thought was your daddy was nothin’ but a…
While you were sitting alone at age 13
Your real daddy, was dyin’
Sorry you didn’t see him,
But I’m glad we talked’Pearl Jam, Alive
Next thing I knew, some guy named “Fernando Apodaca” was on tour with Pearl Jam, playing electric violin on stage and producing their videos. Apparently, Jason Vedder lived down the street from the Apodacas and called his older brother, also named Eddie, and, it was on… One can really see the distinct footprints of Fernie’s Halloween obsession and his stay in Africa in the Life Wasted video.
Now, fast forward another decade, to the twilight of my time on Wall Street, circa 2015, and Mike Novogratz, founder of Fortress, was a board member of Jazz Foundation of America (JFA). I liked that because I love music and because the organization shares the initials of one of my favorite punk rock banks: Jody Foster’s Army (JFA). Trying to suck more dick - and I know he won’t mind being mentioned here because he probably won’t read this, and if he does he will be flattered that I was so dedicated to sucking dick - I was making a play to become a JFA board member. Meanwhile, the JFA board was trying to get rid of me because I was not rich enough to be a board member, but I was trying to overwhelm them with persistency and salesmanship.
So, I had this amazing little three day run of live shows set up for myself one weekend around then. Thursday night I was seeing Mark Lanegan at Gramercy Theater by myself. Friday night I was seeing Pearl Jam at Barclay Center with clients. And Saturday night I was attending the JFA Loft Party at which various famous musicians jam in different rooms. Then I got a call from Fernie: he was going to be in town.
First thing that came to mind: I’m meeting Eddie Vedder. So, I told Fernie, now Fernando, just as I am now Christian rather than Chris, that I had tickets to see Lanegan and asked if he wanted to join. I also mentioned that I could get as many tickets as needed to the JFA Loft Party if he also wanted to join. Finally, I told him I was seeing Pearl Jam on Friday (hint, hint - get me some backstage passes).
Fernie was as excited to see Lanegan as I was to meet Eddie Vedder. He told me it would be him and his girlfriend, plus Sami Yaffa, of the New York Dolls, and his girlfriend. I arrived to the venue 30 minutes early and bought 5 tickets from a scalper for $50 over face. Now, the Japanese can make anything except a profit and Fernie can play Tchaikovsky on a Stradivarius but he cannot be on time, so, twenty minutes after the show began, a taxi arrived with a lone occupant. In it, Fernie, without the others. I paid the fare, because no self-respecting bohemian artist with over $100,000 of art work laying around in their living room should ever be expected to have a dime in their pocket - even I know that - and gave him a little cash so he would have some spending money while he was in New York, like a big brother would do. I gave the 3 extra tickets to some kids, and then we, me and Frenie, enjoyed one of the best concerts I have ever seen: Lanegan sitting on a barstool, separated by nothing, playing songs on an unplugged acoustic guitar, before an audience of maybe 20 standing, with the folding chairs pushed to the side. There was free popcorn and cheap beer too.
On Friday, I saw Pearl Jam with clients, and it was amazing, but I didn’t get to go back stage. No Eddie Vedder. No selfie. No dice.
Alas, Saturday morning, Fernie called. There would be one more bite at the apple: Eddie Vedder had been in touch, and he had put 5 artist passes for us at Will Call for the Saturday show. That meant we’d be treated as part of the band - artists - with unlimited access, back stage… the whole shebang. However, I still had to go to the JFA event, so we agreed, we would do a drive-by to that, just for long enough for me to show my face, and then bolt for the Pearl Jam concert.
Fernie and his girlfriend and Sami Yaffa and his girlfriend, all, showed up right on time Saturday night at the JFA event. I strategically kissed all the rings immediately - check. We met Chad Smith, who Fernie knows, and they made small talk, delighting one another with fanciful stores about “Smitty”, who was, apparently, Pearl Jam’s tour manager. It was “Smitty this” and “Smitty that”… but, I got my selfie - check.
Then Sami Yaffa started going on about this guy - Shuggie Otis - who was supposed to play at the JFA party. It was “Shuggie Otis this” and “Shuggie Otis that” while I was like, “Shuggie adios - shut up ‘bout that - I’m trying to meet Eddie Vedder!” We bumped into Hilary Clinton and Cornel West - check and check.
Now, I knew organizing this band of gypsies would be harder than herding cats, so I was riding my watch, stressing all along, as the minutes ticked off the clock. 8:00pm we saw Wyclef Jean jam - check. 8:30pm we saw Sweet Georgia Brown sing - check. By 9:00pm Sami Yaffa was really digging in his heels about seeing Shuggie Otis.
Then, suddenly, it was 10:00pm and I was in a straight panic because I knew from the night before that the encore would start at around 10:30 and, meanwhile, Shuggie Otis - who sounded like a mistake I made a few years earlier at a concert festival where I waited 5 hours to see another dude with a corny name (Buddy Guy) who I’d never heard of before because somebody else wanted to do it and it was a bust - was nowhere to be found. So I imposed a stop loss: we were leaving at 10:20pm, no debate. Then we saw New Orleans legend Davell Crawford play - check.
10:30pm came, and still no Shuggie Otis, so we bolted for the door and got lucky: a taxi magically appeared at our feet. I gave the driver a crisp $100 bill and told him there was another one in it for him if he got to the Barclay’s Center in under 20 minutes. Miraculously, he got us there - from 30th and 7th in Manhattan on a Saturday night - in 17 minutes.
But, when we arrived - now 10:47pm - it was crickets. Like in one of those old Westerns, there was not a single soul on the giant foyer in front of Barclay’s Center. The entrance hall lights were all turned off. The concession stands all boarded up and closed. The entry doors all locked. Not even a security guard came around to tell us to beat it.
Peering through the glass, we could see the Will Call window that was holding our Willie Wonka Golden Tickets, but it was shuddered too. I think a tumble weed blew by between the window and the ticked booth. But, we could hear Pearl Jam playing through the barriers, so it was not over. We were so close, we had to be able to get in. Fernie confidently called the illustrious Mr. “Smitty” on speaker phone. The conversation went like this -
Hey Smitty, we’re out front but the doors are locked.
Hey Fernie, it’s the second encore - busiest time of the night. You should have called me 3 hours ago. Go fuck yourself.
And, with that - the click of a cell phone - the Hunt for Red Ledbetter was over. We drank ourselves silly at a local whiskey bar and, for a conciliation prize, Sami Yaffa regaled us with tales about his adventures on the high seas with Joan Jett, New York Dolls and Michael Monroe of Hanoi Rocks. His girlfriend was hot too.
About a year later, Eddie (Apodaca) visited New York. I met him for a beer and asked what he was up to. He told me, “working for a headphones company.” Sarcastically, I asked, “Is it Beats by Dr. Dre?” Deadpan, he answered: “Yes.” Then he asked: “How much money did you give Fernie when he was here?” I answered: “About 800 bucks.” “Good,” he said, producing a pair of Fendi x Beats Pro bubblegum blue $1,800 headphones with ostrich ear cushions. They were dope.
Now, another one of those moments I shall never forget is the first time I ever heard real hip hop - not Newcleus, but NWA - . during my freshman year, in the dorm. Straight Outta Compton was blaring through the door of this militant Black nationalist student from Los Angeles with a Public Enemy decal on his door. It was intoxicating, visceral. My immediate, overwhelming reaction was: “I need more of that.” Not just want more of that, but need more of that. Looking back on it, of course I loved it: it’s punk rock.
I marched straight into the kid’s room, whose parents were probably Panthers, and planted my hands on my hips, demanding to know what it was, and refusing to leave until I was answered. They weren’t pleased, but they told me. Now, if you think about it, I was kind of on message, though, thinking “Hey, maybe Black people are superior,” upon hearing that music. I still know every word in that entire album.
Now, somewhere between Mississippi and Memphis the other day, I heard this track that evoked the same reaction. I mean, it was so good. If punk rock is about delivering the maximum volume of noise, then this musician was carefully picking notes, with perfect timing, like a kaiseki chef, selecting delicious tidbits with his chopsticks and putting them in ornate little ceramic cups for my ears to enjoy. This shit was twangy and tangy; syrupy and sharp; sweet and sour…
I said to myself, “Goddamn, son, that’s some real Delta blues right there.” Then, I said to myself “Goddamn that Apple be cyberstalking me again - they probably told Spotify to play this joint because they know I’m on my way to Memphis!”
Well, turns out, that artist is not from Louisiana but from Los Angeles, and, turns out he was none other than ‘ole Shuggie Otis. Now, those headphones were good, but Shuggie Otis is great, so next time there’s a debate about which concert to go see, I’m listening to the professional musicians.
Thanks for Shuggie! Btw, I was floored when I first heard Public Enemy.