Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol Page 3

  EL: Don’t look too deeply. The bottom line is, there’s freedom in our music. People who are hurting find release in our records, because they reveal truth. There’s a part of each of us that just needs to cut loose. Our records let you cut loose and be who you are.

  SM: All of your records have parental advisories. They advocate adultery, drugs, sex, and violence. Does it ever concern you that—?

  EL: You don’t get it, do you? There ARE no rules! My rules are as good as anyone’s. Look at our following. DeathStroke has millions of fans around the world. We’re millionaires. If we’re so bad and so anti-religious, why hasn’t this big bad God struck us down by now? Why are we so popular?

  SM: I can’t answer that.

  EL: There is no God. That’s the answer… We are the gods.

  ✪

  SM: You and drummer David Dibbs grew up together and were best friends, is that right?

  EL: Yep. Really all the guys in DeathStroke grew up in the same neck of the woods, the rock ’n’ roll capital of the world—Cleveland, Ohio.

  SM: What was your childhood like?

  EL: My family lived in a tough neighborhood on the east side. My dad was gone, working or drinking, most of the time. My mom raised us four kids.

  SM: You were the youngest?

  EL: Yeah, with two older brothers and a sister.

  SM: Are they happy memories?

  EL: (long pause) No.

  SM: What would you change about your childhood, if you could go back in time?

  EL: I would have had one! I would have gone on a picnic. I would have heard my mother or father say, “You did well.”

  SM: That’s touching. Well, you have certainly done well, monetarily. Tell our readers, when did you and David Dibbs start the band and how did it happen?

  EL: One day we were all together at David’s house—me, him, Ricky, and John. We sat around, talking about life and school and how we were all kind of outcasts. We weren’t jocks; we weren’t brains; we were nobodies. And we decided to start a band, right then and there. I guess we associated that with becoming popular.

  So, Dibbs borrowed his mom’s station wagon, and we all piled in and drove to our favorite music store in downtown Cleveland. It was a blizzard outside and pitch dark by four in the afternoon. We barely made it there. Together we went in on a Les Paul, a few drums, and a mike. The owner, a good friend to this day, let us put the stuff on layaway. We built our own amps in Scoogs’s garage, and that’s when the magic started. The band was originally called Siren.

  SM: Rumor has it that you and Dibbs are not close anymore, what can you say about that?

  EL: Don’t believe everything you hear. Hey, no doubt, we’ve been through a lot together. Let’s face it. When you hit it big like we have, it’s hard to keep your sanity. I think our success has made us all a bit crazy and scattered.

  SM: Are you happy?

  EL: (pause) No.

  SM: But you’re a world-renowned star!

  EL: (long pause) A dark star.

  SM: What would make you happy?

  EL: I don’t know. (pause) Maybe death.

  ✪

  SM: Word has it that you have your own personal psychic. What is that all about?

  EL: What do you mean, “What is all that about?” You wouldn’t understand until you had to wear my boots for a while.

  SM: I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it. Even Nancy Reagan was said to have had some kind of astrologist…

  EL: When you’re in the limelight twenty-four hours a day, when you’re on the road all year, you don’t know who your friends are anymore, and you can’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy some days. So, ya know, you like to think you can turn to someone who can provide stability.

  SM: A lot of people would respond to that by saying, “Stability? In a psychic?”

  EL: My response to them would be, “Take a flyin’ leap.” You try bein’ Everett Lester for a day.

  SM: Several years back you were engaged to actress Liza Moon. Then suddenly the wedding plans shut down. What happened?

  EL: Man, you’ve really been through my garbage. (pause and a long groan) Liza and I decided we were both too busy to get hitched. She went her way and I went mine—which is what I’m about do right now. (He gets up and exits. Interview over.)

  Dear Liza. What did we have? Was it just a relationship built on drug highs and glitz, designed to arouse public attention? Or was it a forever friendship that I threw away? It all seems like just another bad trip.

  Were we really together? You backstage while I played the Pontiac Silverdome and Madison Square Garden? Me in the wings as you accepted your Oscar? It’s all a cloud of smoke. A mirage.

  I dated the brown-eyed brunette Liza Moon on and off for three years. During that time, I was in another world. I lived for Liza. She was funny, upbeat, sophisticated, and gorgeous. Always smiling. Never taking anything too seriously. Constantly accepting me and my rowdy shenanigans.

  After the Oscar for her lead role in the hit film Bed of Mourning, she changed. How could she not? Stardom throws your ego into overdrive and takes over your system. Stardom ruins people. Your head fills with helium, and your pride carries you away.

  Liza, who formerly never touched drugs or alcohol, became a free-basing cocaine queen. Everyone in the industry, including me, watched her fall. Her appearance and personality were never the same once she started the habit. The whites of her shining eyes turned to red, and her beautiful personality shriveled. She began using tons of makeup to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes. She became sickeningly skinny due to anorexia. The light that used to beam from Liza Moon had been snuffed out—and so I left her, just like every other woman I had ever met.

  3

  THE ONLY CONSTANT IN my life, besides Madam Endora and the endless number of shows we played, were the notes and letters that showed up every now and then from Karen Bayliss, the young lady from Topeka, Kansas.

  She continued to write, just as she promised. It had been years now. And for some reason, I wanted to read what she sent. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t interested in her God, and she was not about to “convert” me to religion. I was interested in her. I mean, she wasn’t even a DeathStroke fan. She hated our music and everything we stood for. Yet she kept writing and sending little gifts. I was curious. What made Karen Bayliss tick?

  I instructed Jeff Hall, our fan club guru, to forward Karen’s mail to me.

  I still have the note she wrote after she read the Rolling Stone interview…

  Greetings again, Mr. Lester,

  Do you realize you are loved today? No, I’m not talking about the temporary love your fans give you. It will be gone in a few years. I’m talking about God’s love. Christ’s love for you. He willingly was beaten, spit upon, and nailed to a tree to forgive your sins—and mine.

  You see, I’m just like you, a sinner. I may not have committed the sins you commit, but I’ve committed others that you probably haven’t. We’re all in the same boat, the whole sorry world. We all need to know and realize and believe that Christ took our sins to the cross with Him and we carry them around no more! We’re free, because He paid the penalty for us and rose again to give us new life.

  I read the interview you did in Rolling Stone recently. Your outbursts against God don’t worry or bother me. Instead, they show that your insides are stirring. You are searching for something. What is it, Mr. Lester? You have everything this world has to offer. I guess it just proves that the Beatles song is true—money can’t buy you love. Can it?

  God is love, Mr. Lester. That is truth. And the truth shall one day set you free, along with millions of your fans. I pray for you many times each day.

  Sincerely,

  Karen Bayliss

  P.S. Take care and remember, there’s a love awaiting you that’s more powerful than any drug you’ve ever tried!

  The courtroom was completely hushed when the testimony of David Dibbs continued, and I felt every pie
rcing eye.

  “Everett’s dad played head games,” Dibbs said. “That’s the best way I can describe it.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Boone.

  “Everett could never measure up. Never. Every once in a while he would do something good, maybe score well on a test or help out around the house. Like he was reaching out to his parents, testing them to see what their response would be. I believe he tried to love his dad. But Vince would just tear him up.”

  “Can you give an example?”

  “Yeah, for one, Vince would actually slap Everett, kind of jokingly. He would just slap his face again and again real quickly, laughing, egging him on. In his own demented way, I really believe he meant to hurt Everett—physically and mentally. It would humiliate Everett, because Vince didn’t care who was watching. In fact, sometimes I think he did stuff like that on purpose when others were watching, just to embarrass him. I know it frustrated Everett.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He would turn red and hold back the tears. Sometimes it would outrage him, and he would be on the verge of striking his dad, but I never saw him do that. I think Vince would have killed him.”

  “To your knowledge,” pressed Boone, “did Everett’s father abuse him physically, beyond what you’ve told the court today?”

  “Objection, Your Honor.” Dooley groaned, standing up. “Does this really have relevance in the case we are here to deliberate?”

  “I think it does. Overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Dibbs.”

  “I saw the type of things I just described, the slapping sessions, quite often. And Everett would show up with bruises on his face and arms all the time. We all just assumed Vince was beating him, but I never discussed it with Everett. That’s something I regret. He kept it all inside.”

  Dibbs was right. I felt like I was hemorrhaging inside back then. There was no such thing as love in my world, and I began to hate its concept. So I covered my bruised heart with a ready-to-fight exterior, and I covered the bruises on my arms with my first tattoos.

  The years that followed after the Rolling Stone cover were like a dream. Unlike other fad groups that flash like a nova for a few years and fade away, the popularity of DeathStroke continued to soar.

  We had become a group with longevity, a dynasty. With gold and platinum albums, TV appearances, a movie, and our own line of DeathStroke action toys and clothing, I couldn’t keep up with all of the income, taxes, or business interests. I hadn’t tried for a long time. Gray Harris handled all that, using a financial firm in New York to manage my personal holdings.

  By the mid-nineties I was in my early thirties and getting tired and impatient doing the same old shows night after night, year after year. I kept trying to get the guys to speed up the tempo of the songs to finish the sets quicker, and that would throw off the lyrics, which came across slurred. But the DeathStroke fans kept coming, their numbers kept growing, and the cash registers kept ch-chinging.

  My head was no longer shaved. Instead, my curly, dark brown hair now hung past my shoulders. I had remained quite trim for my six-foot-two-inch frame, simply because I was more interested in drugs and alcohol than food. The dozens of tattoos and body piercings—which snaked and curled their way from my ankles up to my neck—had made me look dirty and scarred.

  Yes, drugs triggered my bad behavior, but it was more.

  I was not only scarred on the outside; I was scarred within. I had not pleased my parents. My life brought them no joy. I really never felt accepted. The close family ties some of my childhood friends enjoyed were only fiction to me, and as I got older, I began to view such fairy tales with disdain and resentment.

  But fame and fortune would heal my wounds, I was sure. Popularity and power were the pinnacle of life itself. If the whole world knew me and I had more money than I could spend, those would be the keys to life. Strike it rich and the contest would be over, right? The game of life would be won.

  Not so fast.

  I had everything—everything—the world craved. I didn’t deny myself one tangible thing or any pleasure. If I was on the road in New Mexico and had a craving for spaghetti with brown sauce from the New York Spaghetti House in Cleveland, I would have it flown in. If I was lonely and wanted a female companion or two, groupies were lined up everywhere; I simply took my pick.

  Yet, it all turned out to be futility—like chasing the wind.

  Where was the real contentment and lasting joy?

  I was mad!

  I had worked hard to get where I was. I deserved peace and happiness…so where were they?

  I couldn’t buy them.

  My frustration reared its ugly head in my music and lyrics. My apathy was reflected in the coldness I showed toward our fans. I vented my lack of fulfillment onstage by smashing microphones, guitars, and amplifiers—and by stirring fans into furious frenzies.

  One afternoon in San Antonio, Texas, after our sound check, I was describing my discontentment to Madam Endora Crystal in a cold, concrete-block dressing room backstage. Endora, wearing a leopard-skin top and black skirt, sat amid a cloud of her own cigarette smoke on a white leather couch. Having taken off my T-shirt, I plopped down on the folding chair next to her, wiping the sweat from my face and neck with a large white towel.

  “I’ve had it, Endora. I’m sick of the road; I’m sick of the band—I’m ready to bail. This is not cutting it for me anymore.”

  “Everett, let me ask you a question,” Endora said patiently as she sat up to pour me a shot of whiskey from the makeshift bar on the coffee table in front of her. “What would make you happy?”

  “I don’t know.” I swore, throwing back the drink, which barely burned my throat. “Maybe I need to go out on my own, cut a solo album…start a new band. I don’t know, but something’s got to change.”

  “Why don’t you change, Everett?” said the intriguing redhead whose dark brown, almost-black eyes seemed to penetrate my mind like laser beams. “You want to be happy, right?” Endora filled my glass again. “Accept the praise of the people. They are blessing you every night. They are here to worship you. Receive it. Bask in it. This will give you the renewal you long for.”

  Without a word I hoisted another shot of Jack Daniels and helped myself to one of her long menthol cigarettes.

  “Your popularity was planned by the gods,” she said soberly, looking deep into me. “Your fans are crying out to you with adoration. Realize that you are accepted and loved—and enjoy it! Monumental things await you down the road, my dear. I know, because—”

  “But you know the fans, Endora. They just want—”

  “I’ve told you before, Everett, you are here, you exist, to help people—potentially millions of people—overcome their discontentment with life and their skepticism about death.”

  “How am I supposed to do that? I’m no preacher; I’m a musician.”

  “Oh, but you’re wrong, young man. In a way, you are a preacher. You are on a mission from the gods.”

  I smirked, continued to wipe my sweat off, and pretended I wasn’t interested.

  “People will listen to you; they’ll do whatever you say. I see it every night from behind the curtains in the wings backstage. The gods have given you the charisma to—”

  “Endora! Don’t brownnose me like everyone else. I hired you to be straight with me, to cut through the lies, to be the one clear voice. All the others just want my money or to be able to say they’ve been with me…”

  Endora leaned forward, rubbed her cigarette out in the silver ashtray, and put her hand on my knee.

  “Everett,” she said quietly, “you have the power—the supernatural power—to send people home from your concerts different people, literally, different people. Do you realize that?”

  I didn’t say a word but instead tapped a small amount of marijuana into the thumb-sized bowl of the small silver pipe I found amid the junk on the table in front of me. Lifting the lifeline to my mouth and lighting the bowl with Endora’s re
d lighter, the small nest of weed lit up hot orange, a few seeds crackling and popping as I took the smoke deep into my chest.

  “If you don’t believe me, test it. During a show. Test the waters. I dare you. See how much power you really have.”

  “Endora, you’re weird, you know that? You’re always talkin’ so spiritual.”

  She tidied up the coffee table a bit, contemplating before she spoke. “The father and mother gods are loving beings who want all people to have joy—and the afterlife. I don’t believe in hell and damnation. It’s not true. I’ve communicated with too many people on the Other Side. I’ve heard from those who were supposed to have gone to hell. They’ve assured their families, by speaking through me, that they are okay. Everett, the dead are still involved in our lives!”

  “How do you know that for a fact?”

  “I’ve talked with them! Just like you and I are talking.” She pointed a long finger at me. “I believe all people can reach the father and mother gods, simply by growing in knowledge. Look at yourself, for instance. If you would begin to get a grip on the fact that you will live another glorious life after you die, you would set yourself free. You would have a whole different view of life.”

  “You’re saying I’m not going to hell?”

  “Of course not!” she said with a smoker’s laugh.

  “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

  “Yes I do,” she insisted, almost joyfully. “Everett, there is no hell. Only good awaits us. Don’t you see? When we understand that there is life on the Other Side for all of us, it frees us up to have liberty in the here and now. That is the message you have been chosen to deliver. This is real. Why else do you think we’ve been brought together?”

  The mixture of pot and booze was creeping up on me.

  “Something’s going to happen at tonight’s show,” she said suddenly, shifting in her seat and not making eye contact for a moment. “That is how the spirits will prove to you that they are moving with power in your life and prompting you to do as I say.”