Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol Read online

  And she was right.

  Late in the concert that night in San Antonio, I treated our fans like slaves, just pushing them to see how far I could get them to go. The next day’s San Antonio Gazette quoted me as yelling these words to the crowd that night: “Hey, San Antonio, it’s gettin’ hot in here. And you know, if we’re not careful—ha, ha—we’re gonna burn this place to the ground! C’mon. Light it up…”

  And they did.

  The fire started slowly in about the thirtieth row on the floor as we ripped into our newest hit, “InSINerator.” We had seen small fires before, but as fans began to throw chairs, clothing, and alcohol into the flames, it flared and spread rapidly. The panic that ensued caused a stampede to the exits. Thirteen people were hospitalized in the mayhem, one girl almost suffocated to death, and I’m certain many more went home injured and frightened.

  Drugs helped me completely block out the fire in San Antonio along with all the other bad press. I didn’t check on any of the fans who were hurt, and I didn’t worry about getting into trouble with the law over what happened. We were the law. And we never had to look back, because the money and power behind DeathStroke got us out of every jam.

  You’ve got to understand, the band members in DeathStroke were so drugged up and busy rushing from city to city, we didn’t have the time or memory to care. We were separated—purposefully isolated—from the results of things like fires, destroyed hotel rooms, skirmishes with the law, and relationships with fans that turned into lawsuits.

  An aging Gray Harris served as our gauntlet, handling all the bad press, defusing the accusations, and settling the lawsuits out of court, behind the scenes so we didn’t have to get involved. That’s why he was paid seven figures.

  When former lead guitarist John Scoogs was called to the witness stand, Miami-Dade prosecutor Frank Dooley tugged at his cuffs and licked his chops.

  Scoogs looked good. His black hair was still long and in a ponytail, and he was clean-shaven. He had put on a much-needed few pounds since I last saw him and wore black jeans, a white mock turtleneck, a khaki sport jacket, and dark sunglasses. Hmm. Someone else must be dressing him these days.

  Dooley’s questions covered much of the same ground he’d already been over with other key witnesses. Scoogs confirmed that, yes, I had my own “personal psychic.” Yes, I did a lot of drugs. Yes, I was known to become violent at times, both onstage and off.

  But the next series of questions Dooley pursued began to hit a nerve with me, Scoogs, and, I was sure, the jury.

  “Mr. Scoogs,” Dooley said, taking his time, scanning his notes. “How well did you know Edith Rosenbaum, also known as Madam Endora Crystal—Everett Lester’s personal psychic?”

  “Fairly well,” Scoogs said quietly. “She often traveled with the band, so she became a friend.”

  “And where exactly would Madam Endora stay when she accompanied DeathStroke on the road?”

  “She had her own hotel room, just like each of us did. Our traveling show got so big, we eventually needed thirty or forty rooms at each stop to accommodate band members, tour managers, publicists, staff, and people like Endora.”

  “I see.” Dooley approached the witness stand. “Specifically, Mr. Scoogs, do you recall a stay at the Four Seasons Hotel in Charleston, West Virginia, in 1995 when a discussion ensued between Madam Endora and Everett Lester that centered around the topic of Mr. Lester’s father, Vince?”

  Closing his eyes as if searching the past, Scoogs said, “I remember several conversations like that.”

  “Yes, but do you recall specifically the time I’m referring to in Charleston when Endora attempted to convince Mr. Lester that she was hearing from his dead father?”

  “I…may recall something like that.”

  “Well, Mr. Scoogs, why don’t you stretch your mind a bit and tell the court what you can recall, precisely, about that conversation.” Dooley tugged at his sleeves.

  After staring down at his hands for what seemed like minutes, Scoogs cleared his throat and looked squarely at the prosecutor. “When Endora caught up with us at our hotel in Charleston, I remember her saying to Everett something like, ‘I’ve been walking around all week long with this energy.’ After jockeying around for a long time, she finally got around to telling Everett that the spirit of his dead father had been trying to communicate with her.”

  Instead of a loud uproar, I heard a great deal of movement all at once in courtroom B-3. People shifting positions in their seats. Papers ruffling. Equipment moving.

  “Was this good news or bad news, in Mr. Lester’s opinion?” questioned Dooley.

  “Bad,” Scoogs answered almost before the question was finished. “Everett’s old man was taboo. Too many scars from the past. Vince didn’t want much to do with Everett when he was alive, and Everett definitely didn’t want to communicate with Vince from the dead.”

  “So, what happened?” Dooley strolled toward the jury.

  “Endora was very serious about this whole topic, very emotional. She told Everett, ‘I tried and tried to block Vince’s spirit from coming through, but he persisted.’ Everett was mad. He didn’t want Endora messing with his past.”

  “And so, what ensued from there?”

  “Finally, she gave in. She said Vince’s spirit talked to her and made it completely clear that he was okay on the Other Side, and that he apologized to Everett.”

  “How did Everett Lester respond to this?”

  Scoogs shrugged. “He was ticked.”

  “How ticked?”

  Silence.

  “I must remind you, Mr. Scoogs, that you are under oath, and perjury is a felony offense punishable up to—”

  “You’ve got to understand: Endora had problems. She had some totally weird beliefs. I felt like she took advantage of Everett’s drug addiction, trying to use him to accomplish her own agenda. She would—”

  “Mr. Scoogs.” Dooley stood on his toes. “Can you please just answer my question? How mad was Everett Lester that December night in Charleston, West Virginia? Did he or did he not threaten Madam Endora Crystal’s life?”

  “He did, but he was bombed out of his mind at the time.”

  “What did he say to her? ‘I’m going to stab you’? ‘I’m going to shoot you’? What exactly was his threat?”

  “He said something like, ‘Endora, if you ever mention my father again…I’m gonna kill you…’” His voice trailed off with the last words.

  Dooley raised both eyebrows and nodded a pompous “I told you so” to the jury. “I have no further questions for this witness.”

  After the fire and stampede in San Antonio came another eventful tour date, the Weekend Music Jam at Arrowhead Stadium in Kansas City. We were the headline group among a bunch of other bands. I had just flown in on my jet and was whisked by limo to the makeshift dressing rooms in the bowels of the stadium.

  As usual I was greeted immediately by the short and bouncy Tina Drew, our tour coordinator, who was surrounded by sound people, roadies, promoters, journalists, makeup artists, production managers, and publicists. Tina grabbed my arm and led me past scores of fans who had been herded into special roped-off areas designated especially for those lucky enough to have landed backstage.

  As I was ushered past the squealing, reaching fans—a scene I had experienced hundreds of times before—one young lady caught my attention. She stood quietly along the front of the rope, wearing white jeans, sandals, a red short-sleeve knit shirt, and sunglasses that sat atop her shiny blond hair. Her arms rested casually at her sides, where I noticed she held a Bible in one hand and a long-stem yellow rose in the other. I guessed she was twenty-something.

  I moved my sunglasses down on my nose to get a better look, but Tina rushed me along toward the dressing room door with a gold star and my name on it. In we went to another small room that looked the same as the last dozen. It featured a small couch, several chairs, a refrigerator stocked with Molsons, several bottles of booze, and a dressing table and
large mirror, which was bordered with yellowish lightbulbs. Flowers, presents, cards, and food trays were situated throughout the room.

  I grabbed a Molson, lit a Salem, and dropped onto the couch, hoisting my legs up over the side, not bothering to read any of the cards or well wishes from fans stacked in front of me on the coffee table.

  By now, fans all looked the same; they were like trees walking. I questioned their motives and feelings. Sometimes I viewed them as wild animals, just wanting a piece of me. At other times, they seemed to care for me genuinely, and I tried to do the same for them. Relationships were a confusing issue for me.

  Charlie LaRoche, a friend, employee of the band, and longtime drug supplier, would soon be around to set me up for the weekend. I longed for more of the good hash he’d found recently, and it wouldn’t hurt to score some coke while he was here, either.

  Who was that babe? I picked at some of the hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table. And what the heck is she doing toting a Bible in here?

  Within the next hour, Charlie came and left, as did Gray Harris, who had come to check up on his golden boy. Still in my street clothes—which consisted of torn jeans, a white v-necked T-shirt, and black Doc Martens—I was determined to check out the fox with the Bible when I went for the sound check. But when I passed by where she had been standing, hesitantly acknowledging the screaming fans along the way, she was gone.

  I would not see Karen Bayliss again for five or six years, but somehow she managed to get this note under my dressing room door that weekend in Kansas City, along with the yellow rose she had brought…

  Hi, Mr. Lester!

  Do you find it at all intriguing that I, of all people, would be selected by Kansas City’s KCFX radio as the winner of two backstage passes to your Weekend Jam concert? I don’t even listen to that station, but a friend, who knew I’ve been praying for you, told me there was a contest—so I entered.

  God is behind everything, Mr. Lester. There are no coincidences. The Bible says He has made everything for its own purpose. I am convinced you were made for His purpose. My prayer is that you will surrender your life to Him and allow Him to radically use you for His kingdom, just as He did the apostle Paul (you can read about him in the book of Acts—New Testament).

  I did not stay to see the show because I don’t care for your music (no offense!). But I do care about you, your peace on earth, and where you will spend eternity. Jesus said, “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light” (Matthew 11:28–30).

  Are you still hungry for more, Mr. Lester? Jesus can give you real bread—the bread of life. Do you still thirst for something to quench what’s missing in your life? Jesus is waiting to come and give you Living Water. I know, because I have drank of Him and will never thirst again.

  I’ll write again soon. Until then, may the one almighty God draw you.

  Sincerely,

  Karen Bayliss

  Of all the…what is this chick’s game?

  The letter angered me. But it intrigued me at the same time.

  How did she get back here?

  Unlike all the other hell-raisers who were after me, this Karen had no interest whatsoever in my music, my money, my body, or my stardom. Why was she pursuing me? Why bother? My very existence was designed to insult people like her—and their so-called God. Yet, she drove all the way here just to drop off a rose and a note.

  It was almost as if it wasn’t her at all writing the letters or standing there along the rope. She was like an angel sending messages from God. And her words shot a tiny ray of light through the soupy fog that was my disturbed life.

  When I read her letters, I heard Him calling me.

  But I ignored the letters and disregarded Him.

  I stuffed them all away in the dark attic of my mind, along with all the other baggage—and then I had another drink.

  4

  WE WERE IN THE process of recording our ninth project, this time at The Groove recording studio in Santa Clarita, California, when I got word that Liza Moon was on her deathbed in Dallas. She had been filming her latest movie on location near the Lake Fork Reservoir in Sulphur Springs, Texas, when a crew member found her unconscious in her trailer.

  Gray Harris quickly arranged for a limo to take me to the airport and for the DeathStroke jet to get me to Texas. I was determined to see her before she died.

  Liza’s mother, who was seated outside room 306 at Charlton Methodist Hospital, saw me but made no acknowledgment as I passed her and tapped on the wide wooden door.

  After a few moments, Liza’s older sister quietly opened the door, gave me a quick half-smile, motioned me into the room with her eyes, then tiptoed back to her sister’s bedside.

  Liza was a ghost of the woman I had once known.

  “She overdosed,” said Liza’s sister, staring at her sibling’s ashen face, closed eyes, and cracked lips.

  “What are her chances?” I asked, knowing she couldn’t possibly live.

  “Not good. I’ll leave you alone with her if you want.”

  “Yes.”

  When the door to the room clicked shut, I pulled my chair close and touched the fingers of her cold, thin hand. That was the only skin I could find amid all the tubes and tape.

  Her appearance upset me. I could see the bones in her face and hands. Her skin was drawn tight against her forehead and cheekbones. The white bedsheet lay smoothly over her, as if there was but a wisp underneath.

  Where had Liza gone? This did not look like the same person.

  I slipped back in time to the late-night, after-show limo rides and dinners, to the parties and shows, to the long walks and talks. I remembered her at her Hollywood townhouse, wearing faded jeans and oversized sweatshirts with her long brown hair flowing out the back of her Dodgers cap.

  “What’s happened to us, Liza?” I whispered, surprising myself with the tears that followed, not able to remember the last time I had cried.

  We were supposed to be on top of the world, but we had hit the slimy depths. We were supposed to be on easy street, but it was difficult to make it through the day. We were rich, but we didn’t have anything of value. We were somebody—and we wished we were nobody.

  Liza used to get a kick out of hanging with the band. Everyone liked her. Every guy wished she were his. She was a bright star in an often dark world. And she was the only person I had ever really opened up to about my past and about the failed relationship with my father. He and Mom had met Liza several times. They liked her. To them, she was one of the few things I had ever done right.

  Slowly, my sorrow melted cold, like wax drying.

  Look at her.

  I wanted to smash the equipment that kept her alive.

  LOOK AT HER!

  I couldn’t stay any longer.

  Had to run.

  “God, why would You do this?” I hissed.

  Standing, I took one last look at her and blew out the door, not looking again at the family and friends lined up in the chairs along the hallway.

  Gray and the band didn’t hear from me for days. The recording session at The Groove stopped in midstream. Liza died two days after I visited her. I did not attend the funeral in California but instead plunged into a weeklong drug binge at my high-rise in Manhattan.

  Somewhere near the tail end of the stupor, I flipped through the channels on my TV and saw a thin, elderly preacher addressing a large congregation in Atlanta.

  “Listen to me,” he insisted. “Our world is full of sin. That sin nature has been passed down to you and me from Adam and Eve. If you want to know why bad things happen to good people, why tragedy comes unexpectedly, why our world and our country are in such disarray…the answer is sin. It’s in you, it’s in me, and it’s got to be dealt with. Listen, Jesus died to forgive you, right now, wherever you are, whatever you’ve done. He desires t
o come into your life and to make His home with you…”

  Those were the last words I remember hearing before pulling the trigger of my 9 mm UltraStar and blowing the picture tube clean out of my 60” Magnavox.

  “Yes, he liked guns,” our longtime DeathStroke manager, Gray Harris, testified.

  Dooley pushed his chair back and stood. “Did he own a lot of guns?”

  “Everett was the kind of guy who, once he got interested in something, wanted to be an expert at it, immediately. It was that way with the guns and the knives. Someone turned him on to handguns early in his career, and right away he owned an assortment of them. He took marksmanship lessons and even had a small shooting range built into the basement of one of his homes. But I never saw him misuse guns.”

  “Mr. Harris.” Dooley looked directly from one juror to the next. “In all your years working and traveling with the band, did you ever see Everett Lester threaten anyone?”

  Gray had aged incredibly. His hair was white and he was overweight. The bows of his silver glasses bent outward to make it around his wide, red face. Gray had always loved a good steak, and the red meat seemed to be catching up with him. He appeared to be almost out of breath. I didn’t know whether that was from his anxiety about the trial, his health, or both.

  “Look,” he said heavily. “Everett and the other members of DeathStroke were like family. We lived and worked and traveled together, in very close quarters. We were probably closer than many husbands and wives. When you’re in these kinds of intimate settings, everyone sees everyone else’s weaknesses. And little things take on big proportions.”

  I was amazed at Dooley’s patience. He must have had a good night’s sleep, because he remained silent as Gray attempted to soften his answer.

  “When Everett was at his worst, drug- and alcohol-wise, he did lose his composure and threaten people. But all in all, I would say he did quite well with his emotions, considering how blitzed he was by the media twenty-four hours a day.”