I began playing drums when I was around 4-5 years old and taught myself by playing along to KISS albums. When I was 12-13, I started rocking-out to decidedly more complex stuff - Slayer, Metallica, etc. Of course, I did not play all this music well, but I tried. The band with which I played in highschool won the talent show but, as would be the case time and again throughout my musical career, things fell apart before we were able to "take it to the next level."
At around 15, I heard Deicide (the first album) and it literally changed my world. By 18, I was playing in one of the most popular local underground bands; I was, in fact, a (very) minor celebrity in my own right; people knew who I was and what I did. I wasn't asked to appear in commercials or on the cover of phonebooks, but local DJs, event organizers, and club managers would call and let me know they were having this act or that promotion and let me get in for free, give me free drinks, blahblahblah. I had sex with very hot chicks who should have known better (read: strippers, ahem, "dancers"), I drank too much and often made a fool of myself, and people genuinely, and generally, wanted to be around me.
Now let me add that I knew most of these people quite well - we'd grown-up together, were friends for years, and so on - many of the people I knew eventually went into the entertainment business in one form or another or I met them through mutual involvement in the entertainment field. That is not unusual; I mention it because I am being honest: there were many times when the whole "celebrity" thing went to my head. It's very natural and just something that happens. I never bit the heads off any bats or made a sex tape (that I recall!), but I certainly showed my ass a few times over the years because I confused the fact that I knew a lot of people - and/or they knew me - with being "famous."
But that is kind of what "being famous" means, right? Well, let me clarify: I often confused the fact that I was well-known with the idea that I was well-known for something. That's the only way I can put it and I don't know if even that is accurate because I was in the middle of it.
So, one night, I was going into a popular club where I was well-known and - at that time - well-liked, and some guy in the line started screaming my name really loudly and calling attention to the whole scene. He asked me if I was still playing "that heavy shit" and if I was still "banging that hot chick - you know, the really hot one?" and so forth and so on...
And could I get him and his wife and her sister into the club?
Now, if I were to say I wasn't flattered, I would be lying; likewise, if I were to tell you the whole thing wasn't embarrassing, I'd be lying, too; I had never received this sort of attention and I didn't know how to handle it. But this was a guy who had hung-out with so-and-so and remembered some girl I'd dated years before and knew my brother and so on and so forth, so he must have been a "fan," right? Forget the fact that I didn't know him from Adam and didn't recognize his name; he knew me, and that's what counted... right? I mean, that's how fame works, right?
As we walked past the throng to the front of the line, random people called my name and said things like, "That's him," and stuff like that. They didn't know me, they just knew that that guy knew me and I was some sort of Someone who did Something - and they wanted to be a part of that, somehow.
Once inside, the guy thanked me and asked me what I drank and so on. I sat down and waited for him to return... for a while; he did not return and I did not receive my drink. I saw one of the girls who was with him later on that night and when I tried to talk to her, she gave me this annoyed look and ignored me.
So there I sat, thinking I deserved it. After all, I knew I wasn't really Anyone; I played death metal in a city known for rap and blues! I knew all of my true "fans" by their first name! I didn't recognize this guy and I didn't recall his name. So what if he knew my brother or he had seen us play in the practice room, or at the comics shop, or in someone's living room? At least 345907235097 other people had too over the past 10 years!
So there I was, beating myself up over my hubris and stupidity, when one of the bouncers I knew (barely - like his name and face - just from the club) asked me to come over. It turned out this little prick and his wimminfolk had gotten far too drunk and started something and they were forcibly being "asked to leave." And, of course, they told the bouncers and managers they were with me!!! So the bouncer goes, "Did these guys come in with you?"
And there's that little chick that ignored me earlier, running off at the mouth about how she's gonna kick this bitch's ass and that bitch's and they done made her cry and everyone knows how she gets when she gets to crying - aw, hell naw! - that means she's really mad and yaddayadda, and I just shook my head and said, "Nope - I don't know them."
Of course, they all started in on how they went to highschool with me and knew the band and all the stuff they'd said to get in to begin with, and I was just like, "Nope - they must be thinking of my little brother."
A few days later, I saw something on TV about how Sharon Stone was supposed to be this big ice queen and I thought, "I figure she has to be."
This story somehow got around - again, I do not know who this guy was but he obviously did know some of the people I did - and several months later, it was told to me in a very different form: basically, I was the "asshole." But the interesting thing is that, when I told my side of it, the cats who asked me about it were all like, "Oh yeah, he's a jerk - that sounds more like what really happened."
!!!!!!!!!!
In other words, this guy had a reputation for this behavior - as, apparently, did the chicks that were with him - but the story still got passed around with me as the villain!
I was around 22-23 when I discovered that "fame" - whatever it is or is supposed to be - just isn't my cup o' tea.
And that's my Fame Story - the one I trot-out at dinner parties and shit.
© C Harris Lynn, 2008
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