Everyone knows that you never let the drummer write the lyrics.
Erik Arneson proves that when it comes to rock 'n' roll fame, the first cut is the deepest...
Erik Arneson proves that when it comes to rock 'n' roll fame, the first cut is the deepest...
Sole Operator by Erik Arneson
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April 1996
Billy Campbell had no conscience. When the shrink his
parents made him see after a particularly bruising middle-school fight said
Billy was a sociopath, it worried him at first. Through high school and
college, however, he came to see the condition as a feature rather than a
glitch.
He also realized that although he never felt guilty, he
often felt jealous. And it was jealousy that consumed him as he read, for the
ninth time, the review of his band’s new album in the influential indie rock
mag Notebored:
“One of the greatest rock songwriters of the ’90s, Bear
again delivers poetic lyrics and intricate percussion topped by catchy guitar
riffs on Tangled Pool’s third release, Alaska
Flowers. Add to the mix Billy Campbell’s smooth, Sade-like vocals—a voice
female fans find simply irresistible—and the result is another brilliant
album.”
The bit about his voice was true, obviously, but top billing
always went to Bear, the drummer. Every fucking time. The drummer. The
motherfucking drummer.
Enough.
*
Bear, a man large enough to deserve the nickname, sat behind
the Mackie 1604 mixing board in his home recording studio, finishing off a
Padrón corona, when Billy entered.
“Those things’ll kill you,” Billy said.
Bear, who hadn’t used his real name—Harry Evans—in years,
grinned. “I told you before, Billy, it’s all good. You don’t inhale the smoke,
you let it linger.” He blew a smoke ring to the ceiling. “You see Notebored? Chicks dig you.”
Billy grunted.
“When we hit the West Coast next month, you’ll be chasing
away groupies.”
“Hope so. Hey, I got something for you. To celebrate that
great review.” Billy handed his bandmate a Bahia Maduro torpedo.
Bear sniffed the cigar. “Impressive.”
“It took me far too long to appreciate the beauty of a fine
cigar. I’m making up for lost time.”
“Got one for yourself?”
“I’ll try one of your Padróns.”
They smoked and relaxed and talked about the new Coen
Brothers movie Fargo, that incredible
night they opened for R.E.M., and everything else that came to mind. Halfway
through the cigars, Bear began coughing, lightly at first. The cough grew much
worse as they neared the end of the cigars.
Billy said, “You remember history class?”
“Hell, no,” Bear said between hacks.
“I remember learning about the CIA trying to assassinate
Castro. Never could touch him.”
“Rings a bell.” The coughs, more drawn out now, started to
sound painful. “Damn. I need some water.”
Bear tried to get up but his legs buckled. He fell to the
floor and his eyes filled with confusion, then fear as he struggled to stand
and failed. Billy felt a small twinge of…joy? Yes, joy, an unfamiliar emotion
provoked by the sudden rush of power.
“What the hell’s wrong with me?” Bear labored to catch his
breath.
“The CIA knew Castro loved cigars,” Billy continued. “So
they planned to poison a cigar with something called BTX. Would’ve worked, but
they couldn’t get near his personal stash.”
“Billy, help me. Please.”
“You know that medical lab I used to work at? They did a lot
of research with BTX. Still do, it turns out. Surprisingly easy to get my hands
on some when I stopped by to catch up with old friends this morning.”
Bear struggled to speak, struggled even to cough now. Billy
stood and relished the feeling of control, the knowledge that his lack of guilt
enabled him to do things—big things—other people would never consider.
Bear’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Billy knelt and grabbed Bear’s hair, lifting his head.
“What’s that, Bear? Can’t hear you.”
“Why?” Bear’s voice was barely audible.
“Why?” Billy dropped Bear’s head to the floor with a thud as
he considered the question. “You changed, Bear. Everything used to be fine.
Then you bought into the critics’ bullshit, thinking you’re the reason people
buy our albums.”
Bear’s breathing was thin, his face pale and blue. His cough
was little more than a wheeze now.
One corner of Billy’s mouth turned up in a crooked smile as
he stood and brushed some lint off his black pants. “Something in your eyes
tells me you’re barely alive, Bear, so I’ll get quick to the point. It’s time
to go solo. I’ve been thinking about what to call my first record. I really
like being compared to Sade so maybe I’ll pay her tribute and go with Sole
Operator.”
Billy nodded, pleased with his decision. “Yeah, Sole
Operator. That has a nice ring. You dig it?”
