BLOODY CHRISTMAS

A story from the book
Beyond the Bass Clef by Tony Levin.

It was the week before Christmas and the Peter Gabriel tour was finishing with two concerts in London at the Hammersmith Odeon. The penultimate show was almost over and going well when, near the end of “On the Air,” the last encore, I felt something hit me in the head.

Now, when touring Europe, it’s not unusual to have a UFO or two arrive on the stage during a show. It seems to be a tradition to bring lunch to a concert and, if the apple looks less than ripe, to donate it to the band. Also, there is often hostility by the audience toward those in the first few rows who steadfastly refuse to sit down. In any show in France, for instance, the first few songs are drowned out by cries of Asseyez vous! Bottles are thrown at the first row, which isn’t too different from bottles being thrown at the band, is it?

But in London, a shout of two decibels above speaking volume was unheard of, and to actually project a missile toward the stage was as un-cricket as, say, to arrive early. (Except at punk clubs, where you could both arrive early and hurl all your belongings at the band and then spit at them for good measure.) I had turned my back to Peter and the audience. I was standing in front of Jerry Marotta, our drummer, grooving with him. Suddenly, what felt like a large rock hit me in the back of the head, and the expression on Jerry’s face told me that something was very wrong. I quickly began to feel faint and, as some blood trickled down onto my bass, I exited the stage—there were only a few bars left in the piece. I wasn’t hurt badly. Though it felt like a solid hit, the object had only glanced off my head. It was only later, as the band came offstage and grouped around me in concern, that I found out what had hit me.

During that tour, Peter had developed a fondness for smashing things during the encores. Sometimes he’d pick up the closest footlights and crash them down at his feet—a flashy effect, though not appreciated by the lighting crew who had to get the lights working again by the next night. Gradually they learned to set up dummy lights in front of Peter. No dice—he found overhead lights that he could swing violently and then bat with a microphone stand. The audience loved all this, even if the lighting crew grumbled. On this particular night, when the wild singer snatched his mike stand and headed toward the piano with it poised ominously over his contorted visage, the crowd went wild. The trouble was that this particular stand was a gooseneck, with a flexible joint in the middle.

I, alas, missed all this, having turned my back and being involved in my musical dialogue with Jerry. But when the stand twisted mid-swing and the heavy base of it glanced off my head, that got my attention. The audience assumed Peter had done it on purpose and cheered even louder. What an effect! I would like to think, for my peace of mind, that they assumed it was a trick and somehow safe. It would be unsettling to think that the loud cheer I heard was for my murder!

Jerry, of course, saw it all happening. Though I can’t quite describe the look on his face, it is a look I hope I never see again.

***

I have no scar but I perversely left the blood on the bass (my old Fender Precision). We all try to let our old basses get that heavily used look. Mine has it.

Peter felt really bad and has never smashed anything onstage since. But I still don’t turn my back.

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