In the ultimate tribute to rock and rollâs pantheon, âThe 27 Club Interviewsâ exists in an alternative universe where Joplin, Hendrix, Morrison, Brian Jones, Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse did not die at their appointed times, but instead, had life-altering experiences with drugs, booze and/or shotguns where they nearly died, but survived. As a result, they dropped out of the mainstream, shed the limelight and lived on to the present day in relative obscurity, each one with their own fascinating stories to tell of life after fame, much of it riddled with poetic justice.
The premise: Each member of the 27 Club has consented to be interviewed for the first time in decades by a fictional hard-drinking journalist whose exaggerated personality forms the thread that sews these interviews together:
In the ultimate tribute to rock and rollâs pantheon, âThe 27 Club Interviewsâ exists in an alternative universe where Joplin, Hendrix, Morrison, Brian Jones, Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse did not die at their appointed times, but instead, had life-altering experiences with drugs, booze and/or shotguns where they nearly died, but survived. As a result, they dropped out of the mainstream, shed the limelight and lived on to the present day in relative obscurity, each one with their own fascinating stories to tell of life after fame, much of it riddled with poetic justice.
The premise: Each member of the 27 Club has consented to be interviewed for the first time in decades by a fictional hard-drinking journalist whose exaggerated personality forms the thread that sews these interviews together:
1. THE ANCHOR
It is one of those idiotically oppressive midsummer days where the mercury blows into the mid-nineties and the humidity follows on a leash. We call them âdog daysâ for a reason.
Days like this are not meant for suffocating in cubicles or breaking balls on assembly lines, nor for squatting on collapsing front porches or swapping memories in the wasteland of alleys, but that is exactly how non-credible people spend them. In Detroitâonce youâve ticked off âriotingââonly two credible options are left for the sweltering blast furnace dog days of July: Working outside in the direct sun and feeling like an underpaid stud, or sitting in a dark bar drinking booze and trying to convince random women youâre an overpaid stud.
So let me tell you about one of these random women, because if she hadnât told me to pound sand, this book would never have been written.
She is sitting midway down the bar of a local dive where newspaper people gatherâwhere I used to gather when I was a newspaper people and where I still gather now that I no longer collect a paycheck from one (or both) of Detroitâs two dailies. Instead, Iâm currently doing a podcast about the decay of my hometown, especially the decay of these two dailies, which have (by the way) lost any semblance of self-respect.
My podcast involves vignettes about local peeps who may be going down with the ship, but who still cling to a little self-respect.
The ship itself, incidentally, hit the reef long ago, and frankly, so did my podcast. These days I tend to put less work into it than I do into drinking bourbon and scamming on young writer groupies whoâas I discovered on my one-and-only book tourâare a distinct and amazing subset of the female persuasion.
This one is sitting before an open lap top drinking Mexican beer, her eyes, wide-set Irish-looking, are a color I once described in some trailer-park Venus di Mopar as being âpeppermint-aqua.â Her nose freckles are a melanoma minefield; Cremora arms are tagged with jangling mess of tattoos like a derelict building in Corktown and her hair is dyed a shade of purple usually reserved for acid flashbacks. But she is instantly and eerily attractive in the same way I outline in the above-referenced essay âThe Trailer Park Paradoxâ: Poor struggling white chicks of a certain age occasionally exude a maddeningly potent sexual musk, like Roseanna Arquette does in every movie she ever made about poor young struggling white chicks.
So I bring my drink over, sit beside her, and signal Lanitaâa black woman in tarantula eyelashes and a Boyz in Da Hood t-shirt (an incongruity among the barâs hockey paraphernalia)âto place another Mexican beer in front of my target audience.
âIâm Danny Ayres,â I say brightly, extending my hand, which she takes with fingers cool from the Negra Modella bottle from which sheâd been compulsive peeling neck foil and making little balls to stack against the lip of the bar.
âTrust me,â I want to sayâ'Iâve made a few beer foil pyramids myselfâitâs what people do who should be working but would rather be drinking.â
Itâs a kick-ass opening line, so I file it to use later.
She introduced herself: âChaiâŠâ
Fuckinâ perfect. The space-cadet eaglet has landed.
ââŠFlashner.â
Okay, maybe sheâs Jewish instead of Irish, but it hardly mattersâat fifty something, I tend to be a non-bigoted, equal-opportunity lech.
But, admirably or not, I am also playing a role: When someone like this sits dead center at a writer (and pseudo-writer) hangout, tip-tapping her keyboard, sheâs looking to be noticed. And as you have surmised, I am a noticer. Sheâs never been here before, at least not on my watch, or else Iâd have noticed her.
âYou a writer?â I ask with a disingenuous smile, the closest I can come to being charming in a place as utterly devoid of charm as The Anchor Bar.
âI wish. Iâm a marketing major at Wayne.â
âDoesnât that involve a lot of writing?â
âIt can, but it doesnât have toâfirms have people that do that kind of stuff and shit. Theyâre called copywriters. Actually, I want to develop my copywriting skills, because finding just the right words is key to any successful advertising blitz. Thatâs what my one professor is always sayingâthatâs who Iâm doing this project for. Heâs like this fifty year old dude who spent his career on Madison Avenue and his ideas are good, if a little dated. Not that thereâs anything wrong with fifty year old guys,â she adds quickly, and I see that there might be a little chink in the breastplate of nubile tattoo-girl caution.
âExactly,â I concur. âFor one thing, we can score better cocaine.â
That makes her laugh, widening the chink a further soupçon. She goes on: âAnyway, thatâs what I am currently OCDing about: âHow do I say exactly the things I want to express using the perfect termsâ? I know I can do it; Iâm just having writerâs block right now.â
âSee, me? I donât believe thereâs such thing as writerâs block, Chai. Itâs just an excuse people use to describe not having anything to say and trying to say it anyway.â
This miffs her, but coolânothing wrong with a little well-placed miffery. Otherwise you become too obvious and they start reminding you where their peppermint-aqua eyes are.
âCynical much?â she frowns.
âYep, too much, no doubt. But I real-world all the time.â
âAre you a writer?â she asks, not entirely ready to write-off a real-world writer.
âI do dabble in the occasional letter,â I confess, passing her my podcast business card.
âAwesome,â she replies, revitalizing her attention. ââRhapsodies in Rust.â Love the name. Iâm embarrassed to say Iâve never heard of it, but I will definitely check it out.â
âYou do that. Check out my book, too. Same name, âRhapsodies in Rustâ, published by Penguin Press in 2016.â
âThatâs completely awesome!â she gushed. âI think of writing as an art form, donât you?â
âI try not to use the word âartâ unless Iâm writing about Garfunkel.â
âWho?â
âNever mind; before your time. I used to write music reviews for âRolling Stoneâ and âVice.â âCreemâ, too, but again, before your time.â
âWhoa! For real? Thatâs also entirely awesome.â
âFor about a minute. But you know whatâs really awesome?â I sayâhaving dangled the carrot, I now dust it sparkly white: âGood cocaine.â
âMaybe,â she says, looking forlornly at her computer screen. âI sort of wanted to get this project done.â
âWhatâs it on?â I asked. âMaybe I can toss out my two cents.â
âItâs about showing how famous sexist ad campaigns of the past could be re-written to target a modern flex-gender demographic living in non-binary spaces.â
Strike one. People who say âflex-genderâ and ânon-binary spacesâ weird me out almost as much as people who say âartâ.
Suddenly, slapping her brow and reddening in way that sets fire to her freckles, she burbles, âDuh! Simon Garfunkel. One of my professors made us read his poetry and it was really awesome. He should have won that Nobel prize instead of Dylan.â
âDo you have a summer job, Chai?â I ask.
âI deliver for Door Dash, but Iâm taking this class which takes a lot of time since I want to ace it. Why?â
âI might have an internship going at âRhapsodies in Rust.ââ
âReally?â she says, sniffing the crawler as it squirms on the hook. âWould it involve any writing?â
âIt might. Do you have a sample of anything youâve written? I mean, between bouts of writerâs block?â
âI have this one piece that was published in a cat magazine right after Pebbles died last semester.â
âLetâs read it,â I say, and she navigates her laptop for a sec before unearthing an eight-hundred word editorial with her name on it from an online magazine called âNine Lifetimes of Loveâ. She turns the computer my way, and as I scan through it, she steps up the pace of the foil-ball rolling.
Strike two. Itâs godawful.
âI mean, feel free to critique it and shit,â she says. âI wonât be offended or anything. I didnât run it by any real writers before I submitted it, I just wrote it stream of conscience, like Kerouacian.â
Make it or break it, I figured: âYou wonât be offended by constructive commentary? Pinkie promise?â
She hooks her small finger into mine and that little electric skin contact sets the angle of my tack. Consenting to human touch is significant, even if itâs just a pinkieâI believe I might be en route to slipping a whole hand into the armor chink.
âWell, in the first sentence you say, âAt 3 a.m. in the morning.â Thatâs sort of redundant, Chai; âa.m.â already signifies that itâs morning.â
âOkay, so thatâs true. Thatâs minor, right? âas I said, the only person who proof-read it was my boyfriend.â
Strike thr⊠well, two-and-a-half; at her age, boyfriends are disposable commodities.
âWhat about the rest?â
âItâs pretty maudlin.â
âI mean, itâs a story about a dead cat.â
âNo, no, on the podcast we do maudlin all the time. We bleed hard-hitting, edgy maudlin. Check out the story I did on a little dago gamine who fell under a train on the East side and lost both his legsâgrew up to found the countryâs biggest prosthetic corporation, a Fortune 500 company. Fuckinâ Mayor of Mauldinville, that little dude.â
âIs that a true story?â
âOf course itâs true. Google âLimbo to Limbsâ.â
Sheâs frowning as she says, âAwesome title, anyway. So, how much do you pay your interns?â
âHow about a dollar per hour for every time you say something is awesome in the next fifteen minutes? Iâm kidding. Letâs discuss salary over dinner tonight and work on the writing chops as we move forward. Truth is, you have exactly the look Iâm looking for.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âWe do a lot of street interviews. Buskers, taggers, junkie poets, underage hookerettes, people who tend to be kind of insular and non-social. Youâre young, youâre gorgeous, youâre dynamic, youâre exceptionally female, and that gets us into a few places that are inaccessible to a card-carrying member of the patriarchy like moi. Plus, my cameraman is six-four with an American flag bandana and a Harley tattoo; enough said? Composition skills are hone-able; theyâre like wine, they improve with age. Bone structure, youâre pretty much stuck with. Or, in your case, blessed with.â
âDude, you dangle participles as much as I say âawesome.ââ
âYes, well, my evolution from a pencil-necked Jimmy Olson cub reporter to the macho anti-journalist you see before you began with the realization that we can make up the rules as we go along. Nothing is written in stone except ânothing is written in stone.ââ
âThe words of the prophets are written on the subway walls,â she nods.
âSimon Garfunkel!â I say, hoping the acknowledgement will smooth any ruffled feathers.
It doesnât. Her expression is now unabashedly Kevlarâgone is the ingenueâs interest in me as a bonafide writer, a bearer of summer jobs, a source for good cocaine or even another beer; the arc-welder known as âfaux pasâ has sealed Chaiâs armor tighter than Mother Theresaâs chastity belt.
âYouâd hire me based on my looks instead of my abilities? What fucking century did you crawl out from under, dude?â
âThe last one,â I shrug.
Honesty rules and damn the torpedoes! All three of my strikes came on the first pitch; Chai has sussed me out and good on her: Vive le rage against the man-chine. She thanks me for the beer, packs up her computer and leaves my business card next to her little arsenal of foil balls.
Câest la vie. I finish my Beam and water and lo and behold, as if by magic, another one appears. Lanita winks through her spider legs lashes.
I look around, squinting into several shadowy crannies thatâlike any self-respecting diveâthe Anchor has in spades, where people can sit and observe without drawing much attention to themselves. In one, a Santa Claus-looking fellow sits. He holds up a chubby right hand in an arthritic approximation of a peace sign. Itâs my old colleague D.L Crane, or âRustyâ to friends like me who have known him when the little hair he has left was red instead of white.
âChristmas in July,â Rusty calls out with a lopsided smile.
2. RUSTY CRANE
I haul my fresh drink over to Rustyâs dismal den in the shadows and sit down heavily. ...and I wait for it.
âThat was painful to watch,â he says.
âIâll bet.â
âShe told you to fuck off?â
âIâm sitting over here instead of calling my dope dealer, Rusty. This is me, fucking off.â
âSign of the times, my friend. But you know that.â
âStill, I was this close,â I says, holding my index finger half an inch from my thumb to indicate just how close Iâd been. âSnuffle, nibble, flick; I just couldnât set the hook.â
âJust as well. Youâd have to toss that one back. Statutory laws.â
âNonsense, Chai is a college kid from Wayne State. Lessenberry fodder. Thereâs a million more where she came from. They all want to be writers, but none of them need to be writers in the way that Bobby Sands needed a fucking cheeseburger. Theyâll self-destruct soon enough. Whatâs wrong with me sweeping up a few ashes in the meantime?â
âWhatâs wrong with it? Thatâs the crux of your problem, Dannyâyou donât get whatâs wrong with it. You keep getting older and college girls stay the same age.â
Whatever. Rusty is in his eighties, thirty-odd years older than me. If his libido has cooled to ambient, thatâs his problem. I can dish it out as well as I can take it: âAt some stage, Iâm sure sex becomes an albatross around the neck. For now, Chai bits remains squab under glass.â
âYouâll find that the glass keeps getting thicker and thicker,â he sighs. âBut her loss is my gain. Itâs you who I was looking for, actually. Had you vanished into the steam with a co-ed on your arm, it would have been a wasted afternoon.â
âBy coincidence, I am intending to get wasted this afternoon, so it still will be. What gives?â
âI have a proposition for your consideration.â
Rusty and I had once worked together at âCreem Magazineâ when I was a fledging critic and he was the art director, and later at âHour Detroitâ where I briefly wrote human interest pieces and he did my layouts. I grew disillusioned with Hour before he didâhuman interest stories are supposed to contain interesting humans, and Hour would rather I wrote about millionaire dentists from Bloomfield Hills because that was their revenue base; I wanted to write about millionaire drug dealers on Cass and Holcomb and legless Italian kids who grew up to be millionaires. Rusty got, and, I think, respected my decision to leave Hour: Of course, by then, he was cresting; heâd cut his teeth in the 1960âs, â70s and â80s, having done hundreds of posters, record sleeves and album covers for legendary acts like the Rolling Stones, the Grateful Dead. Jimi Hendrix and the Jefferson Airplane. Heâd written famous linear notes for famous albums in the days when there was such thing as linear notes and albumsâhe is the real deal. When it comes to rock and roll history, Rusty is the local go-to sage, an elder spokesman for art and music, and he counts among his friends people in the most rarified atmosphere of superstardom.
So if he has a proposition, I assume it will be gold-star. âIâm listening,â I say. âClosely, depending on the number of dollar signs attached.â
âHas anyone ever told you that you talk like a gumshoe detective from a â40s noir novel?â
âDo I?â
âAffirmative. You write that way too. You never met a clichĂ© you didnât love.â
âItâs a style,â I shrug. âMy style. Tongue-in-cheek, maybe, but with the other cheek empty in case I trip over any insight or greater cosmic purpose beneath the churning tableau of humanity. Itâs also known as honesty. It used to be a valued commodity in this fucked-up profession.â
âI know. And I think it still is. You didnât fool the young lady at the bar and you donât fool me: Beneath all the cynicism and sarcasm and dystopian smack-talking, you never stop looking for a ray of Suzi Creamcheese, a pot of gold at the bottom of the shit-bow. And thatâs not only an admirable trait, for a journalist, itâs non-negotiable.â
âAnti-journalist,â I remind him.
âWhatever you need to call yourself. I know better. When everyone else thinks theyâre done, Danny, you knock on that one last door and find out whodunit. Youâre Philip Marlowe, only you drink more and work less.â
âThat private dick from âThe Big Sleepâ?â
âExactlyâand true to form, you refer to private investigators as slang for male genitalia. In real life, nobody does that. My dude, you stepped out of pages that Chandler could have written but decided not to.â
âWriterâs block is a bitch. Except that I donât believe in it.â
âSo when was the last time you wrote anything substantial?â
âThe last time I had something substantial to write.â
âBingo. I hate to, but Iâm gonna say it anyway: Thatâs why youâre perfect.â
âPerfect for what?â
He has a shoulder bag on the seat next to him, and now he withdraws a yellow folder. He looks at me quizzically, and the North Pole twinkle in his eye suggests that even bad little boys sometimes score on Christmas morning:
âHow would feel about interviewing Janis Joplin?â
That not only comes from left field, it comes from Minute Maid Park, which has the longest left field in major league baseball. Janis Joplin? âthe Lone Star lodestar and a reference point for every honkey blues singer in the past fifty years while her handful of hits still sops up airplay on every classic rock station in the country. The Monterey Pop Festival had been a watershed for blues-infused rock in this country, and Janis Joplin had been the diva that everyone else copiedâshe was the first female luminary in the genre.
And then, inexplicably, around the time I was born, sheâd dropped out of the public eye and had neither released an album nor courted publicity in all the years since. Why she might suddenly wanted to emote a lifetimeâs worth to some nobody from Detroit, I didnât have a clue but I did know that Rusty had worked closely with Jim Gurley from Big Brother and the Holding Company and was still tight buddies with Stanley Mouse, a well-known Detroit ex-pat artist living in Berkeley and who had done the cover art for Joplinâs studio album, âLittle Girl Blue.â If the opportunity came through one of them, it was legitimate.
And if it is legit, Rusty is rightâfor me, it is ungodly good timing, a big-time break that is long overdue. My podcast is deep in the red, my car note unpaid and I keep five gallons of water by the stove in case the city turns my spigots off.
Janis Joplin? Criminently. A founding member of The 27 Clubâthat so-called group of rock stars who, for reasons mostly unknown, dropped out of the public eye at the high-point of their careers. Something about twenty-seven revolutions around the sun apparentlyâ27 is an age of introspection, during which you might have a sudden epiphany that all the trappings of fame youâve striven for so voraciously are little more than a paper tiger and that, in the end, the scramble up the sheer cliff of celebrityhood is the challenge in and of itself and standing at the pinnacle is a self-deflating anticlimax.
At least, this is theory: Nobody can put a ribbon around it because none of The 27 Club has hitherto been willing to talk. From what Iâve read, the members have returned to private lives, and in the intervening years, not one of them has granted so much as a Chai-quality âfuck offâ to the media, let alone an interview.
Meanwhile, so peculiar and persuasive is the phenomenon in American musical culture that a unique phrase has grown up around it: To say that someone âpulled a 27â meant that theyâve left a dream career midstream and never looked back. In order to âpull a 27â, you didnât necessarily have to be 27 or a musician, but every officially-recognized member of The 27 Club had been a pop star exactly that age when they decided to chuck it all in and slip back beneath the tides. Far too many of them had done it at the same point in their lives for The Club to be nothing but coincidence.
And Janis had been one of the first to jump ship. In her day, she had been one of the few legitimate blues singers to have arisen from that brief, doomed, counter-culture musical morass, and certainly she was the only one whose skin was as white as a mainsail, even one that was generally three-sheets to the wind. From what I recall reading about her heroin-fueled, drink-soused escapades, had Elton John written a song about her instead of Marylin Monroe, he would have called it âDumpster Fire in the Wind.â
Still, in terms of raw talent, she was one of a kind; the guttural, heart-wrenching vocals that blew out of that thick white Texas throat could blast holes through mountains, like Vavoom from those old Felix the Cat cartoons.
Now, if Janis Joplin is really ready to break ranks with The Club and talk to a reporter, it will be something of a cultural bombshellâat least, it will sew a missing page into the musical bible.
But the bigger question looms: Why me?
Rusty goes on: âI know, right? Let me put it indelicately, Danny. Every time you do something I like, you do something else that makes me hate your guts. And just when I hate your guts, you do something else that I like. Youâre the endless enigma. But when Jorma told me that Janis had finally decided she owed her fans an explanation, he asked me if I could recommend somebody to handle an interview...â
Now, this makes sense. I knew he was friends with Jorma Kaukonen, who had produced Joplinâs infamously bootlegged âTypewriter Tapeâ in 1964âso-called because the random sound of Kaukonenâs wife typing a letter can be heard behind Janisâ vocals.
Rusty continues, ââŠI ran through a mental short-list and concluded that most of the music writers I know are dead, Lester Bangs, Ralph Gleason and among the few left aliveâMarcus, Marsh, LandauâI wouldnât trust a-one of âem to write âfuckâ on a shithouse wall. Except one, if only I could convince him to leave the shithouse. Anyway, I sent Jorma a copy of âRhapsodies in Rustâ and he handed it to Janis. Guess which one of your slice-of-living-death vignettes sealed the deal?â
â âA Farewell to Legsâ? No, how about the one about the guy who catches giant salamanders in the Detroit River and sells them to Chinese restaurants?â
âDonât be an idiot. âThe Casals of Cass Corridorâ where you profiled a genius cellist who plays for quarters during rush hour. Sheâs into discovering geniuses living in the gutter.â
âThat dude wound up being run over by an MDOT bus. Did you know that?â
âIt doesnât matter, thatâs not the point. Believe it or donât, she digs your M.O. where you launch yourself into the streets and take no prisoners. Go figure âshe likes your Chandler schtick, your thug persona. And she loves the term âanti-journalistââlike an edgier version of âcounterculture.â She called you a pen-poker, and apparently, thatâs a compliment. Detroit still has a dystopian cachet of raw reality, even out in Texas. All the scaly journalists he talked to couldnât see straight for the stars in their eyes; I told him that you donât approach your subjects with awe, even when youâre in awe of them.â
âAwesome!â I say, my voice gone a few octaves higher.
âThe thing is, there are two stipulations youâll have to agree to before any of this moves forward. First, itâs immediate radio silenceâJanis does not want anybody else to know sheâs finally agreed to speak to someone on the record, and afterward she wonât authorize the release until she reads what you write. And thatâs the second catch: She has to retain rights of refusal if she doesnât like how you handle her story and youâll have to sign a contract stating that you cannot publish without her written approval. Itâs iron-clad and frankly, you wonât have the financial means to fight it and no magazine will want to. Her own photographer will be on hand, but there will be no tape recorders or video cameras. Youâll have to do it from notes. If any of that is a deal breaker, you can finish your drink and go back to trawling for jailbait.â
âDeal-breaker? Pshaw. Detroit is more a place than a state of mindâI yam who I yam; not big on contracts, but Iâm also not big on anything less than Brobdingnagian, hypnotic self-confidence. Five seconds after meeting her, Iâll know exactly what I want to write and Iâll convince her that thatâs what she want me to write. Itâs my superpower. And letâs be honest; if sheâs really after lip-smackinâ, whip-crackinâ, paddy-whackinâ dystopian raw reality, Iâm untouchable in the genre. But you know that.â
The lopsided grin returns, but it is tinted with a fleck of foreboding: âItâs a golden opportunity, Danny, and itâs my reputation on the line as much as yours. So donât turn it into âfuckâ on a shithouse wall.â
3. THE DOMINOES
Yours truly, Pen-Poker, once again: Ratchet forward...
So, the Joplin interview gets done and the sweet old doll loves it and there is a brief bidding war among a few prominent national magazines. I settle on the one I think most deservingââRolling Stoneâ. For three times their going rate. I may be nostalgic, but Iâm still a mercenary.
I pay off my grocery-getter, then trade it in for a brand-new used Carrera with 145,000 miles on it, but which at one time had been cherried-out with a hand-rubbed paint jobâseventeen coats of lacquer with about five of them left, pearl-grey, in honor of Janis. Actually, it is sort of shitty of me: Magnanimously, Crane fronted me the dough to fly down to Texas for the Janis interview, and I have neglected to repay him from those proceeds. But I have a self-image, and I see myself as more Porsche than Pinto.
So, that should have been it, and this should be an epilogue instead of a prologue.
But a strange thing happened in the weeks before it actually saw print.
In early August I got a text from Rusty which was not (as I expected) a threat, unless the three-letter messageââCBBââstood for âCould Be Brokenâ, as in knee-caps. CBB was our private buzz code for âCould Be Bigâ. Weâve used it intermittently over the years when one of us had an exceptional ideaâusually at the high-point of high-induced brainstorms, pharmaceutical or botanical. Frankly, in the cold light of a hungover dawn, most of our CBB ideas wound up being remarkably undersized. Iâm sure youâve been there.
Not this one, though.
Rusty is as delighted as he is relieved that I havenât fubar-ed the Joplin piece, and according to him, who heard it through Jorma, Janis was shouting my praises from the rafters. Classic rock to my ears; âfess up timeâmost of my legendary arrogance is stagecraft and my self-esteem doesnât extend beyond the last period I type.
But dig this: Brian Jonesâwho did his own vanishing act not long before Janis after a near-drowning mishapâhas gotten wind of her interview (maybe from her) and is now considering doing one his own.
Whoa. Itâs a sad fucking story, for sure: Jones, a founding member of the Rolling Stonesâthe Stone whoâd not only named the band but hired Jagger and Richards, and in doing so, made himself superfluousâsuffered irreversible brain damage since nearly drowning in his swimming pool in 1969. I didnât even consider him an official member of The 27 Club since hadnât dropped out of the public eye on his own volition, but on the advice of his medical team. Interviewing a vegetable is totally Jainist stoner.
âGetting Brian Jones to speak is a no-brainer. From what Iâve heard, his own handlers canât get him to shut up. Problem is, nobody wants to listen to him anymore. Itâs all crazy talk, the poor bastard, but it is arcana and it is posterity no matter what he gives you.â
âI mean, seriously, thatâs a CBBigger.â
âAnd thatâs not all. I might have a few strings left to pull. Score Jones and I can almost certainly tie a ribbon around Jim Morrison. That dudeâs ego will not sit idly by and be the third man out.â
âYou wanna be my road manager?â
âIâm getting a little long in the tooth for the road, my dude, but Iâm going to be your partner. Fifty-fifty on a coffee table book youâll write and Iâll design and illustrate. âThe 27 Club Interviewsâ. âUn pour tous et tous pour unâ, we Two Musketeers. Let âRolling Stoneâ cover our printing costs and write a seven figure advance check if they want to slap their logo on the front and Iâm jiggy with it.â
âDraw the motherfuckers up, my friend. Iâm still into you a few bills for Texas.â
âOh, trust me, Danny, I never forget a favor or a debt. Iâm having a contract finalized as we speak.
âBring it on,â I say, tick-tocking like a bobblehead. âFuckinâ aye,â I cry. âJoplin, Jones and Morrison would be the Trifecta to end all Trifectas. Or Trifecti or whatever.â
âNot quite all. Think with a bit more chutzpah, Danny; itâs your forte. Could Be Biggest: I believe that getting Cobain is within the realm.â
On that one, I wasnât sure.
On the other hand, it would be unique. Rusty goes on:
âSo I say we shoot for the moon. I donât have any connections, but like the Monterey Pop Festival, these things begin to take on a life of their own. Since his wink-wink âaccidentâ Cobainâs been doing half-assed artwork but given the context, he might consent to talk if we stuck to his present endeavors and not all that bullshit grunge he wants to forget. And while weâre at it, letâs contact Amy Winehouseâs people. As far as I can tell, the only unreachable star is probably Hendrix. Nobody who knew him thinks heâs still alive.â
âNow thatâs a shame. The music heâd be doing today? That alone would be worth the price of admission.
And as it happens, Morrison is the first domino to fall, and lo and behold, the others follow. Iâd say âthe rest is musical historyâ but youâre holding it in your hands Iâm really trying to cold-turkey the clichĂ©s, folks. And as any twelve-step program will tell you, the first rung on the ladder is admitting you have a problem.
What follows are The 27 Club interviews, and I donât care if you put them on your marble-and-titanium coffee table or next to an overflowing ashtray on top of your toilet. Roll a fat doobie with the pages if you want to, just so long as in the meantime, you enjoy them.
- Danny Ayres
Ever wish you could interview musical legends of the past? Chris Kassleâs The 27 Club Interviews focuses on a disillusioned anti-journalist named Danny Ayres who is about to get his biggest gig since he washed up. For readers not familiar with the lore, The 27 Club is a group of famous musicians who died at the age of 27 during the height of their careers. This novel follows an alternate reality: some members of the 27 Club suddenly dropped out of the public eye rather than dying at that age. Danny Ayres will interview Janis Joplin and must push aside his preconceived notions so she will open up about her story. His headbutting and ego have been getting him nowhere recently, but can he keep it in check to learn from a musical legend?Â
This book is for advanced readers who can handle vulgarity and some disturbing scenes. Readers with a college bachelor will still need help. There is a vast array of lore from musical legends of the 60âs and unfamiliar readers will need to keep Google nearby. There are references to death and spirits surrounding surviving members of the 27 Club which I found to be a nod to their deaths in real life as the spiritual reckoning does not come until after the age of 27. Readers may also be interested in the broken fourth wall which seeks to explain Kassleâs motivations for writing some characters as he does. There was a fair amount of research into the lyrics of the musicians mentioned so Kassel could form a realistic conversation between them and his character Danny. The excerpts included from actual interviews add enjoyment as readers will get a feel for the cadence of tone used by Janis Joplin in real life.Â
There are a few things that might get readers tripped up. The text switches between the advanced English Danny uses in his thoughts and the easy-going talk used in his dialogue. The story is less about sight but more about feeling and emotion. The actual writings of Danny from his interviews are never seen within the book. Chapter 3 âThe Dominosâ takes place after the Janis Joplin interview; however the next chapter is when Danny interviews with her, so be careful with the timeline. The text is not professionally proofread. This would have been better with more lore explanations for newbies.Â