Devils & Blue Dresses: My Wild Ride as a Rock and Roll Legend

years later he’s pushing Chevy trucks. It’s always about the money when it comes to artistic credentials in America.
    Even though my album with Polygram sold between sixty and eighty thousand units, a number given me by a Polygram staffer, they did not pick up the option. Any new group that had sold that many units would have likely had a second release. Their A&R man said, “We expected your legions of fans to come out.” The truth was that John had gone way over budget to the point they could not recoup with another promotion, and John had signed his new contract so they didn’t need me anymore.
    There were two incidents that disturbed me during this process. One was watching John hit drummer Kenny Aronoff in the back of the head on the way to the American Music Awards for wearing a jacket of his own choice, and the other was the reaction to piano player Harry Phillips firing his handgun in the direction of the control room at the studio in Seymour. Several nights later Harry and I and a friend of John’s were at a nearby bar and a group of Seymour’s gun carrying mafia would have killed Harry on the spot if I had not gotten him out of there.
    John and I have not spoken since. I had to forge my own relationship with the Indiana boys John picked out for the band. That band lasted for maybe a year. It included taking them to Europe and having a Thanksgiving Day party at the American consulate. It also included the introduction into my life of rock guitarist and songwriter Robert Gillespie.
    Years later I went to one of John’s concerts at the Fox Theater in Detroit, but I spent my time talking to some of my old Indiana band mates, who were now with John. I waited for the customary invitation to see him, but it never came, and I was reminded of the rebellious and vindictive nature we both had.
    Since then, John has moved from Riva to Mercury to Columbia, a label noted for having only the best artists. When I think of Columbia I always get a kick out of thinking about the time they dropped Bob Dylan because he was no longer selling enough records. I can’t think of a better way to illustrate how out of touch the self-important heads of the major companies are with the true character of art. They couldn’t create a piece of shit if their bodies didn’t override their minds.

Chapter 30
     
    I HAD BECOME SO ADDICTED TO Germany that I went over a couple of times by myself just to keep it fresh in my mind. I always feared losing the bond that existed between my fans and me. I meant to keep it fresh forever. I also took side-excursions to Paris to be with my friend Jurgen. One time I went over to promote a dance single of a Bob Dylan tune called “Like a Rolling Stone,” produced by Don Was. It was released in Germany on RCA records, and the promotion man was an actual German prince.
    Kimberly no longer tagged along because I had asked for a divorce in 1983. As I remember, she and I attended an all-nighter at a place called Harpo’s (where one night we were shot at by a sniper as we stood outside the stage door). On the drive home in our rag-top Jeep I remember yet another argument that began. It reached its zenith when she kicked me in the face with her cowgirl boots. So there we were, sixty-five miles an hour in the middle of heavy traffic, my prescription glasses broken and twisted on my face, blood flowing over my right eye, me trying to keep control of the vehicle with one hand and keep her from leaping out of the Jeep with the other as she screamed, “I’m going to kill myself if you divorce me.”
    I didn’t divorce her. I didn’t want her blood on my hands.
    The next morning I flew to New York City to appear on the
CBS Morning Show
to promote the Mellencamp produced album and all I could focus on was the newly forming scab and black and blue around my eye as I hid behind a pair of dark glasses.
    During this time, or any other in Germany, I rarely picked up women. That’s unusual when I think about it, but when I did, it was always different and exceptional. I liked to hang out at transvestite clubs in all the major cities. In Hamburg, it was the Pulverfast. In Berlin, Romey Haig. In London it was London Lee’s. One night I was hanging out with Hans Reibe, a former road manager from the Tom Connor days whenI was signed to Karsten Janke. Hans now enjoyed a very profitable relationship with a German clown named Otto.
    This particular evening we joined two women at a table. The woman I was with, a