Rock Star
By David Barth
This story was written on July first, 1989. The idea for it came from a news story about a rock entertainer who had collapsed on stage during a performance.
(The name, "Garth," was chosen before I knew there was a music artist by that name.)
The June ninth night was muggy. Rock star Garth David was lying unconscious in a helicopter litter, flying direct from Lake Front Stadium to Cleveland
General.
As the legendary, guitar playing, lead singer of the Shadows, his song writing talent and pounding lyrics had boosted the foursome from obscurity to the cover
of "Rolling Stone" in just five hectic, hell-bent years.
The group had cut six albums and was now in its third national tour; this to be its last. They had all agreed at the beginning of this tour that it was to be their final
stand. They each had enough money that, if invested wisely, would last their lifetimes. But the most important reason for calling it quits was that they were bone tired
from the rock and roll rat race that stardom had thrust upon them. In fact, only the promises they had made to the promoters and their followers kept them from
throwing in the towel right after their opening concert in L. A. They were used up, burned out, wasted.
Cleveland was Garth's home town, and this city had given him his start. He had begun by playing at school dances, then bars, and later in small night clubs.
Garth was a favorite with his Cleveland fans because he had never fully embraced the west coast life style. He visited his home town often, and if there were a
charity event in Cleveland that needed a primo band, he always volunteered. Cleveland fans thought of him as "their star."
Earlier in the evening, as 75,000 anxious ticket holders filed in, an announcement was made that Garth was ill. No mention was made about whether he would
appear for the performance, and that fueled rumors that the Shadows would be a no-show.
Minutes before the curtain was to rise, the warm-up act, another rock group called Metal Express, was hastily adding selections to their play list in case they
had to do the entire show.
If the Shadows didn't go on, it would be a bitter pill for the 75,000 fans to swallow. The tickets were expensive, and many people had stood in line for hours to
get decent seats. Scalped tickets were selling at premium prices.
As Garth lay in bed in the trailer that served as his dressing room, he heard the throngs of concert-goers murmuring their displeasure at the announcement. Then
he clearly heard a passer by say something that made him sit up. The person said, "Wouldn't you know that Cleveland has given so much to Garth David, and
now he's throwing it back in our faces! He's got our money, what's he need to come on stage for?"
Garth knew it was a stupid, irresponsible comment, but it made him mad. Mad at this sudden illness, probably a flu bug, mad at the fans who didn't understand,
but most of all, mad at himself for letting the fans down.
Suddenly, he pulled himself out of bed, resolved to show them what he was made of. He would go on that night, ill or not. Garth sent word through his agent, Dan
Fisher, that Shadows would play. Dan looked at Garth quizzically, and asked, "Garth, are you sure you want to do this?" Although Garth knew the agent felt some
concern, he knew Dan was secretly happy. Garth's going onstage meant big buck's in the agent's pocket.
As Metal Express wound up their planned repertoire, the curtain dropped, and the members of that group were surprised that Shadows would indeed go on. The
stage hands changed the equipment, and in a few minutes the curtain rose on the Shadows, minus Garth, who always made his entrance after a few bars of his
latest hit song.
His band began playing the opening music, and it was time. He walked on, made a nearly imperceptible stumble that was noticed only by those standing
in the wings, walked slowly to the mic, and boomed, "Hello, Cleveland!" The crowd exploded in applause. Garth turned and motioned for his guitar. The movement
of his head brought on a wave of dizziness, so he had a stool brought, too.
For a jumping, motion making, rocker like him, a stool was uncharacteristic, but tonight Garth knew he didn't have the energy to move. The audience would have
to settle for his guitar and his voice. From the earlier announcement, they knew he wasn't feeling up to par, but they didn't know how poorly he felt.
From his stool, Garth nodded to the drummer, and the group broke into a favorite hit tune. He played hard; he belted out the lyrics. But he was getting dizzier,
and his head ached. The music, amplified and thrown back at him from the huge speakers pummeled his aching body.
The applause was tremendous. He kept going, not pacing himself, burning up what little energy his body had generated from the adrenaline rush triggered by
the remark made outside his trailer. The fans gave their approval through waves of applause, whistles, and yells.
He waited for the applause to abate and said in a horse voice, "Cleveland, I owe you a lot. You gave me my start, and I'll never forget it."
The audience stood up. The cheering and applause was almost deafening as the fans acknowledged Garth. He smiled, but he was fading fast. His eyes fluttered,
his body went limp, and he slipped off the stool, his body crashing onto the guitar. Plastic shards penetrated his body, lacerating his liver. The guitar amp picked
up the fall and sent it through the speakers as a tremendous thud that silenced the audience.
Garth regained consciousness for a moment as he was being wheeled into surgery. He looked up at the adoring nurses and quietly said, "Thank you,
Cleveland." More than one nurse had damp cheeks.
That morning Garth David died on the operating table. He wasn't buried in Cleveland, but that city erected a monument in his honor in the city park, and
passers by who had never heard of him wonder what occasion June tenth marks to justify the hundreds of flowers stacked at its base.
When his fans play his music, they feel in their hearts that he really isn't dead.