Bovine Serenade

by Bessie the Cow

Chapter 4: We Open For Missing Persons

You probably didn’t know that robotic bovines treasure friendships. That we repay acts of loyalty with eternal gratitude. But we do. 

Providentially, the doors to the palatial art deco splendor of the Boulder Theater opened wide for us right after the doors to the Blue Note, a great club, but after all just a club, had slammed shut. 

While The Milkmen had always exhibited exemplary work habits—thinking nothing of rehearsing five hours a day most days of the week—we'd thrown it into an higher gear altogether for the  Missing Persons gig. We’d never played a theater before. That in itself was a motivating factor. Instead of seeing vertical torsos gyrating in front of us, which wasn’t a bad view at all, we’d be lording over a captive audience, sitting before us in attitudes of reverence—which was even better.  Speaking of gyrating torsos , I'd never stopped wishing and hoping that one glorious day I'd be gifted the functionality to dance. Things had been happening so quickly that Kinn hadn't had time to identify an affordable robotics expert up to the task. Swept up in all the excitement, I almost felt like I could dance right then and there. 

The primary reason we were in overdrive for the gig was that it represented our first national exposure. Missing Persons' videos, featuring founder Terry Bozzio's squeeze—I mean wife—singer Dawn Bozzio, in the persona of Intergalactic Sex Goddess, were in constant rotation on MTV. “Walking in LA” was a top-ten single. "Destination Unknown" was waiting in the wings. Their best-selling album featured a bunch more well-crafted, meticulously performed, and lavishly produced tunes. The show had sold out in a couple of hours. 

Our collective ego naturally viewed the gig as a competition, the first really serious challenge we’d faced since our milkblitz began running roughshod over the foothills 'n plains. By the day of the show, we felt like thoroughbreds on Kentucky Derby Day, primed, pumped, and ready to run for the roses. Young Tim exuded an air of cockiness. You couldn’t detect a trace of intimidation in his pretty boy body despite the fact he was going up against arguably the greatest drummer in the world. And indeed there wasn’t any in any of us. We were all-in and gunning for the upset. 

When we arrived at the theater around 2 PM for our sound check, there was some skanky harlot hanging out in our dressing room. There was nothing remotely unusual about that. None of the guys took much notice of her. Compared to what they were used to, she didn't even register on the desirability scale. Nonetheless, she boldly walked up to Kinn and introduced herself. 

“Hai, Oim Dawwwn.” 

Her friendly greeting was delivered in a bizarre dialect I later learned was the thickest Brooklyn accent possible. Who was this dwarf floozy? It took Kinn a while to put two and two together and realize that this poor thing, once she stepped into six-inch spikes, teased her hair, put on the slutwear, and drank a quart of Jack Daniels, metamorphosized into Dawn Bozzio, MTV sex kitten, Missing Persons’ lead singer, the main reason for their telegenic appeal. 

“D’ya have anything faw a saw throat?” she asked Kinn, somehow sensing that he was the one guy in the band who would know anything about natural remedies for sore throats. 

“I’ve got something to make your throat sorer,” Tim wisecracked on cue. Obvious, but not bad for a nineteen-year-old. Mrs. Bozzio didn’t acknowledge his beastly remark, although she most certainly heard it. 

Next thing we knew, Kinn and the Global Sex Starlet, who currently looked about as glamorous as a charwoman after a double-shift, were out in the light of day, walking to the close-by New Age Foods where he picked up marshmallow-root and a few other herbs to soothe his own overworked trachea. The more Dawn talked, the more respect Kinn gained for Missing Persons’ producer who had somehow persuaded to tamp down the Brooklynese when she sang. That was a tremendous accomplishment. 

Missing Persons had seemed to be taking an unusually long time setting up their gear, so there was no great rush to get back to the theater. That was good, because Dawn Bozzio could barely negotiate the two blocks from the theater to the health food store and back. 

When they returned, a hotplate and old pan were dredged up and soon away the herbs were boiling away. Fifteen minutes later, Dawn was sipping the strange brew and Kinn was listening to the sound of man kicking bass drum. Over and over again. Terry Bozzio kicked his bass drum and kicked his bass drum and kicked his bass drum. 

Bozzio was Frank Zappa’s favorite drummer. He was one of the guys you can count on one hand that were in the Ric Parnell class. It wasn’t so much that Bozzio was “better” in a strict drumming sense. What he was way better at was putting himself out there and playing the music business game. The connections he’d made with Zappa allowed him to finagle major label support for his baby, Missing Persons. 

And where Ric Parnell would have spent the six hours before the gig indulging in time-honored rock star pastimes like spelling out his name in blow and receiving the affections of lusting milkmaids, the ultra-professional, or should I say excessively ultra-professional Terry Bozzio was spending it on the W o r l d ’ s  L o n g e s t  S o u n d  C h e c k. 

Kinn told me the longest sound check he'd ever seen even the creme de la creme bands run through was about an hour and a half, and that was for the whole band, the singers included. At the hour and a half mark, Terry Bozzio finally indicated satisfaction with his kick drum. He still had his snare, a dozen toms, eight cymbals, and assorted percussion to go. It was kind of instructive to see the Bozzio compulsion in action ... for the first few hours. After that, we grew more and more pissed off at the interminable tweaking of drum sounds which was taking an eternity. The distinct possibility that we weren’t going to get a proper sound check of our own for the most important gig of our lives was becoming more of a probability with every passing second.  

Dragging matters out even longer was Missing Persons’ manager’s propensity for verbally abusing the Boulder Theatre staff, and specifically the sound engineers, your basic good guys we knew from being out on the circuit who’d mixed us perfectly well at other venues. You can tell they were stewing over the sound check’s length and having to put up with this manager man's endless bucket of bile. 

At least the rest of the guys in Missing Persons were super-nice as well as super-talented. They’d seen this act before, and they sympathized with our plight. That was swell, but after five hours of this, our chances of getting any sound check at all were dwindling 

Somewhere around the four-hour mark of the greatest display of human compulsion I shall ever see, I was getting an inkling that  Kinn Konn was no longer in a Zen mood. As the anal adjustments ground on ad infinitum, resentment was spiking. At the last possible moment before the first concertgoers would straggle ine and take their seats, we were granted a five-minute sound check. 

Finally, I was wheeled into position. Smoke was already coming out Kinn Konn’s ears when Missing Persons’ manager decreed. “You can’t bring your cow onstage.” 

“What do you mean we can’t bring our cow onstage? Bessie’s part of our act.” 

“No fucking cows onstage!” he bellowed, before puffing out his chest and marching in a huff toward the bar.

Heartbroken, I was rolled off into the wings. I didn't know what to say. I starting feeling ... what do humans call it ... queasy. The idea that I'd miss our biggest show ever was completely inbovine. Some strange watery substance began collecting around my eyes. 

Blinking through the dewy blur, I saw Kinn struggling to bite his tongue. But I could read his thoughts. Maintaining his subservient expression for the manager's benefit, Kinn looked over at me and winked. 

I felt a tinge of renewed hope as Kinn huddled with the sound crew. I caught a glimpse of a 100-dollar bill changing hands between a Milkmen roadie and the same stage manager who’d been abused by Missing Persons’ manager who'd wandered off to the bar. Accustomed to bullying people around, manager man expected his dictums would be carried out by a miserable “local band,” some corny mascot, and the lackeys working at some remote theater in Cowtown, Colorado. We got in the world’s most hurried sound check even as eager concertgoers started filing in. The curtain came down in front of us. Then the human band members dashed off to the dressing room.

Changing into classic Milkmen garb, the revised milk unit resolved to play a great show despite the miserable treatment we’d endured. Just as we were about to go on, there seemed to have been a small power outage and the theater momentarily went dark. When the problem was “corrected,” and the curtain rose and the lights came back on, there I was in my usual position stage left, performing my customary introduction to a gleeful audience! It was the most attention I’d ever received—people weren’t concentrating on drinking and dancing like they do at clubs, they were giving their full undivided attention to me. I felt their love. And I reflected it back. As we launched into “Late Night Delivery,” Kinn Konn locked eyes with Terry Bozzio and his manager who were standing in the wings. Kinn mouthed the following words, which were unfamiliar to me but had the desired effect on the evil pair: “Blow me, Bozzio!” 

It was one of our best shows ever, so threateningly good that Missing Persons' manager saw to it that we weren’t paid. He was such a jerk, and we were so entertaining, that the Boulder Theatre management sought to correct the indignity by signing us to headline at a half dozen more shows. Tim had acquitted himself splendidly. No one could believe we’d discovered and unleashed a Nijinksky of the Drums. 

During our entire siege on the North American music landscape, I’d have to say that Missing Persons was the only band in Colorado or California that ever outplayed us. Besides Terry Bozzio, they had Warren C on guitar, who went on to join and produce Duran Duran. Their main keyboard and synth player went on to record a series of successful instrumental CDs. Their bass player was a top session man who was also well-versed on synth bass. They weren’t any more likable than us. They didn’t get any more applause than us. There songs weren't necessarily better than ours. But they had more artillery in their arsenal—they had synths, stacks of them, not to mention guys who were whizzes at playing them—and we didn’t. Therefore they were capable of creating more lavish soundscapes, and they expertly exploited their advantage in firepower. This advantage wasn’t lost on Kinn Konn, who vowed to correct the situation as the earliest possible opportunity. 

If he corrected that situation anywhere near as smartly as he took care of the “no cows onstage” order, we’d become unstoppable. 

You probably didn’t know that robotic bovines treasure friendship. That we repay acts of loyalty with eternal gratitude. But we do.

Chapter 1:  Dashing Dairymen
Chapter 2:  Rick Plays The Snare Drum With His Head
Chapter 3:  Tim Takes The Stage
Chapter 4:  Meet Mr. Watts
Chapter 5:  We Open For Missing Persons
Chapter 6:  Conquering Colorado
Chapter 7:  Ric Sees His Successor
Chapter 8:  Westward Ho!
Chapter 9:  A Cow Writer Co-Writer
Chapter 10: Welcome To LA
Chapter 11: Madame Wong's or How Quickly They Forget