click here for the home page of the new bryanbellerdotcom

"There are no coincidences."

--Martha C. Lawrence

Do you believe in fate? I'm beginning to.

It's my distinct privilege to welcome you to the One Year Anniversary of The Life Of Bryan. And, as in the very beginning, I know what you're thinking...was it absolutely necessary to reprint the picture of the ugliest fucking chick any of us has ever seen? Was this the super-meaningful commemoration we were all waiting for? Did you have to do this to us...AGAIN? I'm afraid so, my friends. Let's never forget where we came from. Happy anniversary to me. More on The Meaning Of The Life Of Bryan later in this special, limited-edition commemorative Act, number twenty. The "LOB" gold medallions will be available on QVC very soon.

Now, what's all this business about fate and coincidences and the lack thereof, anyway? Have I finally allowed the dirty Los Angeles air to permeate my brain, causing me to endlessly chant new age scripture on internet street corners to innocent cyber-passers-by? God, no. It's just that the events of the last few weeks have been so fraught with meaning and irony, it's hard to simply accept them as just "stuff that happened". This is going to sound really melodramatic, even for hysterical ol' me, but here goes anyway: If there was ever a month that pristinely encapsulated The Life Of Bryan, this was it.

By now, I'm sure that most of you know the amazing, believe-it-or-not truth: Beer For Dolphins is going to be the opening act for the remainder of the Steve Vai American Tour. Even as I type those words, they hardly seem real, and considering the events that led up to the confirmation of the best news I've gotten all year, it's a freaking miracle that it ever came to pass. If the "Thanks, Toss" April '96 BFD tour came together in a mystical, magical, harmonic-convergence-like transcendental light, putting together this logistical beast was, comparatively speaking, more like making sausages. Still, somehow, in retrospect, the destiny seems relentlessly manifest. I guess all that's left is to tell the tale, right? So, join me now, as we journey through the final weeks of what I long ago referred to as The Year Of The Dolphin. Ladies and gentlemen, children over the age of thirteen, I give to you, Act 20 of The Life Of Bryan: The Sausage Factory.

On October 12, G3 came to Los Angeles to play the world famous Hollywood Bowl. It was only the second show of the tour; the first had been played in San Francisco the night before. I'd made plans with Mike's sister (curses on me for forgetting her name) and Mike's lovely wife Vivian to check out the LA show. I'd be less than honest if I didn't admit that I was a little apprehensive about how I might feel this particular night. Up until then, I'd done a pretty good job of dealing with Keneally leaving--after all, I'd already been to the Vai record release party at The Hard Rock Cafe and watched an entire set at close range without feeling too weird. But this was different. After this gig, G3 was headed for faraway places, and Mike/BFD with them, for at least five months. I can only imagine how Vivian Keneally felt.

I didn't get to see how she reacted to the show itself--the tickets that Mike had waiting for us at the special "artists' will call" area (thanks, Mike) were two together, one separate, with names to match. So Viv and the Keneally sis split off from me and headed down to their seats. My seat was, well, a little bit further towards the back (thanks, Mike). Actually, I was so far back and high up that I could actually feel the temperature change as I arrived at my section (The Hollywood Bowl is obviously an outdoor venue). When I sat down, there were two typically excited teenage guitarists next to me. They asked me who I was there to see, and I told them in one word, "Vai." They nodded furiously. "Yeah, he's awesome." Then I clarified. "Well, actually I'm here to see Mike Keneally." Puzzled looks abound. "Who's that?" Ugh. I unhappily explained to them who Mike was without elaborating on the situation.

God, there were a lot of people there...in the two to three thousand range. I'd never played to a crowd of that size, and my mind was wandering into the land of What Might Have Been all night long. The last thing I need to do is review another G3 show (we'll get to your reviews in a minute, folks), so I'll keep this short: The sound for Vai was shaky at first; there was even a moment when the entire house sound went down for about four seconds during Vai's first song. There's nothing like an audience full of musicians all screaming at the sound guy at once... "turn up the guitar, man...I want my money back!!" The guitars were in fact too low, the Keneally keyboards non-existent, the drums thin. (I have since heard that the sound for G3 shows later in the tour was stellar, just so you know.) As a matter of fact, the only thing that sounded really good at that show was the bass--it was startlingly clear and powerful compared to the other instruments. You go, Phil.

Vai's band turned in a short, powerful set, highlighted (judging from the crowd reaction) by Vai and Keneally doubling the leads in "The Attitude Song". When it was done, the excited teenage guitarists next to me shouted with glee. "Hey, that guy Mike was nailing all of that stuff!" I smiled back, close-mouthed and filled with the most mixed of emotions. All of the stuff I'd been refusing to feel kind of hit me right at that moment. And you all thought I was doing so well with all of this, didn't you? Not to worry; I swallowed hard and got over it quickly. Viv, Keneally sis and I left right after the Vai set ended. Hey, the traffic at The Hollywood Bowl is brutal, you know?

We bought pizza and took it back to the Keneally household, where Mike called at around 11:30, just before the guitar mega-jam was to ensue (with Keneally, Vai, Satch and Johnson playing a blues, I think). He was backstage, and it was noisy and hard to hear him over the din in the background.. After thanking him for getting me a ticket and talking about the show for a bit, we screamed goodbyes to each other and I handed the phone back to Viv. And, that was that.

Now, before we go any further, let's discuss the G3 reviews that I said that I wanted to read. Without exception, they were informative, funny, and downright entertaining. But, in the interest of time and space (and with apologies to Joe D'Andrea and Christian Heilman, whose entries were especially cool), it looks like I'll have to give the Best G3 Review Award to Doug Marhoffer. You remember him...works for EMG Pickups, kicks my ass in pool whenever I see him...yeah, that guy. Here's what he had to say, in its entirety:

The playing.... what you'd expect

The bummer...... huge line at the guy's bathroom, no line for the women

Well done, Doug. God, you win everything, don't you?

Anyway, compounding the insecurities that were creeping into my head about this whole thing was the audition that I'd had with Gary Hoey. It consisted of three songs, two of them covers. Of course, there was his big hit "Hocus Pocus", but also on the audition tape was a Hoey-fied version of Santana's "Black Magic Woman", complete with the "Gypsy Queen" ending (which, ironically, appears on Disc 2 of "Half Alive In Hollywood"). I played those two covers plus one Hoey original with three different drummers. One of them used to be the drummer for Survivor. Whoa. Anyway, the vibe of this gig was one of obvious commercialism. Gary Hoey looks for instrumental (or even vocal) tunes that can both appease the muzo crowd and crossover into mainstream radio (see "Hocus Pocus" for a good example of this rationale in action). He's a great guitarist and a real nice guy--why do I feel the eggshells beneath my feet all of a sudden?--but I was a little ambivalent about the material. Like that mattered. It was a paying gig and a six week tour and if I got it, I wouldn't have turned it down. But, I didn't get it. I don't even remember who did--a drummer/bassist team made the grade instead (what is it with these "already complete rhythm sections" lately? Oh yeah, that's how I got the gig with Z...never mind). I think Gary said something about the drummer formerly having played with Tony MacAlpine, of all people. The world is shrinking every day I live in it. I got the call from Gary Hoey informing me of his choice just two days after the G3 Hollywood Bowl show. Sigh.

Writing was my respite from this unpleasant business. With the help and heavenly guidance of both Martha Lawrence and Cami Slotkin (outside opinions are important in the writing process, I've learned), I was cranking out chapter after chapter of the book I said I was going to write in the last Act. And, I must admit, it felt fucking great. I don't write music; for some reason, whenever I've tried to in the past, that old favorite "La Cucaracha" gets into my head and won't leave for anything. Odd, isn't it? Anyway, the point here is, with writing, I could actually create something of my own. It was extremely liberating and gratifying...and about thirty times harder than writing what I'm working on right now. What a different process it is actually having to describe and define characters that people don't already know. It takes time, effort, and many more pages to do than simply reciting events in a hopefully entertaining fashion like I attempt to do here. The Life Of Bryan is a constant struggle to keep things short and to the point {insert your Act-length-oriented wisecrack here}; a book is all about telling a story while defining characters and setting scenes, letting their actions dictate their personalities when possible, dropping little hints of what might come 100 pages later...it takes a lot of thinking, and a lot of pages. OK, I'm rambling now. By October 24, I had 90 pages done of what some literary folks would call the "shitty first draft". Watching the stack of the completed manuscript pile up on the corner of my desk was a happy thing indeed.

So the days between 10/12 and 10/24 were spent doing occasional gigs with the dyke (Janet Robin) and the kikes (Ras Daveed and Providence), writing, and watching my financial resouces dwindle. Money was getting tight, but I didn't want to pick up a regular ol' job for fear that it would interfere with the "writing process". Besides, I still had that CD delivery gig every Monday which helped out a lot, if not enough. Somewhere, way in the back of my head, as I looked at my balance sheet (I'm anal-retentive to the point where I know all of my credit card balances to the penny, and update them frequently on my all-important weekly lists...I really do need help with that whole obsessive-compulsive thing), I could feel the slightest hint of buyer's remorse setting in over my latest large purchase--my lovely computer (I'm stroking the monitor right now).

A couple of other interesting things happened during this period. First of all, Keneally called me from the road about ten days after the Hollywood Bowl show. He sounded genuinely happy, and although it wasn't the easiest conversation I've ever had, I did my best not to bring him down. I told him I was writing like a maniac; he told me how cool G3 was going, and how well the Vai band was getting along (from what I've heard, Vai's last touring band, the Sex And Religion outfit, weren't exactly the happiest of campers...then again, throw Scott Thunes and Devin Townsend in your band and see how long it is before you start shooting people). Vai was relaxed, comfortable, happy. Mike Mangini and Phil were cool, cool guys, and the bus was a happy bus to be on. And, joy of joys, Mr. K reported that several of you folks out there actually had the nerve to approach him with the "Bryan Beller says hello and blow me" line....five, to be exact. He did say that, without exception, the "blow me" people seemed terrified by what they were about to do, which he got a kick out of. What did you think he would do, anyway--pimpslap you with one of his big hats, or something?

Before the conversation ended, he felt the need to inform me of the fact that The Life Of Bryan was a topic of conversation on the Vai bus. Oh shit. Was that me who gave Steve a B minus for his vocal performance in the last Act? What else did I say? Before I panicked too badly, I reminded myself why I do this here column (for fun, godammit!!), and that I never, ever write with malice aforethought (OK, two exceptions--one, Jake E. Lee at the NAMM show--two, the drummer who threw his hi-hat stand at me at Bourbon Square back in January. But I think that's it.). Still, when Mike told me that he and Phil had had an involved conversation about the LOB, I couldn't help but wonder what Phil would think of it. The world was shrinking even faster now.

Further proof that those "small world" folks at Disney have a point after all was this e-mail that I received sometime after that road report from Keneally:

I wanted to send you a letter after reading your ACT's on your webpage. I was really moved by the events that led up to and after the Steve Vai auditions. I felt for what you were going through during those weeks. The reason why I can understand this (even though I am not a musician) is because Philip Bynoe is my boyfriend...

Whoa! I nearly jumped out of my seat when I read who the e-mail was from. She went on to tell me the story of how Phil was on the losing end of a similar "two man audition" sometime the previous year, and how his emotional state was remarkably similar to what I described in LOB Act XVI, "Anti-Cipa-Tion." I wrote her back a short, kind response about Boston in 1990, when I first saw Phil and Mike play, and thanked her for her compliments on the webpage. Sometimes people do the darndest things.

If The Life Of Bryan was a company on the New York Stock Exchange, October 24 was Black Thursday. I don't think that I can adequately describe the horror of going to my snail mailbox that day and seeing what was inside, but I'll try--I found waiting for me a stack of bills that, added together, reached the four figures and was due within a week. Add to that the facts that my bank account had recently dipped below three figures, and that my total credit card balance was closing in on five figures, and, well, it didn't take an accountant to realize what was going on here. I wasn't making it. Not even close. Trying to support my budding career as a writer by being a struggling musician wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done, but it worked for about four weeks, thanks to the kind folks over at Visa. Something had to be done. I had to get a...DAY JOB {insert cheesy horror movie high-pitched warbling sound here}. Problem was, outside of musician-type work, my resume was woefully empty dating all the way back to 1991. Where could I find work? Who would hire me? I asked everyone I knew with a straight job to see if they could help me out.

The whole "be careful what you ask for--you just might get it" thing happened faster than you could say "payroll tax". My darling friend Lisa Valentine (with whom I partied the night after the Vai audition) just so happens to be the director of human resources at ICM, the behemoth talent agency that represents Arnold Schwarzenegger, Mel Gibson, Michelle Pfieffer, and plenty of other famous people with last names that are difficult to spell. I called her on Black Thursday--the very next day, she called me and said that she had an opening in the Xerox room, and that she needed someone to start on that coming Monday, just three days later. I'd be delivering scripts to some of Hollywood's most important agents' assistants for 40 hours a week at ten dollars an hour. Not a bad wage. The catch was, she needed an answer in two hours. After a brief over-the-phone strategy session with The Executive Producers of The Life Of Bryan (my parents), it was decided that working at a talent agency that included a literary department wouldn't be such a bad way to enter the work force. 90 minutes after Lisa called me, I called her back and said, "See you on Monday."

We really need to talk about ICM (International Creative Management) for a bit here, if you don't mind. First of all, there was the issue of dress. We're talking about maybe one of the ten most fashion-conscious offices in the entire nation here, folks--some of these agents were wearing suits that cost at least twice my net worth (that's not saying much, all things considered, but you get the idea). I didn't even own a pair of slacks. Not one! Fortunately, my guardian angel Miss Valentine took me to Ross Dress For Less and simply pulled the proper garments off of the rack (proper meaning "classy looking but not expensive"), shoved me into a dressing room, and told me what to buy. Hey, she didn't get to be the director of human resources at ICM by being a wallflower, if you know what I mean. Visa (as well as Lisa) was my friend again that day.

So, wearing my best Ross threads ("You look cute, Bry," chuckled Lisa, who was used to seeing me in nothing but my standard bassboy gear), I went to work on Monday--a 45 minute commute each way to Beverly Hills and back (AAAAAAAH!!!). The job was pretty easy, if you didn't mind running up and down stairs all day with a huge pile of movie scripts in your hand. On a good day, I saw it as a good way to work out. On a bad day, I wanted to set fire to the scripts, as well as the building. One cool thing was being able to check out some hit movies and TV shows in script form-- "The Usual Suspects", "Jaws", "Friends" and even an episode of "The Simpsons" all passed through my hands, and I got a chance to look them over. Very interesting. Even more interesting were the assistants to the agents. I hate to be sexist, but here goes...there were more beautiful women in this office than I think I've ever seen in one place at anytime, anywhere. Some beautiful men, too, but they were all taken by other men.

I had it easy. The poor assistants to the agents had to deal with this sort of shit, which I occasionally overheard while making my rounds: "I TOLD you to get ahold of {some famous person} an hour ago! Do you know what's RIDING on this?" The agents would get even more haughty while on the phone in their offices. Sometimes I could hear them screaming, "What? What did he say? That fucking bastard! He can't do that to us! Listen, if he wants to fuck with us like that, you can just tell him to fuck right the fuck off!! Yeah, THOSE EXACT WORDS!! FUCK RIGHT THE FUCK OFF!!!" The art of the deal, I suppose.

But, for me, the most interesting thing about working at ICM was my introduction to the world of office culture. On Mondays, all the talk was "hey, how was your weekend?" Wednesdays--"Hey man, hump day." And, most horrifying of all, Fridays--"Happy Friday!" Happy Friday? Well, as a matter of fact, Fridays were happy. All of the birthdays for the week were celebrated on Friday afternoons, which meant that as many as three or four different cakes would be scattered around different floors and sections of the office building. Since I had to hit every office, I hit every cake on the way. Mmmmmm.

The main problem was, since I left for work at 9:15 AM and got off at 7:00 PM, any rehearsals or gigs that I had during weekdays (and I had quite a few, scheduled before I knew that I'd be dressed for success during the days of said rehearsals and gigs) would have to be after work, thus creating a day in which I'd leave my house at 9:15 AM and get home at around 11:30 PM, or even later on some nights. The intensity of the schedule had its positive side effects (more efficient use of time) and its negative ones, too--any brain juice that I was using to write was being sucked out of me by the long days. I was having a hard time figuring out what my priorities should be...making money and getting out of debt? Writing? Music? Staying in shape? For once in my life, I hard a hard time coming up with the answer. The question got even harder to deal with after Suzanne Forrest called me.

Before we go any further, I have to thank Suzanne Forrest for everything under the Keneally sun. Short-staffed and overworked, Suzanne and her husband Jeff keep Immune Records afloat sometimes by only the sheer force of their collective will. Yours truly forgot to thank her in the liner notes to "Half Alive In Hollywood", which she noticed. I'M SORRY!!! Thanks, Suzanne. Now that that's out of the way...

Let's go back to Black Thursday, October 24. Lots of bills in my mailbox, no money to pay them. Then, the very next day, I got the job at ICM, which would start Monday. Suzanne called on that Saturday, before I started work, to tell me something. "Bryan," she said giddily, "you need to hear this message I have on my machine from Mike." Uh, OK, I replied. I listened. (The following quote is paraphrased.)

"Hi Suzanne...just wanted to let you know that the possibility of BFD opening up for the Vai US Tour has been mentioned to me. Nothing's official yet, there's a lot of stuff that still needs to be worked out, but it's a possibility. I left a message on Joe Travers' machine asking him if he'd be interested, but he can't call me...I'm in a different city every day, and we're hardly ever in a hotel...I'll just get back to you when I can..."

(I repeat, the above quote was paraphrased.)

I was shocked. What if it did happen? When did it start? Could Joe possibly get a leave of absence from the Zappa organization to do it? Could I even afford to do it? Did I have to get this call the day after I landed a pretty prime day job? And, why wasn't I called when both Joe and Suzanne were? Thus began a comedy of errors that eventually led to the printing of information on the Keneally page about BFD opening for Vai, when in fact nothing at all was even remotely confirmed. Only the choicest meats were being picked out for the sausages, and boy, did they look good.

You didn't really think that I'd get all of this done in just one part, did you? In Part 2 of this very special one year anniversary Act, find out just how close I came to being the most powerful agent in all of Hollywood! What, you don't believe me? Well, you can just fuck right the fuck off............................B.B.