I have made history in the past. These journalistic facts remain undisputed. Beginning
with my rock reviews and famous quotes – which were twice stolen from me: First, my
claim that “Todd Rundgren’s “Something/Anything” was a masterpiece, which was stolen
by former friend Cameron Crowe, and secondly, my “pull quote” that “Bruce Spingsteen
was the future of Rock and Roll,” which was stolen by lesser critic Jon Landau, and
later stolen from him by creepy Dave Marsh. But on August 1st, 2002, Brett Meisner
made Internet history with the first ever “Live Video Chat!” Over 2,000 fans registered
to meet the “Bad Boy” face to face in a live video chat. For over two and a half hours
I swept the floor with these losers, answering question after question with astonishing
accuracy! Although I felt the whole session should of gone better technically, I was
impressed with my performance. I was not amused by the participants of the chat room
who felt it necessary to have my date Robin “strip on camera” for their pleasure while
I left the room to answer a call from Vince Neil. That was not cool, and she “has been
talked to.” I recently took her out for an expensive Italian dinner for her 18th Birthday.
I was more focused on my new assignment. Rolling Stone Magazine, which had
hired me four times in the past, had recently contacted me about covering the reunion
of the Grateful Dead in Alpine Valley, WI. A thousand words for $4,500 bucks, plus
expenses, this was a no-brainer. I actually like the Dead, having seen the band nearly
fifty times. I was tight with Bob Weir and Phil Lesh, so basically, Rolling Stone was
flying me first-class to see my friends.
I couldn’t get a limo to pick me up for the ride to LAX - as in “I didn’t call
in advance!” If these ass-faces at the limo company had any idea who they
were talking to they would have shriveled like so many shrimp. I called an airport
shuttle in desperation. The shuttle arrived at my door in 30 minutes flat. I was
impressed. The shuttle driver, Earl, was an old-time military man who took my bags
with confidence – which I liked. He let me know that he was a “helicopter pilot
in Vietnam,” and that since 9/11, driving to the airport has been
“getting more and more dangerous.” I knew where he was going with this.
I pulled a twenty from my wallet and stuck it in his side-wallet. Having been in
Vietnam myself, I felt a kinship. “I hear you, boss,” I said. “Just
get me to the airport in one piece and I’ll take care to you.” In the van I
was seated with three people way below my caliber. I couldn’t believe I was taking
a shuttle to the airport! A dark-haired girl named Alison wore a “Rush Hour 3”
baseball cap, and started dropping b-list names while she talked loudly on
her cell-phone. She let us all know that she was in “the industry.” We
drove for miles as she continued to yap. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I tapped
her on the shoulder and let her know that I “thought she was acting like a cunt.”
She stopped talking and started crying. Trust me, if you were there, the
crying sounded better – and made much more sense. From the back of the van I heard
an oddly familiar voice: “Hey, driver, are you going to do something about
this bitch!” I turned around to see my old friend and former Green Beret
turned rock-and-roll-roadie, Jeff “Sharkfin” Simpson riding in the back. The
driver screeched the van to a halt, and got out of the van. Earl walked around
to the passenger door and opened it. He reached over me to grab Alsion and threw
her and her bags to the curb. Her body bounced off a metal garbage can full of
empty beer cans and dirty-diapers. Earl got back in the van, wearing the “Rush
Hour 3” cap and announced “mission accomplished - Let’s hit the
airport!” We made it to the Airport in record time!
Jeff “Sharkfin” Simpson is not only a close friend, he is probably one of the best
rock and roll roadies and road managers in the business. When a band is in a pinch on
the road, trust me, they call “Shark Fin.” Jeff “Shark-Fin” Simpson might just be the
most highly regarded roadie-turned-road-manager in the history of rock and roll. Jeff
got has worked with virtually every major band in the business. Everyone from Bread,
The Doobie Brothers, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young - to newer bands like The Foo Fighters,
Metalica and Guns ‘N Roses have called upon Jeff for his services. Jeff’s first gig was with
his Vietnam buddy Jimi Hendrix! A lot of people have trouble hearing that Jimi actually
served in Vietnam, but he did – and Jeff was there when Jimi answered his nation’s “call to
duty.” Jimi helped introduce Jeff to a number of acts including Cream and the MC5, where
Jeff served as the “Go To” guy – getting the impossible deeds done in a timely fashion.
He was just like that in the military. Before making his mark in the world of rock and roll,
Jeff was one of the most decorated veterans in Vietnam. Running away from home at age
fifteen, Jeff lied about his age and joined the Marines. By age 17 he was in the Green
Berets – and also in Vietnam. During his eight years in the Marines, Jeff earned more
medals for bravery during combat than most veterans - including 722 “confirmed kills” in
action. His nickname “sharkfin” comes from his unusual battlefield tactics. A natural
swimmer from childhood, Jeff was the leader of the highly classified “Catfish Brigade” –
a division of Green Berets who navigated the volatile and highly dangerous rivers of waters
of the Da Nang River. The son of two beekeepers, Jeff had been stung by bees over 4,323
times. Immune to the venom of most strains of bee’s -including the most deadly “African
Killer Bees,” Jeff used his rare diagnosis to the war’s advantage.
Guns were too easy –and noisy- for Jeff. He preferred hand-to-hand combat. In 1967 Jeff
introduced a rather unique approach to his military branch. Instead of the conventional
Helicopter attack on enemy bases, Jeff would make his way up the river in an overturned
canoe – breathing the captured air, and remaining virtually invisible as he approached enemy
camps. Jeff would do this mission only at night when the enemy was least expecting him.
Inside Jeff’s overturned canoe would be two fully developed hives of “African Killer Bee
Hives” mounted under the canoes two seats. Armed with two waist-mounted razor sharp
tomahawks, Jeff would walk to the river’s edge and overturn the canoe. Gently, Jeff would
removed the two hives of Killer Bees and toss them into the huts of the sleeping enemies.
As the screaming VC fighters emerged swatting and screaming like so many girls, Jeff would
attack with his tomahawks. He would usually cut off both of their hands – if the soldiers “
choose to bleed to death” that was their call. The bee attack was so overwhelming that Jeff
was virtually invisible, so after sending an enemy camp into chaos and leaving it in
complete destruction, Jeff would simply board his canoe and row back down stream to his
base. This recent “declassified CIA document” shows in detail how operation “Shark Fin”
went down.
Jeff and I only fly first-class on airplanes. My ticket was paid for by Rolling
Stone Magazine, and Jeff’s was paid for by the Dead themselves. Jeff tried to talk
me into selling our tickets for big bucks in exchange for cheap coach tickets until
I reminded him how much fun it was for us to make fun of the people who flew coach!
Besides, the coach area was filled with loud, drugged-out Deadheads. Like myself,
Jeff despises Deadheads and drugs! However, Jeff explained to me that he is heavily
involved in the trade of “natural herbal remedies” and had even went back to the
coach section to sell Deadheads some “natural crushed white coca leaves” – a
formula that helped clear sinuses and build confidence. Kinda like St. John’s
Wart. After landing in Alpine Valley we met several of the hippies at the baggage
claim, they were extremely enthusiastic to purchase more of this herbal remedy
from Jeff. As we made our way to the Sheraton, Jeff convinced me that we should
sell our hotel suites for cash and stay with Deadheads. I was hesitant at first,
but after a few short snorts of Jeff’s natural powder I felt differently. In fact
I felt great. Jeff was great. Even the hippies seemed great. We even talked about
forming a company together or at least moving in together. Jeff quickly negotiated
the sale of our hotel rooms to some other folks, and we headed to the Deadheads’
massive suite. Once inside, we continued having great conversation for hours. I was
feeling great. I turned on the TV and watched John Edwards. He’s a guy who talks
to the Dead. I talk to the Dead as well. What if John Edwards were to talk to Jerry
Garcia, I asked aloud. “He would be talking to the ‘dead’ Dead,” I claimed.
No one got the connection. I explained to one of the Deadheads that I was
referring to Garcia. “Oh, right,’ he lied. “You mean Garcia, Larry Garcia.
I get it.” Larry Garcia? I didn’t correct him, but I thought that it was odd
that a “hippy” didn’t know Jerry’s name. In fact, none of these guys seemed to
know one single Dead song or reference. Odd, I thought…
Jeff and the hippies sat over in the corner in private conversation – they were
plotting something that I wasn’t part of. Jeff came over to me and announced that
“he and the boys had some business to take care of,” and that they’d “be back
later, or tomorrow.” I wasn’t about to question Jeff Simpson. Shortly after the
five men left in a shroud of secrecy, I popped open a Red Bull and put Steely Dan’s
“Cant Buy A Thrill” in the CD player. Before the first note played there was a
knock on the door. I was hoping to get some sleep so I would be fresh for the
first of the two Dead shows, but answered the door anyway. Two hot hippy chicks
were standing in the doorway. “Jeff said you had some nose candy and that we could
party with you,” the Oriental broad chimed. Not sure what they were talking about
– but feeling kinda “special,” I let the women in. They headed straight for the
glass table in the main room and picked up a large bag of Jeff’s herbal powder.
I followed and quickly pried Jeff’s bag from their hands. “There’s one thing I need
to know,” I demanded. “Are you girls drug addicts?” The girls looked at one
another amazed. “No, we just want free coke,” the tall one said as she clamped
my crotch. Somehow this all made sense to me. I didn’t have any coke, but a poured
out two tablespoons of Jeff’s powder on the table and hid the rest. They proceeded
to chop and snort line after line of this stuff until they were both naked and
rubbing my legs. “Do you have a girlfriend,” they asked. I thought about this for
twenty minutes before I answered. “Kinda,” I said, thinking of Robin back in
California. “Too bad,” the blonde said. “We normally just love too fuck all night
long!” The girls and I continued to listen to Steely Dan and talk for hours.
Their talking was getting quiet annoying when I asked: “Does ‘Clinton-type’ sex
count,” I said as I pointed to my crotch. “ We don’t think so,” they replied.
Again, this sounded good to me. They took turns for sixteen hours until I passed
out. When I awoke it was Sunday, and the first Dead show had came and went.
The hotel suite was full of unfamiliar luggage and televisions. Jeff was standing
over me. “What’s going on,” I asked. “Nothing, Brother,” Jeff replied. “Let’s go
catch the show!”
Jeff drove us to the show in a cab with a bloodstained steering wheel. I didn’t
ask any questions. Trust me, you didn’t ask questions about Jeff’s activities or actions.
I thought it was odd that Jeff seemed preoccupied with his newfound friends, and
very cavalier about his duties as “special security” for the Grateful Dead. As we
got closer to the venue, it was clear that we weren’t going to be able to drive
directly to the backstage gate. It seems that over 200,000 hippies had arrived for
a show that allowed 35,000 people. Jeff inched the car through the crowd as best
he could. A mile from the backstage gate, our car got stuck in the mud. That was
odd since it hadn’t rained. Basically, our car was stuck in “hippie sweat” that had
dripped into the grass. Jeff decided that we should back up and try another route.
Since I missed the first show, I told Jeff would make it on foot and meet him
later. I don’t know what came over me, but I decided to actually go out into the
crowd and walk to the backstage. When stepped from the car the Deadhead fans stared
at my backstage pass like it was the last bag of LSD on earth. I figured while I
was there I would try to track down some of the Deadheads who contacted on the
Internet. Deadheads stick together on the Internet thru email, Deadheads stick
together at shows thru sticky dirt – as in when they dance and their arms hit one
another, they become attached. As I walked thru the crowds several Deadheads tried
to steal my wallet and shoes. I beat them on the spot. ( “Steal Your Face” was
the Dead’s codeword for identity theft.) I was starting to get attention and felt
uneasy. I had never been this far from a stage. I usually sit in the first five
rows – if I’m not backstage! I couldn’t find any of my Internet friends anywhere,
and at this point, I stopped looking. 10 minutes later I had walked a far distance
and was naturally hungry. A Deadhead approached me with a vine of grapes. “Hey,
Man. Want a grape?” he said. Now, that’s a nice gesture. Feeling hungry, I grabbed
a grape and popped it in my mouth. “Thanks, dude,” I said as I walked away. The
Deadhead grape-man then grabbed my arm like so many Titanic lifeboats and mumbled,
“Tube of cheese?” I didn’t want any cheese so I said “No, thanks!” and began to
walk away. The grape-man came after me and demanded “Two Bucks, Please!” So that’s
what he was mumbling. This guy wanted “TWO BUCKS” for a freaking grape! I couldn’t
believe it. Deadhead’s make additional money (as in addition to their “trust
funds”) by selling food to one another while on tour. Freelance “Food Vendors”
were everywhere. A hippie with no arms was selling “Foot Sandwiches” for five
bucks a pop! Upon further inspection I noticed that his sandwiches weren’t 12
inches long, but, rather they were actually “Foot Sandwiches” made with his feet!
I almost threw-up on the spot. The grape-man and his dirty friends surrounded me.
“So how ‘bout it, man” the grape vendor asked. “Where’s my two dollars!” I have
never backed down from a fight before – but I had a job to get to. I pulled a
hundred dollar bill from my pocket and asked if he had change. He pulled a wad
from his man-skirt so large it would make Linda Lovelace shake. I took my 98 bucks
change and high-tailed it toward the stage...
To be continued...
- Brett Meisner
The "Hollywood Hills"
August, 30th, 2002
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What do you get when you send a veteran rock journalist and a ex-Green Beret turned famous roadie to cover the Grateful Dead reunion show in Alpine Valley? I don't know - I'm still trying to figure it out!
