Off the Rails: Aboard the Crazy Train in the Blizzard of Ozz by Rudy Sarzo

Author:Rudy Sarzo [Sarzo, Rudy]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Published: 2016-03-03T05:00:00+00:00

13

I’m a Bloody Guest in Your Hotel!

On the morning of October 20th, I arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport after a grueling ten-hour flight from Miami. When I reached customs I handed my travel document to the agent.

“May I see your passport, sir?” asked the stoic agent.

“That’s the only travel document I have,” I explained.

“Sir, this is a re-entry permit with the sole purpose of allowing you re-entry to the United States. You need a visa and a valid passport to enter the United Kingdom. Please come with me.”

I followed him to a private room flanked by armed guards.

“You only get one phone call to sort out your situation.” He handed me the phone.

I fumbled through my wallet looking for Sharon‘s contact phone numbers.

“Jet Records, how may I direct your call?” answered the operator.

“Oh, hi, this is Rudy, the bass player in Ozzy’s band. Is Sharon in the office?” I asked.

“Please hold.” The muzak played for a few moments.

“Rudy, where are you?” asked Sharon.

“I’m being detained at customs. The agent says I can’t get into the country without a visa and a passport.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Jake’s at the airport right now with your work permits and visa. I’ll page him and let him know that you’re being detained at customs. He’ll get it all sorted out for you. Just sit tight.”

“Oh don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” I said as I watched the armed guard’s silhouette through the glass door.

While I waited for a couple of hours in the detention room I couldn’t help thinking about what happened to Randy when he first went through British customs a couple of years earlier. The dreadful thought of being deported or even worse, sent back to Cuba, rushed through my mind.

“Everything’s in order, Mr. Sarzo,” the agent announced. “You can go now.”

After finally clearing customs I made my way to the main terminal where a pale, slender young man approached me.

“Mr. Sarzo, I presume?” He smiled and helped me with my luggage. “I’m Jake Duncan, your tour manager.” He introduced himself with a thick Scottish accent. “Let me tell you. I had to pull some heavy strings to get you in. They rarely come across travel documents like yours. Fortunately, I know a few people at customs, otherwise you’d be on your way home right now.”

“Home’s not where I dread going back to, Jake,” I said feeling relieved.

As Jake drove through the picturesque streets of London I was filled with the anticipation of finally spending a few weeks in England and experiencing the musically open-minded culture that spawned most of my rock heroes. Through the years I found it ironic that while British artists like Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones and Cream where influence by American blues artists, most rock musicians from my generation living in America got exposed to the blues by these and other hard-rocking, larger-than-life British bands that invaded our shores during the ’60s and ’70s. With time I came to realize that the American blues embraced by my

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