All I Ever Wanted by Kathy Valentine

Author:Kathy Valentine [Valentine, Kathy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of Texas Press
Published: 2019-07-14T16:00:00+00:00

24

PRIVATE JET

At the Omni, a sports arena in Atlanta, I picked at our deli tray in a dressing room lined with lockers and team changing cubicles. The wardrobe cases could be arranged to make a private area, and I sometimes laid towels on the floor to try to nap. The faint sounds of the Police sound checking drifted down to the exterior rooms, Stewart’s syncopated rhythms lost in the guitar effects and Sting’s vocal, “We are spirits in the material world . . .” I knew nearly every word and phrase. After they finished, our sound check would get squeezed in before meal time, when everyone—crew, truck drivers, production, staff, and band members—loaded up plates and picked a seat. The Omni went silent, but this time, instead of Bruce coming to get us, Sting burst through the doors.

“Time for a celebration,” he said, a bottle of Moët in each hand.

We were surprised and happy to see Sting, who never came bounding into our dressing room. Bearing bottles of the good stuff, no less.

What on Earth?

“Congratulations, ladies! You’ve passed us on the charts!” Sting said, and then, realizing that we still didn’t get it, “Your album! It’s passed ours!”

Oh! Their record, Ghost in the Machine, had slipped downward, and Beauty and the Beat was going up, and higher than . . . oh, my.

A stunned moment passed while it sank in. The Police were huge. Both bands were touring in support of our albums, yet ours had overtaken theirs. Sting popped the champagne open, and as the news bubbled and rolled over our collective disbelief, everyone toasted and whooped and hollered. I didn’t watch sports, didn’t know what a team felt like when it won a championship, but I knew what it felt like to be on this team: like a massive shot of vitamin FuckEveryLastOneWhoToldUsNo. Too bad there was no one to gloat at—everyone around us had been believers. It was the industry, the gatekeepers, who had tried to block us.

The Police gave us big shout-outs during their set, confirming once again that most of the time, the men who truly celebrated and supported women musicians were also musicians. Their acclaim encouraged the crowd to follow suit, and the Go-Go’s went onstage with an unruly confidence and rapport. This roller coaster was creaking and straining to the top of an eight-month incline.

The Police graciously offered to let us join them on a private plane after a concert in Denver to the next city, Tempe, Arizona. An unsettling premonition crept into my heart. I couldn’t shake it. All through the set, I worried and tried to rationalize away the bad feeling. Our crew packed the equipment; they wanted to get started on the thirteen-hour drive. While the rest of my band watched the Police, I made a decision to ride with the crew and left. Better safe than in a plane crash, I thought, as if Patsy Cline and Buddy Holly were sitting on my shoulders wagging their fingers at my imagination.

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