Blind Items Revealed #35 - A Himmmm Blind Item - Part Five Of 8 Parts Which I Will Space Every Five Minutes - Reveal 5 Minutes After The Final Part
March 26, 2018
During a break in the gig, I stepped over when the singer came off stage. "What's up with you and (KG) and that damn guitar?" he asked. I told him, and he doubled-over laughing. He again stole my lit cigarette and hot-boxed it to the filter in two draws. He said "I want to play it, not fair!". Dripping in sweat, he blasted back on stage wide open.
The peak of the entire show that night came for me right then when they lit into a searing song that was my favorite. HT said onstage, "This is a story…about..." then a harmonica played. And the crowd went insane. This song set my two dates exploding into orbit screaming and gyrating. Legend had it that HT's ex-girlfriend – the same friend now grinding on me – was the inspiration of the song. I just stood there grinning, trying to maintain composure. For the rest of that song, those women used me as a jungle gym playground, dancing and having a blast torturing me in their tight outfits. In the film, every time the band looks to their right offstage – it is them looking at us. Thankfully we were out of camera sight-lines and no film was being shot on side stage. Tough job, but I had to do it.
After TWO SOLID HOURS straight of that energy and power, they bang out a nonstop killer finale. After that encore, right about then the ladies scamper off behind the stairs to go backstage, and I'm watching these loonies come offstage. Without any warning – the singer walks over to KG's upright guitar stand, and pulls my Strat out of the rack. Puts it on. In front of an army of screaming fans, the lights now up and music over. He starts to strum it. Everybody backstage puzzled at this. The band mates are laughing at him. I'm praying he doesn't do a Pete Townshend and shatter it. Instead, he strums it a few times, walks to an amp and does a feedback pull with it, like Hendrix. After he gets his feedback, he takes it off again. As he walks offstage he shoots a look and gesture to the crowd, then walks over and hands it off to the guitar tech. When HT makes it in back behind the huge set, he says to me: "I told 'ya I'd play it!" he laughed. And so he had.
We all start to make our plans for the obligatory after-party, and the band members sign autographs and chug refreshments. H3 is exhausted but gets his mischievous second wind and says we need to ditch the formal party and go pub jumping. He and HT had done this before, in Rio, and ditched their security chief/bodyguard. They'd been missing 48 hours while partying like crazed men. He was tough to ditch because he was still a cop back in their home country and a very sharp man. My companion MS and I jumped in our car and headed back to the hotel. I filled her in on H3's plan as we continued drinking our liquid bravery.
We knew we only had a short window of opportunity to escape. The car idling outside, and the bodyguard was distracted. Were we going to do it and make it out without notice? I whispered in my date's ear – did she want to skip out with us, stealth mode, to see if we could have some un-chaperoned fun in the big city tonight? Her eyes told the story, and she squeezed my hand nervously. I asked her again. Now or never. I could take her home, like any gentleman would, and with a peck on the cheek end the evening quite proper. All good virtues intact. Or…
Did she want to escape with us? To run away and do heaven knows what and end up hell knows where? In a city like London, with it's carnivorous tabloid media, this is akin to a suicide pact for any celebrity, politician, royal, or pop star. But looking at this group of already-exhausted, semi-intoxicated hooligans that we were – it at least was tempting enough to consider the fun being worth the risk. Life is too short to spend it on regret.
Faced with the prospect of going back home, she seemed really torn on what to do. Like the cartoons with the little angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other. She said she knows she really should go home and be a "good girl". I told her "God hates a coward – live a little". She slapped my shoulder with a mocking pout: "Taunting me?". With a sigh and a smile, she gave in. "I'll regret this, I just know it…but I think I'll regret it more if I don't go." I reminded her that we're not a biker gang, criminals, or an evil cult of wayward Jehovah's Witnesses out looking for kicks. I promised her I'd have her back home, safe and sound, before breakfast time. Hell, I'd even tuck her in bed if she wanted. Another punch on the arm, so I think she caught the joke. "I'm cheap but I'm not easy – not even in this dress", she joked. I assured her that the thought never crossed my mind. Okay, maybe for a second during the concert but only for a brief second. Wink wink, nudge nudge. Then and there we shared a gentle first kiss.
During a break in the gig, I stepped over when the singer came off stage. "What's up with you and (KG) and that damn guitar?" he asked. I told him, and he doubled-over laughing. He again stole my lit cigarette and hot-boxed it to the filter in two draws. He said "I want to play it, not fair!". Dripping in sweat, he blasted back on stage wide open.
The peak of the entire show that night came for me right then when they lit into a searing song that was my favorite. HT said onstage, "This is a story…about..." then a harmonica played. And the crowd went insane. This song set my two dates exploding into orbit screaming and gyrating. Legend had it that HT's ex-girlfriend – the same friend now grinding on me – was the inspiration of the song. I just stood there grinning, trying to maintain composure. For the rest of that song, those women used me as a jungle gym playground, dancing and having a blast torturing me in their tight outfits. In the film, every time the band looks to their right offstage – it is them looking at us. Thankfully we were out of camera sight-lines and no film was being shot on side stage. Tough job, but I had to do it.
After TWO SOLID HOURS straight of that energy and power, they bang out a nonstop killer finale. After that encore, right about then the ladies scamper off behind the stairs to go backstage, and I'm watching these loonies come offstage. Without any warning – the singer walks over to KG's upright guitar stand, and pulls my Strat out of the rack. Puts it on. In front of an army of screaming fans, the lights now up and music over. He starts to strum it. Everybody backstage puzzled at this. The band mates are laughing at him. I'm praying he doesn't do a Pete Townshend and shatter it. Instead, he strums it a few times, walks to an amp and does a feedback pull with it, like Hendrix. After he gets his feedback, he takes it off again. As he walks offstage he shoots a look and gesture to the crowd, then walks over and hands it off to the guitar tech. When HT makes it in back behind the huge set, he says to me: "I told 'ya I'd play it!" he laughed. And so he had.
We all start to make our plans for the obligatory after-party, and the band members sign autographs and chug refreshments. H3 is exhausted but gets his mischievous second wind and says we need to ditch the formal party and go pub jumping. He and HT had done this before, in Rio, and ditched their security chief/bodyguard. They'd been missing 48 hours while partying like crazed men. He was tough to ditch because he was still a cop back in their home country and a very sharp man. My companion MS and I jumped in our car and headed back to the hotel. I filled her in on H3's plan as we continued drinking our liquid bravery.
We knew we only had a short window of opportunity to escape. The car idling outside, and the bodyguard was distracted. Were we going to do it and make it out without notice? I whispered in my date's ear – did she want to skip out with us, stealth mode, to see if we could have some un-chaperoned fun in the big city tonight? Her eyes told the story, and she squeezed my hand nervously. I asked her again. Now or never. I could take her home, like any gentleman would, and with a peck on the cheek end the evening quite proper. All good virtues intact. Or…
Did she want to escape with us? To run away and do heaven knows what and end up hell knows where? In a city like London, with it's carnivorous tabloid media, this is akin to a suicide pact for any celebrity, politician, royal, or pop star. But looking at this group of already-exhausted, semi-intoxicated hooligans that we were – it at least was tempting enough to consider the fun being worth the risk. Life is too short to spend it on regret.
Faced with the prospect of going back home, she seemed really torn on what to do. Like the cartoons with the little angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other. She said she knows she really should go home and be a "good girl". I told her "God hates a coward – live a little". She slapped my shoulder with a mocking pout: "Taunting me?". With a sigh and a smile, she gave in. "I'll regret this, I just know it…but I think I'll regret it more if I don't go." I reminded her that we're not a biker gang, criminals, or an evil cult of wayward Jehovah's Witnesses out looking for kicks. I promised her I'd have her back home, safe and sound, before breakfast time. Hell, I'd even tuck her in bed if she wanted. Another punch on the arm, so I think she caught the joke. "I'm cheap but I'm not easy – not even in this dress", she joked. I assured her that the thought never crossed my mind. Okay, maybe for a second during the concert but only for a brief second. Wink wink, nudge nudge. Then and there we shared a gentle first kiss.
Skip ahead to 1:30:00 in the video - Hutchence plays the guitar: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aAMqidt6B_A
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