Unlike other writers' retrospectives, Tom Wictor's Ghosts doesn't just feature the most interesting insider tidbits from a long career in the music-journalism trenches; included is the exorcism of the personal demons that informed the stories in the first place. The result is funny, revealing, and worth reading.
-- Bryan Beller
Bassist, composer, writer, and official replacement hands for Thomas Wictor
Sick guy; good book!
-- Kevin Johnson
First Assistant to the Under Secretary of Torpidity
Those of the American persuasion may find this torrent of sex, bad manners, and famous people I have known, as they say, uplifting. Personally, I felt my breakfast kipper uplifting toward the buccal egress. Ballyhoo indeed. This Wictor wallah deserves a good hard rogering, and I'm sure there are legions of responsible and high-toned critics polishing the blue steel of their bayonets at this very moment for that very purpose.
Never apologise, never explain. You ninny.
-- a gentleman
SYNOPSIS
Ghosts and Ballyhoo: Memoirs of a Failed L.A. Music Journalist chronicles Thomas Wictor's ten insane years in the Los Angeles music industry and his quest to free himself from the past. Ostensibly a memoir, Ghosts also asks--and possibly answers--provocative questions about fate, destiny, and life after death. Central to the story is the issue of how the author is to continue on after the loss of the Cardinal Ghost, the woman he recognized and remembered the first time he met her.
The book is structured as a collection of anthologies rather than a continuous narrative; the seven anthologies detailing Wictor's failed career are separated by six interludes with the Collateral Ghost, one of the most brilliant yet unsuccessful musicians who ever played--former Frank Zappa bassist Scott Thunes.
Thomas Wictor's experiences include multiple failures across multiple spectra; a spontaneous recovery from total liver failure; adopting a reincarnated cat; narrowly avoiding a terrorist bomb; losing much of his eyesight and the ability to play the bass guitar; purchasing a painting of the Cardinal Ghost done by an artist who never met her; learning that Scott Thunes played a role in his life years before Wictor even heard of him; turning the tables on a vicious stalker; a miraculous escape from an attempted murder; contracting an incurable illness that will eventually cost him his hearing; discovering a life-saving poet; experiencing the suicide of his best friend; and a near-death experience complete with tunnel, bright light, and vision of what lies beyond.
Throughout his life, Wictor also benefited from an endless series of coincidences that always returned him to the notion that there is a Plan. Losing nearly everything he loved gave the author clarity, enabling him to see patterns of guidance and sustenance visible everywhere once he was no longer blinded by rage and negativity.
Clarity un-haunted Thomas Wictor and brought him peace of mind, which allowed him to transform the anger over what he lost into gratitude for what he once had. Written with profane humor and no self-pity, Ghosts and Ballyhoo includes previously unpublished articles, excerpts from interview transcripts and personal correspondence, photo inserts, a bibliography, and index.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Anthology One: Prelude to Essence. 1962-1985
Interlude with Scott Thunes: Zappa
Anthology Two: First Light. 1985-1991
Interlude with Scott Thunes: Music
Anthology Three: Beginnings and Annihilation. 1992-1995
Interlude with Scott Thunes: Rock
Anthology Four: Summit. 1996-1997
Interlude with Scott Thunes: Bass
Anthology Five: Wasteland. 1998-2003
Interlude with Scott Thunes: Communication
Anthology Six: Abyss. 2003-2011
Interlude with Scott Thunes: Happiness
Anthology Seven: The Great Un-haunting. 2012
Lessons Learned
Codas
Bibliography
Index
EXCERPT
Since Bass Player had never written anything about Gene Simmons, I pitched him to Jim Roberts. Jim agreed, telling me it would be another feature article, my third. I contacted Simmons's publicist, who asked if Gene would get the cover. That decision was out of my hands. Jim said he never made deals and had to see the interview first. The publicist and I called back and forth a few times until I threatened to move on to another project.
Simmons himself called me without warning a few days later and wanted to do a phoner, which I refused. The point for me was to meet him and hone my chops. He abruptly hung up, called the next day, and asked if I could meet him in half an hour. When that didn't work, I cleared my schedule and waited until he called a third time and we worked out a deal to talk at the studio where Kiss put the final touches on their new album. I interviewed Simmons on January 28, 1996.
The interview began with him actually taking my tape recorder out of my hands and cradling it in his lap as he sat on the sofa with his legs stretched out on the coffee table. He went into his standard interview, which I let him do for a while, and then I started in with questions I'd never heard anyone ask him before. I don't know how I figured this out, but with someone as famous as he is, it's a complicated dynamic: You can't be too deferential, or they get bored because everyone kisses their rumps all the time, but you also can't be too familiar, because then you're disrespecting their hard-earned position in society. The key is to simply be perceptive. I took my cues from my interview subjects; they always let me know exactly how to interact with them.
When speaking to Simmons, I remembered a story I'd read about the actress Ethel Barrymore, who was a legend in her day. At a party, a stranger kept addressing her as "Ethel." Finally, she shouted, "Ethel, hell! Just call me 'Cuddles'!" So you have to show that you're not a sycophant, but you're also not in any way taking liberties. I can tell you the exact moment I won him over: I referred to myself as an insignificant insect, and he whistled the way you do when you witness a terrible disaster or something you simply can't believe. At that point he knew I was camping it up for him, and he knew that I knew he was camping it up for me, and everything was going to be okay. It was something neither of us acknowledged, of course; if I'd punched him on the arm and said, "Aw, ya nut!" he would've rightfully cut me off at the knees.
Initially, the Gene Simmons interview was the most difficult balancing act I performed in my career. When I asked him my most combative questions, I actually got out of my chair and sat cross legged on the floor at his feet, like an acolyte. From this position, I could then really challenge him. An extremely intelligent man, he knew exactly what I was doing and appreciated my strategy. All was well, as long as I didn't overstep my bounds by acknowledging the art we created together. That would've been boorish and disrespectful, and would've shown unearned familiarity. It also would've put me at the center of the story. My goal was to telegraph to Simmons that he was entirely the focus; he'd set the agenda; and I'd make him shine by playing the straight man. He got it--understanding that in no way was it manipulation--and ran with it. I always shudder at interviews I read, thinking, No, no! Why'd you ask him that?
Though the interview was originally supposed to last no more than an hour, he gave me two. We had a huge, shouting fight over tone when I told him I could tell different brands of bass by the sound, and he said I was full of it. The fight wasn't real, but we had to pretend it was. It's very hard to be deferential while yelling at someone, but it can be done. I told him that he was full of it because the tone of the bass in his songs changed and so did his instruments. If it didn't matter, he wouldn't have changed tone or basses. He eventually admitted that tone is important, but he refused to tell me a thing about his equipment, settings, or anything technical. At least twice in the interview he said he needed to be on the cover; what I did to allay his concern was to present him ever more opportunities to say outrageous, entertaining things. It was up to him.
WHAT'S THE POINT OF MY BOOK?
You’re not a failure until you’re dead.
And even then, you aren’t. Apparently. Unless you fail at dying. So it’s a win-win, no matter what.
Plus, destiny and free will coexist. They work together seamlessly. You're in the driver's seat, traveling an infinite network of roads that the Planner built. The very act of driving creates more roads out of thin air. Poof, and there they are.
Finally, you can acheive happiness by converting your anger over loss into gratitude for what you once had. They key to everything is gratitude. If you're grateful, you'll be happy. It's axiomatic. Conversely, there's no such thing as a happy ingrate.
Oh, and good luck trying to get the complete, full-sized photo of my current girlfriend and me to appear on your screen. I think you can do it if you put your cursor in the upper left corner of the thumb and then use the scroll feature on your mouse.
My Website designers were Brazilian. Communicating with them was simply not possible. Since this was my third attempt at getting a Website done, I simply gave up and accepted this utterly inexplicable, madness-inducing approach to providing an enlarged view.
My idea was from the Stone Age: Click the thumbnail, and a bigger version of the image appears in the middle of the screen, centered and stationary.
And my ADMIN panel is in Portuguese. To edit my site, I have to open a second tab and use Google Translate.
Qual é o ponto do meu livro? Você não é um fracasso até que você esteja morto. E mesmo assim, você não é. Aparentemente. A menos que você falhar em morrendo. Portanto, é um ganha-ganha, não importa o quê.
SUPPLEMENTARY MATERIAL
Here are three supplements to Ghosts and Ballyhoo.
They'll give you an idea of what the book is about and what I have planned for the Website that has yet to materialize.
Please don't misunderstand: This is material not in the book. It's additional.
Appetizers or dessert, depending on whether or not you've read Ghosts.
The Cardinal Ghost Carmen and I had a rocky relationship at first. We were both drunks, and she had a roving eye that she could barely control. If you read my book, you'll understand why I stayed with her despite our problems.
At our Tokyo school, teachers came and went. One day we had a new colleague named Lynne, a British woman who looked exactly like a more voluptuous Naomi Watts. I liked her immediately for her intelligence and insanely twisted sense of humor, the two attributes I find most attractive in women. Carmen--a brilliant, wildly funny person herself--could tell how I felt about Lynne. Though jealous, Carmen couldn't really complain because she knew I'd never act on it, and she was also aware that I'd overlooked her own extracurricular activities in the hopes that she'd outgrow them.
Carmen and I spent most of our lunches at the top of the old building where were worked, talking and gazing out the windows as we ate. Once when we saw Lynne arriving, Carmen said, "I never realized how busty she is. You can really see it when you're looking down at her from six stories up. She's gorgeous, isn't she, Tom?" And she gave me an arch, sad look.
Carmen herself was rather flat chested. I'm not a boob man; having been born and raised in Venezuela, I have more of a Latin preference. My favorite view of a woman is from behind, when she's wearing tight jeans. Carmen was a former gymnast, so she looked great from behind, outfitted in snug, faded jeans. But I wasn't with her because of any part of her body. While I appreciated her excellent caboose, it was a bonus, not a requirement.
During the holiday season of 1989-90, Carmen went home to California for Christmas and New Year's. She was gone for two weeks. Before she left, she said, "You're going to spend all your time with Lynne, aren't you?" Again, said sadly and sheepishly but with a definite trace of vicarious enthusiasm. Spending two weeks with someone else was what Carmen herself might do. She was titillated by infidelity--even that of her mate--because of the naughtiness and drama. There was no question: She gave me permission.
By 1989 the worst of the turbulence in our relationship was over, and we'd settled into the happiest extended period of my life. Still, Carmen could never accept that I wasn't bothered by the (what I was told was an astronomical) number of her previous sexual partners, nor could she believe that I'd known of her infidelities but had forgiven her. If I cheated on her, it'd take the sting out of her own adventures. "You did it, too!" she could say, assuaging the guilt I knew she felt about betraying me. I therefore had carte blanche to fool around for two weeks with a British woman who looked like Naomi Watts. If she'd have me.
After Carmen departed for California, Lynne and I went to lunch together every day. She cracked me up because all Brits are wordsmiths who love to imitate the millions of regional accents in their island kingdom. She was from Manchester, so to me she sounded like a pirate.
Lynne was very sarcastic. I gelled my hair in those days, and during one of our lunches she said, "Let's 'ave a feel, then," and touched my slicked-back locks. She burst into laughter.
"Oo, it's awful, innit, Tom!" she shouted. "'Ow can ya 'ave that on yer 'ead all day? Feels like dried wood! Ah could use ya fer kindlin', coodn't Ah? Start a fire wif yer 'ead in me fireplace!"
She was hotness incarnate.
On Christmas Day, we went to a British pub in Tokyo that served a traditional Christmas dinner: roast turkey, brussels sprouts, roast potatoes, cranberry sauce, parsnips, bread sauce, chestnut stuffing, pigs in a blanket, bacon, and gravy. With Christmas Pudding doused in flaming brandy for dessert. It wards off evil spirits.
We also had Christmas Crackers, little paper tubes twisted at both ends. When you and your date pull at either end of the tube, they pop and a paper crown, a prize, and a joke written on a piece of paper fall out. Our prizes were a plastic mustache and a toy penguin. Lynne put on her crown and managed to look even hotter. There's something irresistible about beautiful women in silly headgear...
It was the best Christmas I ever had as an adult. The combination of the company, the food, and the erotic tension made it magical.
After our Christmas dinner, Lynne began talking about sex. I've always had a problem doing that, but with her it was easy. She was so funny and clever that we were able to relate in plain English what we liked and didn't like, as though we were discussing movies or food.
"'Ave you ever--?" she'd ask and describe a technique or position. "'Ow d'ya like that? Not for me, mate. One thing Ah 'ate is 'avin' me [fill-in-the-blank fill-in-the-blanked]." We never talked about Carmen; neither of us brought her up. It was a weird but intoxicating experience to speak so frankly about these things with such an attractive woman. A lapsed Catholic, I was ridiculously inexperienced for an American man of twenty-seven.
Lynne was also an electric-bass fanatic. She loved the bass because she found it much sexier than the guitar. Male bassists were far more masculine than male guitarists, and the lower registers affected her lower register, she told me. ("Noodge-noodge; wink-wink. Say no moah; say no moah!") I played my bass for her at school during our lunch breaks. Her eyes gleamed, like a panther's.
On New Year's Eve, we went to a Japanese club where they rang in 1990 the traditional way, by smashing open a sake barrel with a mallet and splashing everyone nearby. Lynne and I got soaked. As the crowd cheered, she grabbed me, pulled me into her ample chest, and planted a big, wet smacker right on my lips. It was the best kiss ever, no question. We'd reached the point at which I had to make my decision. There was a week left before Carmen came back, and Lynne had made it clear that she was up for some fun.
I didn't do anything about it.
Why not? I had permission, and Lynne obviously didn't want anything except a nice, friendly romp.
And that was the reason why I didn't. I was already madly in love with her, so if we'd had our tryst, she would've thought of it as a simple dalliance while I'd be left with another hole in my life when it was over. We were too well matched. Since I was committed to my flawed, difficult Carmen, if I'd gone the extra step and consummated with Lynne, it would've gotten really ugly for everybody.
When Carmen came back, she realized the second she saw me that I hadn't gotten together with Lynne, and that was the last hurdle we had to go over. It was smooth sailing from that point on, until it ended in a level of hate and verbal violence I've never experienced before or since. But when Carmen recognized that I'd turned down my perfect match in favor of someone who was so much trouble, it calmed her and allowed her to finally lower her defenses. She and Lynne became friends and would often go out together. I didn't ask what they talked about. It was none of my business.
On January 26, 1990, Carmen, Lynne, and I--along with my friend Steiv Dixon and his date--went to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers at Club Citta in Kawasaki. Lynne hated them.
"They're rubbish!" she scoffed. "'Ow can ya listen to this shite? That's the great Flea you always talk about? 'E's awful! Every solo sounds exactly the same!"
She preferred the crappy Japanese opening act, these pathetic, Bizarro World Chili Pepper clones who performed with hats made of egg-crate mattress foam.
So Lynne and I weren't a perfect match after all. Actually, I think she said what she did just to be perverse and tweak me a little. I hate being teased, but like Steiv, she could do it to me without making it hurt. How many men wouldn't mind being teased by Naomi Watts?
I don't regret my decision, even though Carmen dumped me three years later in the most inhumane, painful, selfish way possible. I still think I made the right choice, because now I have memories of a great Christmas Day; an even better New Year's Eve; some of the frankest conversations I ever had with a woman; amazing intimacy that didn't end negatively; the hilarious improbability of a beautiful blonde Brit offering herself to me and not being offended when I declined; Carmen's joy when she came home and realized I'd chosen her, warts and all; and the three years of total fulfillment Carmen gave me before it ended.
Wherever you are, Lynne, thank you.
Supplement to "Farewell and an Order that was Obeyed," pages 55 to 59.
This is the diagram I made of how I believe the Planner has set up the system. It incorporates both fate and free will. To view the image, put your cursor on the upper left corner. When the enlarged version appears, use the scroll button on your mouse.
I sent this drawing to a friend I've known for ten years, thinking he'd enjoy it. He immediately told me that I'm mentally ill and said he needed to take time off from me.
He wrote, "I'm worried when people of my acquaintance (you) tell me they have figured out the meaning of it all and then send me a diagram. You must be the first. In the history of the world. Surely you must see that this smacks of messianism. What is the actual probability of this? I've been in a smaller but analogous state. I was seeing patterns all over the place that weren't there. I was fucked up. Mushrooms, mainly."
You're free to think I'm crazy or on drugs, too. I certainly don't see myself as any sort of messiah. I'm not trying to convert anyone, except into readers of my books. Amend that: into buyers of my books. The fact is, I've always been on a quest to figure out if we're here for a reason. The theory I've illustrated here makes sense to me, but it's just an art project. I had no idea it would convince someone that I've lost my marbles. As a writer and penny-ante artist, all I can say to that reaction is, "Excellent!" I'd rather my work make people think I'm a frightening lunatic than just another run-of-the-mill, struggling mediocrity. Scary nutters sell more books than bland, everyday paragons of normality.
As an aside, if you're worried about someone's mental hygiene, beware of those who insist that they have no problems. Read my memoir. You'll see that I've got problems falling out of every orifice. If that makes you run from me in horror, so be it. I'll live.
When I decided to write Ghosts and Ballyhoo and address issues that have always been at the forefront of my consciousness, I knew that it would change peoples' opinion of me. My late father was terrified of different ideas. The sentence he repeated the most during his eighty-four years of existence in this cycle was, "He's some kind of a nut!" Anyone who described thoughts that were even slightly out of the realm of day-to-day drudgery was a maniac.
My favorite poet is Stephen Crane, whose work literally changed my life. His is the last word on this issue:
"Think as I think," said a man,
"Or you are abominably wicked;
You are a toad."
And after I had thought of it,
I said, "I will, then, be a toad."
I'm not afraid of being seen as a toad, even by my (apparently former) friends. Solitude doesn't scare me. I'd like to suggest, though, that if the mere expression of an idea freaks you right out of your skull, to the extent that you have to end a ten-year relationship, the problem might not lie with the person expressing the idea.
Anyway, back to my diagram.
I believe that we each have a specific destiny the Planner lays out for us, which takes the form of opportunities we're given. Our free will comes into play through the choices we make when presented with these opportunities. Each choice we make has the potential of changing our destiny, and some choices create other opportunities. Some opportunities are laid out in advance, while others are nascent, ready to come into existence based on our choices.
The end result is a continuum of destinies, from positive to negative. This ultimate fate is also a starting point for your next life.
In my diagram, I've illustrated our individual fate as a long block, positive on the left and negative on the right. Each fork or intersection of the many lines leading to our ultimate fate represents a choice. The light-gray lines have yet to come into existence but can be created by our choices. Some choices lead to dead ends, which automatically drop us on the negative side of the Fate Block if we end our lives in these cul-de-sacs.
When it's time for us to begin another cycle, we're born again somewhere along the continuum of fate. Those who end up on the far right have a lot to learn in the next life. I don't believe that the starting point is punishment; for example, I don't believe that if you made terrible choices in this life, you'll get raped or tortured in the next life or be born as a Brazilian favela dweller. That wouldn't be just, because the person you become isn't responsible for the actions of the person you once were. And the system is benign, I believe. It's about redemption, not punishment.
However, if you go through a lifetime without learning anything, you end up--of your own accord--on the negative end of the Fate Block, which means you begin the next life at a greater disadvantage than someone who grew and improved. This isn't comeuppance; it's natural law. The fact that a cat will never be able to command a nuclear submarine has nothing to do with whether it's a good or bad cat. Cats simply lack the ability to issue coherent orders to submariners.
Those whose fate is closer to the left side of the block will begin their next lives already knowing much more than those whose fate brings them to the right side of the block. I believe our purpose here is to learn, so those with less to learn are happier and more successful as people, not in a professional or material sense. Though happier people may be born into difficult circumstances, they're better able to deal with them. Our choices determine where on the Fate Block we end up and how much we'll have to learn in the next life. What we do in this life doesn't determine what will happen to us in the next life. That's based on pure chance. But what we do in this life influences how we'll cope with the circumstances of the next life.
I believe we accumulate or bank our learning. The Buddhists think that the number of cycles we must go through is dictated by how much we learn. That makes the most sense to me. Once we get where we're supposed to be, we achieve what the Buddhists call nirvana and don't have to keep coming back.
It's likely that nirvana is a state of pure clarity, awareness, and contentment, which means concepts such as time and the lower human emotions will have no meaning. In other words, we can't even conceive of what it'll be like.
But I think it'll be pretty cool. And I think we'll be there with the people who mean the most to us.
Supplement to "Watch for the Patterns" and "Be Grateful," pages 273 to 275.
Some of you have read Ghosts and Ballyhoo. You know that although I'm not religious, I believe in a Planner; I believe that we're part of a system that meshes destiny and free will; I believe that we have multiple lifetimes to get it right; I believe that we're given signs to help us through extremely difficult times; and one of my heroes is Saint Michael the Archangel, because he fearlessly confronts evil.
After my father died, the chaplain told me that Saint Michael is also the Angel of Death. He's so ferocious because his job is to protect the souls of the departed on their journey.
January through March of 2013 was an unending series of assaults and bad news, most of which I will never divulge. Let's just say that I was preyed upon in ways I never thought imaginable, and that my hard-fought positive worldview was tested to the limit. My doctor told me at my last checkup, "You don't want to go back to how you were before."
I don't, but the black wings of rage began beating softly on my windows again. My demons whispered seductively, asking me to let them back in. What good is happiness when you're forever confronted with lies, contempt, dishonesty, incompetence, denial, and selfishness? Why bother trying to improve yourself when so many others seem dedicated to bringing you down? What's the point of trying to be a better person when so often you're alone in your aspirations? How can you be happy when your approach to life automatically cuts you off from the vast majority of your fellow humans?
On Easter Sunday, March 31, 2013, I was at an ATM in the vestibule of a bank, transferring funds from my savings account to my checking account to pay for my health insurance. Dad had always picked up the tab for it; he'd offered, and I'd accepted. Though he had ample time to make the last payment, he missed it, his impending death having driven him mad with terror. I discovered his state of mind in many ways, one being a notice telling me that my insurance would be canceled unless the carrier got its money by April 4.
In the bank vestibule, the transfer of funds wouldn't go through. I tried three times, but the ATM kept giving me the balance instead of making the transfer. I got angrier and angrier, and suddenly every horrible development of the previous three months came crashing down on me, making me nearly hysterical. It's the closest I've come in my life to pitching a massive tantrum and just trashing the place, like a gorilla doing one of those smash-it-all-up displays in the jungle.
The door behind me opened, and someone came in. I turned around; it was a young man in tight jeans and a form-fitting white T-shirt. Tall and olive skinned, he was the most physically fit person I've ever seen, with immensely broad shoulders, a V-shaped torso, extremely muscular but not large arms and legs, and spiky black hair. His face was perfectly androgynous; it was literally and completely without gender. I knew he was a man only by his body. He struck me--and I have no idea how I got this impression--as incredibly kind and utterly dangerous, a fierce warrior calmly holding himself in check. I didn't feel a threat directed at me but rather at anyone who messed with him and those he cared about. He exuded supreme confidence and peace, as though nothing could possibly anger him. If he resorted to violence, he did so without malice and only when necessary. His expression was complex, a faint smile and what I can best describe as concerned impartiality. He was intensely present yet detached.
"I'm really sorry about this," I said. "I can't get this thing to do what I want."
He said, "Don't worry, sir. It's all good." His voice was very strange, eerily musical and neither male nor female. There was something distinctly hornlike about it. And what a bizarre choice of words for the situation. Even so, I felt deep gratitude toward him, way out of proportion to his polite patience. He made me almost want to cry. I relaxed, the urge to destroy gone in a flash.
After one more try, I gave up and went into the bank. As I passed through the door, the young man advanced to the ATM. Inside the bank, I turned left toward a teller, and when I looked over at the ATM again, only two seconds later, nobody was there. The young man had vanished.
But he was right. I shouldn't worry, because it's all good.
