Minutes into my roadie debut at Seattle’s Bumbershoot in 1999, I’m thrown to the fire. Pretty Things manager-producer Mark St. John reminds me three times to get liquids to drummer Skip Alan, a burly man with shaggy hair.

“He dehydrates!” explains the flamboyant St. John, who sports a ponytail and wears black spandex shorts and a tight black sleeveless shirt. Skip does more than dehydrate. Once, he vomited over his shoulder, continuing to play.

St. John is also nervous about the crowd. On this overcast afternoon, the Pretties are following a local ’50s swing group, and the audience is sedate, strictly G-rated.

“These people are gonna disappear when the Pretty Things take the stage,” St. John mutters, scanning the swing dancers assembled on the lawn. “The Pretty Things are ugly!”

Indeed, the Pretties are probably known as much for their bad behavior as their music. Regarding the latter, most notably, in 1968, they produced the first rock opera, S.F. Sorrow, which preceded Tommy.

Inexplicably though, the Pretties stayed home during the British Invasion. While The Who and their other contemporaries like The Rolling Stones went on to international superstardom, the Pretties remained in relative obscurity.

Before my friend recommended me for this three-week gig, I’d never heard of the Pretty Things. I’m not a rock n’ roll guy. Skinny jeans aren’t in my repertoire, and as far as music-related experience, well, I’d witnessed Macarena Night at Yankee Stadium and interviewed the Indian from the Village People.

I accepted this assignment because, well, it was an assignment, and I was available, unfortunately.

Now, 36 years after they formed, St. John wants the Pretties to finally get their due. He amps up his English brogue—think The Clash at Shea Stadium circa 1982—and introduces the Pretty Things as “the last remaining hope for the anarchy of rock ‘n’ roll!”

The band takes the stage in black suits and ties, white shirts, and dark shades, looking like “ageing villains on parole to attend a gangland funeral,” according to one reporter.

The swing dancers do not flee, and suddenly, the clouds disappear, and singer Phil May struts like his contemporary Mick Jagger—or maybe it’s the other way around. At the end of the set, the crowd is on their feet, applauding vigorously.

After the Pretties exit, St. John grabs the mic. “If you want more, you’ll have to make more noise than that!” he tells the crowd. “These guys are a little hard of hearing!”

Following Bumbershoot, I excuse myself and crawl into one of the twelve coffin-like bunks on the tour bus. We’re rolling when I’m awoken by a muffled moaning coming from . . . everywhere.

Somehow, I piece it together: Someone’s watching porn in the front of the bus, and it’s being broadcast to each bunk’s monitor. Well, I’m not watching, but I want to change that, immediately. I flip on my bunk’s small screen, but I get static. I fidget with the knobs and bang the set. Nothing.

In San Francisco, there are rumblings that the Pretties aren’t happy with me. In fact, the bus driver informs me that they’re contemplating flying me home.

No, the Pretties haven’t uncovered my dubious rock resume. By not hanging out after Bumbershoot, I didn’t do myself any favors. Also, conspicuously, I didn’t sell any merchandise. Somehow, it was sent to the wrong location.

The fact remains: I’m taking up space. Also, sadly, I’m probably a drag to be around because I’m not exactly happy-go-lucky. All in all, returning home doesn’t seem all too terrible… but I must stay. But it’s not for rock n’ roll glory.

Rather, it’s the fear of rock n’ roll disgrace. Getting booted after less than 48 hours would be downright embarrassing. Somehow, I must make these blokes like miserable me. San Francisco is make it or break it.

On Labor Day night, at Bimbo’s 365, the Pretties draw a nice crowd, and I’m busy, selling Pretties vinyl 45s. Unfortunately, the band’s T-shirts have still not arrived. St. John, however, is exhilarated by the show and impressed that I’ve started a mailing list.

Yes, I passed the test. From here on in, there’s no talk of sending me home.

Bright and early, we’re en route to Los Angeles to headline the fabled Whisky a Go Go. Phil tells me that 25 years earlier Iggy Pop joined the Pretties on The Roxy’s stage in L.A.. He ran repeatedly into a wall until he was bloody.

This is the insanity that St. John craves. “The show is going to be hot!” he declares repeatedly.

But as showtime nears, St. John’s enthusiasm wanes. The Pretties are disappointed with the Whisky’s sound quality and the venue’s general indifference. I shouldn’t judge though. Mere hours ago, I was deemed indifferent. But that was eons ago.

Now I get it: The Pretty Things are trying to make it in America, and this is their last shot.

Just before midnight, the Pretties take the stage for not quite a capacity crowd, which includes Slash and Gene Simmons. However, the band pronounces the show a profound disappointment because of the poor sound.

After packing up, we roll out just before sunrise, and I sit upfront with St. John. “God took a dump,” St. John theorizes, “and it landed in L.A.” In hours, I’ve gone from pariah to right-hand man.

Rock ‘n’ roll. I dig it.

On our way to Denver, the plan is to stop in Vegas for blackjack, but it doesn’t happen. Everyone’s passed out. We stop at trucker pit stops to refuel, and I buy a plastic cowboy hat. I haven’t forgotten about almost being expelled, and I feel the need to do something. With that hat, I attain a persona. Phil calls me Tex, and it sticks.

On the bus, there’s half a restroom. Everyone agrees to not fully utilize it. There’s also no shower. Just as I’m starting to get comfortable, Phil, who sleeps on the bunk across from me, complains about a foul odor. What stinks? I should be asking, who stinks?

Unfortunately… it’s me.

Phil May, one of the most iconic figures in the history of rock n’ roll, thinks I smell. Apologies. The band got a motel room in L.A. to shower in, but no one invited Tex. At about midnight, we roll up to a Motel 6 just outside Denver. It’s cheap, has a laundry room and everyone gets a shower.

The next day, we play the Gothic, a sparkling new club, but Denver isn’t fertile ground for a belated Pretty Things invasion. A few hours before showtime, seventeen tickets have been sold.

St. John doesn’t flinch.

He promptly conducts an impromptu publicity walking tour of the residential area. At a local lingerie shop, a few female employees accept St. John’ comps.

Eighty or so people wind up showing, including the lingerie women, who show their appreciation by lifting their tops, supposedly. I didn’t see them do it. Actually, I never even see the women. My merch stand is at the entrance, blocked from the stage.

In Minneapolis, the T-shirts finally arrive, but St. John is horrified. They’re dark, and the image of keyboardist Jon Povey lighting up a mega joint is barely visible.

Consequently, St. John has a temper tantrum in downtown Minneapolis, repeatedly kicking the boxes of T-shirts. Of course, there’s not enough time to reorder, and there’ll be no do-over. This is the do-over!

St. John is inconsolable. St. John pushed and prodded the Pretties for 19 years to complete their latest album, Rage Before Beauty, and he’s fought tirelessly to get the Pretties unpaid royalties, as well as control of their extensive catalogue.

What does St. John do for the Pretties? Everything. He loses his mind putting the band together, so they can produce music and make the world more harmonious… and then he moves heaven and earth to make sure that they don’t kill each other.

As for the T-shirt, it’s not just a T-shirt. It’s a keepsake from this belated invasion. Perhaps even worse than the T-shirts, Jeff Beck is playing across town, the same night the Pretties are playing the down-and-dirty 400 Bar. The competition guarantees a weak Pretties turnout.

When we arrive at The Magic Bag’s parking lot in Detroit, the Pretties are in turmoil. The modest crowds already have everyone on edge, and now, the flu is festering. Phil is drinking honey to soothe his sore throat. Skip misses his family and lucrative prosthetic limb business, not specifying which he yearns for more.

Amidst all this, I should stay quiet, but I don’t. I fall back into my Village People Indian interviewer mode, delicately asking St. John, usually the eternal optimist, the engine of this rock caravan, what hopes he has for the upcoming show.

“I have no hopes,” he solemnly replies.

When The Magic Bag’s doors open, all flu symptoms disappear. The fans have turned out in force—and not just the usual brigade of, ah, mature men, but lots of kids or perpetual kids, most of whom weren’t alive when the Pretty Things started.

It turns out a radio station who interviewed the band earlier in the day has been playing the Pretties all week.

The Pretties do not disappoint, destroying. As usual, though, I don’t witness it because my stand is in the lobby. During the post-concert autograph session, everyone’s jubilant. Skip, the band member who talks to me least and whom St. John describes as a “violent middle-aged man,” charges out to the lobby and aggressively embraces me.

Abruptly, our moment is interrupted.

A young woman lifts her shirt so the band can sign one of her breasts. Her boyfriend stands next to her, urging her and the band on. “Make that s**t last forever!” he yells. That breast entered The Magic Bag a palish color. It left covered in black marker.

After the crowd disperses, I check out The Magic Bag’s now empty main room, where a euphoric St. John is milking the moment. “This band has no business making an album this good!” St. John gushes, holding up a Pretties CD.

I don’t dare interrupt St. John being St. John.

Back on the bus, some female fans hang out with the guys for some playful sing-along. I retreat to my bunk. I don’t want sleep, but it’s the band’s moment. As their roadie, I’m with the band, but I’m not in the band.

Because I’m with the band, people sometimes treat me with importance and confide in me. “Tell Phil I’ve got some good weed,” one aging hipster informed me in San Francisco. I sleep and eat with the band, at least on the bus. I carry the instruments. I protect and sell the band’s merchandise. Outside the bus and the venue, I’m usually solo.

Unfortunately, Detroit’s magic doesn’t travel with us to Chicago and Cleveland, and once again, St. John is in Jedi mind trick mode, preaching to anyone conscious that this tour is the foundation for future tours.

When the band tours the States again, St. John declares it will be “the second coming of Jesus Christ!” At this moment, another tour seems unlikely, but anything is possible.

Rage is earning some nice reviews, and the Pretties recently completed a very promising single, “All Light Up,” which Phil describes as a cross between “Sgt. Pepper” and “Another Brick in the Wall.”

Indeed, this could be the ticket for Pretties’ worldwide appeal, but what does Macarena man know?

St. John is the only one mulling another tour. Everyone else is subdued—except Skip, who inexplicably goes into a garbled rage before disappearing to the rear of the bus, where he snuggles under a blanket with bassist Wally Waller and watches Adam Sandler movies.

When we awake the next morning, there’s another disaster on the horizon.

Hurricane Floyd.

As we roll east into New Jersey, it’s pouring. Our driver is terrified that the bus will crash, and the band is understandably very concerned. Back in the day, the Pretties were the hurricane. Now they’re older, wiser, very aware of their mortality.

St. John doesn’t fit into this category.

He’s a lifer, and he demands that we roll onward. “The English know rain!” St. John bellows. “This is nothing!” Of course, St. John’s being foolish. Perhaps this entire tour was foolish. He’s trying to break a band in America 36 years after it formed. “It’s us against the world!” he tells me.

St. John’s sentiment is mutual.

Over these past few weeks, I overhear St. John telling band members that I’m the son he never had. Maybe, once upon a time, St. John wanted to have a kid, but the rock ‘n’ roll dragon kept getting in the way.

St. John mentions flying me in for a European tour. There’s no position, but he’s going to create one.

From everything I’ve observed, St. John is wonderful parental material. When you fall—foul odor and all—he picks you up and champions you with every ounce of his being. Less than three weeks ago, I was indifferent. Now, St. John’s struggle is mine.

We arrive at our safe haven, just outside New York City, The Palace, a mess covered in scaffolding. We’re getting close to the finish line.

For Skip, it can’t get there soon enough, and he opts to leave the tour but only after getting in an altercation with a security guard. Skip’s absence is not a problem. St. John will sit in for him. If anyone deserves to take a bow, it’s him.

With the tour winding down, we start to savor every moment. As we ride over the Delaware, the band sings together. In Washington, D.C., Phil dedicates a song to me. Affectionately, St. John mocks my plastic cowboy hat.

At one point, we’re sitting face to face on the bus, and he questions me about my musical tastes, catching me off guard. Until this moment, I’ve been the fly on the bus. No one has asked for my opinion—until now.

With the lights on, I stammer something, which I immediately forget. However, I do know that I didn’t mention the Village People or the Macarena.

Before the tour’s final show in Philadelphia, I deliver Phil tea for his throat. Summer is definitely over. Following the Philly show, St. John abruptly summons me out of the bus. St. John has gotten me a ride home with two of the band’s superfans.

But I’m not ready to leave the circus.

I’d been hoping to celebrate with the guys on their final night. Before I leave, each member embraces me. I’m numb, incredulous that it’s over.

During this long overdue American tour, the Pretties added a few lines to rock history, and I’ve witnessed and chronicled it all: The good, the bad, and the ugly. And just to be clear: Even the bad was amazing, and the ugly was beautiful.

At home, I place my plastic cowboy hat on my closet shelf.

Tex is retired.

Jon Hart is the author of the novel, .

All views expressed are the author’s own.

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