The Uber drop off was at the bottom of the hill. I wasn’t out of shape, per se, but I wasn’t in shape either. A few blocks walked with Deacon and back to the hotel made for sore quads and calves. I bought two bottles of water from a vendor and chugged one of them. The other went in my back shorts pocket. I made the trek up the hill. 

I’d been to Red Rocks in ‘97 to watch Brett Carradine Throw Rocks. I was a full-blown teenager, acned and anxious, opting to roam the stone theater rather than spend the show next to the stage. The distance between Dad and I had formed the year prior, when he had chosen a vacation to Portland with his girlfriend Tabitha over my state quiz bowl match. From there fissures do what fissures do, grow into fractures, and into broken hearts. 

Voiced, of course, with no voice at all, but the silent treatment. I knew he was heart-broken from Meredith still, and was desperate for affection. But Tabitha was a dump of a human. A taker who said stuff like, “I don’t understand why people think they should get tips. They’re lucky we’re coming in to eat so they have a job in the first place.” God, I hated her. As I write this, and she’s going to hear about it one way or another, I don’t take that statement back. I don’t hate her now, because I have no reason to hate her. She’s not in my life and not steering my father down a dark path. She couldn’t now even if she tried. It doesn’t mean I have to enjoy the memory of her wasting two years of his life. 

My therapist talks about bitterness like it’s a stomach bug lying dormant for days, months, years, and in some cases, decades. Like any stomach bug, sometimes the only way to cure it is to get it out, to purge it. Consider this my word vomit. Bye, Tabitha memory. 

She was backstage then in ‘97, and loud, the kind of shriek you start to cover your ears when you see her mouth open, which contributed to my decision to roam. But, I’d also grown accustomed to watching his shows from the stage. Red Rocks was new and exciting. The coolest venue I’d ever seen. Rows of slab seats stretching between slanting pinkish red rocks. A view from the top of seats, stone, and stage all perfectly aligned. A chunk of red stone the size of a football field backdropped the stage. Behind that, green hills and then the horizon, always morphing into dark and light colors found in a witch’s brew. Red Rocks, like Apollo used a guitar to cleave a divot through the Rockies. 

I won’t bother attempting to describe the acoustics. That’s on Larry. He didn’t play music much in the late ‘90s, but Dad convinced him to play Brett Carradine Throws Rocks. The venue did most of the convincing. 

“You hear that?” Larry had said to anxious teen Fender. He thwacked his stick on the snare, thwap thwap thwap. The sound vibrated through the stone, and the stone gave it right back, like it’d absorbed it while also letting the music float up, up, and away. “Kind of makes you believe in magic, ya know?” 

I’d heard a hundred Spin Cycle and Brett Carradine shows by that point. They were a good band who were great live. Red Rocks made me stop despising my father for a couple of hours. 

Until. 

If you’re reading this, you’re either a Brett Carradine and/or Spin Cycle superfan who pre-ordered it because you can’t get enough behind the scenes goodness. Or you recently got into their music and wanted to learn more about the group who titled songs “Spunk Her With Your Jizz” and “All Politicians Lie” and “Smut For Fun”. Or, I suppose, and I’m getting a bit full of myself and definitely proving this is fictional despite my attempts at honesty, you’re killing time in the airport before your flight boards, perusing the bookstore recommended reads shelves, and wait a minute, what’s this book, Spin Cycle: A Brett Carradine Story, by Fender Carradine, or maybe it’s My Dad Told Me Not to Write This But I Did Anyway, or maybe, and I promise this is the last one so we can get back to Red Rocks, Brett Carradine: A Tale About Memory and the Stories We Preserve For Love. 

And if you’re reading this a hundred pages into a book titled Fuck Off, Dad, well, then either his scavenger hunt didn’t end the way he imagined, or I’m really shitty at being ironic. Alanis Morrisette, I am not. 

The Brett Carradine Throws Rocks album went gold because it’s him playing the hits, with Larry, along with the first live performance of Baby, It’s Colder Outside, from his upcoming Christmas album, It’s Snowing in Memphis (When It Snows We Sing). And the part were I told him to fuck off in between songs. 

By ‘97, his on stage persona had evolved from chaotic front man dumping urine on fans to singer-songwriter telling stories in between songs. From Ozzy to James Taylor. There’s  a book title. 

His hair had begun to gray, the brown fading fast, but still long and hanging over his ears. Tabitha had him shaving his beard those days. That morning I had come into his hotel room to grab a book I’d left, and there he was, grumbling to himself in the mirror, razor in hand, cream on his cheeks and neck. I saw his eyes. Behind the frustration and anger and disappointment, was sadness. His shoulders sagged. He knew better than to settle with Tabitha, and he knew he knew it, which made it worse. Acting on something despite your better judgment is the wicked game of life spinning its web on you. 

I still recall the razor in his hand. A regular three bladed shaving razor. Not a straight razor that barbers use. But I thought of the straight razor when I saw his eyes, and wondered what pushed people to kill themselves. What did it take? What level of sadness combined with a lack of coping skills? I grabbed my book and left knowing my father would never do that. He cared too much about me and even Mom, despite their differences, and the band, and music, and above all, Meredith, to remove himself from the equation. Because then, the equation didn’t work, did it? He had no ego, to my knowledge, and it wasn’t about staying around so others could benefit. It was about not causing others to suffer. And it was about the music, about writing, about creating, even when he woke up with his soul tied in knots wondering what the point of any of it was. 

That memory, that image, that razor in hand, his dedication to his life loves, has saved my life three times.

Like him on stage, mumbling through an explanation of a song, I tend to get sidetracked. That evening in ‘97, I watched the first half of his set from the top of the rocks, in the back row, watching the crowd sway as they sung his songs as one. Fun fact I read about recently: in a 2015 interview, Garth Brooks credited some of his on-stage success to watching Spin Cycle shows. “Carradine had his crowds wrapped around his finger. Like Freddie at Live Aid. I’d been honing my craft, and I was good, but watching him helped make me great. I don’t win Entertainer of the Year seven times without Brett Carradine.” 

The crowd entertained the hell out of themselves that night, their voices vibrating through the stone and up to the damn Milky Way. All Dad did was write songs you could sing along to and cut the music at the right moment. The type of thing he made look easy was impossible for so many others. 

After “Ft. Lauderdale Blues”, I headed backstage to grab a snack. I’ll admit, also, that I’d gotten a bit too big for my britches, a bit high on Brett Carradine’s coattails. Going backstage was the cool thing to do, even though the hot dogs back there were the same ones served at the concessions stand. Halfway through my second hotdog, I heard the first notes to “Hail to Rock”, his rock and roll riff on the Michigan fight song that he always preceded with the actual fight song, a move he started at a show in Columbus in ‘92 and never looked back. 

I was with them for the ‘92 tour. He had me join to sing “Hail to the Victors” with the audience. Little Fender with his squeaky voice and baby bird limbs. The crowds ate it up. I didn’t know any better. Nerves never had a chance to take hold because I’d been on stages with him before memories stuck. My first memory on stage was running a spare drumstick out to Larry when he cracked three during one set. Deacon handed me one and said, “Have at it, Buck.” 

God, I don’t want to lose those memories. Sitting here thinking about it, writing, my face is heating up. 

So that night at Red Rocks, I finished my hot dog and headed to the side of the stage. What the hell. I was more anxious than ever. My long hair was camouflage for my insecurities. It didn’t have to make sense, it just had to work to protect me. The crowd was in a frenzy. I hadn’t sung “Hail to the Victors” in five years. My voice had cracked and deepened. It wasn’t a terrible voice. I’d find myself singing in the shower and stop and say out loud, “Shit, Fender, you can actually sing.” I could, but the carefree child Fender had grown into scared shitless on the side of the stage Fender. 

“What do you say we bring my boy out here, huh?” He smiled and pumped the crowd up. “Huh?” 

It killed me then, as it does now writing about it for the first time in two decades. He wasn’t happy deep down, but he was in that moment, a smile from knowing his son would join him on stage. That’s all he’s ever wanted, to be with us, his people, doing what he loves most. 

I was delayed, fingers twitching at my sides, face paling whiter and whiter as I scanned the crowd. It was one thing to be in the crowd watching the show. It was another thing to be their center of attention. 

In previous shows, I’d have already sprinted out to join him. He sensed the delay and said, “Ladies and Gentleman, my son, Fender Carradine!” 

The crowd gave me a respectable applause. I took one step and that’s as far as I got. I hadn’t seen Tabitha next to me because demons tend to be invisible. She noticed me hesitating. Rather than encourage me, she ran onto the stage, her hair poofed so high with product that she looked like she was wearing a helmet. She wore shredded jeans and a belly AC/DC shirt, which made her look like a washed up groupie. 

Dad was just as surprised as the crowd. “Well, how about that – please welcome Tabitha to the stage.” 

They cheered her on because they would’ve cheered anyone Dad ushered out to the stage. There would be no cheering on Fender Carradine that night. I hummed the notes to “Hail to the Victors” to see if my voice was ready. It wasn’t, but I knew it’d smooth out once I started. 

Dad gestured with two fingers, urgently, a “get the fuck out here, kid” move. A very sweaty Larry waved me over. Deacon wasn’t at the show, which in itself might’ve explained the Tabitha fiasco. No one needs a Deacon until you realize he’s gone and everyone needs a Deacon. 

Tabitha bounced around the stage, arms raised, fingers making a rock and roll sign that looked faker than her tits. She took the mic from Dad and screamed, “Let’s Go Green!” which wasn’t her being clever by supporting Michigan State. She didn’t watch sports. Didn’t know the difference between the two. Not that it was a requirement, but the shock on Dad’s face, combined with the heat in my heart, was all I needed. I could’ve saved him then. And not broken his already broken heart, but enough was enough. 

“Fuck off, Dad.” 

I yelled it loud enough so he heard it, but didn’t realize how much anger had built inside me. How much resentment and frustration with his life. I ran away, backstage, and downhill to the row of waiting cabs. I heard him say, “Let’s hope the Boys in Blue bring a better attitude to Columbus this year, eh? Hail to Rock, Larry! One, two, one two three four!” 

So yeah. The Fender Clip. It’s one reason why “Hail to Rock” has over 100 million streams on Spotify. The song starts with my crystal clear, and yes, very cracked pubescent voice, screaming at my father, “Fuck off, Dad.” 

In the present, reeling from the memory smacking me in the face, I dropped onto about the same seat in the back row. A family of four ate from a bucket of chicken. Fresh heat flushed my face, pumping blood through my swollen eye socket. The Rossian blue stroked sky faded in and out. The amphitheater zoomed in, rushing towards me, and then dropped back. A lump hit my gut and then my throat and I couldn’t hold it in. I avoided the wooden seat stamped into the stone, puking a line of Red Rocks orange onto the ground. 

“Fuck me,” I said, and then remembered. I looked up to the family with their chicken. A girl with white pigtails chewed on a drumstick. Her brother sucked on a potato wedge. The father was preoccupied with cheering a game on his phone. The mother had a gallon jug of water because she probably lived in Colorado and was far more prepared for hydration than me. Who was to say how often memories hit her and caused vomit-inducing panic attacks. 

The mother dumped water on the vomit until it was gone. The memory receded, shrunk, and I don’t know how to say it, but it was still there, but it didn’t hurt so much. The acid had been mellowed. 

“Here,” she said, and poured water into a plastic cup handed to her by the girl in pigtails. “Elevation will get you.” 

I drank it, she refilled it, I drank it again, and she refilled a third time, setting the jug next to me. “Thank you. Sorry about that. I just, memories–” 

I stopped. She didn’t want to hear my story. Not in that moment at least, with the movie starting soon. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” She packed her crew up to move a few rows down from the puke seats. 

I squinted as I breathed thin wisps through my lips to slow my pounding heart. The screen on the stage played trailers from the movies showing during the film series that summer. Dirty Dancing helped me calm down. It took Top Gun and The Sandlot for the sweat to dry and cool. After Jaws and Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure I felt stable enough to walk to a concessions stand to grab a burger and fries. I found a seat closer to the screen, in between two couples with blankets laid out. 

One guy quipped, “You know, these rocks are over 250 million years old. That’s why they call it classic rock.” The woman with him didn’t even roll her eyes. She looked annoyed. 

“Why do you have to make jokes like that? They’re not funny. And you know it, but you say them because you know they’re not funny, or clever. You’re better than that. What did I tell you?” 

The sadness on the guy’s face said it all. 

Born down in a dead man’s town

The first kick i took was when I hit the ground

You end up like a dog that’s been beat too much

‘Til you spend half your life just covering up

I caught myself humming. So did the woman, with her wicked brown eyes. I ate my burger and wondered if a relationship was really what I wanted. Maybe being alone for a year or forever was better. The what-ifs started as the movie began: What if the too-cute for me woman showed up at Red Rocks to watch Back to the Future? Sidled up to me with a burger and fries and jug of water. She looked like the type of person who prepared for the elevation, and who also enjoyed a burger and fries and Back to the Future. What if we bonded over whispered riffs on the movie, leaning in to joke about Crispin Glover’s notoriety on set, and to imagine the Chuck Berry set with Eric Stolz instead of Michael J. Fox? When our fingers touched, would static shock us back to the present? Or would we kiss like 8th graders in a dark movie theater, thrilled by the electricity of the moment? 

The fear came when Marty rode his skateboard to school, powered by Huey Lewis and the power of love. What if the too-cute woman wasn’t real? What if my internal dialogue and my conversations with James, while helpful, had merged to create the ability to invent a fully imaginary woman to pine over? One who ordered Taco Bell like me, and who showed up to baseball games like me, and who might be a projection of some internal part of me? 

“Are you okay?” 

I looked up. The woman with wicked eyes had eyes that were no longer wicked. The front of my shirt was soaked through with tears. My nose ran. I’d been crying, but by the looks of everyone in my general vicinity, all turned away from the screen to check out the weirdo, I’d been sobbing. My throat stung. 

“I don’t know,” I said, and regretted it. That would bring attention. “Yeah, yeah. Had a death in the family. Thought I was okay, but I guess not. Thank you.” I took napkins from her and wiped my eyes and blew my nose. Heads turned back to the screen, the weirdo maybe wasn’t entirely a weirdo. Only, I’d lied, sort of, which made me feel guilty. Laramie always said not to use illness or death of a loved one as an excuse because you were putting that bad juju out into the world. What had I just done? 

I had to move before that what-if scrambled my brain again. The stone steps felt like mountains. I stopped twice to drink from the water jug. I requested an Uber at the top of the steps and watched the movie. 

Marty checked the photograph, the fading memory of his family, and decided to keep going. It was the only way he could save them. He knew he had to get home, and just needed help from a crackpot scientist. 

What happens when there is no finish line?

James caught that question and laughed at me. He waited for me to remember what my therapist said, about how it’s never about finish lines. It’s always about the journey. I felt like I was appeasing myself, not so much lying as saying just enough to keep me moving forward. 

I left, knowing how Marty got back home, and wondering when I’d do the same. 

Next up: Dad’s worst enemy and a guy I used to play Nintendo with: Paul Newman.