After going on about forty auditions, and playing in an abbreviated west coast version of SGT. FRIDAY, Paul needed a kidney transplant.

Not because of the move to the Pacific Coast, of course. This condition had been looming since he was 13 or so. After the operation, he took his disability money and financed a new demo, which had not only TRAXX’s Jim Uselman on it, but Gonzo as well. He returned to L.A. and we started hunting for bandmates.

Vocalist Marc Anthoni appeared first, answering an ad of ours. "Musicians Wanted" ads were risky things to put in the Music Connection, because you never knew who or what was going to call. I spent an hour one evening trying to avoid a drunken manager who was telling me how his girlfriend would be perfect for our band.

I’d like to have that hour back on my death bed, please.

Marc Anthoni came by, liked us, we liked him and he suggested John Kunkel for the drum spot. They had played together in the defunct glam outfit HARLOT. Pete had sat in for us while were auditioning guys (he was in another band at the time), so it clear to us we needed someone permanent.

And Kunkel it was. We boiled a set down, worked on our image and tried to fit in the mid-80’s club scene. We were kind of an anomaly. We were not glam, we were not metal, and we were not "street". So what were we? Needing direction and playing to empty houses, that’s what. We called ourselves FRYDAY after being convinced that SGT. FRIDAY was not in the stars. Evidently our singer’s psychic told him that, and urged the change.

Welcome to L.A. We shrugged, said "whatever", and moved on to rehearsing and setting up live gigs.

At the time the "Pay to Play" concept was in high gear in the city (did I just hear somebody groan in recognition?). Under this ideal, the promoter took almost none of the risk for putting on the show. The bands paid for the ads and the tickets, which were coyly termed "pre-sale". And at twelve bucks a pop, your band had to guarantee at least 100 sales. So, a struggling new band like FRYDAY would have to fork over X% for magazine ad costs and 1200 bucks for the gate. This money was to be given to the promoter, in cash, weeks before the show date.

It was a brilliant scam. Imagine this going on in five different clubs around the city, five nights a week, and five bands on a bill. It adds up, doesn’t it?

What FRYDAY spent in pre-sale could have financed our own album for local release. Some bands did great with it and sold all of the tickets and more, with no problem. That wasn’t us. It started to make us even poorer very fast.

A gig in Anaheim threw the last bit of dirt on that fiscal coffin lid. We went down to open for Leatherwolf and Warrant and we drew a crowd of nyet (if you do not include our girlfriends and crew, then the count was eight). It was time for other options.

Grasping career survival, I became an L.A. "Band Remora". I must have played in and around fifteen bands in a two year period, feeding off of everything from ex-label artists to ex-porn stars as personnel. Some great, some just appallingly awful, some naked. (Well, not naked, but you thought that after I mentioned the porn star, didn’t you?)

It was starting to get distracting when a singer I met at a video store recommended I meet his drummer. They were just leaving their band and maybe we three could get something going.

Sure, I said to him. (Man this sounds familiar, I said to myself.) Where and when?

Meet me at Anthony’s apartment, tomorrow night. He lives in North Hollywood.

OK, see you there.