ALDO BOLD AS LOVE

ALDO BOLD AS LOVE

J. Kordosh

"Is that a Piece of shit, or what?” asked Aldo Nova, perched on a grimy white counter between me and my tape.

"Is that a piece of shit?! Je-sus!” I agreed. I was on the grimy counter, too, for what it's worth. By the way, the tape was mine, but the tape recorder was Aldo Nova’s brand-new machine. I’ve got a crummy Panasonic, he’s got a brand-new Walkman-type. This disparity is due to trickledown, Biz-wise.

“Hello,” said Aldo in his boyish speaking voice. “My bio’s a piece of shit.” (We were checking our sound level, you see.)

“It should be on tape,” I said. “Really. The bio sucks.”

“The bio sucks,” said Aldo Nova. “It says that Aldo Nova’s a collection of ten love songs.”

“Yeah! I was gonna use that!” (Actually, only eight of the ten could be interpreted as boy/girl tragedies, but who’s counting?)

“The gladiator of asshollles...F’ Aldo yelled with glee.

“I have to know—what’s it like, exactly, being a ‘Latter-day gladiator?’ ” That’s the phrase from Aid’s official CBS/Epic biography. Bios are the stuff that go out to the last trick of the trickle-down, which means the press. As you’ve already deduced, the press is substantially astonished by biographies.

“Aw, shit. I don’t know! But if 1 catch her, she’s dead. I’m sure it’s a girl.”

Anyway, meet Aldo Nova, singer, musician, blond A1 Pacino, and writer of love songs.

☆ ☆ ☆ ’

I have this dreadful compulsion/aversion towards meeting the Aldo Novas of this world. I can’t explain it: generally, the Aldo Novas I meet are pretty nice Aldo Novas. The aversion part has a lot to do with having to sit down and listen to a record whether I want to or not. Whether I like or whether it’s Rush. Aldo Nova is a case in point. I sat down and listened to an LP called Aldo Nova, written and sung by Aldo Nova, produced and arranged by Aldo Nova, all guitars, bass guitar, and keyboards by Aldo Nova. I mean, before I even put the thing on I was expecting Aldo Nova to light me a smoke and buy me a drink.

So I sat there with my headphones on, dutifully taking notes, dutifully doodling, waiting for my drink. I figured it wasn’t a bad disc: according to my notes, I actually enjoyed “Fantasy” (not a lovetoon, Aldo told me it’s about standing on 42nd Street) and “Foolin’ Yourself’ (a fuck-off lovetoon). Otherwise, not bad either...good production (thank you, Aldo Nova) and playing (bless you, Aldo Nova). A lot of the lyrics started to make me...well nauseous from their shameless earnestness, but that’s my main complaint and you might not feel the same way at all. At least it explains why / had to listed to “Freeze Frame” and “Centerfold” 36 times each the same afternoon.

Of course, little did I suspect that Aldo was hot (the Biz says that), a certain future superstar (I say that), and a pretty decent guy. That all came after I met him at the (incredibly dingy, scary, weirdsville, kids puking in the john) Fox Theater in Detroit, where he was opening for Hagar The Horrible. Oh yeah, I got my drinks, too.

☆ ☆ ☆

“I’m not even close to Hendrix,” said Aldo Nova, perched on a grimy white counter. “First of all, this guy—he had something up there. He knew what was going on; he wasn’t from here.”

“I agree,” I agreed absently.

“What I’m trying to get is an image,” he continued in his lissenrealfast patter.

“Why do you want to get an image? You have an image.” What is the guy, a vampire?

“I have an image. I am Aldo Nova,” Aldo Nova said. And call me Ishmael while we’re at it. “You can tell that I’m convinced in what I do,” Aldo Nova continued, oblivious to the fact that there was absolutely no point in trying to convince me. If an Aldo Nova tells me he thinks about his career a whole lot, then I figure he thinks about his career a whole lot. And—for 60 bucks an hour—I’ll tell anybody what I think he really meant.

On the other hand, let us not doubt that Aldo Nova is very close to being The Theme To Lauerne & Shirley come to life. What else can you conclude about a guy who played in a Beatlemania-type act as “George Harrison” (a/k/a, the fifth best part) for years? And stayed in the business??

“Three years,” Aldo recalled. “Three years, putting a wig on, four nights a week.’

“Did you get to meet Patti Boyd? Or a Patti Boyd imitator?”

“Ha ha ha ha ha,” said Aldo Nova.

“And then an Eric Clapton imitator came along—” I continued, a bit carried away.

“And stole my girlfriend,” said Aldo. “No, I’m a big Beatles fan. But, do you know something? Only after I quit that band did I really get into them. Because of the simple fact that I hated that band so much...putting that wig on and being stifled for three years...” We discovered that Aid was making some decent bucks back then, which certainly unravels the terrible mystery.

“For a prostitute, that’s all right,” I noted, referring to his $l,200-a-week penance.

“I’m not a prostitute. I’m not that,” he said, breaking up. “This stuff is going on tape.”

“Yeah. It’s going in the story, too—even worse for you. This ends your career.”

“For CREEM Magazine, I don’t doubt it. Because—these guys write such off-thewall shit.”

“What do you mean, ‘these guys,’ Aldo? Name names.”

He didn’t though—and, believe me, I’d have been glad to report anyone misusing their CREEM Power-Lantern. I want the rest of you people to keep your typewriters on that wall from now on, OK?...we should all be writing from a right angle.

Oh, yeah, there’s a reason I started this section out with that stuff about Jimi Hendrix.

☆ ☆ ☆

Aldo’s spent a lot of time in the studio, but not a whole lot of time onstage being Aldo Nova, Nextbig. He put together a band comprised of San Franciscans who were carefully screened by either Aldo or Sandy Pearlman (the nouveau Casey Stengel) and looked to me like they’d make a real good Journey. Aldo admitted that he was having some problems carrying the show, of feeling comfortable, or whatever the hell an entertainer’s gotta do up there. (I believed him. If I hear that fucking “We’re gonna rock Dee-troit!” line one more time, I’m gonna buy a seismograph. I’m a very suggestable person.) I’m pretty sure he’ll lick the problem, or my name isn’t Ishmael.

I’d like to say I enjoyed the show. I’d even like to say I saw the show. Unfortunately, due to a terrible mix-up (a/k/a, business as usual), my name wasn’t on the let-em-through list and nobody at the—ahem—venue felt much like letting a guy and his tape recorder waltz in on their looks. (It’s a handsome Panasonic.) I actually would’ve paid (shameless, eh?), but I’m pretty deep into the paperboy already and didn’t have my usual roll...that’s the red one with a hundred pennies.

By the time I was rescued by the local CBS rep and hustled to the side of the stage, Aldo was about four songs away from turning back into himself. Shit, I was still trying to figure out which one was Aldo Nova.

It turned out that Aldo was the one wearing the leopard-skin pill-box outfit, which intimidated me to some degree. I don’t like talking to people who consciously dress worse than aging whores; sue me. Backstage, though, A1 dressed down (thank you, Lord) and came to the defense of Aldo Nova (a/k/a, Aldo Nova).

“There’s only one real love song—‘Can’t Stop Lovin’ You.’ The other one (sic) is ‘Ball And Chain.’ Shit! It’s a song that talks about man and woman relationships, but it’s not a love song. I’m definitely not in love.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Whew!...like a bastard! Ha, ha— yeah!!”

“Lots of times?”

“Lots of times. Broken-hearted many a time. And finally learned my lesson.

TURN TO PAGE 60

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 25

“What’s the lesson?”

“Meaning that—first of all, I’m not made for, uh—let’s just put it this way. I’m not in a situation now where I can afford to have a relationship. Two, I’m not even interested in it.”

‘ “Aldo Goes Asexual.’ ”

“Ha, ha—no—I’m definitely not that. 1 just don’t feel the need to—I mean, I’m really happy. I’ve never felt better; y’know?”

Do / know? Call me Fishmeal. I figured I’d go for the classic DiMartino/Steve Perry stumper and explode into space.

“What would you say to the comment that—I’m not saying this, but if someone said it—”

“You never look me in the eye,” said Aldo, laughing. Oh, I blew it.

“Not when I say this. That your lyrics are a little too self-conscious, a little too obvious.”

“First of all, there’s no reason for me to be subtle about it. I’m a short story writer, and I have two verses and a chorus to write a story...now, if that’s obvious to you, good! It’s meant to be obvious.

“I’ve learned to—after awhile—I mean, I’ve done a lot of dope and I’ve done stuff like that, to the point of—”

“It’s rolling,” I said, meaning the tape.

“Aw, fuck it. Y’know, I don’t give a shit. I’m honest.” He probably would’ve told me more, but a girl who was certainly not on quaaludes knocked over a bottle of wine at that exact instant, and the gentlemanly Nova got her a refill.

“I’m doing real well,” Aldo Nova said when he returned.

“I know.”

“The criterion is that you’re here. If I wasn’t doing well, you wouldn’t be here.” Well, I gotta be somewhere. The girl who most definitely wasn’t on quaaludes asked Aldo the next one, and I wish I would’ve thought of it.

“Can I ask you one thing?” she said.

“Sure, go ahead.”

“Do you find that you get things your own way, or not?”

“Obviously. I control everything. Everything.”

“This would be a good time to pull out a gun,” I very wryly noted.

“They (CBS) put out ‘Fantasy’ because I want to put out ‘Fantasy,’ because I know what I’m doing. I haven’t lost touch with the street. I’ve been on the street, I live in the street; I mean, I like the street.”

“What do you like?...the street? Is that what you’re trying to say?” I asked with incomparable ingenuity.

Go ahead and guess the answer; I’ve got it here in my bag of tricks somewhere. Say farewell (but don’t say goodbye) to Aldo Nova for now. My three thoughts/observations are: one, Aldo Nova’s gonna be a big star for reasons that are less than 60dollars-an-hour obvious to me. Two, I really do wish I’d have had the brains to ask that question. Three, I think I’ll write something about love any article now.