I just finished reading the galley proofs of this new book and I'm this close to making an offer on the film rights, because I think they're would be a great movie in there, but I'm broke again, so that ain't happening. Instead, I'll share here an exclusive excerpt from the book, "Inside Is The Outhouse," where Allen Carter reveals the secrets, tragedies and heartbreak encountered by America's Greatest Garage Band, The Stools. With their post-concert escape acts now legendary, the band shares the stories behind the wild years of womanizing and substance abuse which lead to some of the most treasured songs in rock history.
EXCERPTS FROM "INSIDE IS THE OUTHOUSE"
THE STORY OF THE STOOLS
By
Allen Carter
Bo Stol, bassist for America's Greatest Garage Band, The Stools, slides into the backseat of the limo with me and Betsy, the band's media handler. He is tall. His cowboy boots made from the pelts of unborn mules make him even more so. His hair is big and wet, still sweating from the show. We had hung out in the cavernous backstage area of Denver's Cannon Printer Capacious Dome until the record weasels and other lampreys had finished off the free beer; now the band wanted to make a quick run for their hotel.
Elvin, Cosmo and Antonio, the three founding members, took the first limo with Al Floss, their long time manager. Bolt and Creacha took the second, with three unnamed members of the Dutchco Records staff. That left Bo, Betsy and I alone in the last limo. Betsy was very concerned with leaving any of the boys alone with the press. Elvin had reportedly lost a sneaker in Rona Barrett's ass earlier in the week.
The first two of our fleet made it out before the fans that had gathered in the parking lot knew what was going on, but unfortunately, they made out Bo's big hair through the tinted glass of our Lincoln and the chase was on.
Our driver was bravely trying to keep pace with the other two limos, but a fan's Pinto, sporting a 'Stools Rule' bump sticker, had managed to cut us out from the herd. We were flanked on both sides and from behind by more of the faithful hanging out of their car windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of Bo.
Later, when we were safely back at the hotel and telling this story to the rest of the band, Elvin Anderson quipped, "What do you expect? The Dead fans are Deadheads, Jimmy Buffett's fans are Parrotheads, so it would only follow that Stools fans are Shitheads." But all that Bo had to say about them at the moment was, "Well, they're sure determined."
To our right, driving on the shoulder of the road, a jeep full of girls, none older than 17, had begun to lean dangerously close to our limo as both drivers raced at breakneck speed. "We might as well give 'em a thrill," Bo said as he rolled down the window and reached out to them. The driver of the jeep, no longer looking at the road, was half out of her seat as she tried to pass a homemade T-shirt to Bo.
We were now only a few blocks from the front of the hotel, where the rest of the band were wading through the crowd that had been waiting all night by the door. This was in the days before paparazzi, so they boys were more than happy to pose for a picture or two and troll for something 'fishable/swimable' as Cosmo might say.
As luck would have it, not fifty yards from the hotel you must go under an overpass, and the shoulder of the road disappears into a wall of steel re-enforced concrete. The driver of the jeep, still trying to get her T-shirt to Bo, was blissfully unaware of this and plowed headlong into the wall.
A sickening dull crash of twisted metal and human carnage filled the crisp Rocky Mountain night air. Bo sat back in his seat and said, 'that had to hurt." as he rolled the electric window up.
As our car pulled up to the hotel, the stunned crowd peacefully parted, and the quick thinking Al Floss sent two of his entourage running towards the wreck.
"Do they know first aid?" I asked.
"Piss on that," the rotund Floss answered. "I want them to check and see if those skirts had tickets to tomorrow night's show. We could resell them. It's sold out you know."
CRAWLING FROM THE WRECKAGE
In 1980, a virtually forgotten garage band played in the U.S. for the first time in a decade at a small nightclub in Scituate Harbor, MA as a warm-up act. I didn't get to see them. I was a volunteer answering the phones for the overnight show on WBCN in Boston, and I didn't own a car. Twelve years later, The Stools embarked on a massive tour of America's biggest stadiums, shamelessly plugging their twenty second album, 'Alcoholocost,' and I was along for the ride (after conning a couple of foreigners into footing my bill while I wrote this book).
The night of The Stools' first American gig sticks out in my mind because, as I settled into my lonely vigil at the WBCN phones (about the same time they were getting off stage), the request started pouring in. Call after call asking for songs by The Stools. Odd titles like "Love It When You Lie," "Lay Some Pipe" and "Show Us Your Tits." Person after person, saying they were leaving the show and wanted to hear more of The Stools as they drove home.
I went to the DJ that was on the air, and asked if he knew anything about this band. He just threw an empty beer bottle at my head, told me never to come into his air-studio when he was working, and turned around to vomit onto his own crotch. Years later he became a well-respected newscaster for CBS, so he'll remain nameless here.
I returned to the phones and took another forty-three calls for The Stools' songs that night. During an interview on WBCN in 1989, I told Antonio Morretti about how I had first come to know The Stools' music. He laughed and told me that it wasn't the fans that had been calling. It was the band, drunk and depressed because the club's manager had stiffed them on their cut of the door. They stole his wallet and placed over fifty long distance calls to WBCN on his Diner's Club card, along with three calls to Japan, one to Des Moine, Iowa and a pair of boots from L. L. Bean.
But back on that lonely night in 1980, I thought I had been party to the birth of a legend. I took what was left of a check I had received for a donation of my blood, liver bile and bone marrow and headed off to Hot Poop, a hip record store in Harvard Square in search of The Stools' albums. I felt if I could be the one to break this new/old band to WBCN, that would be my ticket off of the 'Listener Line' and into a full time gig with the music department.
The clerk at Hot Poop didn't have any of their albums. In fact, he had never heard of the band, which was just as well, as I had lost all of my money to a Three Card Monte dealer at the T station. This temporary setback only served to steel my resolve to be the man who brought The Stools to WBCN. They had become my Grail.
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