From the July 1985 issue of the U.K. magazine, Music Now!, published June 10, 1985.
BLOOD FROM A STONE: My Sit-Down with The Same Vein
The Same Vein isn’t for everybody. Some would call them too polished, citing their carefully manicured appearances—they appear to roll out of bed with styling products and eyeliner in place. Some would call them too provocative—MTV recently banned the video for their latest single, “Blue Bloods,” amid cries of “Incest!” from censorship lobbyists, for the somewhat explicit sex scene between characters portrayed as siblings. Others would say they’re all gimmick—an ‘80s version of KISS that is more KISS than KISS themselves these days. Still others would kill for a front row seat to one of their midnight concerts.
The facts are indisputable: The Same Vein has a number one album (Edenism), “Blue Bloods,” despite (or because of?) MTV’s ban, is quickly climbing the Billboard Hot 100, leaving legends like Springsteen and upstarts like Wham! trembling in their wake. Their Edenism tour, which concludes in July at New York City’s Madison Square Garden (appropriately), sold out 22 minutes after tickets went on sale.
That’s the whole tour, not just the Garden.
Today I am in Detroit, Michigan, and The Same Vein will take the stage at the state-of-the-art Kintzi Arena in t-minus 3 hours. It is 9 p.m. The show will begin at midnight, and it will run its customary two-and-a-half hours. (The Kintzi Arena is located five miles away from the closest residential neighborhood, allowing for concerts at all hours of the day and night.) The band will be back on the road at 5 a.m. And they will do it all again tomorrow. Is this grueling schedule, in fact, a gimmick? Is there an artistic choice being made to only perform during the wee hours of the night? Same Vein vocalist Coriander Rose indulged this reporter by passing her a note via security guard during her soundcheck. It offers perhaps the most direct (if not the most enlightening) explanation for this choice:
“We’re vampires.”
Uh-huh.
Speaking to Rose and her bandmates, bassist Douglas Geoffreys, guitarist Pete Kensington, and drummer Gaz (ne Gareth) Quinn, after the hubbub surrounding their triumphant performance at Kintzi, I couldn’t get any closer to the real rationale. Geoffreys suggests that Rose was, in fact, telling the truth, that they were all nocturnal bloodsuckers. I had to refute the claim by saying that Rose’s appearance on the red carpet for last year’s Grammys (in full Hollywood sunlight) would tend to disprove all claims of vampirism. Geoffreys just smiles and admits, “That’s true, that.”
I see I’m not going to get anywhere with this line of questioning.
In keeping with my mission of setting their record straight, I ask Rose and Quinn, point blank, if there’s any truth to the rumors that they are an item. The gossip columns love this idea—Rose’s ethereal beauty paired with the unkempt, sweaty scruff of skinsman Quinn. Beauty and the beast, indeed. Rose lowers her eyes and nudges Quinn coyly. He giggles but then stops himself. Kensington and Geoffreys look ready to laugh. Again, a dead-end question.
Alright then…is it true that Douglas Geoffreys used to be a Catholic priest?
Laughter all around. Finally, the band’s forcefield starts to give. Geoffreys is more than willing to deny that claim. “Could you imagine?” he says through laughter. I certainly couldn’t, but apparently someone with access to the greater rumor mill of the entertainment industry could, and did. The rest of the band calls Geoffreys “Father” or “Padre” for the remainder of the interview. It’s hard not to laugh along—Geoffreys as a man of the cloth would be a tragic loss for womankind, and, as his lyrics indicate, he is no stranger to the ways of the flesh—good news for us, ladies!
We move on to more run-of-the-mill questions: How did the band start? Who are your influences? In what direction do you see yourselves moving in 1986? In these answers, they are a bit more talkative. I’ll just give you their answers verbatim, shall I?
ROSE: I was in London trying to get any band to let me sing—if Debbie Harry could do it, you know? It was tough times then, lots of nights spent in tube stations, trying to sleep, trying not to sleep so some nutter wouldn’t nick all my shit. Lots of friends’ couches. Tried not to get involved with any blokes back then. I saw what happened to Nancy. I wanted none of it. (Rose was close friends with the late Nancy Spungen, who was killed in 1978, allegedly by Sid Vicious, another of Rose’s nearest and dearest.) That meant I had less options as far as places to sleep. Spent years like that. Then I met Doug and Gaz when they were on line for a movie—what was it?
QUINN: The werewolf movie.
ROSE: Right, yeah! American Werewolf in London. Fuckin’ ace movie. Anyway, we got to chatting in line, and the rest is history, yeah?
GEOFFREYS: That’s about right.
ME: And that’s it? It just coalesced immediately?
They pause, then (and I’m not kidding) all say together, “Yeah.”
So much for detail. What about influences? Surely everyone has to have something to say about that. Lay ‘em on me. Rose, again, is more than willing to go first:
“For as much as I followed punk when it was raging, you really can’t beat a good T. Rex jam, or Slade. Of course, Queen is the epitome of everything a rock star tries to do, whether or not he even realizes it.”
QUINN: Keith Moon is my hero. Love Led Zeppelin, Sabbath, Van Halen. New Wave stuff is all right, Blondie’s quite good, Elvis Costello. But I’m more inspired by rock bands, bands that fill up arenas with sound. Love KISS, Queen, as Corie was saying, David Bowie.
KENSINGTON: Yeah—Bowie! The Who. Pete Townshend has always been a favorite.
QUINN: That’s right—you borrowed his nose for your fifteen minutes of fame.
KENSINGTON: Fuck off.
Quinn has a point. Pete Kensington is the least traditionally beautiful member of this clan. Where the others are coiffed, he’s a bit disheveled, like the hold of his hairspray is wearing off. He’s rail thin, the stylish clothes hang a bit. And then there’s the nose: the Kensington nose, he calls it. Passed down from his dad, his dad’s dad, and so on. You can only hope that no female of the line ever had to deal with it—or if she did, it was in the rhinoplastic era.
Then I notice Geoffreys’ abstention from the vote. I wait. Finally, he gives me, “Mozart.”
Really.
And where do you see the band going in 1986, Mr. Geoffreys?
“Forward.”
And now they have to leave—it’s 5 a.m., and the buses await. Time for the ride to the next city (Minneapolis, Minnesota), and finally, sleep. For them and for me. So, not to say it was a difficult interview, but…well, the title says it all, doesn’t it?
--CeeCee Logan
* * *
Selene MacLeod woke up hooked to machines. There was a police officer in a chair at the corner of her bed. The glint of sunlight off her badge woke her with a start.
“You’re awake. Good. How are you feeling?” she asked, leaning forward in her chair. Her black ponytail fell over her shoulder.
“Mm...okay, I think.” Selene’s voice barely carried to the end of the bed. The officer scooted her chair closer.
“Just relax. It’s been a rough couple of days.”
“Days?” Selene teared up. She had no idea what anyone knew.
“Sshh, lay back--you’re stuck here for a little while longer.”
“Who are you.” Selene made an effort to soften her expression and her tone. “I mean--who...who are you? Why are you here?”
“I’m Officer Mallory--Denise Mallory.”
“Two first names.”
“Yeah, I guess so. We have some news for you, and we thought it best you hear it from us before you see it in the papers.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. MacLeod--” She pronounced it mick-LEE-ahd. Selene didn’t react. “Your sister, Nancy. Your stepfather, Dean Fahey. They’re both dead.”
Finally, Selene thought, as the tears that had pricked at her eyelids rushed forth. I can finally be sad. She cried prettily, Officer Mallory observed, at first. The more breath she drew, the more intense her sobs became, until she was doubled over in the bed, the IV drip rattling on its hook.
Officer Mallory stood and approached Selene, going so far as to place her hand gently on her back. “Is there someone I can call?”
“Rick. Do you know Rick? Rick Somers?”
“I’ve heard the name. He works--”
“--for the Coroner’s Office. We’ve been best friends since grade school.” Selene sat up and wiped her eyes, her nose. “Tissues?” She looked around.
“Here.” Office Mallory handed her a tissue. “I’ll go see if Rick can come visit you for a bit. I don’t think you should be alone. And I’m sorry, Ms. MacLeod--” Again, mick-LEE-ahd. “We’re all real sorry for your loss, ma’am.”
Officer Mallory left the room quietly, the heels of her boots clacking on the linoleum.
Selene let out a few more sobbing breaths. This sadness wasn’t going away so easily, she knew. It would track her for the rest of her life, and spring out of the darkness when she would least expect it, and at the least opportune moments. In the meantime, there were arrangements to make, funerals to plan.
One funeral to plan. Dean Fahey could rot where he lay. The crows could have him. But Nancy--she deserved the best. As soon as Rick arrived, they’d make their plans.
* * *
“Babe, that show was totally amazing,” Jenny drawled when she finally caught up with Douglas Geoffreys backstage. “You just keep getting better and better.”
Douglas kept walking. His opinion of the band’s performance was not nearly so effusive. Jenny snatched the crook of his arm and he begrudgingly stopped.
“Hey...I mean it, babe. That crowd will be talking about this show till the end of the world.” She sidled closer to him, and his arm naturally snaked around her waist.
“Will they?” His reply bit a little harder than he’d intended, and Jenny had never been good at hiding her feelings.
“Yes,” she punctuated her reply with a sharp jab in his chest. “And if you don’t get yourself out of whatever funk you’ve fallen into, the arenas are gonna empty out so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
Douglas grinned in spite of himself. When Jenny got mad, her South Carolina showed. Jenny took his smile for encouragement, and broadened the drawl even further. “Yes, sir-REE, I shore do hope you git right with yerself and git right with JEE-zus just as snappy as y’all can, yee-HAW.”
Then they were both laughing, hanging onto each other, and the quality of the concert didn’t really matter anymore.
“Hey,” Jenny whispered as they leaned their faces toward each other. “I have something for you.” She reached into the v-neck of her blouse and brought out a little glass vial hanging on a long gold chain around her neck. “Let’s go back to the hotel and forget all about tonight.”
“Sounds perfect.” He stopped her with an affectionate tug on her curly blonde ponytail. She giggled and turned to face him. “I’ll be there soon.”
“You know, you could--”
He wouldn’t let her finish. “I said, I’ll be there soon. Don’t start without me.”
With a wolfish grin, he turned and sauntered down the hallway. Jenny stared after him, relieved and struck with a strange pining.
It should be me, she thought. It will be me. One day.
* * *
Inez and Samuel stood in the hallway, trying valiantly to ignore the sounds of smashing glass and raised voices. Neither looked at the other, not even when glass scattered under the door, speckling their shoes.
“Say it again, I dare you!” No tears in their mistress’ voice, never tears.
“Oh, give me a break--you’ve caused your scene, are you happy?”
Elizabeth drew her arm back, vase clutched in her hand. She had a clear trajectory to Lucas’ head. There was a tautness to the moment that followed. Neither spoke, and neither looked away. Lucas saw and felt whatever impetus that had fueled Elizabeth’s anger suddenly leave her. The arm lifting the vase dropped to her side, and she placed it back on its table, dejected.
Fen looked up at her from his perch on the indigo chaise. No judgment in his dark eyes, just a calm observation, a noting of the change in energy.
When Elizabeth finally looked away, casting her eyes on the ocean roaring below, rampaging in her stead, Lucas found the courage to take her in his arms. “Bet, it’s all right. We’re all here. Inez! Samuel!”
The two guards stepped through the door in the space of a breath. Elizabeth had let the ghost of a smile touch her lips when Lucas used her pet name, but the entrance of her most trusted guards chased it away. Suddenly, there were too many people in the sprawling chamber. Panicked, she let her face go dead, turned away from them all, even little Fen, and walked onto the balcony.
The stone was cold, damp with sea spray. The tide was in, and the surf beat against the foundation of the castle, as it had done for nearly a thousand years. The stone, nearly two meters thick, barely noticed.
“You’re safe, Madam,” Samuel offered as he stood at the threshold. He hadn’t been invited into Madam’s presence, so joining her in the same space she occupied was unthinkable.
Elizabeth turned and the ghost returned to her lips. “Thank you, Samuel.”
An expression of beatific joy settled onto Samuel’s features--she’d spoken his name. He didn’t look to Inez to see if she’d heard, but he was very tempted. “Thank you, Madam. Inez and I will return to our posts. Unless there is something you need from us?”
“No, you may go.”
Lucas stayed back, while Inez and Samuel left the chamber once again. He couldn’t understand it. They’d been enjoying themselves, leafing through the latest issues of Music Now!, Vogue, and Vanity Fair. Then, in an instant, Elizabeth’s mood had soured. He’d had the audacity to wonder aloud if her mood had anything to do with her girlish admiration of Douglas Geoffreys. He’d heard her praise his looks, his physique, his musicality.
“I’m being replaced, at last. Would you rather I leave quietly? A simple phone call to his manager, and he’ll be here. Or would you rather I put up a fight--battle him to the death for your honor?” The offer was made with a sardonic twist of his mouth, a lazily flirtatious gleam in his eyes. Then she picked up the flute of champagne.
“Excuse me?”
“Darling, it was a joke--I know I’m irreplaceable. Come on, read me the article you’re into.”
“No, Lucas. What did you say about Douglas Geoffreys?”
“Bet, please, it was a joke, calm down.”
“Are you suggesting that my loyalties lie elsewhere than right here in this room? The insolence! To intimate that anything in this room is replaceable, temporary, disposable! Does that mean me, as well? If you leave, with whom will you replace me? Every joke is rooted in truth, Lucas. So what truth are you implying?”
“I’m implying nothing!” This was new territory. Elizabeth was always a very steady presence in Lucas’ life. A rock against which the travails of life seemed to dissipate, like so much seafoam. He hadn’t had experience with an angered Elizabeth, but he could only stand so much before his temper started to flare alongside hers. They were well-matched that way.
“You are! You’re saying that Douglas Geoffreys, that arrogant cocksman splashed all over that magazine, that he’d be worthy of me? That I’m worthy of him?”
“Bet, no!”
The champagne flute crashed against the door, far too close to his head. “Say it again, I dare you!”
And now, he saw her lean forward against the stony ridge of the balcony, gazing at the breakers underneath. Knowing she could hear his approach no matter how slowly or carefully he moved, but still unsure of his standing, he snuck to her side. “I’m here.”
“I know.” She took a deep breath, then, “I feel old today, dearest.”
“Bet--”
“No, please. No flattery. Just accept it for how I feel right now, in this moment, on this day. It will fade, and we will be our youthful selves again, and I’ll read you whatever you’d like to hear, and you’ll worship me again in all the oldest ways.”
Lucas didn’t reply, choosing instead to wrap his arms around her waist, pressing against her back, burying his face in her hair, in her sweet lilac scent.
“Tonight, Lucas, when we are together, say my name. My real name.”
“Yes. I will, darling.”
* * *
Article in the June 14, 1985 edition of The Citizen, State and Local Section, page 3.
Fire Victims Laid to Rest
The two Cumberland County residents who perished in a house fire earlier this week were laid to rest today. In a private ceremony, Nancy MacLeod, 29, was cremated and her ashes scattered in an undisclosed location.
Friends of survivor Selene MacLeod, 35, who could not be reached for comment, say that a memorial service for Nancy will be held later this summer.
The local VFW chapter held the memorial service of Dean Fahey, 55, stepfather to Nancy and Selene MacLeod. He was cremated and his ashes interred at Silver Spring Cemetery in Cumberland County.
The Cumberland County Coroner’s Office released the autopsy report two days ago--both Nancy MacLeod and Fahey died of smoke inhalation and carbon monoxide poisoning as a result of being trapped in the burning house. The two victims were sleeping in the house at the time of the fire. Selene MacLeod arrived at the house after the fire had begun, and was treated for smoke inhalation and minor injuries at St. Maria Goretti Hospital--her injuries were caused by an attempt to rescue the victims.
* * *
“Sara?”
“Who?” Pete Kensington ducked into the room, mouth foamy, toothbrush jutting into one cheek.
“What?” Douglas Geoffreys, still groggy, tried to adjust to being awake. The rain hissing on the bonfire dissolved. So did—
“Sara. Who’s she?” Pete asked around his toothbrush. “Should I warn Jenny?”
“Bollocks. She’s no one.” Only then, “Where’s Jenny?”
“Touchy. You planning on joining in today?”
“Fuck, are we late?”
“Nah, we got another hour—” he paused to spit, “—I’d tidy up a bit, though. You look like shite.”
“Cheers.”
“Anytime.”
Douglas pushed Sara from his mind and glared at his reflection, forcing himself to take a long, critical look. The muscles around his eyes rebelled viciously, trying to drive his gaze elsewhere, but years of practice had taught him to push through his body’s unnatural instinct. Then his eyes shifted up and to the right--and there she was.
Sara.
In the mirror. Only in the mirror.
He reluctantly looked at himself, quickly coming to the conclusion that Pete, unfortunately, was right. He needed a shave at the very least. As David kept reminding them, image was king. Part of that image included the clean, chiseled Geoffreys bone structure. With as unsettled as his short time awake had made him, Doug decided his shrewdest move would be to play along.
Stroking the razor along his skin, Doug kept his eyes on Sara, who watched him through the mirror. His muscles eased, spasming lightly only when his eyes drifted over his chin and throat. He wasn’t compelled to turn around and face her. Her familiar scent, equal parts mulled cider and hay, was missing.
She wasn’t real. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep that fact from slicing him open.
David Gallo, their indefatigable road manager, provided a welcome distraction when he swept into the hotel room, Gaz and Coriander in his wake.
“Sound check, half an hour. We need you on the bus ten minutes ago.” David waited for a reaction, and got tired of Pete’s bemused smile right quick. “That’s now, you bloody defects. Now.”
With various levels of resistance, David corralled his beloved charges onto the bus.
* * *
“I have to go.”
“I know. I just wish--”
“Me, too. But you can’t leave your job. Leave Emily?” Selene smiled sadly. Rick was choked up, and so was she.
“She probably wouldn’t take that very well, would she?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why New York? Why not L.A. or Florida--somewhere that will stay warm? New York is a rough town. Miles moved here from Brooklyn, and his stories would make you change your mind.” Rick was brushing away his sadness with the brusque machismo that Selene had grown up with. He’d taken on the role of big brother, bodyguard, father when they were both still teenagers. He wasn’t about to let up now.
“Let me try it. If it’s a bust, I’ll head to L.A., or Florida, or Timbuktu--anywhere but here.” She felt her throat tightening. “There’s too much all around me. I can’t help but see Nancy everywhere I go.”
“Promise me you’ll check in with a doctor when you get there? You’re only two days out of a hospital bed. If I was any sort of friend, I’d lock you up for another week until you got all your strength back.”
“You’re the best friend I have.” As soon as the words left her, so did her tears. “I can never, never repay you.” She hurriedly slid two black rubber bracelets off her wrist. “Here,” she placed them in his hand, “it’s all I’ve got. One for you, one for me.”
“Fuck, I don’t have anything--”
Selene reached into his shirt pocket and grabbed the blue ballpoint pen clipped there. “This works. Look--the cap chewed to hell. It’s like a talisman.” She tucked it into her purse.
“I love you, Selene.”
“I love you, too--and I love Emily, and I love that little person on the way. Christ, Rick, you’re going to be someone’s dad in, like, two months.”
“A scary thought.”
“Not at all. That kid is damned lucky.”
He grabbed Selene and held her close. He let out a shaky breath, and Selene knew he was as close to openly crying as she’d ever seen him. She held her breath, fighting back her own emotion.
“You call if you need anything. Anything. Even a ride home.” He chuckled sadly. “Especially a ride home.”
“I will. Thanks.”
The train’s boarding call echoed through the little station, the announcer’s voice tinny and distorted.
“I think that’s me. Time to go.”
“See you later.”
“Later.”
She pushed herself away from his arms, shouldered her backpack, and walked onto the train. For her own sake, she didn’t look out the window again. Several minutes later, Harrisburg crawled away from her, the dank industrial scenery sliding past on either side. Three hours. Three hours to figure out exactly what the fuck she was going to do in New York City.
* * *
“Where are you right now?”
Elizabeth didn’t answer--she’d been slowly hypnotized by the scenery rushing past her on either side. Farmland, then blight, then green, then gray. As unwelcoming as the landscape could get, there was something soothing in its silent progress.
“Take me with you.”
She moved to take Lucas’ hand between both of hers. Quickly, he was beside her. She felt him struggle to absorb his new surroundings. The clack of metal on metal, rhythmic, a metronome. The train car rocked gently back and forth. The woman in the seat opposite them was trying to sleep, but her hazel eyes kept opening and re-focusing on the outside world.
“Who is she?”
“She’s...unimportant to you.” Elizabeth loosened her grip on Lucas’ hand, but he tugged it back into his lap, unwilling to give up this singular type of travel.
“She’s nothing special to look at. She’s almost fat.”
“Lucas, you really are a bitch.”
Lucas looked away from the woman, who, after all, couldn’t look back at him. The inside of the carriage was also unremarkable. Why Elizabeth would want to spend any time here when she could transport them to the far edges of the world, into lands known and unknown, was beyond him.
“Can we go someplace else? Somewhere sunny?”
With a grunt of frustration, Elizabeth flung his hand from hers, and once again, she was blessedly alone. Well, almost. She leaned forward, nearly touching her nose to the woman who struggled again to sleep. Her breath didn’t stir the wispy hairs that escaped from her braid to stick to her neck or cheek. “Who are you, dear?”
“Bet, come back.”
Elizabeth placed her hand to the woman’s cheek, surprised to find the skin damp. She’d been crying, then. For what? For whom?
A familiar scent stole into the car, and Elizabeth’s skin prickled with apprehension. She turned to look down the aisle.
Fen stood at the top of the car, hackles raised, teeth bared. His throaty growl rumbled under her skin, and she suddenly couldn’t leave this space fast enough.
Her brain sizzled and sparked from her abrupt return. A migraine, such a mortal affliction, was starting behind her right eye. A drop of blood welled in her right ear.
“Bet?” Lucas’ brow was creased in concern. “Darling.”
“I’m alright. I am. Let me have the air a moment.”
He stepped back and let her bring herself to standing. It took longer than it should have, and his concern mounted.
“Really, Lucas--I just--”
Lucas’ cry of shock brought Inez and Samuel running.
Elizabeth, their bastion of strength and invincibility, had fainted. She lay on the ground like a broken doll, her eyes closed, the trickle of blood from her ear staining the shoulder of her robe.
“What do we do next?” Lucas asked the others.
Inez and Samuel looked at each other, then at Lucas.
“We don’t know, sir.”