DEAR NICK
 (Nick's Stolen Moments film)

When I first took a job with the band named twice, fresh off the swine stud farm and still wet behind the ears, it was you who took me under your wing and guided me through those first fatiguing months on the road.

Recognizing my obsessive compulsive disorder, addictive personality, anxiety disorders, phobias that hindered my already pathetic stage presence, and the social skills of a deranged water buffalo... you, the lifelong road-warrior cushioned the culture-shock by passing on tricks you had learned to stave off homesickness. Tricks such as, going home once in a while to remember why I left in the first place. You also showed me the value of fiberglass underwear. Sure, they itch like hell, but nothing keeps you warm in the British Isles like four inches of Owens-Corning.

I'll never forget those twisted few years, when I couldn't last 3 minutes in an after-show party before my head started spinning into violent thoughts, as if I were fresh out of three years in solitaire in the bowels of Alcatraz, causing a sprint to my hotel room by way of a back alley kitchen entrance... or the off times, when I simply couldn't get out of bed to make myself worth what I was making at the time. It was the little things... the pleasant surprise of waking up to a message from you in London, just wondering if I my head was still on... and how you realized what a "fragile little boy" I was. You were right, and I still am. But, you've made me more of a human being by pressing my buttons and always making me laugh, even when I'm not quite sure what I'm laughing at.

Also, if you hadn't yanked me out of my room and away from my laptop all those times overseas, half of this site would not exist.

To close, I would like to thank you, Nick, for being the classiest, most charming man I've ever worked with. Since we are no longer spending a lot of time together, I have no choice but to squeeze these stolen moments of your life into a 7 minute movie. If I could, I would steal your soul.

You are missed.
Love,
Wes

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ST. THOMAS OF VELCRO
 (Thomas Nordegg Time Speed film)
(Thomas is a guitar technician who has worked for Frank Zappa, Missing Persons and Warren Cuccurullo, among many, many others.)

Throughout human history, the story of the trickster god, be it Loge of the Nordic Eddas and Nibelungenlied or Prometheus of Greek mythology, is engendered in every human culture. It is the story of a great being who brings to the human race a gift, a gift once only the property of the gods.

Another myth, one property of the Greeks alone, is the story of Daedalus. Daedalus was a craftsman who thought he could make anything and to prove it he designed a fake cow in which, once inside and propped up at the correct angle, the queen of Minos could satisfy her insatiable lust for sex with bulls.

When forced to flee by the enraged King, Daedalus fashioned wings out of wax and feathers to fly with his son Icarus to the mainland. It was his final engineering triumph and he completed the flight with grace and speed. His son's experience, however, ended somewhat less spectacularly.

One might wonder the meaning for all this mythological mumbo-jumbo, but the answer is simple. Myths are used to help explain the unexplainable, to put into human terms: inhuman events, occurrences and beings.

One such being is Thomas Nordegg.

If left alone on a mountain peak with no food and supplies, Thomas would soon procure enough excess electronic gadgets and labeling equipment to open a concession stand. Give him a soldering iron and a spool of thread and, in minutes, he'll produce a fully operational death-star.

The story of Thomas starts with humble beginnings. Left alone on a hillside to fend for himself, he scratched a meager living from the land and built a nuclear reactor out of tree bark and post-its to keep warm during the bitter winter months.

His talents being so patently obvious, Thomas was soon plucked from regional obscurity and went on to become the Guitar Tech of the Gods. Not satisfied with this, Thomas went on to publish the best-selling book: 1 Million Legal Uses for Velcro. This was followed by the much better seller: 1 Million Illegal Uses for Velcro and How They Can Improve Your Sick, Kinky Sex Life.

With his financial future now secure, Thomas lives in Los Angeles where he annoys his friends by showing up at all hours of the night on his scooter-bike to label every single thing in their houses with colored sticky dots.

Man.
Myth.
Legend.
Friend.

We enclose the following video tribute to you.

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DAVE CASILLAS, MY BODYGUARD

Great men are hard to come by. Great big men are not. Great big men with great big hearts are an immense rarity on this most weary un-bright cinder of a planet we call Earth.

Enough of that shit.

Dave Casillas has gotten me out of more trouble than anyone who will still speak to me. Dave will always be there when the chips are down. Always arriving in the nick of time to rough up a local mob of drunken maniacs or to make sure the coast is clear when one has to sneak out of the Governor's daughter's bedroom before her school bus arrives. A man who will skewer the testicles of your enemies then eat them with glee. A fixer, a shaper of events that have already occurred. A man with a good cover story and a ready alibi should you find yourself on the wrong side of the law. He's also great fun to have around.

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DURAN DURAN & ME

Wes Wehmiller...1971-2005
photo: Foxwoods Casino, CT, © 2001 Wes Wehmiller

I think it was late '95. Warren Cuccurullo was in LA to do an acoustic show live on KROQ at the House of Blues. It was around then that we first met for dinner at a shiny hotel in Beverly Hills along with longtime drummer friend, Joe Travers. Joe had previously recommended to Warren that I be the bottom end of his instrumental solo project, "Thanks 2 Frank," which Joe had already been a part of.

Unfortunately, I showed up for dinner that night with my left middle finger in a splint after snapping a tendon while taking off my sock. Embarrassed by the appearance of my fork hand to begin with, a table of ten stopped for an awkward silence when Warren yelled across a large, round table, "So Wes, how did you break your finger?"

My heart stopped for a second, I looked around at everyone and replied with another question. "Has no one discussed this with you? Never mind, we'll talk about it later."

At least that got him laughing. I can only imagine what he was imagining. But, his reaction when I told him was pretty much the same as the nurse's a few months before in the emergency room... a sort of "ohhhhh 'kay" look with eyes rolling sideways.

After a useless eight months recovering from the stupidest injury of my life, I was healing just in time for the release of Warren's record and three shows in the States, including in-stores at HMV in New York and Tower Records in LA. I managed to surprise myself while playing what was the first "real" gig of my life, unless I consider a few local shows with Martika, an occasional nice pay check from some sessions, and some unofficial studio work with Ahmet Zappa and violinist, Shankar. After the intimidation of trying to learn the brilliant work on "Thanks 2 Frank" of one of my favorite bass players to ever walk the face of the earth, Pino Palladino, I stumbled through the first in-store at HMV and came out alive and kicking.

I probably would've train-wrecked if it wasn't for Joe. With his knowledge of the music well ahead of mine, he put extra energy into carrying me through the music while concentrating on his own parts as well. I later made my way to the signing table to shake Warren's hand on my way out and heard him yell in front of everyone, "He popped his cherry!!! He popped his cherry!!!!!!"

After the ice was broken, we went to a basement club in Manhattan that night where the three of us slipped into a mode I can't think of a name for, and I played more notes in three hours than I had in the previous six years. I think my mind is still at ease from the musical steam I blew off that night. By the time we were performing in LA, I was completely comfortable with the music and had earned the introduction on stage as Warren's new boyfriend.

Another few months passed and I had a passport made for my first ever trip out of North America. The culture shock of landing in London was pretty serious since I was only there for 36 hours, 24 of which I spent recovering from a putrid kind of jet-lag I had never experienced. Everything I saw on that trip, I saw from cabs, except for the 45 minute set on the stage of the Royal Albert Hall, where I first played with drummer Steve Alexander and met future coworker Nick Rhodes after the show. The next day, I was back in LA watching cable access.

It was sometime early '97 when I heard through the grapevine that John Taylor was leaving Duran Duran. When I project back on the few weeks that followed, I can't recall ever thinking I would even be considered. I was too busy dealing with other bass players in LA who had the nerve to call me twice a day, send me tapes and in some cases, ugly headshots because they were aware of my connection to the band through Warren. It was just what I needed to feed my raging bitterness towards the Los Angeles "Me! Me! Me!" attitude as it seemed none of these assholes knew I played bass myself, and yet knew all my unlisted information.

I was about to change my phone number when I got a puzzling call from Marque Coy at Joe's Garage. "Hey Wes, congratulations! You finally got a real job!" I had no clue what he was talking about, but it turned out that this was the first word I had of possibly working with the band. With nothing but second-hand information, I decided to keep this to myself. Eventually, I walked in the door one day to catch Warren leaving a detailed message on my machine. The volume was turned down so I could barely hear him running off names of cities and words like "Tonight Show" and "Universal Amphitheater". I quickly picked up the phone and practically jumped down his throat because I had been in the dark for weeks feeling like everyone knew more than I did. After he briefed me, he asked, "Sound interesting?"

"I don't know, man." I whimpered. "I'd miss softball on Sundays."

After sacrificing my pathetic LA life, I was in my car every day with a tape of the unreleased new album as well as the entire catalog and a few B-sides. I was surprised how many songs I already knew because I had learned them when I was thirteen. Nevertheless, I was 25 and this was a job I wanted to nail.

Later that fall, I was off to London again along with tech god, St. Thomas of Velcro. It started with two weeks in London rehearsing at Music Bank Studios near the Tower Bridge. I met Simon for the first time and it meant a lot that he was so friendly. I'll never forget the moment he walked in and started singing while Steve, Warren & I were running down some random tunes. I heard the voice and it hit me... "What a trip."

After another Virgin Atlantic trip over Greenland, I was back in LA with the rest of the guys to appear on the Tonight Show and do a concert outside Tower Records on Sunset Blvd. where different bands who had recorded their trans-styled and in some cases, very amusing versions of Duran Duran hits on the Tribute Record performed before us.

This is when I started getting nervous and thinking about the fans and what they would think of me, or even *if* they would think of me. I remembered the eighth grade, and all the girls who wouldn't give me the time of day running around with John's face on their lunch boxes. I thought about how people who looked at me as a replacement would be much more fazed by a new bass player than the consistent rotation of different drummers over the years as John had been the one & only since the beginning.

If I had my choice, I wouldn't have chosen the Tonight Show as a warm up.

Among other things, it was my first real TV performance... and during a long day of line checks, sound checks, camera rehearsals and lighting, then pretty much sitting around in a dressing room eating cheese & crackers for hours, I couldn't stop wondering if I would walk on stage thinking I was in front of a studio audience, or the entire country. When Jay showed up and the show started, so did the longest half-hour of my life. I wasn't nervous anymore, just anxious. I sat there watching the show live in the dressing room, stupid enough to nurse a cup of room-temperature coffee while some guy with a head set would walk in to announce "10 minutes!", only to come back 5 minutes later and announce "15 minutes!" Knowing at this point that two minutes and thirty seconds on stage was not going to be enough time to recover from this and have fun playing music, I just wanted to get it done.

We did get it done, and I went home and fell asleep. I woke up at 1am to 25 messages on my machine from people I hadn't heard from in years and had no idea I was working with the band saying, among other things, "I've never seen you look so scared, Wes." I accepted that as I was so fried, that I had no recollection of even being on stage, and it was another week before I had the energy to watch a tape of the show.

The tribute show at Tower Records was a completely different kind of mind-bender. Although this was not my first large audience, it was the first audience that made so much noise that I had trouble hearing the band. It took me a few songs to stop thinking of what I must look like to these people. I was a 26 year old, long haired American with relatively plain attire in the back, paranoid as hell thinking that any one of these people could be a sniper. I put on my shades and tried not to think about the possibility of red laser dots on my forehead.

The inside personal information I have about myself and the emotional roller coaster of touring  as I know it will always be "inside." The people I worked with and met became family to me, and a bonus in the form of Joe Travers came along half-way through my tenure to add a "family member" of ten years to the story. I did every type of job I could imagine doing. Theaters, arenas, TV appearances, festivals, radio shows, and an unusual gig at the Houston Astrodome in the middle of the world's biggest rodeo. I saw almost every corner of the world I wanted to see. It was a big deal to me even though it was microscopic compared to the 20 years under the belts of the other guys.

I always wondered why people kept coming up to me and telling me what a good job I was doing "filling John's shoes." I was never in a position to fill his shoes. We had one thing in common... we played bass. He was a front man, I was a side man. There are so many roles that he played and I didn't, that I wouldn't know where to begin. No one could ever replace him. He's back in the band now along with the other originals and even though I miss it so much, I recognized and related 100% to the band's decision to do a reunion tour. After a few long, open conversations, I completely understood why it was the right time. It was best way for me to leave.

I don't do it anymore, but I loved it and I'll always have it.

--------------------------------- 

MISSING PERSONS REUNION

Another great opportunity to play with a great band, work with big brother Warren, experience the sounds, sights and fire of the great and legendary Terry Bozzio, and once again, play music written back when people knew how to write.

There isn't much for me to say, except that everything about it was awesome. It was new, fresh, and loaded with spontaneity. At one point, I was even distracted when a life-size, two-dimensional cut-out of myself leaped on stage to dance with Dale, which now hangs on my bathroom wall above the toilet.

I'll never really put a finger on why it's not happening anymore. I usually find myself blaming it on some asshole who sat in a cave while sending his young psychos to perform the most cowardly act in the history of mankind on the day before my 30th birthday, of all times. A lot of people blame that asshole for a lot of things, and rightfully so.

Turning thirty on what seemed like the end of the world at the time and not being on a stage since, felt like someone had pulled my underpants up my back and over my head where they remain to this day. But, like all other great experiences, I'll always have it... and a great clone to make sure people leave the seat up when they come over.

[NOTE: Wes is referring to Terry's abrupt departure from the Missing Persons reunion, for which he cited 9/11 and a wish not to travel as the cause. The short-lived Missing Persons revival by Warren and Dale in 2002/2003 brought Wes back on stage again. He looked happy there.]

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A BASS PLAYER

"How do I rid myself of this label?" If someone were to ask me this question in any social environment, my simple reply would be... "Don't play bass." I would then either quickly change the subject, or find someone more useful to talk to.

Since I myself have spent years occasionally playing bass while trying not to be a "bass player," a massive down-fall in my so-called career as the "World's Most Anonymous Bass Player" has inspired me to write what would be the most offensive and controversial column Bass Player Magazine would never publish. But who would pick up Bass Player Magazine for tips on how not to be a bass player? And where would this write-up go, if not in "Bass Player"?

With my bitterness towards a lot of buttons, bells & whistles, talk of upgrading gear just for the sake of having the "new one out," anxiety disorders that require fire-arms at a NAMM show along with that embarrassing badge that says "Visitor" under my name... even then, going insane seeing people you haven't seen in years and these days, would only see at the Anaheim Convention Center every January, and with no particular interest in having this published anywhere, I've decided to spend 1% of my free time on these thoughts.

After several years towards the back, somewhat in the dark, somewhere in between being a side-man & and a weird, silent band member, I feel my rather unique job description has given me an interesting way of looking at music and its business. In other words, my two-dimensional mind hears music as nothing more than entertainment and I know fuck-all about the business. To me, entertainment taken seriously is no longer entertaining. The only reason I give a rat's ass about making mistakes while performing, is the presence of losers who get their rocks off pointing them out. This raises an even more disturbing point. The worst thing I've ever seen happen on a stage is a band member turning to another to spew off a dirty look, or scream an obscenity after a mistake has been made. If you do this, you are not only guilty of pointing out that mistake to an otherwise clueless audience, but you are also embarrassing everyone on stage and causing the audience to cringe in embarrassment for you... not to mention, making a complete ass of yourself.

If you bypass the last paragraph and ignore just another irrelevant outburst that has earned me my other reputation as a miserable ball-buster, I can get on with my thoughts... the answer to the questions, "How do I rid myself of this label?" & "How do I play bass and not be a bass player?" What you consider yourself is up to you. Others have their own little ways of labeling you, and there aren't many ways around it. In my eight months out of music, I have found some solutions.

I find my music life to be more interesting when I take to other interests and hobbies. Particularly, things that could potentially end my career as a musician. Obviously, musicians have called me crazy, but the truth is, if I didn't have a second limb-threatening life, I would be cursed with this label forever... a "crazy musician." I would not suggest jumping off a bridge with your ankles tied to a rubber band unless you know how not to be careful. Careful gets you hurt, sometimes killed. This is good advice from someone whose only career-hindering injury came after trying to take off a rather stubborn left sock before bed.

When I am performing, I pretend that it's just another one of my hobbies that I suck at. This way, the presence of the labeled musicians, both on and off the stage, does not radiate any pressure. The absence of this tension in the air gives me the confidence to attempt what I know I can't pull off. This way, if I screw up, it's not so much a mistake as it is a "spontaneous sound," and I don't come off like some dork trying to impress the audience (and failing). Performing has been much more enjoyable since I learned to ignore the poison pills and make a mockery of myself on stage.

Labels are absurd. If you label yourself, you may think you're focusing more, when in fact you're only limiting yourself. When others label you, you have to realize how insignificant each label is. How can they mean anything if they're all different? Some people think I'm a really bad photographer. Some think I'm a horrible hockey player. And unfortunately, most people think I'm a "bass player" (among other things). I guess I just don't give a shit.

Moral : Be careful taking off your sock.

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Copyright notice: All materials are © Wes Wehmiller