Songs To Sing- John Frusciante

13

September 5, 1991

Pencey

We had packed the place that night. I'd even gotten John to come to watch on his one night off.
And I was about to throw it all away backstage.

I was the only one not drinking in the green room that night, standing to the side of the room quietly. John and I had talked briefly about my game plan, my plan to not get aggressive and plainly state my point of view. I wouldn't ask to leave, but rather wait and see what Perry's course of action was.

I knew he was going to kick me out, though.

Predictable bastard.

The green room began to clear out around 1 AM, leaving just the band and a few road hands who'd just finished clearing the stage. I cleared my throat. "Hey, uh, I have to talk to you guys about something."

I looked up, Perry's icy cold stare practically boring into my skull. "Go ahead." He knew what was coming, and I knew it. They all did. Dave looked like he was bracing for the impact of an earthquake or for shots to be fired.

"I just wanted to talk about, um, like, the contributions I've made to the band. Lack thereof, I guess." He watched me, perplexed. "I feel like you guys don't let me help anymore. Every decision is made behind my back. And I get the age-old joke about how the bass player doesn't exist, but I really wanted to be more than that, and no one gave me the chance to do that. I feel like a ghost who just shows up where she's told."

"You are," Perry said matter-of-factly. "You aren't part of decisions because you don't have to be. It makes everything less complicated."

I felt shell-shocked, to say the least. "You're admitting this?"

"Yes. I didn't think you would be angry. You're getting paid to do practically nothing, Pencey. It's a win-win situation."

"It isn't a win when people think I've created something that I had no part in. It's not a win when I feel like my work isn't of substance to me."

"Pencey, you do help-" Dave started, but I cut him off quickly. I was starting to get irritated, and for practically no reason.

"No, Dave, no I don't. Hell, Stephen helps more than I do, and the guy barely speaks." We all looked at him, who, true to my word, was silent and shrugged. "It's ridiculous. And all your attitudes and habits make it insufferable to be happy around you. Perry, are you aware of how you act when you're under the influence?"

"No."

"Exactly!" I roared, making Dave jump. "You treat me like shit when you're sober, sure, but damn, Perry, you act like my fucking father when you're high. You're a mentally abusive asshole who doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself. You give me damn deja vu to somewhere I never wanted to go again, and I've been dealing with it for two, almost three years."

"So why do you do it, then?" Stephen asked. I knew he meant well, but this just made me erupt. It felt like lava was flowing out of my mouth.

"Because I have no other choice! This was my way of doing something with my life until I could figure out something else."

"Did you figure out something else to even do?" Perry snapped back, face growing red with anger. "Looks like you're stuck with us." He threw up air quotes around his words.

"I have a solo deal with EMI that I've been sitting on since last year."

"You..." I watched Perry's hands shake with silent anger. "You have a deal? And you didn't think to tell anyone, did you?"

"Well, John's the only one who knows. I'm supposed to go to their offices in the morning to sort it out."

He scoffed, shaking his head softly. He was usually a very outright person when he was angry, and did a lot of yelling, but when he was really mad, he would get silent and shut down.

Guess which one he was doing tonight?

"So, then, why don't you and John take this solo act on the road? You clearly don't like spending time with us, or playing with us, or doing anything with us. It's always John, John, John." His voice was hushed, almost like he was trying to not let the other two in the room hear what he was saying.

"I've never said that. I don't act like that."

"Just leave, Pencey. I don't need your excuses."

Dave looked at Perry, horrified. Stephen wore the same shocked expression. "Per, I don't-"

"Shut the fuck up, Dave. This is my band. I made this. I sing the fucking songs. And I want her gone. Out."

Stephen sat up. "Perry-"

"Out! Get out of this room, get out of our fucking lives, out!" Perry's eyes finally lit up in a rage, a finger shaking at me as I stood my ground.

"Your fuckin' loss, Perry," I spat back, turning on my heel.

I heard his shouts of insults, the littering of the words "whore", "slut", "bitch", "dyke", the usual. He sure loved his name-calling. These words followed me down the hall, where I calmly grabbed my bag and my bass, my amp already loaded into my car, and started off. I turned one more time to see Perry standing at the end of the hallway, Dave right behind him. Dave's eyes were sympathetic, but Perry's were eyes full of rage, like a bull.

"Get out of here, you ungrateful bitch," Perry snapped. "I hope you fucking rot."

"Ditto, Perry."