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Rock Tales #107-Jay Vaquer
In 1978, my friend Raul Seixas asked me to go on a three-week tour of Southern Brazil. The booking agent was going to bill me as a famous American guitarist who would open the show and then back up Raul. They asked me not to speak Portuguese to anyone for the entire three weeks. We took the Air Bridge from Rio de Janeiro to Sao Paulo and then a large jet from Sao Paulo to the Argentine border. There we boarded a small twin-prop, twelve-passenger plane for a few more hours. We landed on a dirt runway where three cars and a truck were waiting. We drove a couple of hours then spent the night at Iguassu Falls (which was more impressive than Niagra Falls). The next day we drove for about 10 hours. We saw those National Geographic-looking Indians in thatched huts along the roadside and wondered what type of audience was going to show up at the gig. As night fell, we approached a small town where we were to spend the night. As we entered the town, the first building we saw was outlined in Christmas lights and the lead car of our caravan pulled into the driveway. The agent told us to wait in the car. About five minutes later he came out and told all of us to come in. It was a whorehouse and everything was free for Raul and the boys in the band. After an hour or so of indulgence, we left for the hotel. The next day we set up the equipment in a gym for that night's show. It was hard to believe that about 1500 showed up the first night. The next night was equally successful and a party was held for us afterwards with free imported scotch and beer, in which we all indulged abundantly. The following morning, with a serious hangover and a bloated bladder, I went to the bathroom and tried to urinate. The burning sensation was so intense I couldn't finish. I panicked and went screaming to Raul, who also suffered the same malady. We went to the agent's room, who was shocked to discover how well I knew every curse word in Portuguese, and he said he would cure us. In Brazil any pharmacist can administer a hypodermic injection, so here were the rock heroes, lined up at the drugstore, waiting their turn. Everyone in the band had gotten a dose of V.D When my turn came, the pharmacist had two syringes of penicillin, one in each hand, which he shot simultaneously in each butt cheek. He told us to follow up with the pills and no drinking or sex for the next two weeks. The remainder of our tour had lost it's glimmer and every pot hole in the road was a major pain in the butt.

Rock lesson #107-Cooter is never free, somehow you always pay in the end.

 


 

 

 

 

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