"I'm the band's designated schmoozer," Valiente says.
He manages to stay hella stoned the whole time--"survival tactic"--and occasionally, to relieve his boredom, busts out a set of fake teeth he carries like a good-luck charm. The novelty dentures are horrific, and convincing at a glance--rotten gums, jagged enamel pointin' every which way.
Valiente runs a few routines with the teeth. Sometimes he steps in front of some unsuspecting record-industry wage slave and drawls, "Hey, boy, you sure got a purty mouth." Others, he stands on a corner, head bobbing and feet shuffling, wanna-be-gangsta style, and yells across the street to no one in particular, "Whassup, foo'? You got a 20-dollar rock? I got five on that."
"Take the teeth out, Joe," the publicists keep telling him. "Please take the teeth out."
The day of the show in Austin, Valiente kicks it with the rest of the band, watching movies on the bus, parked in front of the Atomic Cafe, site of the Trauma party.
"Oh, shit," Mueller says at one point in the early afternoon, breaking the reverie of From Dusk 'Til Dawn.
"There's King."
The rest of the band scrambles for position at the one-way window. "Yep," says Roach Clip, pointing to a guy with two-tone, bleached-blond hair, wearing a black bowling shirt. "It's King."
King, it turns out, is a former Phunk Junkeez roadie of ill renown. One time, after a show in Winston-Salem, the band couldn't find King anywhere to help load out sound gear, until the bus driver told them King was in the back lounge, enjoying the oral favors of a clearly underage groupie. The band busted in on and began berating him for neglecting his duties.
"Hey," King protested, gesturing to the girl kneeling before him. "It's her birthday!"
King's in Austin with his band, Stupid Dummy Head, who, true to name, showed up for the conference last Thursday, a week early, then drove back to Phoenix and repeated the 15-hour drive.
Almost on cue, King opens the bus door and pokes his head through the portal.
"Is Danny in here?"
"Yeah, King, whaddaya want?"
"I need to borrow your flashlight so I can take a doogie."
Reluctantly, the Phunk Junkeez drummer turns over an illuminating device.
"See, that's classic King," says Big John, the Junkeez's longtime head of security [El Paso was his 107th show]. "He literally can't find his ass without a flashlight."
"Holy shit," Valiente exclaims. "There's Gary Busceli, that prick." Busceli is Bush's road manager. Valiente says he used to hassle the Phunk Junkeez for scarfing on Bush's deli trays.
"Look at that sport jacket and ponytail," Valiente scoffs. "What a wuss."
Strolling down the sidewalk, Busceli stops to check out the Junkeez's tour bus. "Ah, caught him looking," Valiente says, obviously delighted. "Oop, caught him lookin' again."
The fun continues during the Junkeez's sound check inside the Atomic Cafe, when Billy Duffy, ex-lead guitarist for the Cult, gets tired of waiting for the Junkeez and, without warning, goes ballistic on their sound man, calling him, among other things, "a bloody cunt."
An officious young man wearing the insignia of a South by Southwest venue director gives throat-slitting motions for the Junkeez to stop playing until the squabble is settled, but they ignore him, as Duffy, whose comeback project is scheduled to open for the Junkeez that night, is led away, wailing, "Do you know who I am? I was in the Cult! Show me some fucking respect!"
Back on the bus, the band members all laugh at him, except for Valiente. "I will not, repeat, will not go out like that," he says. "I'm embarrassed for that guy."
A publicist boards the bus and announces there's one more industry party to hit before the show. Valiente is somewhat less than enthusiastic. "Oh, man, all these people, they're just a bunch of car salesmen. I worked as a lot boy, man. I've heard every closing deal there is." He breaks into a smarmy sales pitch: "What do I need to do to put you in this band today?"
The Phunk Junkeez front man slumps in his seat for a few seconds. He's a long way from Moon Valley Park. Suddenly, Valiente reanimates. He bounds to his feet, and pops in the fake teeth.
"Whassup, South by Southwest? I got 10 years in the business and counting! I don't have time for your shit! Haven't you heard? The Phunk Junkeez only got one year left to get busy. The word's on the street. But I tell you what, foo', I'm gonna be a Junkee 'til I die. You better recognize!"
Contact David Holthouse at his online address: dholthouse@newtimes.com
