Charlie Estrella

---

Charlie Estrella - book excerpt

I. ENCORE!

LEVI’S STADIUM in Santa Clara, California, was literally swaying from the stomping and screaming fans, urging their hero Charlie Estrella to emerge for one final encore.

The sky was crystal-clear, the moon and stars shining, the flickering extravaganza from the stadium adding to the sky’s luster. A warm, seventy-degree breeze kept the concert-goers comfortable. For miles, the streets surrounding Levi’s Stadium were lined with vehicles, a la scenes from Woodstock, where thousands of rabid Estrella fans – “Star-Heads” – listened intently to the music emanating from the concert.

“Estrella! Estrella! Estrella!” It was deafening, yet the one-hundred-thousand-plus loyal Star-Heads inside the stadium, ears, and minds buzzing from the mixture of one hundred thirty-decibel amplified rock, and a thick cloud of powerful flower and other mind-altering concoctions, refused to stop until the band returned to the stage, even following an epic five-hour Halloween night show.

Catching their breath in the tunnel, Charlie Estrella and his bandmates guzzled bottles of water. Drummer Sid Stanley, tall and lanky, shaved head with a purple bandana atop his dome, twirled his drumstick with one hand while using his other hand to towel off the streams of sweat dripping into his eyes. Stanley stared at Estrella, who stood with his back against the stone wall, eyes closed, soaking in the adoration of the massive crowd, oblivious to the curious stares from the band.

“Shall we?” Sid yelled to Estrella, hoping to break the virtuoso ax man from his trance. Charlie did not react, continuing to meditate. Rhythm guitarist/singer Ronnie Jones, bassist Q. Zeller – Estrella’s closest bud – and keyboard player Nylon Quipp, shrugged at each other, wondering when their leader would give the go-ahead to perform one final tune – a send-off for the band that Rolling Stone Magazine deemed “the last, and greatest, supergroup.”

Surrounding the band, Estrella’s diminutive, cigar-chomping, bad-toupee wearing manager, Berg Rabinowitz, massive, Sasquatch-like road manager/head troublemaker Sparks Nevada, and the lady dubbed the most beautiful woman in the world, Charlie’s girlfriend, Shynuh, all wore concerned looks on their faces. Estrella’s trances had become more frequent, and this one seemed to linger longer than most of them.

“Should we turn up the lights?” lead roadie Al Rose screamed into Rabinowitz’s ear, knowing that the lights would signal to the crowd that the show was over, and their chanting could finally cease.

Rabinowitz shook his head slightly, blew out a puff of his stogie, and waved his hand towards Rose to back off. There was one more song remaining in Estrella’s arsenal – the one everyone came to see the band play on this, their final concert ever.

Eyes closed, Charlie raised his head towards the ceiling, lifted the water bottle to his lips, so slowly it seemed like he could barely raise his arm, gulped down the liquid, and dropped the empty bottle on the ground. The band froze in place, wondering if Estrella’s movement meant it was time to retake the stage.

Estrella’s eyes sprung open, darting around dramatically as if he had just awakened from deep REM sleep. He inhaled a chest-full of oxygen and declared, “Let’s do this.”

THE STAGE TURNED BLACK, except for the one circular beam shining down on the gold star at center stage. In the darkness, the crowd could not see that Stanley, Jones, Zeller, and Quipp had taken their positions at their instruments.

Quipp struck an A-minor on his Studiologic organ and the fans screamed in unison, “YEAH!!!” They knew it was time for the band’s all-time classic, “Free.”

The studio version of the song’s incredible intro featured a five-minute, face-melting solo by Estrella, that stretched to twice that length in concert before the drum cymbals smashed and the song broke into one of the most iconic anthem-jams in rock music history.

Seemingly by magic, Estrella appeared on his star, the stage light illuminating his golden locks and his signature Les Paul Goldtop. Quipp sustained the chord, which could barely be heard over the fans.

Estrella raised his pick high in the air, and the screams grew even louder.

The organ faded. Charlie wrapped his left hand around the neck. Smoke billowed around the guitar-God, and the star underneath his feet began to rise, lifting him ten feet above the stage.

Estrella squeezed his eyes closed and summoned the magic within his fingers. Despite his years of grueling practice, even Charlie Estrella questioned how one could possess such spectacular talent.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, one-hundred-thousand fans inside the arena, another quarter-million from the nearby streets, accompanied Ronnie Jones, singing the final words to the song: “And for all of our lives let’s be freeeeeeee.”

Stanley struck the gong.

The stage went black.

As was their custom for every concert throughout their spectacular run, the band members gathered in the middle of the stage to take a bow, the stadium lights illuminating the giant crowd.

The guitarist who was supposed to occupy the star in center stage, in the middle of the five-member band, was gone. Stanley, Quipp, Jones, and Zeller looked around, confused. They bowed and waved to their fans.

Blowing a kiss to the audience, Jones proclaimed, “We love you!” The band unlocked their arms and wandered off stage, expecting to see Charlie waiting for them in the wings.

But Charlie Estrella had completely vanished in a puff of smoke while bending his high E-string at the conclusion of “Free,” tears streaming down his face.

II. FOUR DAYS BEFORE THE SHOW

LARISSA HOLLOWAY DRUMMED her fingers on her MacBook, her nails whittled to the nub from nervous chewing. LaRissa had been waiting in the lobby of the Plaza for almost two hours. Any other reporter would have given up long before, but LaRissa had dogged Charlie Estrella for four years before he finally agreed to the exclusive interview. She checked her iPhone for the eighty-fifth time, just in case Estrella’s manager, Berg Rabinowitz, may have replied to her repeated “where is he?” texts.

The Rolling Stone reporter worked her way to the top of the magazine’s roster of stellar writers through grit, a take-no-prisoners attitude, and a colorful writing style that earned her a 2002 Pulitzer nomination for her expose on how Napster transformed the music industry.

LaRissa looked the antithesis of the music journalist, especially one who penned such a massive volume of articles on rock and hip-hop music. The petite, light-skinned African American, barely broke five feet and barely hit the century mark on her scale. Born in Clifton, New Jersey to two college professors – dad Marvin taught English at Princeton, and mom Helen taught physics at Rutgers – LaRissa never left home without looking perfectly professional, taking special care to wear clothing that hid her ample curves.

To say LaRissa’s colleagues disliked her was a severe understatement. She never dated another in the industry – nor anywhere else, for that matter. She never socialized or drank a drop of alcohol – a rarity for someone in the music biz. She never engaged in friendly banter, nor did LaRissa make any attempt to develop any work friendships. A complete loner, or possibly an intensely private person, LaRissa heard the gossip and back-stabbing from her peers: “stuck-up bitch,” “snob,” “the poster child for resting bitch face,” “lesbian.” She was adept at letting these jabs roll off her back. To LaRissa, work friendships simply led to distractions and would derail her from her career aspiration – to become managing editor of Rolling Stone.

“Miss Holloway?” a meek male voice whispered from over LaRissa’s right shoulder. The reporter did not hear her name, her eyes glued to the front doors. “Pardon me, Miss Holloway?” She turned her head to see the bellboy standing nervously over her.

“Me?”

The bellboy handed LaRissa a note, which she unfolded, read, and took a deep breath in disgust. The note said, “Your interview is running late. He apologizes for the delay.” LaRissa crumpled the paper and handed it back to the hotel employee.

She tried texting Berg one more time: “WTF, Rabinowitz!?! Losing my patience.”

To LaRissa’s surprise, text bubbles raced on her phone. She stared at the screen, waiting for a response.

BR: CE overslept. He’s two minutes away. LOL.

LaRissa did not see what was so “LOL-worthy.” She readied her MacBook, took a relaxing breath, twisted her neck, cracked her knuckles, stood, and took a couple small steps toward the front door. She froze underneath the massive chandelier, watching a steady flow of wealthy hotel guests come and go, the cool Autumn breeze blowing in leaves every time the door opened. As each person passed her, LaRissa mumbled to herself, “You’re not Estrella… You’re not Estrella… You’re not Estrella…”

“Hi, Charlie, nice to see you again.”

“Mr. Estrella, fashionably late again, I see.”

“You’re such a dick! I’ve been waiting for two hours.”

LaRissa was not sure what greeting might emerge from her mouth when Estrella finally appeared.

SEVERAL MINUTES LATER, LaRissa’s face showing her displeasure with Estrella’s rudeness and complete lack of punctuality, Wanda Rice strode through the ornate front doors, looking about as haggard as LaRissa felt. Charlie Estrella’s publicist was conducting reconnaissance in advance of her client’s entrance.

LaRissa could not help but notice that Wanda was alone.

“Where’s your client?” LaRissa pondered, avoiding Wanda’s outstretched hand.

“You want to do this interview or not?” Wanda barked back, snapping her arm down to her side.

“I’ve got better things to do than sit here for two hours—”

“No, you don’t.”

Wanda was correct. After all, LaRissa had been chasing this interview for so long it had bordered on addiction. She knew this scoop might land her that promotion she richly deserved, so it was worth it to wait a couple hours if it meant spending an entire day picking the brain of the world’s greatest guitar virtuoso, the man who single-handedly made genius guitar playing relevant and revered once again, the man Rolling Stone dubbed, “Greater than Hendrix, Stevie Ray and Eddie – combined.”

“So, where is he?”

“In the car. He wants you to ensure his privacy. His bodyguards aren’t here.”

“You can see I’m alone.”

“A back entrance? A private suite, with no live feed broadcasting your interview?”

Ten minutes later, LaRissa sat in an incredibly comfortable chair in a Plaza suite, watching Wanda text her client from the incredibly comfortable couch.

WR: Coast is clear. ETA?

CE: One flight to go. Out of breath.

Wanda stood and opened the door a crack.

“Is he here?”

“Two minutes.”

LARISSA HOLLOWAY had interviewed many rock music giants: Jimmy Page, Billie Joe Armstrong from Green Day, Elton John, James Hetfield from Metallica, Pink, Dave Grohl from Foo Fighters, Chris Martin from Coldplay. Yet, when the “Great White Whale” of rock strode through the door, LaRissa’s spine tingled.

She froze, paralyzed for an instant, her heart racing, her butt glued to the seat. Embarrassed and much more star-struck than she imagined, LaRissa’s palms pooled in sweat, so she told herself to avoid an awkward handshake.

In fact, there was no greeting at all, just some head nods. LaRissa’s fuming over Charlie’s tardiness flew out the window into the adjacent Central Park. Now staring at the ultimate “Rock God,” the reporter had to muster all her professional grit to compose herself and focus on the job at hand.

“Grab a water from the fridge,” Wanda suggested, seeing Charlie panting from his ten-story climb.

Estrella planted himself next to Wanda and guzzled the entire bottle of water. LaRissa examined the mercurial star. Charlie wore a tattered Yankees’ cap and Ray-Bans shielding his blood-shot eyes. His black Ozzy T-shirt had seen better days, but it was short and tight enough to reveal the tattoo on his right shoulder – a dark cloud surrounded by lightning bolts. LaRissa could not help but notice Charlie’s muscle tone – more fitting for a gym rat than a rock star. Charlie’s Lees and biker boots completed the ensemble. He crossed his legs and nestled back into the couch.

LaRissa leaned over her MacBook and tapped some keys. “I’m going to do a video recording, okay? Just to help me capture everything about the interview.”

Charlie looked over to his publicist for assurance.

“It’s fine, Charlie. She’s a straight-shooter.”

LaRissa almost smiled.

“The first question is really just for my own curiosity… Why now? I’ve been dogging you for years. Why agree to this interview now?” LaRissa had heard rumblings through the music world that the upcoming Estrella concert might possibly be the final show for the famed rock ensemble, but she wanted to hear it come from Estrella himself.

Charlie bit his cheek and cocked his head. “Pity.”

“Seriously?”

“Ha! No, not seriously. Why would I pity you?”

LaRissa’s blood boiled. She asked herself, “Why does he have to put on this asshole act?”

Wanda stood abruptly and sauntered to the bar. She knew how to put Charlie Estrella in his place.

“Don’t make mommy come and smack you upside the head, Estrella!” Wanda reprimanded the star as she poured herself a rum and Coke. The bleached blonde who never changed her Bob hairdo and was twenty years Charlie’s senior often took on a motherly role to Estrella.

“Fine. It’s just about time, ya know? All these rumors have followed me throughout my career. Time to set the record straight. Maybe I’m ready to move forward.”

“Move forward?”

“Yeah… well, we’ll get to that in due time.”

LaRissa leaned to the edge of her seat. She already knew this was going to become a monumental interview. She jotted down a note on her yellow legal pad: “MOVE FORWARD???”

“Okay, let’s go back to the beginning. Let’s set the record straight. Legend has it you never took a guitar lesson – learned to play when you were a small boy while locked in your mother’s basement. She couldn’t stand hearing your amplifier –”

“Alright, alright… That story has been totally butchered,” Charlie corrected LaRissa. “Mom’s been portrayed as such a witch. Truth is…” Charlie’s voice trailed off, as he caught a vision of something by the window. The spirit-like image appeared to stare out the glass, and then he turned his head slowly until he and Charlie locked gazes.

“Charlie?” LaRissa spoke after a full minute of dead air. “Charlie, you okay?”

Charlie came back, creaking his head slowly to face his interviewer. “Yeah, sorry.”

LaRissa made another note: “ZONES OUT… IS HE OKAY???”

“So yeah, Mom hated my guitar. She wanted me to learn an instrument when I was a wee lad, but something quiet, like a – I dunno, what’s a quiet instrument, the flute? My older sister played the flute. Maybe that’s what Mom wanted for me. Can you imagine!?! I mean, the Ian Anderson flute thing never really caught on, did it?”

LaRissa shook her head.

“So, yeah… Anyway, my grandma got me a toy guitar for my birthday when I was seven. Plastic strings. It had all these stars and rainbows. I added a bunch of X-Men stickers, ‘cause, ya know, I was seven. But it played fine – for a kid. And it was quiet. Plastic strings, no amplifier. I liked it. Mom didn’t complain. It came with a songbook, and when Mom punished me and sent me to my room, I learned to play those songs: ‘Twinkle Twinkle,’ ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ – not the SRV version!”

“Why would she punish you?”

“Kid stuff. I didn’t clean my room. I teased my sister. I looked like my dad.”

“That sounds painful.”

Charlie took off his cap and rubbed his curly blonde hair. Then he looked toward Wanda, nursing her drink at the bar. “Tell her I’m not going to do this if she wants to play psychiatrist.” It was going to take some time for Charlie to warm up to LaRissa and let his guard down.

Wanda repeated her client’s warning, “He’s not going—"

“Yeah, yeah. I heard him. Fine. Moving on… This is when you lived on Long Island, right?”

“Bay Shore. I think I was the only non-Italian in the entire town. A lot of mobsters’ kids in my class. Freaking Johnny D’Antonio ran a bookie business in sixth grade. Fun stuff! But I digress… The basement…”

“Let’s get into that basement.”

“I was the class clown. That was my identity. Knew I could make kids laugh in second grade. It made me, I dunno, popular? I was an okay athlete. Played Little League and stuff. But I never got bullied or into fights because the tough guys thought I was funny. They liked hanging around me. My teachers – they did not enjoy my comedy. Not at all. One teacher, Mr. Byrnes, absolutely hated me. Moved my chair next to his desk at the front of the room.”

Wanda, munching on an ice cube, interrupted, “Thought you didn’t want this to become a therapy session!”

Charlie shot Wanda a nasty look.

Off Charlie’s stare, Wanda responded, “Just sayin’. Anyway… continue, your highness.”

“By fourth grade, I was breaking the school record for most consecutive evenings spent in detention.”

“Why?”

“As I said, I was funny, and the teachers didn’t like me. Mrs. Leshefsky – seventh grade – she really loathed me. She was one of those fitness freaks and I’d see her running to school every morning. But she had this awkward style, with her arms tucked into her armpits. She looked like a chicken.

“And she wore these bright yellow shorts, tight, riding up her crack. I took pics and showed the class.

“Developed a whole stand up bit about the ‘Chicken Teacher’ I’d do before school started in the morning. Classmates were hysterical. They wanted more, and every day I’d come up with new jokes about Mrs. Leshefsky. Looking back, it was hurtful stuff, but I was thirteen. And I was getting a lot of laughs… until one day she heard the commotion from outside. I was standing on a desk, lights off, with a friend shining a flashlight on me like I was on stage with a spotlight. My first audience, you might say. And then I noticed Mrs. Leshefsky at the window – a look of complete horror and tears in her eyes. Spent the rest of the year in detention, in school, and at home. Wasn’t allowed out of the house for two years. And when Mom heard me playing my toy guitar in my room, enjoying my time alone, she decided to enhance the punishment by banishing me to the basement. She threw a mattress down there and would leave my dinner at the top of the basement stairs. I had to go straight to the basement as soon as I got home from school.”

“Seems a little extreme.”

“Mom was going through her own torture during that time. It’s when Dad bailed. I don’t blame him. Mom was cruel to him. He got laid off and Mom hated him for it.”

“What are their names?”

“Mom is Theresa. Dad was George. He died a few years ago.”

“Sorry.”

Charlie’s nod said “thanks.”

“Tell me more about the basement.”