Behind The Fractured Music
This is me, with my father and stepmother, from 1975, my junior year in high school. This is around the time that I moved from sports into theater, with comedy just on the horizon. Here, I'm doing some facial exercises, in line with the Method aesthetic.
One of the few pix of me in the Army, December 12, 1980. I'm being promoted to Sp4 by my boss, Frank Harris, and my commanding officer, LTC Lynn. Frank was a retired Army officer (a Captain, I believe), and one of the nicest, most supportive men I knew while in uniform. LTC Lynn was okay as officers went, but he seemed right out of the Phil Silvers show. A Sergeant who saw this pic said I looked stoned. Recalling some of the people I hung out with then, I probably was. America was never safer.
Kamakaze Radio, from our hottest period, where we sold out every show. (We replaced the "i" in kamikaze with an "a" as a homage to The Beatles.) This ran in the Indianapolis Star, just above a glowing review of our opening night. The reviewer wondered why I didn't come out for goodnights. I was backstage, kicking chairs and cursing up a storm, convinced that the show was a flop. It wasn't. I was simply immature and out of my mind.
I had a huge crush on Laure Spencer (misspelled by the paper), on whom I'm leaning in an oh-so wacky pose. But I was too young and callow for her, or something. Still, she possessed a light but commanding presence on stage, a real natural comedienne. It was a joy writing for her.
The rest of the cast was fine as well. This was KR's final revue before Jim Buck and I moved to NYC, looking for the big time.
But when Jim and I arrived in NYC, this was all we could afford -- on Norfolk Street, Lower East Side.. This shot is from late '82. We shared a one bedroom in this ratty building, populated by junkies, a few crazy people, and a smattering of young boho types like ourselves. We lived across the hall from a shooting gallery, where junkies would come and go at all hours of the night, pounding on the door, yelling for "TERR-YYYY!!" to let them in. I can still hear their coarse, smacked-out voices.
This building is long gone, replaced by a parking garage in a well-lit, gentrified neighborhood. The junkies are mere ghosts.
Here I am being threatened with a gun, though it looks more like a long index finger, on a tarmac somewhere on Long Island, 1985. This was a photo shoot for True Love, a romance mag for which my then girlfriend, Mary, often posed. She brought me along for this gig, which proved to be my only appearance in the romance press. I had hoped for a stellar career as a romance model, but LA called, and I moved west not long after.
Here's another shot with Mary. Man, was I crazy about her. She dumped me a few months later, for a Pan Am exec, if memory serves. The airplane behind us foreshadowed my romantic doom.
With my son during a break in shooting dust jacket photos for "Mr. Mike," early 1998. My editor didn't like the glasses and tie look, so I posed in a Byronesque black shirt, sans specs. One of those photos was ultimately used. Still, I kinda like this look. A friend told me I resembled a white Malcolm X. After that, I steered clear of ballrooms.
And finally, my father and younger brother Cole, from last summer. Believe it or not, I'm the quietest of the three. If you ever come to a Perrin family gathering, bring ear plugs.