Who’s Cryin’ Now: The Story Of Journey

Well, I’m packed and ready to move to my new diggs so I’ll be absent for a few days ’till I get my bearings (you know, little things like light/gas/phone/internet, etc). So in the meantime go ahead and read the unfinished and very raw bogus band bio of everyone’s favorite cheese-meisters Journey. It’s my least favorite, and I can’t think of an ending, so after this re-post I’m going to flush it. If you’re so inclined, go ahead and finish it off in the comments section, you creative types. If not, just browse the links on the right, or get off yer computer, go outside and get some fresh air.

“Who’s Cryin’ Now: The Story Of Journey”

Chapters  I –VI

As Steve Perry stumbled out of the Tijuana brothel, a small boy wearing a “San Diego Padres” baseball cap approached him and tugged on his pant leg.
“Cheeklets, meester? Cheeeeeklets?”
Drunk, ashamed and very tired, Steve stuffed his hand into his pocket and eventually handed a crumpled dollar bill to the boy.
“Gracias, Signor!” shouted the boy, and skittered off into the shadows. Steve popped a Chickelet out of the pack and into his mouth and attempted to make his way back across the border. At the entrance to the border tunnel he suddenly felt light headed, and more than a little sick to his stomach.
‘How did I let this happen?’, he mused.
Thinking it would help his nausea he awkwardly dug for his flask of tequila, eventually finding it in his left hip pocket. He unscrews the cap, throws it into the street, takes a large swig and swallows hard.
“Shit,” he says. “Where am I? And where the Hell’s my band?”

The last thing Steve remembered before he passed out was the sound of breaking glass and the smell of urine.

When Steve Perry awoke in the middle of Avenida Revolucion Blvd face down in a puddle of…well, he wasn’t really sure what the puddle contained, nor did he really want to know. What he DID know, however, was that he didn’t want to end up in “La Ocho”, (Tijuana’s infamous jail) where Sammy Hagar was recently booked and subsequently violated by two guards named Omar Ramirez and Pancho Salazar (Sammy fingered them in court but they were freed due to an ‘Hermanos de la Frontera’ clause their lawyers leveraged.)

The sound of sirens and the thought of ending up bull legged and incontinent like poor Sammy Hagar was enough to motivate Steve and he quickly got to his feet and started moving, North to the border.
Much to his chagrin he crossed without any interference or trouble from the San Diego Border guards.

“Back in America.” he thought. “Thank GOD.”

Remembering that his so-called friend and Journey lead axe-man Neil Schon lived in Chula Vista, he thought that the first thing he should do (after he ate first, of course) is to hail a cab and go pay Neil a little…visit.

It was becoming clearer, now. Neil was the one who suggested the road trip, just the two of them, to Tijuana. Neil was the one buying the drinks. NEIL was the one who shoved him through the door of the brothel and left him there, saying he would be back in ‘a little while’!

And, now that he thought about it, that Mexican whore looked awful familiar…

“Corner of Ignacio Vallarta Blvd. and Suarez. Quickly!”

Steve stared out the cab’s window at the clear San Diego night and smiled; it wouldn’t be long now. That son of a bitch Schon was going to pay…dearly. And it wouldn’t be quick, either.
He cracked his knuckles in quick succession, starting with the thumb on his right hand.
Steve Perry, former lead singer of rock band Journey, closed his eyes and imagined what he was going to do with his ‘friend’ Neil Schon when he arrived at his apartment. He wouldn’t kill him, no. Too easy. Make him suffer, absolutely!
Exactly how and with what ‘instruments’ would he carry out his plan had yet to be determined.

Violent, absurd scenarios were being played out in his mind when the cabbie started to drift over towards the soft shoulder of Highway 805 North. The sound of gravel spitting from the tires and crashing into the wheel well was enough to startle the cabbie awake and he jerked the wheel left, hard.

That single act of overcompensation by the driver was enough to send the Lincoln Towne Car straight into the concrete median. The airbags deployed with a ‘whoosh’, probably saving the cabbies life. Steve Perry, sitting in the back, wasn’t so lucky; his head was slammed forward into the drivers seat head rest and his nose, that famous bird-like nose, shattered.

“At…least it’s…insured…” mumbled Steve as he drifted off into unconsciousness.

A blinding light and the sound of low, indistinct utterances, the ‘clinking’ of bottles and an unplugged electric guitar being strummed.

The sight that greeted Steve Perry wasn’t real. How could it be?

The studio where they had recorded the trio of albums which would come to be known as Journey’s ‘Cocoon’ Trilogy was exactly as he had remembered it. Corkboard walls, duct tape everywhere and the bands spiritual mentor, Andy Kim, hanging in an elaborate gold frame on the wall next to drummer Aynsley Dunbar.

Neil Schon, who was mauled and subsequently disfigured by a wolverine in 1993, looked great. Vaurnet sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose, red headband wrapped around that magnificent afro, skin tight leather pants, green “Beatle” boots and his trademarked, heavily zippered pink leather jacket.

“What’s the matter, Steve?” asked Neil. “You ready to soft rock, or what?”

“Give me a minute…”, whispered a totally bewildered Steve. He wondered if he were dead. This was, for certain, the studio that yielded the sessions that would produce their most famous of albums, ESCAPE, which included the hit singles Don’t Stop Believin‘, Who’s Cryin’ Now? and Open Arms. So it could be Heaven, although Steve doubted that God would permit Neil’s head band there. God would probably also make Neil take the zucchini out of his trousers before being granted entrance to the pearly gates, but who knows?

He decided it was best to just play along, for a while, until he could figure out just what the Hell was going on.

“Yeah,” he said, and grabbed the microphone. “I’m ready to soft rock.”


‘Why are you drinking?’ demanded the little prince.
‘So that I may forget,’ replied the tippler.
‘Forget what?’ inquired the little prince, who was already sorry for him.
‘Forget that I am ashamed,’ the tippler confessed, hanging his head.
‘Ashamed of what?’ insisted the little prince, who wanted to help.
‘Ashamed of drinking!’ the tippler brought his speech to an end, and shut himself up in an impregnable silence.
And the little prince went away puzzled.
‘The grown-ups are certainly very, very odd,’ he said to himself.’

Excerpt from ‘The Little Prince’

“I’m hallucinating,” Steve thought to himself as keyboardist Gregg Rolie started to bang out the opening riff to ‘Don’t Stop Believin’. His eyes turned to the red light bulb above the door to the studio. ‘This has already happened. THIS HAS ALREADY FREAKIN’ HAPPENED!!” Steve yelled, out loud this time, and violently threw his mike stand through the framed photo of Andy Kim, destroying it instantly.

“Hey, WHOA,” yelled Schon. “A little respect for the mighty Kim, bro! My mother painted that!”

Steve started hyperventilating, and soon fell to his knees.

He had every intention of playing along with this ‘dream’, he really did. But this was just too surreal to keep up the facade. He could smell the putrid sweat emanating from Schon’s ratty headband (or was it the leather trousers?) for God’s sake. And how often does one dream about odors, anyway?

Neil Schon once again broke the silence. “This better not be the Peyote, Steve. You signed a waiver!”


Oh, right.

Steve remembered that back in the late 70’s, friend and confidante Gary Glitter gave him some Peyote at one of his famous swinging ‘fish bowl’ parties. Steve had heard of Peyote, but just that it was a plant, with an effect not unlike pot. He didn’t realize until it was too late that the main psychotropic ingredient in Peyote is Mescaline, which can be highly addictive. Steve ended up hooked for over 12 months before the band decided to have an intervention. The thought of being forced out of Journey was just too painful, so he agreed to 2 months of rehab and to sign a ‘Band Document’ (a letter of intent, really), which was the ‘waiver’ Neil was referring to.

His head started swimming again, but this time he couldn’t breathe. There was something blocking his throat. He tried to cough but all that came out was an ever expanding river of white foam.

“Get an ambulance,” cried Neil.

Then Steve, once again, blacked out.

What Steve couldn’t have known is that the boys were sending him to Lakeview Nervous Hospital, an infamous lunatic asylum run by, reputedly, the Devil himself…


The needle containing the salivation inhibitor methohexital plunged deep into Steve Perry’s right thigh, followed by the muscle relaxant suxamethonium.
The nurse, dressed in a blue and green smock casually placed the electrodes on both sides of his head and smiled, slyly. She glanced to her right and nodded. Steve followed her gaze to an unkempt grey haired man wearing a pair of very thick glasses, the right lens cracked down the center, and felt a bead of sweat drip from the tip of his nose. The man positioned himself to Steve’s right and forced a rubber “plug” of sorts into his mouth, holding it in place by securing a leather strap around the back of his head. Once finished he swiftly moves out of Steve’s field of vision.

The former front man for the soft rock band Journey started to feel a little drowsy but was keenly aware of the sound of a switch being thrown and the eerie hum of electricity.

The electrodes deliver a massive electrical stimulus which immediately forces Steve’s body into uncontrollable seizure-induced convulsions. His muscles tighten and the metal gurney shakes along in unison with it’s occupant.

After what seems like an eternity (even though it’s only been six seconds) the droning of the ECT machine stops.

“Again.” says the man with the cracked lens. “1400 milliamps.”

“…no…” whispers Steve.

The nurse gives a concerned look, knowing full well that the maximum dose of milliamps allowed by law in the state of California is 800.
But she complies anyway, the man pulls the switch again and Steve, for the fourth time in as many days, loses consciousness…