CHAPTER 19: QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
Brad
“Tim, I know this is going to sound crazy, but this is turning out to be a lot more interesting than a story about some random indie band,” I told my Power Chord magazine editor over the phone from my Comfort Suites hotel room in West Warwick, Rhode Island.
“Really?” he replied.
“Yeah, I just interviewed the mother of one of the band members and she told me some shit that may require we expand this story,” I said.
“Are you feeling OK, Brad?” Tim asked with a chuckle.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” I said. “If I’m pushing for more space on a basically unknown band like this, then you know I’m not fucking with you.”
“Well, what have you got?” he asked.
“For starters, I’ve got a woman who is telling me a 17-year-old secret that she fears may get her killed when our story hits newsstands and she’s willing to tell me anyway.”
“Intriguing,” Tim replied. “Shall I send a photographer up your way?”
“Yeah, and maybe someone familiar with the FBI witness protection program while you’re at it,” I said.
It was late February by the time I had completed all of my interviews related to Freeway & the Vin Numbers. My deadline was March 7 and the story was slated to appear in early April.
My first interview was with Al Masoli, the band’s business manager and promoter. But Al was a whole lot more than that. A reputed mobster who owned several nightclubs in Miami, including two strip clubs, Al was the uncle of singer and bassist Vin Masoli. Through my research and periphery interviews, I learned that it was indeed Al who nearly had his nephew whacked on stage for insulting him and his wife by singing alternate lyrics for “Papa Was A Gravestone” at the Heartbreak Lounge on Halloween. Security staffers and enigmatic band member Ronnie “Friday” Perkins came to Vin’s rescue. Perkins even pulled a gun to help thwart the attack and got arrested.
Amazingly, the Masolis reconciled after the incident and Al, feeling some remorse for his part in the Halloween ruckus, used his considerable influence — which he still wielded in his original stomping ground of Providence — to help spring Perkins out of jail. He had been held for a probation violation on a previous gun charge. Al apparently parlayed that noble gesture plus a promise to deliver the band a boatload of money into becoming its manager.
When I tried to ask Al about the Halloween mayhem, Perkins or the controversial lyrics to “Papa Was A Gravestone,” he was less than forthcoming.
“This ain’t about me,” he said. “Stick to the band, the music. These guys are real good and, thank God, they’re trying to bring back real rock ‘n’ roll. That’s what your story should be about.”
My interviews with Buck Griffin and Craig Hurley were mostly light and amusing, though Buck bristled when I asked him about the lyrics to “Medieval Upheaval.”
“Vin Masoli calls you Bookie instead of Buck in that song,” I pointed out, referring to the spoken-word intro, “What we need right now is a bipartisan beat down so Bookie give me a beat.”
“Any truth to the rumor that you are Vin’s bookie, that you are a lot of people’s bookie in the Providence area?” I asked him.
“Nah, it’s just a nickname, a term of endearment,” he said with a hell-bent look that all but confirmed the rumor.
My interview with Ronnie “Friday” Perkins and Freeway Wilson on the famous porch overlooking Interstate 95 also was not as revealing as I would have hoped. They seemed honored to be interviewed and said they looked forward to reading the story in Power Chord, but they were guarded in most of their responses. They appeared inexperienced and mistrustful in dealing with a member of the media.
When I asked Freeway about the lyrics to “My Paul,” specifically who robbed from Peter so he could play his Les Paul guitar, he shook his head and smiled.
“God did,” he said. “He works in mysterious ways.”
When I pressed Perkins if he had a hand in stealing the guitar for his friend, he naturally got defensive.
“That’s my brother from another mother right there,” he said, gesturing toward Freeway. “If he say God took it, then God took it. Whatever he say is gospel, man.”
“Are you God by any chance?” I asked Perkins, pushing my luck.
Freeway bowed his head and Friday got steamed.
“Are you Satan?” he shot back. “I’ll show you hell right down the street if you want.”
I let that go and pushed a different button instead.
“How does it feel to be in a band with three white guys?” I asked both of them.
“To tell you the truth, it used to bother the fuck out of me,” Perkins admitted. “But we’re tight now.”
“Jimi didn’t care about that,” Freeway noted about Hendrix and his Experience band mates. “He had two white cats in his band. More colors the better sometimes.”
“Like a muthafuckin’ rainbow,” Friday finished his thought as only he could.
“We make great music together, that’s all that matters,” Freeway added. “Even in the recording studio, we bring our ideas together, we check our egos a little bit and it works.”
My interview with Vin’s girlfriend, Saturn, was considerably more pleasant. We chatted over breakfast and a cup of coffee at a diner on Providence’s east side.
“Who threw the beer at Vin during the Sea Mist show?” I asked her.
“My former roommate Morgan,” she said with a grin. “She was upset that I changed my mind and wanted Vin back, and that Vin wanted me back, but it was her own fault. She asked for it by getting in the way in the first place. She kissed him after the Halloween show when we were first dating. I was going to dump him that night anyway and I didn’t see the kiss, but Vin was honest with me about it. That’s one reason why I trust him now.”
“You look happy,” I said, causing Saturn to beam even more.
“Because I am,” she said. “We’re in love.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said.
“What’s your favorite lyric that Vin has written or sang?” I asked.
“Suck my magma,” she said, bursting out laughing.
“Nice,” I said, trying to recover after nearly spitting up my coffee.
“It’s on ‘Medieval Upheaval.’ It kind of grabbed my attention at their first gig,” she said.
“And very romantic,” I teased.
“Yeah, in a medieval, deep-Earthy kind of way,” she said, flashing her contagious, “Interplanetary Valentine” smile.
My final interview was with Vin and it took place right where he wanted it to — with him sitting on the sofa in the living room of his mother’s house. She wasn’t there. I already had completed my stunning interview with her the night before, and now, unbeknownst to Vin and Al, she fled the state. More on that later.
“Why here?” I asked Vin about his location request.
“Because this is where it all started,” he said, slapping his right palm on the cushy, brown sofa. “My Uncle Al found out I had stolen stuff from my grandmother to pay off a football gambling debt. Back in September of last year, Al punched me in the gut right here. I guess it was the wakeup call I needed. I was going down the wrong road and he set me straight. He could’ve killed me right then and there, but instead he challenged me to do something with my musical talent. Now look at us. We’ve got a record out, we’re getting some radio play, we’re getting interviewed by Power Chord. It’s been an amazing bunch of months.”
“Do you think your Uncle Al has ever killed a person?” I asked.
Vin winced at the question for a few seconds, but I sensed he was wrestling for an answer so I waited him out.
“I’m not really sure,” he finally said, looking down at the floor.
“I’ve got to push you a little bit about the lyrics to ‘Papa Was A Gravestone’ because it is the first single and that was the song that caused so much controversy at the Halloween show,” I asked. ??
?Do you know how your dad died?”
“I was only 10 months old when it happened so I can only go on what other people have told me,” Vin said. “My mother said he drowned on a fishing trip.”
“Do you believe that? Did you ever try to research it and find out more information?” I asked.
“Honestly, I gave my mother the benefit of the doubt,” I said. “Part of me would like to know more, another part of me doesn’t want to know. Either way, it won’t help. It won’t bring him back.”
“Have you ever asked your uncle about what happened?” I asked.
“No,” Vin quickly replied.
“Why not?” I asked.
“My mother told me to never ask him about it so I never did,” Vin said. “I know you heard what happened at the Halloween show. You’ve seen what Al is capable of. Draw your own conclusions.”
“Do you think your uncle killed your father,” I pressed him.
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. I don’t know.”
“Vin, have you ever considered the possibility that your uncle was — and still is — a gravestone, and that your papa was — and still is — a mobster?” I asked him.
“What the? Excuse me?!!” Vin shouted, nearly falling off the sofa.