Blinded by the Sun

By Adam Salomon

Motivated by the dream of becoming the next big thing, Dever, a Brooklyn-based metal band, storm their way through New York’s nightclubs, making themselves known as a force to be reckoned with. Their intense live shows, coupled with their prowess of combining classic and contemporary elements of rock attract an ever-growing fan base with each concert. On- stage and in the public’s eye, the band is larger than life due to front man Scott Ferrara’s passion and powerful presence. Away from the limelight and bipolar, Ferrara senses there is more to life than just the mind-expanding evenings of sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll and desperately seeks ways to change his complacent routine. It is only after he falls for fellow rock singer Amanda Campbell that he realizes the magnitude of the challenge he has taken on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam Salomon
• Release date: Jun 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452455488

Adam Salomon

Adam Salomon is known for his political commentary through his blog Mind Over Madness. His non-partisan, solution-driven approach challenges many mainstream ideologies. As the son of a Parkland first responder and a retired inner-city teacher who had been confronted by a gunman outside of her classroom, Adam is committed to bringing people together to discuss and implement policies that will ensure the safety of students and faculty. Originally from New Haven, CT, he now resides in Rhode Island with his wife and two young children.

Book preview

Blinded

by the Sun

Adam Salomon

Copyright 2011 by Adam Salomon

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing by the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment through Smashwords and may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or deceased, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

To my wife and family for their support and the musicians

I’ve had the privilege of working with.

Chapter 1

Though the humid air was starting to cool down as the sun set over the PNC Bank Arts Center in Holmdel, New Jersey, the energy that filled the amphitheater was only heating up. Dever, whom I had been a founding member of, had just taken the stage to a thunderous ovation which only intensified as the band relentlessly tore through each song, sending the crowd into a frenzy as mosh pits formed and fists pumped high in the air.

As I looked out at the crowd rocking with the band from the side of the stage, I could not stop the memories of everything we’ve been through from rushing back to me. I never expected life to become such a roller-coaster ride; it felt so exhilarating when things were good, as if we were living on a constant high and had the world in the palms of our hands. We could do anything we wanted and knew we would get away with it. But when my depression set in, it felt as if demons somehow found refuge in my head and began to tear away at everything that made me who I was until I only wanted to curl up in a corner and die.

What is the purpose of life? I used to ask myself as I stayed up late at night, lost in thought from the band’s Brooklyn apartment. Does having a passion in life want to make us become better human beings and fully understand ourselves? Or does it just drive us mad deep inside? I truly felt alone but did not want to admit it to anybody. Instead, I would just watch the traffic below and the lights of Midtown Manhattan glimmer in the distance while wishing for answers to my questions. From far away, the city looks so tranquil and peaceful. No one knows of the suffering. No one sees the pain.

When viewed from street-level, the perspective of the city transforms into an ugly beast. The streets are constantly congested, while an impatient crowd waits for the J, M, or Z trains on the elevated tracks above. The old man picking through garbage is a fixture sitting on the stairs of the Lorimer and Hewes Street stations, drinking out of a bottle wrapped inside of a brown paper bag, while children kick bottle caps left lying on the sidewalks in front of corner grocery stores below. And through it all, Puerto Rican music blasts from passing automobiles on their way to Graham Avenue, a few blocks away, while drug deals are made on the side.

And so went my every day, fighting my way through Williamsburg, walking past the crumbling, graffiti-ridden tenements with busted windows and drunken bastards sitting on the front steps. If you looked at them the wrong way, they’ll stare a hole right through you, if you’re lucky enough not to get attacked. And the cops down at the around the corner have never done anything about it! At the time, I’d be willing to bet that some of those drunks were off-duty cops who did the same thing behind their desks at the station. I couldn’t help but laugh when viewing the headlines in the New York Times that read, Brooklyn Cop Shot, while walking past the vending machine on the street corner. I had no respect for them simply because they didn’t have the guts to do their job and patrol the streets or protect the innocent children playing around the corner in Sternberg Park or in front of my apartment building on Boerum Street.

As for my music, it showed my daily life and my disgust for everything around me. It told of the girls I brought up to the apartment and conveyed small children getting shot because some cop’s gun accidentally went off. This harsh reality was enough to make even the happiest of people depressed. After a long day, all you could do was sit back with a couple of your closest friends, have a cold one, roll a joint or two, and try to express our experiences through music. This place was hell, but I never wanted to trade it for anything in the world!

I didn’t need some small town where everyone knew my business – I preferred not knowing who my neighbors were and what they’re up to. The only people who truly understood me and actually cared were my roommates, whom I played with in Dever, Little Joe, Mike, and James.

Little Joe played a killer double bass drum and could out-drum the great Vinnie Paul of Pantera and Hellyeah fame! His hard-hitting style and tempo changes were the foundation of the band’s sound and enabled me to express myself in a way I never could before I met him. His energy when he stood behind his drums, his hair flying in every direction, pounding the crap out of them with everything he had, easily transferred to the crowd.

Joe first started playing the drums after attending his first concert, Slayer and Lamb of God, at Manhattan’s Roseland Ballroom. He thought he could let his aggressions out in mosh pits but wound up getting kicked around one too many times and figured it would be better if he was on stage pounding the skins rather than being pounded on. Musically, he was into a mix of nü metal and hardcore bands like Hellyeah, Sepultura, Killswitch Engage, Slayer, Shadows Fall, Down, Avenged Sevenfold, and Black Label Society, to name a few.

As confident as Joe was behind the drums, off stage he was a completely different guy and had insecure written all over his narrow face that he tried hiding behind long, jet black hair which flowed past his shoulders. If it wasn’t for his goatee, people would have thought he’s too young to go clubbing or drinking with us. Even though he’s hyperactive and fidgety, his personality limited him in that he barely spoke a word and just went with the flow of things. If Mike and I wanted to drink, he’d say, Sure, count me in, with his squeaky voice. If we wanted to smoke joints, he’d make sure there was extra rolling paper for him. What little else he did say was barely worth the effort. Even if he couldn’t pick up a prostitute if she paid him for the night, he’s still one hell of a great guy who I’ve respected and whose musicianship I admire.

Mike, the guitar virtuoso of Dever, had the grooves of Downset’s Ares, the melodic sounds of the late, great Criss Oliva from Savatage, and the crunching riffs of the Cowboy from Hell Dimebag Darrel and old-school Pantera. This guy’s got the crowd head-banging in unison numerous times by only playing a single note while bobbing his head up and down while his long, brown hair waved in every direction. He’s always known the classics, like Maiden, Priest, and Mötörhead, will never go out of style, and his blistering solos were enough to leave Eddie Van Halen stumbled and exhausted. Not only that, Mike held his liquor as well! He was great to party with and possessed the charm to enable him to walk out of any bar with the phone number of every girl inside with ease, if not spending the night with a few.

Most of all, he knew what herbs did the trick and was looked up to as the medicine man. Nobody in the neighborhood messed with Mike because he supplied the locals, who were probably involved with various gangs. However, he knew enough not to mix work with pleasure and never, under any circumstances, invited his clients to parties or shows. In addition, nobody messed with Joe, James, or myself in the streets at night simply because everyone knew we rolled with Mike.

James had the underlying thunder of Dever all to himself and was the best bassist I’ve ever heard! Forget about Lemmy Kilmister or the late Cliff Burton and his song Anesthesia-Pulling Teeth! They have never played a distorted bass line while a dual solo was being performed! James had the thunder to rival Mike’s rage and Joe’s aggression. Then again, he had a personality that could rival that of the most aggressive person. One wrong look into his dark brown eyes would easily send a person running for his life. He hated everything and was never without his anarchy shirt. One could always hear Black Flag, The Misfits, Dead Kennedys, Sex Pistols, Rise Against, and Suicidal Tendencies blasting from his room, and his music oozed with the stylings of Megadeth, Avenged Sevenfold, Stormtroopers of Death, and early Metallica. Since he was always bashing authority, I was at times worried that one day he’d say the wrong thing to the wrong person. Then again, no one had the guts to get into arguments or political debates with him. A bartender by day, he knew the recipe for any killer drink that would knock one off their feet!

As for myself, I first got into heavy metal around the age of eight, when I heard Guns N’ Roses on the radio for the first time. Since my mother was never home, she didn’t know what was going on inside my head or what I was up to at our apartment; I don’t even think she cared. A few years later, I stole my first guitar and pretended to be Slash, even though I didn’t know a single note at the time and couldn’t imagine Slash playing a blue Yamaha guitar. I don’t know where I’d be right now if it wasn’t for Guns N’ Roses’ diverse musical style which helped me through nights I was so wasted that I don’t even remember the wild parties I threw or where my depression had gotten the best of me and just wanted to be alone.

The booming alternative and hip-hop music scenes didn’t hold me back – they only made me realize my dream. I was still in high school when I got my first job working at the corner record store. I blasted heavy metal bands that were still coming out with good music just to get a rise out of the fans who were buying Oasis, Bush, Offspring, and Limp Bizkit discs. I felt that bands like them didn’t deserve to be played at all. The manager thought otherwise and decided to fire me because of my attitude, or lack thereof.

Word got around school that I got fired because of my dislike of the scene that had a stranglehold on rock music. I was labeled an outcast for wearing Metallica, Maiden, and Sabbath shirts. I couldn’t care less, as I knew who would easily win a fight if anyone started with me.

After a while, I realized I wasn’t the only one who still looked up to the Mötörheads and the Sabbaths and hooked up with Joe, Mike, and James to form Dever. The name literally means pestilence, and that was exactly what we were to some - four punks paying tribute to our heroes.

After a couple of weeks, I got a job selling guitars at Ron’s Music on Bushwick Avenue with the sole purpose of getting paid to learn some new techniques from the musicians I was trying to sell to. I even learned how to work the switchboards found in many studios by playing around with them when no one was around, which led to my next job as a sound engineer at Pier 42, where I learned even more from the many musicians who performed at the nightclub near the Williamsburg Bridge in Brooklyn.

I eventually picked up my own style of playing that melded well with Mike’s aggression and Joe’s unique drumming. I learned the undistorted, melodic styles of Criss Oliva to ease my pain, the furious licks of Zakk Wylde, the hard-hitting riffs of Slayer’s Kerry King to let my aggressions out, and listened to bands like Avenged Sevenfold, Bullet for my Valentine, and Blind Guardian for examples on how to put it all together.

The guitar was the one true constant in my life since everything else wound up letting me down. I often suffered through stints of depression, wanting to end it all. To me, it was just a normal part of everyday life. If it wasn’t for the girls we brought up to the apartment, I’d have nothing to live for. And, if it wasn’t for the music we wrote, I’d have nothing to die for. At times, I felt like I was just taking up space in this overcrowded city.

Instead of thinking about the negatives that could have been, Mike, James, Joe, and I would sit on our terrace, eleven stories up, and snort heroin or smoke marijuana as we watched the sun set over the Manhattan skyline. On a warm, humid summer’s night, the twilight was a breath-taking sight. The drugs would make us see the world from a positive perspective and realize how beautiful life really is. As a result, we would forget the shootings and corrupt cops in the surrounding neighborhoods. The colors and designs of the clouds during the sunsets would just put us at ease. And once the sun had set over the skyline, the first star always appeared over the distant Empire State Building.

Chapter 2

If there was one thing that kept me going other than the mind-expanding evenings and the concerts, it was the parties that we threw. Mike would bring the herbs, James, the drinks, I’d supply some of the tunes, and the girls who found their way to our place supplied the food and everything else that was missing from a good time. All of those elements would keep Mike, James, and myself going all night long. As for Joe, who knows what kept him going, although he seemed to dig everything.

We never drank or took drugs because it was the ‘cool’ thing to do. It was the only way we could escape life's wrath in this city, since there was no other way out. The drugs also seemed to give us the one thing that we longed for - a sense of balance and hope. It wasn't just the four of us who dabbled - everyone who stumbled up to our apartment took an active role in the drinking, the drugs, and everything else.

Raven was a neighborhood girl who we all knew through Mike long before Dever formed and was the first person to pass out flyers for the band. She even created our original website. Her warm smile and outgoing nature instantaneously attracted people, and she began telling others about us, who then spread the word and created a buzz. She saw the potential that MySpace and Facebook could have in terms of reaching more people, and as our friendship grew, she became invaluable.

Raven ran into this guy, Tommy, while passing flyers out after a concert at Pier 42 and gave him a copy of our EP. Little did she know, he happened to run a website dedicated to the New York metal scene and took pictures at every one of our concerts. As time passed, they helped each other promote various groups and eventually started dating.

Tommy and Raven were a dynamic, yet troublesome duo. If we were throwing a party, they were always the first to arrive. Together, they would start games such as spin the bottle, which often ended up with people participating in various sexual activities, as did poker, which wasn’t just for stripping. The winner would involve himself with any girl of his choosing. And, if a girl won, some random guy would suddenly become very lucky. Games like these were the reason some of the girls came in the first place.

Every so often, I needed to get some air and usually grabbed a beer before heading out onto the terrace. At one of the parties, I remember walking out only to feel the cool, late September breeze on my face as it gently blew through my hair.

It’s beautiful out tonight, Scott, a soft-hearted voice said as I closed my eyes and took a hit off my joint.

I opened them to find a girl leaning on the railing with a bottle of Bud in her hand.

The view of Manhattan is beautiful, she continued as my eyes ran up and down her toned, slender figure with perfect curves in all the right places. Her long, brown hair blew with the breeze and glowed from the reflecting lights of the city.

Yeah, I guess it is, I replied, looking out towards Midtown. I then turned around and noticed her beautiful brown eyes. What’s your name? I asked as I slowly put my arm around her.

Just call me Jen, she softly replied and gently kissed my cheek.

After talking for a couple of minutes, she said that she was getting a little chill. I raised my beer up and said, I’ll get a blanket out of the closet.

No, she replied, that’s all right.

I couldn’t help but look into her gleaming brown eyes as she stared back at mine. I put my arm around her once more, and before we knew it, our lips slowly met. She let out a playful giggle as if she seemed happily surprised by the turn of events, though we both knew what our true intentions were. I quickly took her arm and led her inside. My eyes were fixated on her breasts as we stumbled through the living room, which was littered with empty beer cans, broken taco shells, and torn pizza boxes that looked like someone had begun to write song lyrics on them. Those who were playing poker seemed to be making up the rules as they went along because they were too drunk to figure out which cards to play.

We finally made our way into my bedroom, which was lit only by the amber glow from the lights outside, and sat on the bed facing the window. I ran my fingers through her long, brown hair before putting my arms around her and sneaking them under her shirt. One thing led to another, and within a few minutes, she was on her back.

I awoke the next morning to the usual sounds – James stumbling around in the kitchen looking for a slice of pizza, elevated trains passing on the tracks near the apartment, horns blaring from the streets below, and sirens from the fire engines pulling out of the 90th precinct piercing through it all. I stared at the ceiling for about fifteen minutes, hoping my head would stop throbbing and still felt a slight dizzy sensation that subsided when I carefully closed my eyes, drowning out the sounds I loved.

When I finally got out of bed, I opened the shades and saw nothing but gray. The Manhattan skyline disappeared in the low clouds, and in the opposite direction, the borough of Queens vanished in the autumn rain that was coming down at a steady rate. As I put some clothes on, I noticed a bra and a couple of used condoms sitting on my bed. My head throbbing even more from the thought of how much alcohol I may have consumed, I headed to the bathroom and took some pain relievers out of an open bottle that was on the sink and popped them in my mouth.

As I passed through the foyer on my way to the kitchen, the pungent aroma of coffee was enough to wake me up. How you feeling, man? I asked James, who sat at the dining room table, smoking his first cigarette of the day with some girl by his side.

Lousy, man, he replied, shaking his head from left to right. I took some of those pain relievers earlier this morning that you bought, and this damn headache won’t go away!

So take some more! I snapped back. That’s what I bought ‘em for. They usually help me with my hangovers. If you’re gonna complain, buy your own and stop taking mine.

I then grabbed a pack of Marlboros with some coffee from the kitchen counter. After pulling a cigarette out, I walked over to James and his girl.

Oh, this is Sara, he proudly mentioned as I lit my cigarette.

It was too early to be talking to people, and I really wanted to enjoy my cigarette in peace. Forcing myself to wake up, however, I nodded and sipped my coffee. Noticing a newspaper on the other end of the table, I reached over and immediately turned to the concert listings to see where various bands were playing.

Do you wanna see Collage down at Pier 42 tonight? I asked.

Damn, they’re an awesome cover band, he replied as he put his hands around her.

I wish I could go with you, but apparently, I promised Sara that I’d hang out with her tonight.

I then turned in Sara’s direction. You ever hear of a band called The X Factor? They’re also gonna be there.

Never heard of them, she quickly replied, sensing I was trying to get them to go with me. With that, she took James’s arm and pulled him outside for a smoke.

That night, as I walked down Broadway under the elevated tracks, the mist started to fall again like diamonds suspended in the air, and the lights from cars and corner grocery stores reflected on the wet pavement. The creatures of the night started stirring as well, despite the weather. Fat girls dressed in tight jeans, leather, or half-skirts leaned over opened windows of cars stopped at traffic lights. I tried to get over the feeling of emptiness and depression that the weather had brought. To keep my mind occupied, I thought about the songs I expected to hear.

I almost lost it when some of the girls came over to me; I wanted to tell them what they can do with themselves, if not make them physically feel what I felt emotionally. I ignored them and my urges and continued walking. The feeling of emptiness returned, however, and I couldn’t shake it. Something was missing from my life despite having everything I could ever want – drugs, girls, guitars, and a great family in the band and fans.

Once I reached Washington Plaza, by the foot of the Williamsburg Bridge, a crowd was standing outside waiting to get into Pier 42. The air was thick with anticipation, and an infectious energy charged through the rowdy crowd, which struck me immediately when I saw Tommy talking to a few people wearing Dever t-shirts. What little depression was left vanished when Raven ran over and hugged me, and together, we passed out some flyers and promoted some of our up-coming gigs.

I took a cigarette out of my pocket and lit it as I entered the club. Since Tommy and Raven went their own way, I found a seat at the bar and ordered a Birch, a mix of Red Bull and vodka. After a few minutes, The X Factor hit the stage running, as each member was extremely animated while ripping through each song. The crowd easily fed off the band’s energy and was moshing and headbanging from the first second until Collage was set to hit the stage, at which point I left the bar and joined everyone in front of the stage.

A few songs into Collage’s set, they played a cover of Godsmack’s Alive. A majority of the crowd screamed the lyrics back as they waved their fists high in the air. I found a small mosh pit and let loose. It almost felt good knowing my fist made contact with so many faces.

Spinning in circles, my limbs flailing in all directions, I thought I was seeing things out of the corner of my eye. I looked again, and she was still there. She had flowing, long, fine, dark blonde hair past her shoulders and appeared to be alone, as there were no guys with their hands around her, grinding to the music. Though she had a pink drink in hand, she didn’t strike me as the type of girl who would be at Pier 42. She looked humble by the fact that she wore no make-up and wasn’t out to impress anyone. She almost appeared angelic in her jeans, white shirt, and denim jacket, glowing from the reflection of the stage lights, which made me wonder why no one was with her. If her sad, yet luminescent smile spoke volumes about her, I missed it by wanting to take her to bed with me. For the first time, I felt torn over a girl, as I could not bring myself to talk to her. Maybe I was scared of hurting her like I had every other girl I’ve been with. My knees became weak and my palms started sweating. I carefully stepped out of the mosh pit, my hands trembling, and watched her smoke her cigarette, hoping she would see me and make her way over to where I was. But every time she looked in my direction, I turned away as if blinded by the sun.

After the show, I walked out of the club and saw it had stopped raining. I got myself under control and thought about what I would say as I waited for her by the exit. After staying for quite some time, I thought, Why get all worked up over some random girl? There’s millions in this city, and I can get any one of ‘em!

The girls in the streets that night had bodies one would die for and were enough to keep my mind off the girl at the club. If it weren’t getting close to one in the morning and I wasn’t so tired, I would have spent the night with one of them.

Back at the apartment, James was watching television with Sara in his lap. His arms were wrapped around her waist as he kissed her neck. Hey Sara, I said.

She replied, Hi, Scott, as James simultaneously asked, ‘Sup, man? How was the concert?

It was all right, I replied as I walked past Mike’s room, and he was in the middle of writing some lyrics. When he heard I was home, he opened the door and called me in.

Whattaya think about this? He asked, handing me a torn piece of paper with barely legible writing.

I’m too damn tired, Mike, I replied. I just wanna get some sleep.

James and I are still working on it, but just take a quick look, he insisted.

I took the piece of paper and started reading it:

"I wanna lay to rest any preconcepts that you hold toward me

If you can make the time, I’ll make it worth your while to rid you of hostility

You see in color, I see what’s wrong and right

Fuck what you’ve thought and your foolish pride

Wipe that smile right off your face

Walking so proud, what a disgrace

The more you focus on your own race

The further apart we grow in this time and space

I call your black jack and your Russian roulette

You’d better shut up now and stop spewing your shit

You wanna talk the talk and give us reason to hate?

I got news for you brotha, we don’t wanna relate

To your race card, stop spewing your shit

Fuck your race card, go burn your own bridge"

Sounds good, Mike! I replied as I closed my door, neglecting to think about how deep the lyrics were. James later told me it was about the Latisha Williams incident in the South Bronx. She was fatally shot by police for trying to run them over after a routine traffic stop, which sparked outrage and violent protests within the minority community across the tri-state area. One could easily see this wasn’t an issue of racial tension, as the officer, Diego Gonzales, was only trying to protect the other officers, who found stolen merchandise and loaded weapons in the car.

During the days and nights that followed, I became increasingly depressed and didn't feel like hanging out on the street corner with the guys. I couldn't care less about watching the girls pass by. All I cared about was the music, the drugs, and the booze, which I started using on a regular basis.

By the time Halloween rolled around, the drinking and drugs had taken their toll on me. Halloween was my favorite holiday because we usually threw huge parties at Pier 42. From there, everyone would pour into the streets or move to other nightclubs in the area. For some reason, I didn't feel the natural high that came with the holiday this year. I thought it was because Nick, one of Pier 42’s owners, was afraid of things getting out of hand like the previous years and cancelled the party.

That didn’t faze us; we invited all of our fans up to the apartment and threw a party of our own, blasting all types black and goth metal bands. A few girls brought rum