I SAVED BILLY GIBBONS OF ZZ TOP FROM A CACTUS

A surreal night of Hollywood excess with the guy who sings “Legs.”

It’s roughly 11:30 PM. I am piloting my space blue Dodge Dakota down Sunset Boulevard, heading West in the crush of late night, mid-revelry traffic. I am rarely if ever in this part of town but tonight has called for an exception to my firm and lifelong “no Hollywood” rule. I am driving… distracted. In part by the hectoliter of tequila assailing my guts and hazing my vision, in larger part by my unlikely passengers.

Behind me sits a man whose name I cannot recollect if I ever knew it then. We’ll call him The Handler because that’s what he is. The Handler is a lanky, jittery type who says little but oozes nerves from the cramped backseat, knowing he has entrusted precious cargo – my other passenger – to a boozed-up outsider, a civilian. The Handler has one clear objective: To get his boss home, quickly and without incident.

I gaze over at this boss, this other man, slumped beside me in the shotgun seat, drunken face pressed to the window, neon signs and winter moonlight reflecting in his wraparound shades. He is middle-aged and slight, barely there beneath a sleek black blazer and some kind of woven skullcap, from which dangles floppy strands of gray fabric. But what he lacks in stature he more than makes up for in facial hair. A dense mass of auburn-tinged mane blankets the entirety of his lower face and drapes halfway down his lanky, waifish frame. It’s a beard I know. It’s a beard I have always known. It is the most iconic beard in the history of beards.

It is the beard of Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top.

Billy raps the window with one of many cartoonishly large rings on his hand and, in a thick, lived-in Texas drawl, slurs…

“This way G-Man.”

I turn off Sunset and we head up into the Hills.

---

In the Winter of 2003 it was decided the production wing in which I worked – that responsible for Behind the Music – would churn out a series of limited specials focused on Hip-Hop, Bubblegum Pop and, for unclear reasons, the link between automobiles and rock music. It was also decided this later special would be called “Dashboard Dreams” because even though that title has no real meaning, all things must be alliterative.¹

So we booked a bunch of “rock people who sing about cars” to discuss why they do it and wax romantic on the mystical bond betwixt music and machine: Bob Seger, Brian Setzer, James Hetfield, Mike Ness, Sammy Hagar, Wayne Kramer of the MC5 and David Lee Roth.

Yes, Diamond David Lee Roth is wearing an Eddie Bauer cap in this image.

Two quick notes here:

- Also featured in Dashboard was then-famous Master P, whose interview took place inside a green Bentley, onto the passenger seat of which he dumped a massive wad of hundreds, before ghost-riding said whip in his circular driveway.

- We also interviewed John McCrea of Cake – a booking my superiors were vehemently opposed to despite his long list of stellar car-centric songs. John was written off as “another one of Heller’s indie nobodies,” but I booked him anyway and flew him down from Sacramento. His inclusion provided a fantastic, cerebral, counterpoint to the Greek chorus of red-blooded and rockist old dudes. He also shared this story which has almost nothing do with this post, but which I have always loved.

06:12:05 GREG HELLER: Is there something about driving, about moving in a car, that makes music sound better?

06:12:12 JOHN MCCREA: Yeah, because, because it's a power trip. A friend of mine, uh, when he was a teenager was driving his car after a couple beers and listening to the song, uh, Highway to Hell and crashed into a tree and, uh, so there was a sense of surging, of being more powerful than you are, a sensation that I think happens with music and motion. You know, we're just ape creatures, we're not really made to go that fast and we become godlike when we do. And it really sort of woke him up and shook him really hard and made him feel like he had to get his life together. Because, you know, here he was, injured, wrapped around a tree and the song was still playing (laugh) You know, “Don't stop me!” And so he took it as some sort of message from God.

Wonderful stuff.

And of course, we booked Billy Gibbons. ZZ Top are indelibly linked to hot rods or muscle cars or whatever and his presence in the show felt essential, second only to Springsteen who declined to take part and also refused to license “Born to Run.” Thanks a lot, The Boss.

We spent several days shooting with Billy and his collection of shiny, modified rides, many of which were “slammed” - which is how car guys say “lowered” - a fetish I have never entirely grasped, but apparently bottoming-out at every curb-cut and speedbump is boner fuel for motorheads. Our primary shoot with him was at some kind of automotive custom shop in the Inland Empire during which he handed out to the crew dozens of ZZ Top keychains – known from the canonical Eliminator-era videos – which he carries on his slender person at all times for this exact purpose.

“But I’m just a lowly, dirt-faced gas-pumping kid? No WAY am I worthy of driving that red car, unless… these keys can also unlock something inside of me! Some kind of inner cool, dormant until now. Thank you mystical bearded roadside apparitions!”

And here I am with Billy on set, striking the obligatory “they went that way” pose as made famous in the “Gimme All Your Lovin’” clip referenced above. I can only assume he has snapped this exact pic with ten hundred billion fans but nonetheless, I felt duty-bound to do it and have zero regret save for the backwards baseball cap. As for the thing on Billy’s head - which he’s worn in nearly every picture for the past 20 years - it’s the traditional headwear of the Bamileke people in Cameroon and was gifted to him by a tribal chief there in exchange for his own ten gallon cowboy hat. No, really. That’s true. Which means it’s possible that, at this exact moment, somewhere in Cameroon, some tribal chief is cruising around in a Stetson.

When we wrapped, Billy – who had taken to calling me “The G-Man” - offered up a ride in Slampala (all of his cars have punny names, see also: CadZZila), and we wound up at some local Mexican joint sharing soggy enchiladas and Tecate by the pitcher.

I snapped this pic on the way to lunch.

“Oh and one time, your father and I saw that beard guy from The ZZ Tops in a parking lot outside our favorite Mexican restaurant.” - That woman in the blue shirt, 10,000 times until she died, probably.

It was at this lunch Billy and I bonded over a shared love of the blues which, to be honest, I neither love nor have. I guess at times in my life I have technically been afflicted with the blues – known to Jews as “clinical depression” – but the music itself has often struck me as wearying and same-y. And I know that’s sorta that point but I’d rather take a shiv to the peehole than suffer through any of B.B. King’s 5000 duplicate solos. Still, I know enough about Elmore James and Junior Kimbrough to navigate a blues dialogue. And Billy did most of the talking anyway.

It was also at this lunch, Billy pitched me on a show idea, falsely assuming I had the clout to get it made. The basic concept was that he would travel through the Deep South in one of his classic cars - the trunk of which was outfitted with built-in guitar amps - visiting seminal blues haunts. And – when so inspired – he would pull over, plug a guitar into these trunk-amps and peel off some licks. He called this concept “Billy Gibbons’s Blues Cruize” (yes, he specified the Z in cruise).

Not a bad idea actually, but the notion of waltzing into the C-suite at VH1 and requesting several million dollars to film a 55-year-old man jamming at The Crossroads from the trunk of his car was… not gonna happen. Dashboard Dreams was an outlier. But he was persistent and infinitely charming in the exact Texas-y way you imagine him to be. A genuinely sweet guy, as passionate about music as he was disconnected from the reality of basic cable mandates.

Billy was adamant we continue discussing plans for the Blues Cruize and asked me to join him for dinner the following evening at El Compadre in Hollywood, an historic and terrible Mexican joint in Hollywood, where Sunset Strip d-bags have for many years assembled to pound watery margaritas and gorge on unnaturally green guac². I said yes. Of course.

The disgusting, neon-green guac at El Compadre. Get outta here with this shit.

---

Rock stars – particularly older ones – are just sort of these… autonomous storytelling jukeboxes. In some sense they are not unlike regular old men who spin yarn on repeat. But unlike your Great Uncle Morris, who counts among his greatest hits, “That one time I saw Joe Namath at a Denny’s in Hoboken,” their stories are sometimes interesting, and always expertly unfurled, with color and tension, each delivered as though a secret, for your ears only, despite the certainty they’ve been told and retold to anyone who ever entered in the star’s orbit.

That evening at El Compadre, over predictably bad tacos³ and the aforemaligned guac, Billy churned out tale after tale, most with A-list cameos, all of them redolent with delicious excess. Few of these have survived in sharp relief and those that have are not mine to dispense, but I do recall, vividly, how I sat there grinning, basking in the joy he clearly experienced from sharing each one for fresh ears.

As the meal came to a close, Billy suggested we repair to his place to down a few more drinks and spin some records. The Handler – who had uttered a sum total of none words at dinner - appeared displeased at this offer, but I was Cuervo’d to the gills and ready to afterparty with the guy from ZZ Top. How exactly it was decided that I should drive I do not recall. This was pre-Uber/Lyft and while you’d imagine Billy Gibbons can simply stand in the street and, with a Texas-sized whistle, summon a chopped, cherry-red coupe with leggy blondes at the wheel, on this night, a 2000 Dodge Dakota and soused Hebrew would have to suffice.

So we piled into my pickup and off we sped into the Hollywood night…

---

We turn off Sunset and make our way up into the hills, eventually arriving at Chez Gibbons – a massive Spanish villa tucked behind rows of palm and eucalyptus trees. The imposing gate rolls back, and I slowly ease the Dakota down his driveway, coming to a halt steps from the front door where stands a large cactus garden.

Billy in his cactus garden. I didn’t take this picture and it is not from the evening in question, but this is where the SPINE TINGLING action detailed below took place.

Billy spills out of the passenger side, staggering like a newborn gazelle, as The Handler rushes to right him. He then asks me a question I had never been asked, have not been asked since, and do not anticipate ever being asked again:

“G-Man, you wanna sign my cactus?”

Moi? Do I wanna be immortalized on Billy Gibbons’s succulent? Fuck yeah I’ll sign your cactus, guy who sings “Tush.”

I scamper back to the Dakota and excitedly dig out a ball-point from the center console, then return to the cacti. Billy motions to a paddle, indicating a spot between the spines where I should sign. But, having never before autographed a cactus, I am unaware that you don’t simply write your name, you must dig the pen into the actual plant matter – carving as it were – which sort of “scars” the paddle with your autograph. Again, first time.

Seeing my inexperience, Billy chuckles and drawls out a “No, no G-man,” then swipes the pen from my hand to show a noob how it’s done. But as he leans in to demonstrate proper technique, he lists a bit too far forward, threatening to drunkenly nosedive into the cactus, at which point I rush into action - wrapping my arms around him, gripping his slender torso in a desperate effort to save his hirsute face from impalement on a bed of beard-piercing spines.

And just like that, I am clutching Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top. Tightly.

The Handler rushes to our aid and we manage to save Billy from any major damage, but it’s clear this evening is heading south in a hurry. What’s less clear is if I’m still invited in. But a true G-Man never says die. So when The Handler helps Billy into the villa, I follow.

What I recall most about Billy’s home is how oddly austere it was. A place you’d imagine ornamented with shiny hubcaps, old license plates, taxidermed armadillos or other such blues-y décor was in fact closer to an art gallery, almost eerily minimalist. But then again, I suppose it’s dumb to expect a multi-millionaire would fashion his hilltop mansion after a ramshackle juke joint.⁴

Almost immediately on entry, The Handler ushers Billy towards a massive staircase and begins the not-very-arduous task of hauling his tiny body up to bed. By this point I have sobered enough to realize I cannot drive and make this known to The Handler who, perhaps fearing the next day’s headline (“Hammered Basic Cable Producer Wraps Crappy Dodge Around Palm Tree After Boozeathon with Billy Gibbons”), angrily points me to a couch and indicates I can crash there.

I watch as Billy and The Handler vanish from view, leaving me alone in the silence of the house that “Legs” built. I think to wander around a bit, but The Handler’s menacing vibes have the fear of God in me, so instead I make my way to the designated couch, positioned in a stately, nearby living room. I lay there for a few hours, admiring a wall-mounted display of artfully lit African masks⁵ then sleep for like, 45 minutes, until the blue light of dawn appears out Billy’s windows, at which point I leave and go to Jack in the Box.

I never saw or heard from Billy Gibbons again.

I have thought back many times on this evening and its possible significance. Perhaps it was in some way a pinnacle of the trust I was able to earn from subjects, who saw me as more person than producer. Or perhaps to Billy I was simply the means to an end, something to ply with booze and storied company, if that was the price of seeing his passion project, his beloved Blues Cruize⁶, come to life. More likely, the significance is… nothing. It’s just a thing I did.

But as it happened, Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top was one of several famous people to ride shotgun in the Dakota. Stranger things were still to come in this surreal season of my life.

1. I 100% blame the propagation of “Taco Tuesday” for our collective dependence on alliteration. Fuck Taco Tuesday. And also, fuck Margarita Monday, Thirsty Thursday and Fajita Friday. But props to any place that hosts a Huarache Wednesday. I’m good with those.

2. There was always a rumor that the bar staff at El Compadre sold blow, and that many people went here for this exact reason. I have no idea if it’s true, but it would make way more sense than going there to eat the food.

3. El Compadre puts lettuce on their tacos and there is no reason to ever put lettuce on a taco. Don’t do it.

4. It’s worth noting that Mr. Gibbons had a somewhat erudite upbringing. He’s the son of one Frederick Royal, a celebrated concert pianist who worked for MGM Studios alongside his cousin, 11-time Oscar-winning art director, Cedric Gibbons. Long before the hot rods, leggy blondes and nasty blues riffs, Teenage Billy even attended the famed Warner Brothers Art Academy. But hey, Joe Strummer was the boarding-schooled son of an MBE-awarded UK diplomat. On some level, it’s all bullshit folks.

5. Billy does in fact house a significant collection of principally West African artwork and artifacts, gathered over many trips to the region in search of the distant origins of blues music. Deploy this fact - plus the origin story of his skullcap - to seem remarkably informed on ZZ Top minutiae the next time they come up at a dinner party. When some jackass is all, “Hey, did you know the drummer in ZZ Top was named Frank Beard and he’s the only one WITHOUT A BEARD lolol.” You can be like, “Who gives a shit. Did you know Billy Gibbons’s ubiquitous woven skullcap was a gift from tribal elders in Cameroon?”

6. I did actually pitch this series to my superiors. As TV execs often do when they’re blatantly disinterested in a concept, they said some version of “Get us some materials and we’ll give it a look.” Billy provided no materials and I had no real interest in generating any. Plus the network was already pivoting to those “aging b-list rock star seeks love in a McMansion full of ex-strippers” shows.