Undercover Steve
Flashing back on an unforgettable character from my record store days
When most people think of Dr. Feelgood, Mötley Crüe’s chart-topping album from 1989, they think of songs like the title track and “Kickstart My Heart”. Or maybe they think of Nikki Sixx’s tawdry tales of addiction and overdose, or maybe they just think of gratuitous umlaut usage. But that album always makes me think of Steve.
I wrote last month about how, despite the daily chafing presence of various entitled customers, there were certain regular patrons at See Hear, the Chicago record shop where I worked from 1989 to 1993, whom I was always delighted to see. Steve was one of them.
Steve was a cop, one of many who patronized our store on a regular basis. Ken, the store’s owner, would give discounts to police men and women from the local precinct; he said he did it to keep a regular police presence in the store — thereby lessening the likelihood of a hold-up during business hours (a not entirely paranoid scenario back when Old Town was still a tad on the seedy side) — but we all knew it was really because he dug cops. Ken was a real “man’s man” who kept a crossbow in full view behind the back counter, and kept several handguns hidden in various drawers and cupboards throughout the store. He loved to talk about weaponry with the cops who came in, and hear their latest tales of perp chases and takedowns.
Steve wasn’t like the other cops who came in, though. For one thing, his work outfit usually consisted of jeans, work boots, a hoodie under a black denim jacket and mirrored aviator shades, and he wore his hair in a long black ponytail that was pulled back under a baseball cap. I thought of him as “Undercover Steve,” but the one time I called him that he firmly corrected me. “I’m plainclothes,” he said. “‘Undercover’ means you’re a cop whose assignment is to pretend to be somebody else. Everybody out on the street here knows that I’m a cop, but my job is to blend in.”
I thought that was kind of hilarious, because I couldn’t imagine him blending in anywhere; Steve was definitely the kind of guy who would stick out like a sore thumb on any street, and not just because of his outfits, long hair or general air of jittery intensity. He was tall and rail-skinny to the point of desiccation, with a pronounced nose that would have marked him as a Member of the Tribe even if you didn’t already know his last name. He looked kind of like Howard Stern would if you’d left him in your backyard for a couple of years.
Steve didn’t like to talk about guns or perps; rock and roll was way more his speed. The first time I ever spoke to him, he was pleasantly surprised by the fact that I was playing the first New York Dolls album in the store. “I useta see the Dolls all the time,” he told me with a pronounced Noo Yawk accent. “Mercer Arts Center, Max’s Kansas City — still the best band I ever saw!”
He was the first person I’d ever met who had actually seen the legendary Dolls in action, so I was pretty impressed. I could never ascertain how he’d gone from 70s NYC rock n’ roll scenester to Chicago plainclothes cop, but it was clear that he still lived for stuff like the Dolls, Faces, T. Rex, etc; the only newer music he liked at all was recent Aerosmith and the Crüe’s Dr. Feelgood. “I’m not a metal fan,” he told me in late ‘89, “but that Crüe album swings pretty fuckin’ hard!”
I’d graduated college in the spring of ‘89 and moved back to Chicago, where I formed Lava Sutra with my high school pal Jason and my college pal Bob. We’d been jamming and writing songs together since the summer, and after finally finding a drummer we were ready to ring in the new decade with our first-ever gig. Our friends in the band God’s Acre got us the opening slot at Lounge Ax, on a bill with them and Iowa psych-popsters The Dangtrippers, and that was a pretty big deal for us — it was a mid-week show at the end of January, but Lounge Ax was our favorite club, and we knew that the combination of bands would draw a pretty big crowd.
We were, of course, bugging everyone we knew to come see our stage debut; and so when Steve came into the store a few days before the show, I handed him a flier. “Oh, cool,” he said. “What do you guys sound like?”
Ah, the eternal question, one which we would never really come up with a satisfactory, non-wiseass answer for in the four years I was in the band. “Uhhh… it’s kind of psychedelic hard rock,” I told him. “But I learned to play guitar to New York Dolls and Johnny Thunders records, so some of that’s in there, too!” Which was true — and I did think we brought enough forward momentum and twin-guitar clatter to to the table to entertain someone of his particular listening persuasion. But I didn’t actually expect him to show up at the gig…
Soundchecking before a show is always something of a nerve-wracking experience, but all the more so if you’re doing it right before the first gig you and your band have ever played together. As the first band on at Lounge Ax that night, we were the last to soundcheck, hauling our gear onstage with just 15 minutes to go before the club’s doors opened to the public. We frantically plugged in our guitars and pedals, our hands shaking from adrenaline, hoping to be able to run through a couple of songs before we were officially unveiled to the world.
For some reason we chose “Driving in the Hook,” a distinctly not-great song I’d written about torture and homoeroticism on the high seas, as our first song to check with. We finished the song to a smattering of applause from the Acre dudes, and were just about to go into our second and last song of the soundcheck when the soundman’s voice came ringing through the monitors.
“Is one of you guys named Dan? There’s someone on the phone for you — says it’s an emergency.”
Well, fuck. I gave an apologetic shrug to my bandmates, hopped down from the stage and ran over to the bar to grab the phone.
“Hello?”
“Dan, it’s Steve,” croaked the voice on the other end. “I’m coming to your show. Can you get me and my date on the guest list?”
Relieved that it wasn’t an actual emergency, but annoyed as hell that his stunt had caused us to forfeit the rest of our soundcheck, I tersely told him that we were the low band on the evening’s totem pole, and thus were only given enough guest list spots for our girlfriends. “That’s cool, man,” he said. “I’ll see ya soon.”
He wasn’t lying. Ten minutes later, I was standing at the back end of the bar when I saw Steve lurch into view, done up in complete “rock” mode. He was wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket, a black silk shirt open about halfway down his torso, and black stretch jeans with a skull-and-crossbones pattern tucked into black suede boots. His hair hung down past his shoulder blades and was parted in the center; everything right of the part was dyed jet black, and everything to the left of it was bleached blonde. The mirrored shades remained in place, as ever.
He staggered towards me and wrapped a conspiratorial arm around my shoulder. “Dude,” he whispered into my ear with a gust of nostril-singeing foulness. “I been drinkin’ booze, I been takin’ downers!” I was inclined to believe him.
Steve then introduced me to his “date,” a small, prim, secretarial type who looked like she would have rather been just about anywhere else in the world at that moment. They seemed to have absolutely zero in common; I figured she must have agreed in a moment of weakness to go out with him, and was now really regretting it. I felt really sorry for her, but I had no idea what to say to either of them. Thankfully, duty called; not for the last time, the requirement of my presence onstage extricated me from some severe social awkwardness.
The gig turned out to be extremely well-attended, our set went over surprisingly well, and the entire night wound up being a complete and utter blast. I was so wrapped up in watching the other bands, talking to folks and basking in the post-performance afterglow that I didn’t see Steve and his date leave; in fact, I kind of forgot all about him until the wee hours of the morning, when we were all packing up our equipment and shooting the good-natured shit.
“Oh my god,” said the Dangtrippers lead singer. “Did you see that guy with the skulls on his pants?”
“Haha, yeah,” laughed Brendan, God’s Acre’s drummer. “He looked like an undercover cop!”
“Actually, I know that guy,” I replied. “And he IS an undercover cop!”
Everyone fell about laughing. It felt like the perfect note to end the night on…
Steve came into the store once or twice after that, and then he stopped coming in at all. The next time I saw his plainclothes partner, a cop known as “Cockeye,” I asked if he knew what had happened to Steve. Turned out he’d fallen off a roof while chasing a perp, and was currently recovering in the hospital. I asked when he was projected to be back on duty, and Cockeye just laughed. Apparently, a nurse had come into Steve’s room and discovered him hoovering a gigantic line of coke off his hospital dinner tray, and waving a handgun around his head. “It’s okay,” he assured her. “I’m a police officer!”
I never did see Steve again.
I'm hearing the beginnings of a song here, titled Undercover Steve, natch!