The crowd, some 700 strong,are clamouring for us nowwith a deafening roar. Theyjump up and down emittingshockwaves that cause pan-demonium backstage as

tables shake, instruments topple overand roadies dressed in black scrambleto hold everything down.

Cowering in the backstage tunnel, I feel as if I’m underwater, the world a slow-motion blur. The black Gibsonguitar slung around my neck feels alienand useless, like a gimcrack ornament.I’m panicking so much that I can’tremember the fingering for a rudimen-tary A chord. Stricken with stage fright,palms dripping with sweat, there’s aswell of apprehension rising in my chest.

Through a sliver between curtain andwall, I can see a small swatch of thestage, illuminated by hazy orange andindigo lights. These same black boardshave been stomped by Aretha Franklin,Motörhead, Chuck Berry and AliciaKeys in the past few months.

Next to me is Bruce Kulick, formerlead guitarist for Kiss, a man who hasregularly played gigs in front of up to100,000 screaming fans in stadiums allover the world. He looks at me, bass gui-tar at his waist, with a nervous, dartingmovement. ‘I’m scared, too,’ he says.‘And I do this for a living.’ And this guycan actually play. He has a reputation asone of the best guitarists in the business.

I am nervous to the point of needingpsychiatric treatment. I feel that I amabout to try to fool the people jammedto the rafters in BB King’s Club, on 42ndStreet, New York – all of whom havepaid $60 – in an unspeakable act offraud. I panic that in the next ten min-utes they are going to realise that I’m a terrible guitarist. When they do, I amgoing to be revealed to all these peopleas a shameless charlatan.

The MC announces us: ‘And now,

New York City – here’s Hell’s Kitchen!’My legs, which seem to act indepen-dently, carry me through the darkness ofthe wings and then out, squinting, intothe bright lights of the packed club. I tripover a cable and my plectrum slips out ofmy sweat-soaked hand. I bend to pick itup and lurch too close to the amplifier sothat a crackle of high-pitched feedbackissues from the speaker.

There’s a 4/4 beat, the drums kick inand the lead guitarist launches into thefirst riff of Bryan Adams’s Summer Of’69 with deafening, buzzsaw volume.And I ready myself to play the firstchord of the song, which, as it happens,is the wrong one…

Six days earlier, GibsonShowroom Studios, West54th Street, New York City:‘So,’ says the blonde behindreception, her nose wrin-kled with disdain, every

word dripping with snotty condescen-sion. ‘What you’re saying is that youhaven’t rehearsed at all for this?’

‘Erm, no,’ I say guiltily. ‘I didn’t thinkit mattered.’ My first introduction toRock ’n’ Roll Fantasy Camp was goingless smoothly than I would have hoped.It’s audition day and I’ve bowled in latewith a truckload of attitude but withoutthe requisite song to perform.

I am here to become a rock star. Theliterature for the 2006 New York CityRock ’n’ Roll Fantasy Camp promisedthat no musical experience was neces-sary. It also said that I would be ‘treatedlike a star for five days and nights’, alongwith getting expert tuition from famousrock stars. At the end of the week I wouldrecord a song and play live at New York’slegendary blues club, BB King’s, whilecompeting with other groups at thecamp in a battle of the bands.

Being treated like a rock star? Great, I thought, a week of being a prima

donna. I can tell people to remove all thebrown M&Ms from the bowl, just likeVan Halen, order the dressing room tobe painted green, à la Jennifer Lopez,and generally have a raucously fine time.

But as I make my way down to thestage for my audition under the Gibsonstudios, I soon discover that the peopleat Rock ’n’ Roll Fantasy Camp aren’tpretending at all. The room is heavingwith musicians tuning expensive-look-ing guitars, roadies running aboutconnecting cables, while in front of a huge stage is a long table lined withtalent judges. The whole set-up looksfrighteningly like Pop Idol or X Factor. I nervously scan the room, terrified thatI’ll have to play for Simon Cowell.

On stage, a guy in his early twentieswith a Phil Lynott-style Afro and a LedZeppelin T-shirt is belting out Layla ona cherry-red Les Paul with such bril-liance you have to look twice to see thatit isn’t Eric Clapton.

No musical experience necessary? Itlooks as if just being able to bang a tam-bourine like Linda McCartney won’t beenough here. Air guitarists, too, look tobe at a distinct disadvantage.

I sit down behind the judges. This alllooks very serious, I say to a woman onmy right. ‘I suppose it is,’ she says. ‘You’reEnglish, right? So is my husband.’

‘From Swansea, me,’ says a man withblond hair and spectacles, turning fromthe judging table. It is Spencer Davis,from the eponymous Sixties group. Heco-wrote the monster hit Gimme SomeLovin’. The more I look at the judges, theworse I feel. It looks like a line-up from aWho’s Who of rock. Isn’t that Peter Torkfrom the Monkees, albeit slightly

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Hey, teacher! Leave those blokes alone… they just want tolive out their rock-god fantasies. Jonathan Green pays hisdues at the US rock school that’s about to headline over here

Clockwise from right: Jonathan Greenplays rock star; BB King’s; Hell’s Kitchenlead singer Seth with ex-Kiss guitaristBruce Kulick; the adoring crowd at BBKing’s; the chord crib sheet for songs

▼

Tonight, I’m aROCK ’N’ ROLL STAR

PHOT

OG

RAP

HS

BY

DAV

ID H

OW

ELLS

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REPORTAGE

greyer and more wizened than in hisdays as a young pop star? And isn’t thatBarry Goodreau from the famed rockband Boston? Others include TeddyAndreadis, sometime keyboardist withGuns N’ Roses, and Jeff ‘Skunk’ Baxterfrom the Doobie Brothers and Steely Dan.

These are serious musicians, maybenot A-listers and perhaps only knownto those who sport mullet haircuts and can play the chord progression to Led Zeppelin’s Stairway To Heaven,but people who make a living playingstadium-rock concerts.

For the auditions, there is a listof classic songs to choosefrom – I opt for Free’s AllRight Now. I’ve been told toget a guitar from the Gibsonshowroom upstairs but there

isn’t time before my name is called.Instead, I suffer the indignity of havingto play a cowbell – ‘that’s all you’regonna get’, says one of the stagehands.

I slink to the very back of the stage,where I think I can be as anonymous aspossible. I begin to belt the cowbellwith gusto during the choruses, while abald guy in a Hawaiian shirt plays acream-coloured Fender Stratocastervery badly indeed. As I’m banging awayon the cowbell – probably out of timefor all I know – a swarthy guy in blackglasses and sandy-coloured croppedhair keeps looking at me from thejudges’ table with a deep frown.

I discover later he is Simon Kirke, one-time drummer with Bad Company andFree, the band who wrote the song we’replaying. The track seems to last for aneternity. I do my best not to look at him aswe lurch on, not so much butchering hissong but beating it over the head with ablunt instrument. It ends with an awfulcrash. The judges scribble down com-ments on their notepads.

I’m greeted by David Fishof, founderof the camp, as I leave the stage. For oneghastly moment, I think he is going tothrow me out for ruining things for peo-ple who have paid thousands to be here.

‘You’re playing a cowbell?’ he says tome incredulously. ‘We need to get you aguitar.’ And with that he fixes me upwith a £1,000 Gibson.

The day after the auditions we are allplaced into bands, along with a ‘coun-sellor’. Ours is Bruce Kulick. Thesedays, Kulick is based in Los Angeles andsports a goatee beard, ponytail and a gold-hoop earring. He turns up late tothe Ultrasound studios on New York’sWest Side with a hangover and jetlagafter coming straight off tour with hisreformed band, Grand Funk Railroad.‘OK, let’s see what you all can do,’ hesays, phlegmatically, slurping coffee.

He goes around the room and makeseach of the six band members play toassess their skill. First off is a drummer,Steve Duva, who works for designer Liz

Claiborne. He plays a rollicking drumsolo that would do Phil Collins proud.‘Great,’ says Bruce, encouraged.

Next up is lung doctor Charles Abate,52, who was sent to rock camp by hiswife as a present after years of playingin his bar band. He is an unexcitablecharacter, which belies his considerableskill on a guitar as he plays Hendrix’sFoxy Lady with the technical brillianceand accuracy of a surgeon, which he is.‘You’re lead guitar,’ says Bruce.

His good mood doesn’t last long.Steve Savistky, a fiftysomething metalstrader, who looks like a roadie for TheGrateful Dead, plays badly – but withgreat show – before a keyboard playerknown simply as Barry – in real life aventure capitalist – acquits himself tol-erably well. Then it’s my turn. Pullingmy guitar from its case, everyone fallsquiet, waiting to be dazzled.

At 16, I’d had classical guitar lessons.Try as I might, as soon as I got hold of aguitar it sounded like a tomcat beinggarroted. Undeterred, I formed a rockband called Purple Aphrodisiac. As Ipick up my guitar in rock school, I playone of the songs from those schooldays,House Of The Rising Sun. It still soundslike a cat being strangled.

‘OK, last year they gave me the editorof Guitar Magazine,’ says Bruce. ‘So Iguess this year it’s novices.’

Finally, he comes to Seth, the would-be star. He is an accountant by day, but

a frustrated rocker by night. Seth wearsa zany shirt, with the top button sensiblydone up and the sleeves rolled down,tucked into his well-ironed chinos. Helaunches into a wild dance, whilesinging with a nasal howl that soundslike Jerry Lewis on steroids. He stopsabruptly and stares at the floor, leavingthe rest of the band speechless.

Bruce realises it will be no easy taskto form this mismatched bunch withwildly differing musical abilities into acohesive band. In only four days wehave to learn to play two songs, whichwill be performed live, and write ourown song, which will be recorded. Yikes.

But, most pressingly, we have to comeup with a band name by lunchtime.After throwing round some ideas for a good two hours we decide to call ourselves Hell’s Kitchen.

Then the songs. After some fighting,we settle on Summer Of ’69 by BryanAdams and the punkish anthem What I Like About You by The Romantics,which suits Seth’s vocal delivery.

Bruce turns out to be a perfectionistand a demanding band leader. Once, aswe practise Summer Of ’69, he walksover and gives Steve a kick on the leg infrustration. ‘Why the hell are you play-ing the B section in the chorus?’ hestorms. He rages at Seth: ‘Sing like youmean this, like you want to get laid. Youneed to sing with passion!’

Other bands practise hard in the

rehearsal studios, breaking only for asnatched lunch. The conversation overtuna wraps is just like real band talk.Peter Tork of the Monkees gets into aheavy discussion with a camper, who isalso a psychologist, about alcoholism,depression and how to deal with it.‘Even if you manage to stop and thenstart drinking again 20 years later, yougo straight back to where you were,’says the former Monkee, morosely.

We return to work, and soon after gui-tar legend Joe Satriani visits each band.

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‘It’s hard to leavethe stage. We areall wide-eyed and pumped upwith adrenaline. I feel immortal’

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Clockwise from above,Green’s band Hell’s Kitchenon stage; the band list;Green with the AllmanBrothers’ Dickey Betts; thegroup receive their award

CYAN MAGENTA YELLOW BLACK

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Every day a famous musician visits thestudios to shake hands and even jamwith bands. Satriani at first refuses tojoin in, but gives in to our blandishments.We lay down a 12-bar blues while heplays with us over the top. It’s thrilling.

All week the pace doesn’t slacken.After rehearsals, at 9pm each night,there are various masterclasses given bythe counsellors. There are discussionson how to be a good frontman, how tosucceed in the music business, becom-ing a guitar maestro and various others.

The next day, it emerges that Barryand Bruce have become the Lennon andMcCartney of Hell’s Kitchen. They’vebeen up all night writing the band’ssong, One Time At Band Camp. It’s apunky little number about groupies andguitar heroes. Seth loves it.

We practise it over and over againuntil it begins to grate on my nerves.What I am quickly learning is that beinga rock star is made to look deceptivelyeasy. This whole week is fantasticallyhard work and requires 100 per cent

concentration. This is the rock ’n’ rollequivalent of a military boot camp. Wework so hard that I develop calluses anda tingling in my fingertips caused byholding down steel guitar strings fornine hours a day. I am also partially deaf-ened by standing in a small room withterribly loud rock music.

On the Wednesday, we have drawnthe first slot to record our song. Thistakes place at the recording studio atSirius Radio, where shock-jock HowardStern does his show. Remarkably, myapprehension proves ill-founded – itgoes without a hitch.

The next day, the day we are to play live, tempers finallybegin to fray with pre-perfor-mance nerves. Just like in aregular band, we start to hateeach other. Bruce demands to

know what everyone is wearing on stageand nudges Barry to put on somethingmore dashing than shorts and sandals.

Shortly afterwards, Seth loses his

voice after performing for an ABC tele-vision crew touring the camp who hadasked for a demonstration of our set.Seth had been only too happy to oblige,but is now paying the price. He scuttlesto get a drink of honey and lemon,entirely freaked out that his big momenton stage may be scuppered.

We hear that we will be playing withtwo stars. Dickey Betts will join us onSummer Of ’69 and Jon Anderson of Yeswill play on What I Like About You.

After a nervous bus ride to BB King’s,we pull eighth slot, while a slowlyamassing crowd spills through thedoors. Some of the bands are terrific. Arousing version of The Ramones’ I Wanna Be Sedated by Stolen Moneygets people pumping the air.

Soon after it’s our turn. Climbing thesix steps to the stage is horrifying: stagetechnicians shout directions aboutwhere to plug in, Bruce directs with anedgy formality, while I feel myself beingscrutinised by 700 pairs of eyes.

Jittering with shock in the harsh stage

lights, I’m so nervous that I form thewrong opening chord to Summer Of ’69.My fingers are so sweaty they keep slid-ing off the steel strings. Mercifully, justbefore my cue, I make the first down-stroke. I realise the song starts with a Dand not an A. I blast it out when the songstarts with a glorious Townshend-esquesweep of my arm. Sweaty faces at thefront of the stage whoop and cheer, oth-ers start to dance. It’s electrifying.

Emboldened, over the next threeminutes I pull every air-guitar pose I have ever mimed in guilty pleasurealone in my house. It’s cathartic, exceptI’m really playing and the noise blaringout of the amps over all these heads intothe cavernous darkness of the club iscoming out of my guitar.

Dickey Betts, dressed in signaturecowboy hat, plays next to me, improvis-ing over the chords we lay down. Theadulation of the crowd while playingwith a guitar legend is an intoxicatingmix. At the end of the song, Dickeyunplugs his guitar and turns to walk offstage. ‘Good job, man,’ he says, clappingme on the back. I’m beaming withpride. I feel immortal.

It’s hard to leave the stage – we are allwide-eyed and pumped up with adren-aline. None of us wants the feeling toend. We rush to the bar and drink,deeply and heavily, savouring the thrillof that mystical on-stage alchemy.

It is utterly addictive. As we slinkback into obscurity by the minute I canunderstand why rock stars and actorshave such problems with drugs andalcohol when the adulation has gone.

Bruce Kulick, the career rock star,explains. ‘When you’re playing to50,000 people, and they are all scream-ing for you and everything you do, thathigh is indescribable. People wonderwhy rock stars become heroin addicts.Well, that’s possibly the only thing thatcomes close to the rush.’

We didn’t win the battle of the bands,but that didn’t matter to any of us. Itwas just enough to feel that giddy magicof performing live. The honour went tothe improbably named Beauty And TheBeasts Featuring Angelina’s Baby.

The experience and the camp itselfhad changed all of us. Barry, the key-boardist, gave a CD of songs he hadwritten to Simon Kirke, who is nowworking with him to produce themwith professional musicians. And, perhaps the most transmogrified of allof us, Seth, didn’t seem to look like anaccountant any more. He walkedaround with his shoulders back and agleam in his eye.

‘Oh, man, did you see those girls look-ing at me?’ he said, virtually ablaze withpride. ‘At me!’ ■America’s next Rock ’n’ Roll Fantasytakes place in Hollywood, California,from February 15–19. Visit rockandroll-fantasycamp.com

David Fishof, the manresponsible for reunitingThe Monkees andorchestrating rock ’n’ rolltours for veteran rockerssuch as Roger Daltrey, isbringing his Rock ’n’ RollFantasy Camp to the UKthis spring.

The five-day camp, fromMay 24–28, gives wannaberockers the chance to jamwith some of music’sbiggest stars, including

Jack Bruce of Cream and Gary Brooker of ProcolHarum. The recording and battle of the bands part of the camp will take place at the famousAbbey Road Studios innorthwest London.

Camp counsellors willinclude Spencer Davis(Spencer Davis Group), Neil Murray (Whitesnakeand Black Sabbath), SimonKirke (Bad Company and

Free) and Jamie Moses(Mike & The Mechanics, The Pretenders).

If that’s not enough, youcan add on a sixth day andplay live at the Cavern Clubin Liverpool, spiritual homeof The Beatles. Just don’texpect the fans to bescreaming in the aisles…Places cost £9,095. For moredetails, or to book, call 0845094 3256, or visit rockandrollfantasycamp.com

FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK…

REAL STAR TURNSOne of the highlights of checking in at Rock’n’ Roll Fantasy Camp is the chance to playwith some of the biggest names in rock.Among those acting as counsellors – one is assigned to each band at camp –are Spencer Davis, drummer Artimus Pyleof Lynyrd Skynyrd, Bruce Kulick of Kiss, andthe Allman Brothers’ Dickey Betts. But thereal treat comes in the form of thelegendary rock starswho drop by to giveencouragement andadd a dusting ofglamour to theproceedings. Theseinclude The Who’sRoger Daltrey, (above), Nils Lofgren (The E Street Band), Jon Anderson (Yes), TheBeach Boys’ Mike Love and Brian Wilson(right) and MickyDolenz (The Monkees)– proving that there is rock ’n’ roll life after the groupies,rehab and the finalcomeback tour…