During high school, Call and Knapp played in different garage bands around Panama, eventually joining together for a short time in a band called Virgin. Its drummer soon relocated to Texas, and Call was hot on his heels. Compared to Panama's dull music scene, Texas seemed like a land of golden opportunities. "After [high-school] graduation, Darren left for New York for college, and I left for Texas. But we always kept in touch." In a short while, Call received a letter from Knapp, saying that college, basically, sucked. Call convinced Knapp to move to Texas to rock out. This was in 1986, at the height of heavy metal's popularity. Knapp made it to Texas, and both he and Call worked odd jobs in manufacturing plants while city-hopping around the state -- El Paso, San Antonio, Austin. It wasn't until Call and Knapp discovered the Metroplex in 1987 that they decided to settle down. "Our first night in Dallas," Call said, "we knew: This was the place." With some acquaintances, the duo formed Aska around 1990 and began gigging everywhere heavy metal was welcome: The Basement, Dallas City Limits, Joe's Garage, On The Rocks, Smokin' Dave's, Savvy's. "Since we've begun," Call said with resignation in his voice, "the metal scene here has taken a nose-dive. All those places, man, you'd see bitches in Spandex, dudes in leather. The drinking age was 18 then. When that changed, metal clubs weren't really lucrative anymore." In 1992, after a gig at The Basement, Aska was approached by a USO promoter and asked to tour. No one in the band believed the guy. What he was saying not only sounded too good to be true but just not right: Call and company thought USO tours were chiefly gravy gigs for NFL cheerleaders and washed-up comedians. But eventually -- on a plane to Saudi Arabia -- the boys in the band realized that what was happening was for real. ("And when we got back," Call said, "all those clubs had shut down or were in the process of closing down.") Getting invited to perform overseas was a blessing: Grunge, in its rawness, was at the time making mainstream metal, by comparison, appear calculated, self-interested, corporate -- everything new anti-establishmentistas believed was evil about life under Reagan and Bush Sr. The band faced a dilemma: Either play to adoring fans across the ocean or play to no one at home. The choice was a no-brainer. "We were living the rock-star lifestyle," Call said of Aska's 14 overseas tours, "but clean. No drugs, none of that. Just lots of fucking." Here, Call paused for a second, possibly realizing how he may have talked himself into a cliché. He continued: "Lots of fucking -- of Daryl and Keith." Throughout their years of international touring, Aska managed -- first -- to cut four c.d.'s, and -- second -- to somehow remain devoted to heavy metal. "We're as young as we feel," Call said. "Those people who give up on the stuff that gives them joy -- like comic books, video games, whatever; like that gospel verse: 'I became a man, and put away childish things' -- then you become what? A codger? Life is to be enjoyed. You get one go-around. This is it. What are you gonna do? Enjoy it and leave a legacy and have a blast and not have to conform to society's standards? Life is a rat race if you conform -- that's the part they leave out. It's a sad philosophy that I know Europe doesn't have. And that's probably why they're into metal."
One thing you need to know about Call: He can work a room -- especially if there are attractive women in it. And it's not until I spend a few more days with him in the presence of good-looking gals that I realize that his ultimate goal with them is not necessarily sex (he says his wife Becky is "the most beautiful girl in the world") or even a "connection": All Call really wants is to sell these ladies a c.d. and -- more importantly -- get them to show up at upcoming Aska gigs. ("The chicks," he said, "bring the guys!") Call says his marital fidelity and sharp business acumen make him a "dork" in this way -- but he's a happy one. It's an experience being around Call when uninitiated Aska fans are everywhere, ostensibly looking to be initiated. Throughout our meal, Call's head was on a swivel. He wasn't even finished with his beef fajitas when he was already making small talk with the Australian family in the booth behind him. The evening was memorable for, if nothing else, seeing how Call can commandeer whatever minimal spotlight's available: Josh, on a tip from a fellow worker, unmasked Call and Knight as impostors yet ponied up $16 for a copy of Avenger (which Call conveniently had stashed in his vintage Corvette out in the parking lot); Jennifer, an attractive Korean waitress, came this close to buying a c.d. but changed her mind at the last minute; and all of Don Pablo's knew who in the hell Aska was by the time we left. At the Canyon Club a few days later, Call's charisma was still on full-throttle, but the room he was working wasn't so receptive. These club folk apparently see Call's kind every day, and it's not that they were unimpressed with him, it's that they were apparently too worn-out, too busy to respond to the rocker's good-natured shtick. The big story of the night was that Judas Priest had essentially instituted martial law over the place, and everybody's asshole was tight. The club manager laid down the ground rules. No one but performing musicians was allowed near the backstage area (a room about as spacious as a Motel 6 bathroom but with nowhere to sit). No one except bandmembers and club personnel was allowed in the performance area during sound check (both Knight's wife and Damon's girlfriend were removed). And no one -- not even the opening performers -- could get anyone in on the guest list (there basically was no guest list). Worse, for Aska, their performance duration had been reduced to 30 minutes. This meant that their set list had to shrink to a handful of songs. Since Aska was performing first, the band was asked to run through a song to help the soundman get the levels on his mixing board "right." The band happily obliged. |
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