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Jazz Humor

Hot Rod Jazz God, Part 2: An Open Letter to Rod Stewart

By Published: May 28, 2013
You have three houses: one in LA, one in UK and one in the Caymans. Coincidentally, I have three rooms—the LA bedroom, the UK closet and the Caymans toilet—in the garage where I live behind my parents' house. Check.

At 65 you married Penny Lancaster, age 32. I look forward to celebrating the birth of my future wife in 2018. Check.

You're not above a little ass-shaking on stage. You claim it gets the audience excited. So I started shaking my ass on the gig and using the tip jar as a tambourine. Check.

Your hair is your signature. You devote an entire chapter to it. How, in the early days, you used to wash it, style it, then bend over and stick your head in the oven to dry it. I tried explaining that to the burn doctor at the county hospital. Check.

You have your own full-sized soccer field in back of your UK house. I've got a bag of grass that I smoke in the back alley before the gig. Check.

You collect expensive Pre-Ralph art. I have a subscription to Playboy. Check.

In the '80s you were heavily into snorting cocaine until you destroyed your nasal passages. Then you started shoving coke suppositories up your ass. I'll stick to black coffee between sets.

You're notorious for dating supermodels like Kelly LeBrock, Rachel Hunter and Kelly Emberg. Check, check and check. If you could just forward me their numbers, bro, that would be great.

When I finished your book, I admit, I was inspired. Rod is good. If fact, Rod is great. Especially for struggling jazz musicians who are desperate to jump start their pathetic careers. To them I say, Trust in Rod. Give yourself to Rod. Accept Rod as your jazz savior.

I did. But I soon discovered that following in your footsteps isn't easy. For months I busted my butt being sexy, vain, and unoriginal—24/7. Some days I felt like I just couldn't do it anymore. It got to the point where I'd sit in front of the mirror for hours and think, WWRD?

What Would Rod Do? Make an album of original songs. For the first time in 20 years. And call the album Time.

As in, Time to ask, What the hell did you do that for? Do you have any idea what happened the last time I recorded an album of original songs? It sold 12 copies and I had to mow my parents' lawn every Saturday for the next 10 years in order to pay off the loan for the studio and production costs.

You call Time "honest" and "a big step forward." Really? News flash, Ass-wobbler: People don't want honesty. People want what they know, the same old standards sung without any embellishment by a guy with big hair, tight trousers and a tartan cummerbund. And that hot guy was me, damnit. I had your act down cold. And it was working. My phone was ringing. I was getting Holiday Inn gigs. Community TV appearances. I was this close to moving out of my parents' garage. Meanwhile you decide to grow a soul, do something original and take a big step forward off the edge of the Grand Canyon. And ruin it for me.

Fine, be original. I'll put my Miles and Coltrane posters back on the wall.

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