The Sienna Incident

The Sienna Incident

Many, many years ago, when the world was a bright and joyous experience and before I had a Close Encounter of the Fifth Kind with the Taxman, I enjoyed a very brief flirtation with the music business. I've detailed this adventure elsewhere and this is a continuation of those missives.

My band was never, ever big in the UK or the USA and we were only momentarily more than a flash in the pan in Europe. However, we were fairly successful in Japan and South Korea and even enjoyed something of a cult status during the long, hot summer of 2001. That whole period is peppered with incidents and memories, which I have promised, one day, to write down if only to set the record straight. However, for the moment, I'm keeping my mouth shut. There are a whole stack of vainglorious events lurking stage left, many of which should perhaps be left undocumented for fear of raising ghosts that I have long since dispatched into the greying hinterland that is my fading memory.

That said, a couple of friends both in real life and on FetLife have asked about the Sienna Hotel Episode, which I mentioned briefly elsewhere and which, I feel, deserves to be described in detail.

This event is actually one of my favourite perving moments and I'm more than a little astonished that I've never talked about it before. I guess that's because I've been worried that there were or are newspaper reports still out there on the net, which might lead to me being 'outed'. I've since had a damned good search and there's nothing on record, certainly not in any UK newspapers.

(If you do find something then please send me a PM... )

What follows is largely true. I've changed a few names and dates to protect the innocent but this is pretty much how it happened.

The year was 2002 and the band had just enjoyed their first appearance on German TV. Our manager, Hector, wanted us to capitalise on the exposure and, to keep our record label sweet, he organised a couple of photoshoots. The first was in Berlin and a second was with their partner label in Sienna, Italy.

Except that, and this was the tricky bit, I was more than a little uncertain of my future in the band., I thought I was going to get sacked.

Before we get going properly, let me introduce the other members of the band.

Beast was the band's nominal leader and my partner / boyfriend. He played guitar (both rhythm and lead), some bass guitar and keyboards too so long as the parts weren't any more complicated than simple, one finger melodies. He also wrote most of the songs and I helped with the arrangements to a limited extent.

Beak was the band's rhythm guitarist, although he too could provide lead and bass but obviously not all three at the same time. His best friend was Senso, the drummer. Senso and I did not like each other at all much.

I played keyboards and sang banking vocals but my main instrument was the bass guitar. And what a fearsome Monster I became when I wielded that thing. Like Thor and his hammer, or Arthur and Excalibur. Together, we were unassailable. All I had to do was pick that thing up and I became my alter-ego, Midsummer Knight. Like some kind of deranged Pixie.

And... Back to the main story.

For a time, maybe a year or more, I was Beast's girlfriend so, on paper at least, my position within the band should have been relatively safe. I knew the rudiments of music theory, could write songs and play my keyboards to Grade Eight, which is to say that I was several steps beyond Senso and Beak, who had no musical training whatsoever and wouldn't know what key you were in if you wrote it in three foot high letters or tattooed it across their foreheads.

The problem, my problems, lay with Senso. To him, I was also just a short-arsed, skinny chick who didn't fit in with his idea of the band, which was an all-male Macho Power Trio. Senso maintained, privately and in public too, that I wasn't cool enough or hip enough to fit in with their long-term plans. I had to go.

Hector said no. Absolutely not. Sarah was a member of the band. End of. Beast agreed.

As a compromise, Senso suggested that I should perhaps adopt the role of Sides-man, meaning that they'd be the Power Metal trio they'd always wanted to be and I would be at the side of the stage, and out of sight.

Senso's motivations were painfully obvious. His ego was bruised. Stuck at the back of the stage and behind a wall of metal, he was largely anonymous and he absolutely hated that I was out front every night wearing my full Gothic/She-Devil/BitchFace alias. It was all about attention. The fans wanted a chick who could genuinely rock. They couldn't give two hoots for the Gorilla at the back pounding animal skins. Senso's concept would leave me performing little more than backing vocals and the occasional keyboard line. I definitely wouldn't be out there with my substitute phallus, strutting my stuff at the front of the stage.

Now, I didn't like this idea on iota mainly because I loved the attention. However, becoming a Sideman has serious financial repercussions. You're no longer considered a full member of the band, which means you don't get your full share of the band's income. You're paid a stipend per performance. Bollocks to that, I thought, and I more or less told them to read my contract very, very carefully before they even considered removing me from the line-up.

With that little melodrama gently simmering on the back burner, we were flown out to Germany and, as soon as the Berlin photoshoot was over, we were (quite literally) shoved on another plane and sent to Italy.

We landed in Florence in the late afternoon and were driven to Sienna in the back of a fairly decent minibus. So far, so good. However, when we were dropped off in the town centre, we discovered that we'd landed right at the start of the Palio season. Consequently, the town was utterly rammed with a mix of locals and tourists.

We were driven directly to the hotel to dump our stuff and then escorted to the record company's offices some distance off the main drag. Simple. Straightforward. No messing about. No opportunity for the other members of the band to get utterly shit-faced and drugged up, or loose themselves in a gaggle of groupies.

The interior photo shoot went well, probably because the photographer, Kit, and his make-up artist (Petra?) were already on a total high. They'd been photographing Motorhead's Lemmy that morning and both Kit and his crew were still utterly steamed six hours later. I've never seen such a happy photographer.

Furthermore, there was a rumour (unsubstantiated) that Bowie was in town for the Palio and everyone was keen to see if they could meet up with him (and maybe party, too).

The exterior shots were not so easy. Finding a place to take pictures without getting photobombed was almost impossible. In the end, we settled for a collection of basic crowd shots, with us looking 'interesting' in front of various historic buildings surrounded by our adoring 'fans', most of whom thought we were... I dunno who? They just looked bemused.

Some hours later, we were taken to the hotel restaurant for a meal, which was amazing. Kit, our photographer, had brought some proofs for us to approve before they were couriered off to his magazine. He said that Lemmy was still in Sienna and that he was going to meet up with him later for a night shoot, and that we could, if we wished, tag along. I was certainly up for it although the others were not. Beast was still talking business with the label but Beak and Senso were plainly off their faces. Embarrassing really. Sad to say, they simply couldn't be bothered with some 'drugged up old-hippie'. Yeah, right. Go figure.

Once dinner had been concluded, Kit, Petra and I bounced from bar to bar around the main square but, alas there was no sign of Lemmy. Shame, really.

And so to bed.

Except that... Firstly, my key card wouldn't work in the hotel door and I had to walk back to reception to get a replacement. Once inside my room, I found that I couldn't close my window and the street outside was both noisy and smelly. Not conducive to a good night's sleep.

I went for a shower... No towels and, worse, the water was running cold.

I went back downstairs to the reception and complained for a second time. They weren't able to move me to another room because they were at full occupancy but they did promise to send a man up to fix the water temperature and the window as soon as he was available.

Twenty minutes later, a Maid dropped off a couple of towels but, after an hour, I gave up waiting and knocked on Beak's door. Thankfully, Beak was still in his room trying to find the football results on an English-speaking channel. Beak was already 'out of it', high on a mix of jet lag and too many Uncle Jacks although he was kind enough to let me use his shower without making a nuisance of himself and, by that, I mean that he didn't try to intrude or sneak a peak of my boney arse through the bathroom door. Strangely, I couldn't find any groupies, either hiding in the bathroom or under the bed, and Beak was certainly one for the Groupies.

I would be fair to say that what followed was a difficult night. The street outside was too noisy with cars and scooters roaring past until the wee hours and, when the noise did finally subside, it was quickly replaced by the usual hubbub of a busy Metropolitan City.

After breakfast, we were driven to the tiny village of San Gimignano in the Italian hills and, frankly, the setting was gorgeous. I loved every minute of it. We did the usual posey band shots but that was all and, once the principal photography was over, Beast was happy to roam a little on his own so that he could indulge his passion for Renaissance architecture. Senso and Beak found a bar.

Kit took Petra and I out to a ruined castle off the main drag and both Petra and I got to play at being Princesses for half an hour before Hector found us and reminded Kit that these photographs, as nice as they were, were not within his remit. That didn't deter Kit. He insisted that the main job was done, in the can so to speak, and he was now off the clock. What we did as the sun went down was on his nickel and not Hector's although Hector was free to purchase whatever prints he thought might be of value. Hector went away smiling, as he often did.

Kit handed Petra and I a thin, muslin smock each. They were simple and elegant but to all intents and purposes, completely see-through. Did I mind? No. My heart was positively pounding at the thought.

We found a tree at the far end of an orchard out of sight of the general public and changed out of our street clothes and into this walking wet dream.

In the setting sun, these minimalist dresses looked and felt amazing. I remember looking down, at my boobs sticking out in front of me and the dark patch of hair on my belly, and wondering what the bloody hell my Mother would make of this.

Kit would blaze off a handful of shots and then we'd skip over to see whatever he'd captured on his laptop. The Italian air, the soothing breeze, the wide open sky, the romantic atmosphere all combined with backlit hair and the sun cutting through this thin material... just incredible. I still get goosebumps thinking about that session.

Kit asked us to sit under a tree. I had my back up against the trunk with Petra's head in my lap. At Kit's request, Petra undid her top and let it fall away so that her breasts were bare and then encouraged me to let my hands wander a little. Like I needed to be asked. That looked and felt amazing, and not one to be outdone, I undid the ties on my dress so that I too was, to all intents and purposes, topless, my little apple-shaped boobs poking out into the warm evening sunshine. Talk about idyllic.

And, before you ask, Petra was exactly my type and had I not been a total wuss, I'd have invited her back to my room for a right good seeing-to.

We kept the Damsels in Nature theme going and, when we were sure that there were no on-lookers, Kit persuaded us both to loose the dresses although we kept our backs to the camera. Just bare bums on this occasion but, wow... What a buzz!

So, that was how our afternoon went.

Later, when we got back to the Town Centre, I told Beast what had happened and he was thrilled. He asked to see the images and Kit was only too pleased to accommodate. Beast was... utterly delighted, if a little disappointed that he'd missed the show. [He had the hots for Petra, too...]

What about the rest of the band? How did they feel about me cavorting around the ruins of a castle in a series of Gothic Babe Power Suits and occasionally far less? Well, it would be sufficient to say that they were plainly pissed. I was getting all of the attention and they had been relegated to just mere bystanders. They'd missed an excellent tit show too. Worse, the tables had been turned somewhat and, like it or not, I was the star of the show.

Alas, whilst the pictures looked utterly amazing, Hector was delighted, and Kit, Petra and I were utterly pumped, the drive back to Sienna was a sullen, moody affair. Nobody was talking.

I arrived back at my room at around eight in the evening. I was tired, hungry and drunk, having consumed a bit too much of the El Cheapo Vino. That's when I discovered that my window was still jammed open, there were no towels and the shower was still freezing cold.

As before, Beak let me use his shower so all was right with the world. Sort of... I did catch him sneaking a peak through the bathroom door but I'd have been surprised (and a bit disappointed) if didn't try at least once.

Beast and I had been invited to dine with the record company people. Beak and Senso hadn't. I didn't ask why and Beast wouldn't comment except to say that there had been a difference of personalities, and that those two could fend for themselves.

Dinner was enjoyable, a lively and productive evening spent discussing a significant number of potential side projects for us to consider once the third album had been finalised. These included at least one film score, three remixes and some production work. As far as I could determine, the work was for just Beast and myself. The other two, the individuals who had been campaigning to have me kicked out of the band, were not mentioned and not included in the final offering.

After dinner, Beast walked me back to my room but said he was too tired and too high to consider anything more than just a goodnight kiss. This was entirely normal for us. I guess it was plain even then, that our relationship was winding down. Such is life.

Still, I was elated. I was drunk. I was on a total high.

The clock on the wall suggested that it was close to midnight although I couldn't be sure because I'd mislaid my wristwatch and nothing in that hotel worked as it should. At this point, I discovered that, once again, I couldn't open my door because my keycard wasn't working. I cursed (a lot) and swore (far too much) and stormed off down to reception.

As before, the Concierge apologised and said that the Repair Guy hadn't been able to sort the problem out. I asked for a replacement room but was told that there wasn't anything available and that I should, if I were able, bed down with one of my band mates.

Beak was standing at the Main Bar and saw the confrontation evolving. He intervened and offered me the use of his room. He handed me his Key Card and I thanked him before retiring. That said, Beak's shower was barely warm. Just enough to wash the dirt and grime off but little more.

There was a polite knock on Beak's door. I grabbed a towel and peered (carefully) into the corridor. It was the Hotel's Repair Man, toolkit in hand. He smiled and pointed to my door. "I fix the door for you," he said.

With water still running down the small of my back and my bum barely covered by the microscopic towel, I followed him and watched, dumb struck, as he poked his little pass card into the Reader and it, too, jammed. In his haste to remove his keycard, it snapped in two. He swore, in Italian, just as a stream of Japanese tourists marched past in single file and all of them paused to laugh at the funny Italian man in his Boiler Suit and his Super Mario accent. They also stopped to admire my skinny little China-white arse poking out the bottom of my towel.

Embarrassing, eh?

"I sorry, Miss," he said. "I think someone broke card off in reader. I have to strip lock. It will be a half an hour."

And then, to make matters exceptionally bad, Beak's bedroom door slammed shut. That wouldn't have been a problem if we'd had Mr. Repair Man's pass card but since that too was jammed in my door lock...

I'd had enough. I really had.

I saw red.

Thoroughly pissed off, I marched down to the Concierge taking the stairs because I just didn't trust the elevator or anything else in that crummy, run-down excuse for a hotel.

The Deputy Manager was hiding behind the Concierge when I approached. He could see I was in a right strop and tried, as best he could, to remove himself to the back office but...

Red faced and plainly angry, I shoved my way to the front of the small queue.

"Can you please help me?" I asked as politely as I could. "My lock is broken and I cannot get into my room. My windows are broken. My shower is broken. Ask yourself. Would you put up with this crummy service?"

Mr. Deputy Manager shook his head and smiled. "The Maintenance man is off duty. He'll be back in a few hours."

"He's upstairs, now," I said. "Trying to fix a broken lock."

"He will be back on duty in an hour..." said the Concierge, who obviously hadn't understood a word of what I'd said.

"Can you find me another room?" I asked.

"We have no other rooms, Madam," he said. "We are fully booked. Could you not move in with one of your friends?"

"I could but..." I whispered. "But... What about my clothes? They're locked in my room."

"The Maintenance man will be on duty in an hour," repeated the Concierge.

"Hey, please," I said. "This is so undignified. My ass is hanging out the back of this towel and..."

"Is it?" said the Concierge, smiling, clearly taking the piss.

People were now starting to stare, and one or two had started to take pictures of the stroppy English goth girl with the bad attitude and the bare bum.

"Oh, come on," I whispered. "Gimme a break. This is awful..."

He replied with the typical shrugged shoulders. "I am sorry, Madam. I will have him come to your room when he is next on duty..."

"Get real, will you?" I shouted, pretty much on the point of tears.

"Give him a twenty!" shouted a voice from the crowd. "That always works..."

"Give him twenty quid and he'll sort it," shouted another voice.

"Here," said the guy next to me as he handed me a twenty Euro note. "Give him this."

I turned to the Concierge. "Will this help?"

The Concierge looked at the note, sniffed, and said "I will see if there is another room..."

The Good Samaritan turned to his friends and made a gesture. Two seconds later and he handed me another twenty Euro note, and then another.

"Will this help?" I said.

"I'm sure it will," said the Concierge.

He tap, tap, tapped on his computer and said "Ah... here... I find room for you. Not quite as nice but I have room."

"What about my clothes?" I asked.

The Concierge shook his head as another twenty Euro note was deposited on the Reception desk.

"I will have the Maid bring you something suitable to wear..." he said, his lips turning upwards ever so slightly.

"These types are all the same," whispered my Good Samaritan. "Slip 'em a couple of quid and they'll sell their own mother's false teeth."

Huh?

I'd been through all of this inconvenience and embarrassment just so this arsehole could pocket what... Eighty Euros? How much is that in English?