Static Live Magazine July 2020

Behind the Mic: Riggs
95.7 the Hog, Daytona Beach
Just prior to starting in radio in the ‘90s, I listened
to Atlanta radio on a daily commute to the gridlocked
extended city. I was a writer/ producer for a
television production house and loved the job but
did little else. I had been dateless for over a year
following a bad live-in breakup, a key factor here.
I had seen Prince live from the front row a year
before, the most I’ve ever paid for a concert ticket. It
was worth every penny. So when my morning commute
soundtrack told me that Prince was playing
a private show and they had tickets, I knew I had
to make it happen. It was a morning radio dating
game, and Trixie selected me over the other single
dude callers. It was on. I was ecstatic! I won a blind
date to see Prince in a tiny club and then go on the
radio show after to discuss the details. Such a simple
formula, it seemed.
I worked all my contacts to help make this a special
night for my blind date. The crown jewel was a limo
company that I had produced some commercials for
offered to give me transportation for the night. So
I stocked that bitch with champagne and pizza, ‘cuz
I’ve got CLASS. I dressed to impress, black suit and
shoes, open collar and a fistful of flowers. It’s probably
fair to point you now to the picture of me on this
page as I was working a “unique” look at that time
in my life. After only two conversations, there she
was: Trixie. Attractive, intelligent. Perhaps it’s also
important to point out that I picked her up from her
parents’ house. That may explain some things later. I
was a nervous blabbering nerd as I poured her some
bubbly and offered her a choice of pepperoni or
veggie, ‘cuz again… CLASS.
As the driver navigated Atlanta traffic, we talked
about our favorite Prince songs and more. It was
exciting and enlightening. As the limo exited the
interstate, her champagne flute slid from its holder
spilled on her shirt and the seat. I quickly attempted
damage control but I could tell she was off-put.
I apologized profusely as we rolled into what was a
jammed parking lot, a line hundreds of people long
snaking around the venue. She seemed even more
annoyed at the potential wait in the cold.
I saw the eyes of our driver and his partner in the
rear view as he shook his head and headed past the
barricaded area and into the backstage lot. An attendant
stopped the car and he spoke briefly to them,
then waved us around. My limo pals opened the rear
door and we stepped out, approached by a man with
a headset and clipboard. Now I know things are
getting official. And just then, the driver leaned in
toward my ear and murmured something… I asked
him to repeat what he said and he quietly whispered
back, “I told them you were Kenny G”. Before
I could process those words that just slammed
into my gut, the headset dude steps up and says,
“Great to meet you, Mr. G” and shook hands with
me and Trixie. Yup…. “Mister G”! That’s who I now
was expected to be on this night. We were whisked
through the backstage door and into the private VIP
balcony. I quickly realized that if I said I wasn’t who
they think I was, we would be bounced. And that is
a bad impression on a first date. And perhaps they
would find a picture of Kenny G and realize I look
nothing like him, which also would end with us
missing the show. Another important note that this
was pre-smartphone, so there was no instant google
image search. Ahhh, the simpler times. So since I
am non-confrontational by nature, I rolled with it. I
was Kenny G.
A line formed outside this VIP area over the next 30
minutes, many of them women who were coming in
and getting wind of the “celebrity” in their midst.
I was terrified of being exposed, scared of losing
this dream date, and generally nervous about the
whole scene. But I channeled the energy into meeting
some of my “admirers”, several very attractive
women who told me which album of mine was their
favorite, and I signed several autographs. I went
with a “K” and a tailing squiggle. It seemed the best
way to get through this uncomfortable situation.
Thankfully, I worked at Turtles Records for a dozen
years and was well-versed in Kenny G album knowledge.
There was even one beautiful woman who told
me what my music did to her during private hours
and handed me a hotel key card. I was overwhelmed
with nerves, excitement, and a desperate need to
see Prince. I thought certainly there was no way all
these people are looking at and talking to me and
were convinced that I was the saxophone legend.
Apparently I was mistaken. Then it all went south.
The headset/clipboard man returned and gently
interrupted, “Excuse me, Mr. G; The Artist would
like you to join him for the encore.” Again, ZERO
exaggeration or enhancement in this story. It happened.
And I felt cold. I felt like the human embodiment
of the scene from THE SHINING when the
blood pours from the elevator doors. It seemed all
the blood had rushed out of my body and I was an
empty shell. I fumblingly told him that Trixie needed
to leave before the end of the show and turned to
her to get confirmation of this hasty lie that would
prevent me from having to jam with the greatest
musician of my time. But she was gone. Really gone,
like no sign of her, no one recalling seeing her, nothing.
Was she a mirage of my shitty dating world?
Did she bail after I got the hotel key? Perhaps the
ladies room? I checked the latter, but no dice. I had
nothing other than her home phone number and
with cell technology as huge and clunky as it was,
there was no accessing her whereabouts. I managed
to delay answering my headset/clipboard
friend long enough to race around the club looking
for her.
So now I am alone as the show begins. My mind
races between thinking of an escape plan and not
wanting to abandon this poor girl who, for all I
knew, could be trapped in a stairwell or something.
Also, Prince was awesome. Just killing it,
long ripping guitar solos, dancing, singing his ass
off, deep cuts, hits, it was an amazing set. And
the entire time I am thinking, “I’ve never played
a saxophone, I don’t own one, I am about to puke
from nerves, I cannot possibly carry this charade
that I didn’t create all the way to the damn
stage.” So I called the limo guys between songs
but no answer. I now knew I had to leave before
the last song. But Prince doesn’t like to tell
you the set is ending. And all of a sudden in the
middle of a song, I see him walk off stage. Panic
set in. I hustled to the door we entered through,
right next to the stage. Headset/Clipboard was
there and I made no eye contact as I scurried for
the exit, hoping he would figure that I was just
headed out to get my horn out of my trunk. My
giant cell rang and I answered to hear my limo
pals telling my they were out back and that Trixie
had her mom pick her up. I grabbed the door of
the white stretch and ducked in the back seat and
closed the door. Whew! Safe. Then I fixed my
gaze on what was in front of me… Prince and 2
women, sitting opposite of me in the limo.
28
29