The Secret Diary of Billy Corgan--aged 29 and 1/4 by leafboy@ihug.co.nz (John Trenwith) The First Week Sunday. Woke up. How very alienated I feel. The world in general, and MTV in particular seems to be incapable of recognizing the full potency of my creative genius. "1979" had a mere 47 airings today and I feel my career slip-sliding downhill. Hit on the idea of writing a quadruple disk free-form operatic masterpiece, and James suggested I call it "The Singing Toad and the Fourteen Manic String Balls Veering Happily Towards the Purple Lights of Morning". Mental Note: Never let James write another song. Or, for that matter, sing. I have been meticulously training Bugg Superstar as a backup vocalist to compliment my whining style. Monday. I have decided to fire Flood and hire the Dust Brothers to produce my new album. Flood sulked even harder than Butch Vig, but I stood firm. I must uphold my image as an impulsive, artistic type. I have also ordered a truckload of Macintosh computers, a few dozen drum machines, and some synths. The fate of the rest of the band has been decided--James will cavort about the studio amusing me with his hilarious anecdotes, while D'Arcy makes the sandwiches and tea. Still, I must find a new drummer and keyboardist to convince the punters that I am not a solo artist... Tuesday. My drummer auditions began in earnest. When I woke up this morning there was a queue of earnest teenybopper beatmeisters winding its way down the street. At the front was Dave Grohl. His happy-go-lucky nature deeply offended me. As did his diatribe about me being "the next Kurt Cobain". Kurt Cobain has nothing on me--I can play more than four chords and know how to use a razor and shaving foam. I dispatched Grohl with a swift swing of my Epiphone before he could launch into "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and subsequently demolish the forty -eight tom and cymbal drum kit I had so gratuitously commissioned for Jimmy. Speaking of Jimmy, he had the gall to show up around mid day, with a bogus English accent claiming to be Ringo Starr. You don't fool me, Jimmy--Ringo never had a crew-cut that bad... Wednesday. Canceled the keyboardist auditions because James rang saying that he heard from a guy who was going out with this chick whose brother is friends with a Van Halen roadie that Eddie might want to jam with me today. Naturally, these things are bound to happen when one reaches the forefront of the rock community. Gibson in hand, I tried to look as nonchalant as possible as I strolled over to his house, but when I opened the door, some old bat answered, and before I could get a word in she said "Don't worry dear, I know what you're going through--I had a sister who had leukemia.. ." Then she handed me $20! The nerve of some people...! "I don't have leukemia," I answered crossly, "if you must know the truth, I'm going bald..." So she handed me another $20 and closed the door. Is it any wonder my lyrics are ridden with grief and despair ...? Thursday. Found I had a spare forty dollars in my coat pocket, so I bought a bottle of Rogaine. Courtney came over claiming her visiting rights over to Lily the cat. I still can't believe that thing went to court. Think how many songs I might have written had I not been wasting my time with lawyers, judges and other similarly uncreative people. Felt a bit moody, so I picked up my acoustic and four-track and wrote a few songs for my forthcoming boxed-set "Superfluous Crap I Didn't Put On Mellon Collie". Of course, Mellon Collie's been out for nearly a year, but no one will ever know. I am so prolific even I can't even keep track of how many songs I have. Courtney came into my room while I was recording a fourteenth reprise of "Tonight, Tonight" and tried to impress me with the caterwauling she's going to put on her new album. I pretended to be interested, but the truth is so obvious. She's only famous because she hangs out with the likes of me, and Kurt and that Reznor guy. Perhaps he'd like to be my new keyboardist. But then, I get enough of face-painting and animal sacrifices from James. Friday. A lowly record exec calls my lush, but humble abode to inform me that Pink Floyd want me to induct them into the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame. Naturally, these things are bound to happen when one reaches the forefront of the rock community. I nonchalantly agree, and try to find something suitably tacky to wear on MTV. I settle on a punch bowl shirt I bought from the discarded wardrobe of "Hawaii Five-O". James asks if he can come along too, but when I tell him about a phony Star Trek convention in Madison , Wisconsin, he gets on his bike before you can say "Take Me Down" . Sucker. Fortunately D'arcy is too busy stirring a metal drum of industrial-strength peroxide to be worried about anything important. I roll up to the ceremony about sevenish. I shake hands with the Floyd, but they seem distracted. Dave Gilmour keeps saying "Where's Billy Crystal...?" over and over again. I stand up and rant on about how much Pink Floyd have influenced me--I was tempted to call Mellon Collie "The Fence", but Flood said it might be a bit too obvious. Me and Dave play "Wish You Were Here", but I get carried away and launch into a wildcat solo. I finally stop when I realize the induction ceremony has been over for three hours. Saturday. James phones from Madison, Wisconsin to inform me that Jimmy Chamberlin has started up a Smashing Pumpkins tribute band with the guy from Radiohead on vocals. My life is a never-ending night mare. I write a song about it, then spend hours trying to come up with an irrelevant title. Some woman comes in while I am contemplating the mysteries of life, death and overdubbing and interrupts me by noisily vacuuming the carpet. "Who the hell are you ?" I demand angrily, "and what are you doing in my room...?" "It's me, Billy--your wife..." she replied. Oh yeah - I forgot about that. Well, you get busy playing over 200 shows in one year. I decide to go round to Mom and Pop's and sing "Disarm" to them to make them feel guilty for my intolerable childhood. But they give me pot roast, so I just shut up and eat. The Second Week Sunday. Woke up. Is there any point anymore...? The world is a vampire, sent to drain. Speaking of vampires, some hack on the internet seems to think I am one. I should hang on to this, it could be a good marketing hook for my next quadruple album. I go to the bathroom and sharpen my fangs. Stuck for something to do, so I went round to James' apartment and repossessed all the guitarist awards that I really deserved. The wretched fool is still stuck in Madison, Wisconsin. I checked his letter box and found a copy of "Who's Who in Rock 'n' Roll '96" had just arrived. Imagine my outrage when I saw that I had been given a measly two inches of text! Michael Jackson got a double page fold-out, and he's not even made of human tissue! Anyway, apparently I have a wife called Christine. You learn something new every day... Monday. Went to the Stop 'n' Go to do a bit of shopping. Who should I see pausing wantonly over the Barbecue Beef but that foul temptress Kim Deal. I decided to make a preemptive attack, and hurtled my trundler toward her protruding posterior, hoping to catch her off guard. Unfortunately, she moved at exactly the wrong moment, and I was bounced off the meat fridge and thrown into a pile of mayonnaise. How ironic. Kim Deal's ear-grating cackles only added to my misfortune. I decided there and then to pen a song about her: Kim Deal's a filthy evil old cow, her teeth are all yellow, she smells like a sow. Her band's called "The Breeders" but that's such a lie, I doubt that woman could breed if she tried. Yep--still got it in the lyrics department. I stagger home to recuperate and do some more work on the new album. Tuesday. I rush off to the studio to start recording the new album. However , I am only in the middle of recording the four hundred and twelfth guitar track on my next great rocker, tentatively titled " Another Pretentious Self-Indulgent Ramble About Being An Angst Filled Twentysomething Year Old", when I find that all the chrome on the tape has been worn to nothing! Don't the people who make these things understand the requirements of modern musicians ? I hadn't even started with the bass and drums yet. I vaguely consider getting D'Arcy in, but realize that in the time it would take me to find her phone number, I could do her part ten times over. And the time it takes her...well...I do want this thing out before the turn of the millennium. I still need a drummer though--I check the studio next door and find Chad Smith from the Red Hot Chili Peppers on the couch with two naked girls and a spatula. I invite him to audition, and am impressed with his vigorous style, but have to turn him down when he says that he will "Love me like I've never been loved before..." One year on the road with the Peppers was plenty enough for me. Wednesday. A journalist from Rolling Stone turns up to do an interview. Naturally, these things are bound to happen when one reaches the forefront of the rock community. I conduct the interview with an air of nonchalance. She asks, "Is it true that you're an egotistic al control freak...?" "Of course not", I reply jovially, "that's a common misconception of me, one I'm trying to dispel." "What about that your band is a third-rate Sonic Youth rip-off, and that Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness is a load of bell y-aching tripe...?" "Get the fuck out of my studio!" I screamed. "Mellon Collie is the most moving composition to come out of this century, and my songwriting makes John Lennon and Bob Dylan look like the burnt out 70s acid casualties they really are!" That fixed her. James turned up later with a song he had written and said he wanted to put it on the album. I laughed a bit and said if I was feeling generous I might bury it in a b-side collection or something. The Artist Formerly Known As Prince turned up and offered to play keyboards. I told him the band already had a token female member. I am such a witty fellow, really. Thursday. Had a leaf through Mojo magazine and found James ranked as the 87th best guitarist of all-time in a readers' poll. I flipped through the pages expecting to see myself a little higher on the chart, next to Johnny Winter, for example, but to my horror--my name was nowhere to be found! Don't the people realize that I and I alone am the guitar virtuoso of the Smashing Pumpkins...? Why I am routinely ignored...? I decide to stalk through the streets of Chicago undisguised and be mobbed by hordes of adoring fans to boost my sagging ego. However, the adoring fans are nowhere to be seen. I realize that school doesn't come out for another three hours, so I have wasted my time. Some idiot comes up to me in the Vic Theater and says, "Can I have your autograph--you were great in 'Natural Born Killers'". I kick him angrily. Perhaps being called "The Grand High Pumpkin" turns off the more mature audience . Despite all my fame, my band still has a silly name... Friday. Eddie Vedder from Pearl Jam turns up, and we pop down to a local bar and have a bit of a chat about what it's like being a angst-driven rock idol and spokesperson for the X generation. However, it ends up being a bit of a one-sided conversation - I can hardly understand that man through his slurrings and mumblin gs, and his greasy unkempt hair and cigarette-ash covered corduroy jacket make me feel slightly nauseous. I hold out for a while in the hope that the paparazzi might see us together and give me a bit of free publicity, but unfortunately I hope in vain. I leave Vedder and go off to shop for some more guitars - during the Mellon Collie tour I realised that at one point I used the same guitar for three songs in a row, something which has obviously damaged my street cred. I ask for something with lots of pickups and knobs, explaining that I am Billy Corgan, of the Smashing Pumpkins. "I've seen your Bullet With Butterfly Wings video," the store-owner said, "isn't that James Iha just the most incredible guitarist..." I walked out before I heard the rest. Eddie Vedder was still in the bar, swigging at a wine bottle and talking to an empty stool about the death of Kurt Cobain. What a depressing person... Saturday Decide to do a spontaneous concert, and so I quickly ring round the others and get some insignificant people to play drums and key boards. I force them all to spend the whole day rehearsing, under the careful scrutiny of a cardboard cut-out of myself. In the meantime, I go out shopping for drab black clothing. I almost buy a Zero t-shirt, but have serious second thoughts when I notice that every second kid in the mall has one. Bunch of wannabe losers . In a fit of madcap originality, I buy an orange t-shirt and scrawl "Jellybelly" across it in big red letters. I have second thoughts about that too, when I realize how much weight I have put on since the tour ended. In the end I decide to use one of the shirts I bought from the discarded wardrobe of "The Dukes of Hazard". Return to the studio to find the cardboard cut-out of me has been beheaded and endowed with extremely unflattering genitalia. Everyone smiled and looked innocent, but when I find out who committed this heinous act, they'll be looking for another creative visionary to sponge off. Of course, the show rawked as per usual. The two people still left awake after the four and a half hour Silverfuck jam seemed very pleased. They were even more pleased when I unchained them and said that they were forgiven for giving me such a rotten upbringing. I love Mom and Pop really... The Third Week Sunday. Woke up. Felt slightly chirpy, until I realised that I am Billy Corgan, tormented 70s child and alterna-rock superstar. I sniffed fly-spray through my nose and watched Oprah until I was back to my usual self. D'arcy called in a fit of pre-menstrual rage to in form me that she is leaving the band to 'live a quiet life and be with her family'. She's been talking to the fucking therapist woman again, I bet. I matter-of-factly enquired how she intends to pay off her Estee Lauder bill without any touring income. She capitulated and hung up. I don't know why I bothered--I could have gotten the chick from Veruca Salt. Monday Perry Farrell phoned and asked me to do Lollapalooza again. "Are you fucking kidding me...?", I asked him--"I could do my own Lollapalooza and burn you into the ground! I am the pop-rock king!" He hung up. That got me thinking--I could call my event Billipalooza. I'd invite all the bands that I'm friends with ...ermmmm...that'd be...Well, I wouldn't really need any other bands, come to think of it. The Pumpkins could play nine and a half hours without raising a bead of sweat. Only I couldn't stand the mosh-pit wet dream. The crowd could be seated in a stylish marquee and be served coffee to keep them awake during the longer intrumentals. James could do a juggling act, and if I could just convince D'arcy to remove a few items of clothing... The doorbell rang and it was Jimmy. "Please take me back!", he begged pathetically, "I invested my last few dollars in a shady biotechnical company and now I've lost everything. I don't have enough to cover my bail payments." I fobbed him off with a bottle of Seagers and a plastic toy and told him that there was a roomy homeless shelter a few blocks down the street. Tuesday. I have come up with a slight extension of my Billipalooza plan. I shall hold a great festival to mark my birthday, on St. Patrick's Day. This is only fitting, because I am undoubtedly the best Irish songwriter since Van Morrisson, and the best Irish band since U2. There will be fireworks and laser shows and the President can make a speech in my honour. Of course I will have to have a few more chart-topping albums first - I immediately rework the traditonal hymn "How Great I Art" and put it on four-track. Stirring stuff. I follow it up with "Band of Hope and Glory", and "My Pumpkin 'Tis of Thee". The doorbell rang and it was Vig. "Please take me back!", he begged pathetically, "I invested my last few dollars trying to promote a Scottish woman singing over a looped sample of radio static and now I've lost everything. I don't have enough to cover my next beardstylist appointment." "Sorry," I replied, "but we already have a producer." "What about a drummer...?" - he was getting desperate now... "Since when have you been able to drum...?" I inquired skeptically. "I did the drumming for Garbage", he answered. "Your drumming *is* Garbage, Vig..." I slammed the door. A perfect end to a perfect day... Wednesday. The record boys at Virgin completely rubbished my idea of a 17 minute video of my extended version of "Stumbeline", featuring me feeding the homeless of Brazil and petting small woodland creatures, to be aired on MTV. They want something more "commerically viable". My next album will definitely revolve around their unending quest to supress my creative sensibilities. James stormed round half-naked to inform me that Bugg Superstar had been "possessed by the devil". "He's barking and running round the back yard!" he blurted. I sat him down and tried to explain that this is quite normal behaviour for a dog. "Bugg is no dog!", he proclaimed, "he's human, just like you and I Only yesterday he was penning the lyrics to my latest song..." Well, that would explain a lot. I said I would telephone for help, and I did. I telephoned Evanston Lunatic Asylum and said I would try and slip some Valium in his Ovaltine. Thursday. The doorbell rang and it was Bugg Superstar. "Where's James...?" he asked. "I was having a relapse of my Tinetz Syndrome and he ran off screaming..." I said I hadn't seen him. Mental Note: Switch brands of fly spray. That one is doing me no good...Got a little bored and cranky, so I took time out from recording more masterpieces to take in a film. I saw "The Doors", directed by Oliver Stone, and came out thoroughly inspired. First of all, I need a keyboardist. I need a cool nickname, like the Lizard King. D'arcy suggested Frog-boy or Mr. Wormy, I suggested she might like to change sanitary pads. Then I need a cool anagram of my name, like Mr. Mojo Risin'. Sat round at home and came up with "Golly Car Nib". Hmmmm. Might have to work on that one some more. But other than that, I don't see why I can't become a nineties' legend. Perhaps if I do a bit more pelvic work.... Friday. The doorbell rang and it was Mom and Pop. They tell me they're for ming a band called "The Crushed Corgans" and have written a catalogue of songs about me abusing them. Thanks a lot guys. It's just my luck that my own family would betray me when I need them most. But that's of no consequence. I hear Paul Schaffer from the Late Show has offered his services as my keyboardist! I am thrilled to bits, not only because he is a quality musician, unlike the semi-talented cast-offs I am usually forced to work with, but without him, the Late Show will crumble into extinction , and the world will be free of the gap-toothed curse of David Letterman. In a fit of ecstacy, I donned my fabulous silver pants and headed over to the roller-skating rink to relive my youth of 1979. Too late I remembered that I never really learnt to roller-skate, because I spent all my time in my room with my guitar writing tirades against my parents. I collapsed in a crumpled heap in the middle of the floor. A friendly teenybopper kid offered me a hand up. There was an awestruck expression on his pasty youthful face-- "I don't believe it's really you!", he exclaimed, "you're my favourite singer in the world! Yours is the best band! You're a great guitarist and I love all your songs...!" I was stunned--recognition at last... "So, ummmm, any favourites...?" I casually enquired, as I staggered to my feet. "Oh, yeah....definitely 'Peaches'". I immediately passed out again . Saturday. Awoke with a very sore head. It was already three in the afternoon and that Christine woman tells me I'm supposed to be at the MTV Video Awards at five. I can't help wondering how long we've been married. She reckons that I wrote "Beautiful" for her, but I distinctly remember staring into a mirror when I did that one... "Oh, and Billy," she said, "Paul Reiser phoned. He wants to know when you want him to play keyboards." Oh my God. What have I done....? Anyway the awards got off to a bad enough start when the first person I bumped into was Billy Joe Armstrong from Green Day. He publicly embarrassed me by demonstrating how he could flick a piece of snot into the air and catch it in his mouth. Hmph - what can you expect from a guy who writes entire albums based on three chords and films videos of vomit-inducing dental surgery...? I fled toward the VIP lounge only to be confronted by James, dressed in a Star Trek uniform, accompanied by a fat, moustached grey-haired man, also dressed in a Star Trek uniform, who insisted on being called "Scotty". Fortunately the awards started before I was forced to talk to him. I was sure "Tonight, Tonight" would be a dead cert for Best Video... "And the winner is..." Drew Barrymore fumbled with the envelope for what seemed like an eternity... "Green Day for 'Geek Stink Breath'!!!" "Are you people out of your minds?!" I screamed, but my voice was lost amongst the tumultous roar of the crowd... "And Best Guitarist in a Rock Music Video...James Iha for 'Bullet With Butterfly Wings'!!!" "No!!!" I cried--and if I'd had any hair, it would have been scattered throughout the auditorium by now... As James made his way up to the podium to crack Spock jokes and deprive me of my rightly-earned glory, I consoled myself--this day alone should give me at least another six albums worth of material...