What would any book on the life and times of a musician be without a little sex?
Well, that's the way you could describe my life as a musician—little sex.
I have probably been propositioned three times in the 30 years that I have been playing professionally and semi-professionally, a fact that is bittersweet. On one hand, I'm very proud of my faithfullness. I know some musicians who are trying to give Wilt Chamberlain a run for his money. They use musicianship as a fishing rod to go trolling for women, and it never ceases to amaze me at how persistent they can be. A drummer I know would hit on every woman in the club until success came his way. One Sunday, after playing 'til late on Saturday, I went over to his house to get some equipment. When I got there, the stereo was blaring so loud that no one could hear me knocking on the door. I went around back to where the equipment was stored and the doors were locked. I returned to try the front door, which I found unlocked. Upon pushing it open, I promptly banged the drummers conquest of the previous evening on the head. They had moved a mattress into the living room (presumably so the falls off the bed wouldn't be so drastic—and to listen to the stereo better), and she was sleeping with her head at the top of the mattress. It put quite a knot on her head. I never saw her again although I saw many others at the drummer's house. I never hit another with the door though.
Once, in a band that I have mentioned to which I belonged but will not name here, the entire band was propositioned by a fairly attractive lady who wanted us all to come to her place and try out her new hot tub. Only one of the band took up her proposition. He was single at the time, so at least he wasn't cheating on his spouse.
Another time, a woman struck up a conversation with me and I went on and on about my family during the conversation. I didn't realize I was doing it, but when the night was over, she walked up and handed me her phone number. She said, "If you ever split with your wife, give me a call," and walked off. I tossed the number.
My sexual escapades have been purely voyeuristic.
While in Saddle Boogie, we had the dubious honor of playing for a fashion show at a nice club in Lehi, Utah. We liked the club and were playing three or four nights there. One of the nights featured a regularly scheduled fashion show, emceed by the proprietor of a ladies' store in Salt Lake City. When we met here prior to the show, my first impression was that she might be a guy in disguise. She was six feet tall, large but not fat, and had a very deep voice. I got the same impression from the way she talked about the models who paraded their wares during the first hour of the evening. I'll call her Madam Eve.
Madam Eve told us that while the models were parading around the dance floor, we needed to play some vamping type of music. No problem. We had lots of tunes that would work for models walking. The first 30 minutes of the show were uneventful. I was somewhat embarrassed by the constant parade of women in front of the primarily male crowd, but the outfits were tasteful clothes from casual to dressy. The music went well and Madam Eve called out the songs we had discussed and we would play them instrumentally until Madame Eve finished her spiel about the model and the clothes on the dance floor, at which time we would sing a verse or two while the model strutted her stuff.
Then came the evening wear. And I don't mean long black dresses. This was the stuff that men dream their wives could wear. Or even would wear.
A couple of models came out, one at a time, and each time they did, the cat calls and wolf whistles went off like a tornado warning siren. You couldn't not look.
As a musician, I kept my composure and the music flowed freely. Madame Eve turned to me at the end of one song and said, in her inimitable deep and husky voice, "Give me a good strong vamp song!"
I said to her, "How about Elvira?"
She said, "Perfect!"
You remember Elvira by the Oak Ridge Boys, don't you? It's got a powerful, strutting-type of beat and that great bass vocal "Yeeeeaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh" in the chorus. It starts out with the last line of the chorus which goes, "Elvira, Elvira, My heart's on fire for Elvira." So I turned to the band and called out Elvira, drummer Gary Kopinsky counted it off and we began playing. In those days, the late '70s and early '80s, I sang the lead and Joe Jeffs, smoker extraordinaire, did the bass part. Joe always made it an adventure. Today, age dictates that I get the bass part.
So we had the Elvira vamp in full tilt.
Then, she appeared. Over at the corner of the dance floor was a stunning woman…wearing nothing but a very small teddy. This woman was put together to wreck homes and destroy men's minds. And it was working very well. She had long, dark hair with a nice wave to it. She was so stunning, that the cat calls and wolf whistles didn't go off. You can't whistle with your tongue hanging out.
Madame Eve introduced her and the outfit—did I mention she had an outfit on?—while we vamped on with Elvira. I watched her strut very gracefully across the dance floor, back again, and around the edges of the dance floor, once passing right in front of me at center stage. She looked me in the eye and I felt my brain turn to oatmeal. As she turned to leave the dance floor, all I could see was the way that teddy showed off her perfect body. I would describe it further, but I'm a happily married man and wish to remain so. Plus, some kids might read this and I need to keep it PG rated. Suffice it to say, I was awestruck.
Madame Eve, now finished with her monologue, turned to the band and said, "Take it away, boys!" meaning she wanted us to finish the song out with vocals. I stepped up to the microphone to sing the first word...and drew a complete blank. I let four bars of music go by so I could come in at the right place. I still had a blank. In desperation, I turned around to the rest of the band for help.
Most singers can't remember a given line out of a song, but if they start at the beginning of a song, they can remember all the lines. One leads to the next, and so on. Generally, if a singer can remember the first word to a song, he can make it through the entire song. I'm that way.
"What's the first word to Elvira?" I yelled over the music.
Kopinsky looked at me, obviously noticing how lost I was and enjoying it a great deal, and yelled back, "Elvira!"
| Gary Kopinsky was a real character. His favorite saying when I knew him was, "You can pick yer friends and you can pick yer nose, but ya can't wipe yer boogers under yer friend's pickup truck seat." I never looked under Gary's truck seat. | |
I came back with, "Yeah! Elvira! What's the first word?"
Now Croppy and Kopinsky are yelling at me. "Elvira!" In unison—and laughing.
"I need to know the first word to Elvira!" I yelled, thinking that they are asking what song I want the first word to.
"Elvira!" Now Joe Jeffs, Croppy, Kopinsky and Marlow Swenson are yelling it at me in hysterics.
Then it dawns on me…the first word to Elvira…is Elvira.
Since that time, I keep a songbook with the words to the songs I sing next to me on a music stand. Just in case she ever returns.