At 16, I joined a band as the lead guitar player. I had my Kingston guitar and a Fender Pro Reverb Amp. It was my first chance to really play lead and I jumped on it with a vengeance.
The band came as a package job. The bass player, Greg, and rhythm player, Marty, were brothers. The bass player was a paraplegic, probably from polio, but he was a great guy, smart and music wise. He played a Mosrite bass through a Peavey amp that was as big as a house. The rhythm player was a big kid, younger than the bass player, but not as confident nor as bright. He was a very nice guy though. I taught him a lot of what I had worked so hard to learn and he learned it well.
There was a drummer that was pretty good as I recall, but a quiet person. I don’t remember him very well. Then there was Eddie, the lead singer.
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Here is the band at the Charleston AFB Youth Center. That's Marty on the left, me playing the violin-shaped guitar, Eddie with the tamborine over his head, a drummer I don't remember, and Greg on bass. This band even made it onto TV in Charleston. |
The package part was the management—their father and mother. Their father was a Baptist minister who did not seem wholly convinced that rock and roll was the right thing for his boys to pursue, but he supported them to the fullest of his ability. He and his wife managed to round up quite a few jobs for us. They also had the best band vehicles I had experienced to that point in my life…two Cadillacs, one light blue and one light pink. Guess who drove which one.
Greg and Marty also had two younger sisters about eight and 10.
They had a preconceived idea of what a rock and roll band should be. Everyone was supposed to wear the same vest, white pants and blue shirt. We could only play approved music according to the law of the minister. We had regularly scheduled practices and had specific plans for each one.
In truth, if I could have worked for long under those constraints, I probably would have learned enough to make a better musical life for myself.
But this was the ’60s. Revolution. Non-conformism. Radical behavior.
I couldn’t handle the vest. I didn’t want to play for Gary Lewis the Playboys or the Monkees. I wanted to play for Cream, Jethro Tull, Jimi Hendrix, and the Yardbirds. The vest represented the oppression of individuality, the bourgeois control of the proletariat, the death of rock and roll. I refused to wear the vest and said that if I had to wear it, I would have to leave the band. Greg talked to me for an hour to encourage my sense of what was good for the band. He wanted me to stay (which was an incredible ego boost). I still refused, and to my surprise, management caved. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
I liked the band and most of the people in it, but then there was Eddie. I didn’t like Eddie. He had a round face, a smile I didn't trust, and thought entirely too much of himself for me. He seemed to gravitate toward me as a band-mate, but I just couldn't get past the dislike I developed from my first impression.
Eddie had visions of being Jim Morrison of The Doors. He studied Morrison, as well as a moron could, and practiced his stance and his demeanor—even during practice. It was annoying to the point of madness. Eddie got my goat…bad.
One night, in the middle of January in 1968, we had just finished an engagement at the Charleston AFB Youth Center. I was pretty happy with the job. I had gotten the job because I knew the club ownership, having been a regular attendee for five years. I never paid the dues because Sarge, the guy who ran it, knew that I had no money but gave me credit for being a pretty good kid and good influence on others there. Sarge doesn’t know how much I value that gift of friendship and membership, and if he’s still alive, thanks.
It was cold that night. There was a north wind blowing across the air base landing strips and aircraft parking ramps. There are no trees to stop the wind, so it really howls. I had really worked up a sweat while playing and my thin blue shirt was pretty wet. On top of that, I had done my part to pack up the equipment at the end of the job, including that bass cabinet that was as big as my house. My shirt was actually sticking to my skin from the sweat.
A word about riding arrangements. The minister’s car carried Marty, the two daughters, the drummer and a variety of equipment pieces, all carefully placed. The minister’s wife’s car carried Greg, Eddie and me as well as the rest of the equipment. This band was a well-oiled machine.
At about 11 o’clock, the Caddies were packed, I was soaked, and I decided to make one more quick trip through the club to make sure we hadn’t left anything. Everyone else got in the cars. I said goodnight to Sarge and headed out the door to the cars which were parked beside each other about 50 feet away at the end of a covered walkway.
Did I mention it was cold? Did I mention the wind?
By the time I ran back out to the cars, I think my shirt was starting to freeze against my skin. I grabbed the door handle, gave it a squeeze and jerked the door. It was locked.
I’ve got icicles forming on my chin. My sweaty fingers stick to the door handle. And the @#&!~* door is locked! I jerk it a few times and it won’t budge! I stick my face down by the window and there, staring back at me from the warm, climate-controlled side of the window, is Eddie…laughing!
"Eddie! Open the door!" My teeth are starting to chatter and my shirt is starting to crackle when I move.
More laughter.
"EDDIE!"
I think of my options for about a half a second. Kick in the window? No, I can’t afford to replace it. Then I commit to my second option.
"EDDIE! YOU #$%@ PIECE OF @#$!*! OPEN THIS #*&+$@ DOOR OR I’LL BEAT THE #@$%&* OUT OF YOU, YOU #$@%&*!" Second option accomplished.
Dead silence falls over the cars. I can’t even hear the engines running. All I hear is a slightly hushed,"Ooooooooooooooooooooooh," coming in unison from the passengers in the minister’s car. Suddenly, I feel very warm.
I kept my mouth shut during the ride home and tendered my resignation the next day.
The only good joke is one that is not on you.
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