Running From Office

Time makes fools of us all. Our only comfort is that greater shall come after us.
~E. T. Bell



Last night I attended a small gathering at the local sports bar (The term never made sense to me. Oxymoron, anyone?) to lend support to an old high school buddy of mine who is running for Kanawha County Commissioner. Now, I've always consider my friend to have politician in his blood. He knows everybody and has an uncanny ability to talk to anyone. I expected this years ago, but now is the time I suppose.


Running for office, divorce and mortgages: yes, this is middle age. Well, a little past the middle. As my friend Charlie's son said, "Middle age? Well, dad, you're being optimistic." Looking around at my fellow Charleston High grads last night, I wondered a few things.


What the hell has happened?


Former football stars now bald, gray, out of shape. Goddess cheerleaders now looking thin, but old, old, old.

Old fights, old wounds-all forgotten. "Old men forget yet all shall be forgot," saith the Bard. Damn if he wasn't right about everything.

So...go forth Andrew and win this upcoming battle. You have my support.

The "God" Rock

My friend Dave shot this magnificent scene at Kanawha State Forest. He calls it the God rock. You'll have to ask him why, but perhaps the answer is obvious.

Musician Stuff (kinda sorta), Pt. 8

What tender days, we had no secrets hid away
Well, it seemed about a hundred years ago


Picture this: Sicily, 1957.

Just joking. Picture a guy with a dream of going to college to study music. It's an economic dumbass move to be sure, but as Keith Richards said, "What the hell else am I going to do?"

My stepdad had this liberals arts college that was down south. Even though we went there, shook hands with many people, my grades were not good enough for me to get in. He ranted and raved, but in the end, West Virginia Wesleyan was my start. All my friends went to WVU or elsewhere, but a large university probably would have made me feel even more lost.

It was there that I first learned how little I actually knew about music. There was a course called Introduction to Musicianship. I remember sitting in this auditorium while Professor Schaffer played melodies on the piano and we were supposed to be writing them down.

What?

Why don't transcribe from Greek to Hebrew while we're at it. Shit. I had no fucking idea what and how to do this. It seemed like magic. Needless to say, I barely passed that class.

My student tutor was a dick who played tuba. He was a sweaty, fat, high strung individual.
His contempt for my questions were obvious, but people underestimate my stubbornness and determination. I hated how little he made me feel sometimes, but that didn't stop me from asking away. I would knock away on the practice room door just to mess with him. He would usually yell something, trying to let me know that you don't interrupt practice, but I didn't care. I was not going to fail. Or at least try the fuck not to.

Overall, I think I was playing catch-up to the other students who seemed to already know music theory and could take music dictation. I was a twelve-string slinging folkie with a flannel shirt and blue jeans who wasn't likely to succeed. I bet my profs thought I wouldn't make it through the first year. Odds are, I would have probably bet against myself.

We all want to be the best. There were and always will be average strummers (We all feel like this sometimes.) who are found trying to be the center of attention at a gathering. For me, I entertained friends, usually with my beloved Aria twelve-string (sadly now broken), playing originals.

One of the few "public" performances I was involved in was at the student hall or whatever they called it. Someone yelled, "Face the audience!" because I had turned towards the other musicians. Fair enough, but I wasn't ready for prime time yet.

One night I jammed with a drummer. He was an older, more experienced player than me. Afterwards, he told me that I played some nice chords, but I needed to clean up - meaning articulate notes with greater accuracy. That was more than fair advice. I had a helluva lot to learn, but I had no one to show me a clear path to achieving these goals. Besides, I was kinda crappy as a music student.

* * *

Mrs. Dees taught Humanities. She was a voice teacher I believe. A very high strung person as well. Are we sensing a theme here? I can't really recall what we learned in there, except I think her main purpose was to throw out an idea and listen to us debate it. I could see the glee in her eyes when students began to bare their teeth at one another over some silly thought or another.

I did recognize in her a sense of fellowship. Most of the class were not music majors. There was a kinship, let us say.

One thing I have never had in common with music professors is their snobbery. One kid had loaned her Queen's A Night at the Opera. She returned it to him, adding "That's not opera!!" No shit, lady. The little brown nose also tried to impress with Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Another no go. She made a deprecating remark about Keith Emerson's playing and how many classical players could play rings around him. Again, missed the fucking point. How many precious classical pianists write and perform their own music to millions of adoring fans? It's a wonderful art to interpret and perform timeless music that's already been written for you-quite another to write your own and go through the rock-n-roll machinery.

Dr. Loftis taught piano. I was in the basic piano class with two other students. We all probably gave the man fits because we were so awful and slow. One day though, I had a moment. There was a piece that allowed for some improvisation. The two students before me each took their turn. I was really excited because I knew that all my fooling around at home on the piano was finally going to amount to something. When my turn came, I went wild. I did anything and everything my plumber's fingers could play. When it was over, the kid next to me said one word: "Wow." He had that look on his face that I knew so well. Dr. Loftis smiled. I had had a good day. Maybe music was my thing after all. Didn't know for sure.

Dr. Shaffer was a poncy old fruit who taught theory and the dreaded Ear Training. He talked in a snappy, nasal voice like Paul Lynde. He gave no quarter. You got the grade based on results. One friend of mine wrote a funny song around the Shaffer beer theme substituting Dr. Shaffer's name. We ended up playing it for him. He was not amused. Perhaps the line, "when you wish you had a gun" was the kicker. Go figure.

I had no "applied instrument" as guitar was not taught there. So, for one year, I learned what I could about the mysteries of music using the guitar to play with other students, teach a few lessons and learn about other things - like keggars.

* * *
The local frat boys invited everyone over to their Bacchanalian Beer-a-thons. There I saw a crowd of college kids all join in singing "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down." Hey, are we in the south? I thought this was Buckhannon, not Savannah. Or watch bands where the bassist had only three strings playing covers of Aerosmith's Sweet Emotions. Audience participation included a rendering of some '70s funk tune whose chorus was, "Shit. Goddam. Get off your ass and jam." Ah college...the last burning embers of childhood.

There were lots of girls. Such pretty girls. Not that I had any skills. Oh no.

Let's say there were a couple of dry runs. Some ending comically. Some in just friends. One that ended in bliss.

How about we leave it there until next time?

Pt. 7

Awake, my soul, and with the sun
Thy daily stage of duty run;
Shake off dull sloth, and joyful rise,
To pay thy morning sacrifice.

~Thomas Ken

There are moments of awakening during those crazy teenage years-moments which might speak of potential. I had one such awakening and must tell this to in order for us understand what was to follow.

My group of friends were all eco-nuts. We kind of idealized nature and vilified people. We saw people and infrastructure as a blight upon the pristine earth. These were all just ideas that we agreed with, sort of group zeitgeist. Our hallowed sanctuary was Kanawha State Forest. I developed a deep love and respect for this place and our gang would be out hiking practically every chance we got. Those were carefree days.

One summer, there was a period of intense introspection. Turning away from most socializing for this period, I felt this longing, this calling. I would almost describe it as being in love. Maybe it was just frustration and teenage angst. Don't know.

My routine was thus: rising fairly early (A feat unto itself.), I took my dog, Peppy, out with me to the forest. On the journey out, I might be listening to Fripp and Eno's hypnotic classic Evening Star. Perfect music for this crazy self-discovery.

I would take the time to climb up the hill to find just the right rock and then spend hours reading sci-fi classics by Ray Bradbury. The absolute quiet, the incredible beauty around me and the highly descriptive words of Bradbury just absolutely illuminated me. It was quite the experience. Doesn't sound like much to you maybe, but at that time, it was paradise. At times, I felt high, enraptured. And, no, I didn't smoke anything to get there.

I craved solitude like a drug.

When I had free time in the evening, that was spent with the guitar. Friends might call and I'd decline evenings out. When I would go out, all I thought about was getting home to play guitar. A close friend noticed this transformation. One night I reluctantly decided to go out with friends. My demeanor was not the usual clowning about, but reserved and thoughtful.Charlie asked me why I was being so antisocial. I remember Joe coming to my defense with, "Because this dude's got his shit together!" It was an awkward moment. Another moment was when someone asked my brother, "Does he fuck that guitar?" Point taken. Of course, now, all these things seem a bit silly and overly dramatic.

Perhaps I had hit a wall and had some mild depression, causing me to withdraw. Maybe I just neede a girlfriend, but I didn't have my shit together. I was discovering things about myself. The most important discovered was that I had a relatively good mind. Years before, I wouldn't have believed that. I never had the confidence in my mental abilities, often finding myself stumbling to express myself.

One aspect of this is that you can have a healthy mental life that is solely your own. It requires no one's approval and it is a part of you that no one can touch (People, being the horned devils they are, sometimes try to dig at this sensing its importance. Ever catch someone trying to invade your mental personal space? Oh yeah.). It is your right to a private space within. Call it the god space, your deepest identity or just the depth of consciousness. Whatever it was, it didn't require marijuana to invoke it.

Graduation came and I was wondering where in the hell I was going to college. If I was going.

And as the world was turning
It rolled itself in pain
This does not seem to touch you
He pointed to the rain

You will see light in the darkness
You will make some sense of this
And when you've made your secret journey
You will find this love you miss

Musician Pt. 6

Backing up just a little to the high school days. I have to tell this little tale.

Humphrey's Pine Room (1946 to 2004) on the West Side was where my parents first met Mrs. Lusk. They had hired her to play organ music during dinner. These were back in the days when restaurants hired musicians for dinner hour. A lovely, but terribly old fashioned idea which went the way of the dinosaur long before the economy tanked. She played in that old school style of soft swells and schmaltzy "You'll Never Walk Alone" school of playing.

All said and done, Mrs. Lusk was a good organist, but an even better piano player. My parents, being social creatures, talked to her and eventually became her students.

My stepfather insisted that I take piano lessons because he said that knowledge of the keyboard was fundamental. All composers used it, he said. Well hell, I wanted to write music (still do) and so lessons were scheduled with their piano instructor, Mrs. Lusk.

Now, I have met some characters in my life and Mrs. Lusk ranks in the upper tier. With her high squeaky voice and cackle for a laugh, wearing an array of colorful and weird outfits (I remember one that had ice cream cones all over it. That really tripped me out.), she was way offbeat for the stereotypical female piano teacher. You know, the stern prim and proper kind with tea and cats.

Mrs. L used to regale us with tales of Laurence Welk gigs. "They send me a Christmas card every year." None of would stop to ask why a show that went off the air in 1971 would continue to send Christmas cards. Her name is not listed among the performers, singers or orchestra members. "They still want me back," she would often say to us. Don't think any of us believed her, but no one was cruel enough to dare different.

My parents often got involved with music teachers on a personal level. Mrs. Lusk (The evil in us called her Mrs. Lust, of course. What else?) was a dinner guest on a few occasions. I believe that my stepdad believed himself to be a southern gentleman and wanted an audience for what he thought were the finer things life. I always disliked the ideas of these little dinner parties because I felt like I was being treated like a child. Teenagers can be fucking brats, let's face it. I had written a little suite for piano and my parents wanted me to perform it for our guest. Talk about guilting me into it. Finally, I sat down and played. She was very kind and encouraging which made me feel good. Mrs Lusk was bizarre, but she still was a good teacher. When she was awake.

At Herbert's music on Quarrier, the lessons were downstairs in these small, stuffy rooms. At one of my lessons, I was playing a piano piece so slowly that I noticed Mrs. L nodding off. Can't say I blame her- I was playing the notes at a glacial tempo. At one point, I just stopped and didn't play at all just to see how long she would stay asleep. It was really comical-one of those teenage moments when you see the blatant imperfections of adults. But, my playing may not have been the only cause of her dozing off during lessons.

Mrs. Lusk lived downtown at a very seedy hotel. You can just imagine the noise and the danger might cause anyone to have some sleepless nights. My parents used to refer to her as living "a hand-to-mouth" existence. I think that my parents gave her money from time to time to help her out.

I never knew what happened to her after I stopped taking lessons. She had some edema in her legs that was pretty severe and they looked pretty bad. This may account for some pretty wacky things that she said to my mom. She believed that the Russians had a "ray gun" aimed at America that could create mass mind control. Out there enough for you?

So, hats off to you, Mrs. L, wherever you are. God love you. I never amounted to much of a piano player, but I finally got over my fear of being a horrible one.

Screwup to Musician, Pt. 5

After I had finished my junior year at Staunton Military Academy, my parents did a foolish thing. They told me that it my choice whether to return to SMA or go to Charleston Catholic.

(photo by this cool artist)

They were kidding, right?

As much as I loved my fellow cadet bros, there was no way I was going to return to the spartan, hell-on-the-hill, totally controlled world of military school, even if high rank was an incentive. Because of heavy financial woes, this was the last graduating class at SMA. Boots was made captain or company commander, so I would have been a lieutenant at the very least. Who knows, maybe a captain? Funny now to think of that.

Charleston Catholic did have some rules and regs such as a dress code, but this was nothing compared to what I had been through. Plus, wonder of wonders, there were girls among. Girls! Fabulous, wonderful girls. I hardly knew how to contain myself coming from the desert of guy-world-super-max-prison. I could grow my hair back! I was free! Did I mention there were girls as well? I did? OK. Cool.

Of course, I immediately found my social niche: all of them bright (smarter than me) and creative people. All of us bound by our love of music. Come to think of it, all of them played instruments.

For a while, Joe and I were thick as thieves. He played guitar, banjo and drums. In his basement, we would play for hours, sometimes composing original music. At this point, the Donny Lad electric was my axe and I can just imagine how awful it sounded. This was a time of growing and exploring in an innocent and naive way, long before knowing what we were doing. I remember we came up with a piece called "Sea Turtle's Lament" (I think...). It had two or three contrasting sections with various tempos. Not bad for high school kids.

We also would just do an acoustic guitar duet -mainly covers with a few originals. I remember us doing an almost punk version of Idiot Wind at a party, the both of us singing and playing like we were possessed. I also played some solo pieces that I had written. One note: at this party was one Karen S. The woman who was the first to show me both the exhilaration of love and the shit-in-your-gut feeling of being told "I want to be just friends." Oh, you evil, evil gals: you have got to come up some new material. I could write pages. Perhaps another blog.

The school was putting on Spoon River Anthology and I finagled my way into the incidental music and the opening musical act. For two nights, I stepped out onto an empty stage with my steel string guitar and played original tunes. A few pieces used a slide. My choice? A metal toilet roll holder. Separate one piece and you have a slide. Again, I shudder to think what the hell I was thinking. I knew two things: I had horrible stage fright and loved being on stage. I cannot remember the applause being all that generous, but perhaps I'm a little hazy on that. I don't think I was a big hit, that's for sure. [Sidebar: One Kathryne S. was a major factor during these years. She was playing flute in the offstage "pit"and undoubtedly the reason why I became involved. Again, I could write pages. These tender, tender years were full of such longing and disappointment. Sigh...]

During one scene, the director needed some introspective music. I made something up, using my classic guitar. He loved it. I did too, watching the lights fade on a actor until he was a silhouette with the music speaking what mere words could not. I connected to that experience.

At one point, Joe called me "the constant musician" because that's all I focused on. Joe had aspirations as a writer and a million other talents. At that age, it's so easy to go in a many directions while searching for an identity. Music just felt right for me and the guitar was becoming more than a way of getting peer approval. It was becoming real. And in turn, it was shining a light amid all the confusion of hormones, socializing and home life; all of which could be very volatile.

Next: You Going to College?

Screwup to Musician, Part4

(Hi Ed! I stole your pictures.)

My parents thought I was going quickly to hell and sent me to Staunton Military Academy from '74 to 75; right smack dab in the middle of my tender high school years. I have blogged about these rather insane times and so, I get to the guitar bits.

The guitar made me some great friends. Friends I still contact and guys I will never forget. It was at SMA that I began to see better players and since we were in a kind of prison, hours could be passed with the gentle aid of the instrument. And some recreational recreation as well.

Pete Bantz was hands-down the best player.

The texts previously blogged:

If there was one thing that helped us bridge the social gap to becoming friends, it was the guitar. I have written about the importance of the guitar in SMA life and this cannot be underestimated. He was easily the school’s most advanced player and when I saw that, I drew my sights on him. Pete soon realized that I was like a “sponge” (his term). Years later at a reunion, he told how I would come to his room, guitar in hand like a suitcase ready to move in, to pick his brain, watch his hands, ask endless questions and absorb every little tidbit he was willing to share.

Once inside what felt like a luxury hotel, Pete would be sitting in his non-regulation easy chair (no doubt the privilege of rank) with the air thick with cig smoke and Clapton on the stereo.

“That son-of-a-bitch! How does he do that?” Pete would exclaim in disbelief. “He’s plays all those blues licks…but he does it so fast!!!” He’d wave his hands in the air and his bracelet would jangle in agreement. I wasn’t hearing on the same musical level as Pete, so all of the finer points of Sir Slow Hand were beyond my comprehension.

Pete would bring out his beautiful 12 string. It was there that I fell in love with 12 strings and all their shimmering, chiming glory- a love undiminished to this day. Pete had the most fluid strumming and dazzled me with songs like Pinball Wizard, Layla and other songs of the times.

He would give me advice. “OK, OK, you’re fast (I wasn’t), but your rhythm is too wild. Even Zappa, who plays like a maniac, plays with some kind of rhythm!” He was right. I can't imagine what a wreck my playing must have been then. Even today, I wobble a bit rhythmically. His advice was honest and yet encouraging. He saw good things in my playing even when I failed to.

Being in Pete’s room was like being given a weekend pass. He was an officer and was therefore safe from the prying antics of most cadets and held the respect of other officers. If someone came to the door (which happened a lot), he could rudely send them on their way if he damn well felt like it. That was real power. Those hours spent in that room were wonderful.

Dave Noble

Dave jumped my shit every chance he had. I don't think he disliked me, he just loved to jump my ass over anything, but especially being from West Virginia. I heard "hillbilly" this and that almost on a daily basis.

Then, why did I tolerate, nay, hang with him? You guessed it. Because he was a better player than me (and held higher rank).

He had this steel string acoustic that had the thinnest electric guitar strings on it. It sounded like shit, but was it easy to play. You could bend the crap out of those strings. In fact, it sometimes had this comical, warbled, the-record-is off-center sound to it. He would get frustrated when it sounded like shit, letting out a red-faced stream of profanity, but never changed his strings. Go figure. Dave wasn't the most subtle of players and I think his somewhat caustic personality spilled over into his playing making it a bit of a struggle.

Dave knew some songs that I added to my collection. There again I was the traveling sponge with the logo: have smoke(s), will trade for lessons.

Boots and Ed

At one of my first meals in the mess hall, Boots and I discovered that we both played. One of my keenest memories was watching him play an E minor pentatonic scale on a nylon string guitar. He was using a pick I believe. Boots had a friend at home who was sort of a recluse guitar virtuoso who picked out leads on Jethro Tull records-something utterly impossible for me at the time.

I can't recall meeting Mr. Ed, but I do keenly remember watching him play Summer Breeze by ear and being very envious of his ability. I do think his musical ear was as good as anyone's there. Ed could also sing-something the rest of struggled with or just flat-out didn't do. It was with Ed and Boots (and Andy Blythe listening) that I spent long, long hours just strumming a steady chord progression and experimenting with leads. The Grateful Dead had nothing on us because we would play hour long jams until we all got sick of it. Again, being in 'prison,' stuck on campus with no car, no money and nowhere to go, what to do with your time?

Listening wise, we were in full swing. The Beatles, Allman Brothers, Frank Zappa, King Crimson. I took one sideroad which left others a bit puzzled: Beethoven.

I was 'downtown' Staunton in a five-and-dime store and saw an 8-track of Beethoven's 5th Symphony. I don't know what in the hell possessed me, but I do remember thinking: "Beethoven. Heard that name. Huh. What's the big deal?" So with a whim, I bought my first classical recording.

Cadets would often take it upon themselves to share their music with everyone else. We lived in a barracks where all the doors faced the "quad." During the summer, it was not uncommon to have students lounging in chairs, feet propped up on the railings and their stereo systems blaring from the room. You might have several rooms doing this at once, but one Saturday, I let old Ludwig fly.

No one said a word against it. One guy did call me "the Beethoven kid," but that moniker did not take. I didn't give a care whether or not it was high art, but only that it was different. What me and some of my pals discovered was that the longer you listened to it, the better it sounded. Holy shit. We got some cultere here buddy.

Back to Normalcy?

How to Be a Screw-up and Turn Out to Be a Musician, Pt.3

Ye faithful readers may query: Why doth the author suggest himself a buffoon or in more common parlance, a screw-up? All seems to be going well.

Well.

Never an athlete, though I did enjoy sandlot football and baseball as a kid, but that was just a way to pass the time. My brief tryout for the football team (in PA) was not so successful. After realizing that the plays were not sticking in my head (too dumb and scared) and that the locker room was always going to have that concrete-meets-rank-dude parts smell about it- this was a sign. Plus, the hazing and bully factors- there was the guy who went around zapping all the younger guys with towels and threatened to beat their asses. The long bus ride home, complete with the flaming assholes in the back leading rowdy song after song, convinced me that this was not my scene. I didn't consider music my scene yet, but jockismo world definitely wasn't it, baby.

I didn't play a band instrument, so forget band nerd. If you aren't a jock in high school, then you have relegated yourself to a lower part of the social hierarchy. Don't kid yourself: that was important to everybody. Basic human nature to want to be in the most important social group. Besides, the cheerleaders were smokin'. Unreachable, but unbeatable.

If it is at all possible to judge these things objectively, then my guess would be that I felt like an outsider because of my lack of athletic ability, shyness (no one would believe that now) and the general awkwardness of that age. One thing I see clearly and have learned to deal with is my artistic view of the world. I may not always act like the brooding artist, but my viewpoint is from that perspective. The teenager struggles with many things and finding their niche is a big part of that turmoil.

Buddy left, new teacher found and his name was Jim Martin. Jim tried to teach me classical, but openly admitted that he could not help me in that direction. Still, Jim helped me read through the complicated classical pieces and kept putting new challenges in front of me. All of which I devoured.

I remember something that really made an impression on me. Jimmy had a gig that night (He's a helluva bass player) and he and two mates were going to rehearse. Jimmy, a keyboard player and a drummer ran through a couple of tunes. The drummer had only his sticks and drummed on a pad. He only needed to get the 'feel' of each tune. This opened my mind up. I had no idea that the simplest of means can accomplish so much.

[Sidebar: the teacher-student relationship remains despite the passing of time. Jimmy still calls me his student. Something that I feel with affection. A few years back, I was in a concert and he was playing in the audience. We were playing Lucky Southern by Keith Jarrett-a tune he and my pal, Lisa, used to play back in the day. Despite all my experience, after the gig, I wanted his approval. He approved. Made my day.]

I would say that, at some point, I became a guitarist in thought after my peers began to recognize me as such. Our peers are so powerful. We need their approval. I was the best guitarist among my immediate peers. That sounds immodest, but true. None of them were into it like me. Somewhere in the hormone raging teenage years, the guitar became my anchor. It was one of the places that seemed to make sense. There I connected and found solace. Solace from my shyness. Seems ridiculous now, I know. It seems absurd to me, but that's how it felt to me at that time.

The kingdom was small and I certainly wasn't playing anything astonishing, but I became known among my tiny group of friends for the guitar. Maybe I didn't deserve it, but I did enjoy it.

The only time my guitar kingdom was challenged when a chance encounter with some guy whose name now eludes me, but picture this: black dude with 'fro, 70's stylin' with platform shoes. He was the smooth ladies man (or at least one of them) of the school. But what really hurt was his black Les Paul. It was beautiful, sounded awesome and I was thrown for a jealousy loop. He let me play it, but I was lost on it. The feel, the weight, the strings-all completely foreign. I remember him saying, "There's a lot of difference between an electric and an acoustic, man." Without a doubt.

Another time, Paul Wilson (Still around town. Just saw him actually) was backstage at a church music event. When he picked up my guitar and started playing, I felt this little feeling in my stomach like I was on a roller coaster. After the tender ego was massaged for a while, this would only furthered my resolve.

Off to Boot Camp (SMA texts)

How to Be a Screw-up and End Up a Musician, Pt. 2

His name was always Buddy
And he'd shrug and ask to stay

I barely remember my first guitar, but I did take a picture of it, setting all pretty against a tree. I used to climb up the hill on our property and sit beneath a tree and play. Nature, music, solitude: these things were becoming a part of a musical life that that was forming.

At this point, I did not see myself as a "guitarist." Nay, that was too lofty a title. I was a student. Period.

[One sidebar: We had apple trees and the like on our property and the "backyard" was about an acre. The backyard basically sloped uphill. I remember sitting up at the top of one tree one spring and the wind began to blow. I felt like I was floating. It was one of the best experiences I've ever had. I told you I was weird.]

Time for big life change and a move to West Virginia. Goodbye rural PA.

Lessons continued once the family settled into our new lives. My neighbor, Donny, and I were chauffeured down to Herbert Music for our weekly lesson with Buddy Davis. Buddy had a local band that was pretty popular at the time. They even played my junior high dance.

Donny, or as we called him, Donny Lad, was not very successful in his lessons. Of course, this secretly pleased me. However, he did have an electric guitar complete with whammy bar. The very first time I tried his guitar, I did break into rock power chords. Nay. I wanted to hear feedback. Again, I'm weird. Donny eventually gave up on lessons and he loaned me his guitar. That poor guitar suffered much at my reckless and destructive hands. I used to bend that whammy bar to such extremes that the sound was comical. Extreme low to high sounded like someone saying "Whoah." The sound became kind of a repeated sound among my inner circle of friends as well the term Donny Lad Guitar.

My step-father loathed the electric guitar. Once, he burst in while I was playing along with some Neil Young and yelled, "If you call that music, then...nuts!" Needless to say, that was a bit of a blow to the old confidence machine and to rock music being played loud around our house. It didn't stop me from liking it nor playing it. Parents...sometimes they go too far.

[One quick diversion: Donny's father alternated with my stepfather with the chore of driving us to school. One morning, sitting in that back seat of his dad's huge Cadillac, he let us listen briefly to a racy 8-track of Red Foxx. On the way to junior high. Cool dad.]

Back to lessons-

Lessons with Buddy were very satisfying for me, although I think that he often used the time for practice. He played a number of instruments besides guitar and frequently used lesson time to catch up. After being ignored one lesson and watching him play flute, I had to speak up. Being a young lad with no "rude" boundaries, I stated flatly, "Aren't I paying you for a lesson?" He didn't take offence, he knew I was right. Although he was a totally clean-cut Christian guy and drugs were nothing he messed with, he was so lost in his own practice world.

I used to ask him about Jimi Hendrix and sometimes he would turn up the amp and let loose with some electric guitar fire. I would ask so many questions about the Jimi god, but I couldn't handle any advanced music like that. "Hendrix is the kind of guy who didn't care about nothin'." he once stated. A bit unfair, but this was the 70's and rock icons were dropping like flies.

Herbert Music had a student recital and I played duets with Buddy. Evidently my left foot was tapping a bit hard on the hollow stage and when it was over, the MC joked, "Looks like you brought your own rhythm section with you." People laughed. That public performance made quite the impression on me. I can remember the gray two-tone shoes I had on.

Buddy led me through more books with the music getting more progressively difficult to read, but there was one lesson that changed the course of my life forever. I walked in, there was Buddy, bent over his music stand, practicing away, not even noticing me come in (or was lost in concentration). He was playing a Carcassi etude on a classic or nylon string guitar. It was as if I was hearing music for the first time. Again, that becoming thing, the opening up of a new vista. After he finished, I eagerly asked, "What was that???" He explained who, what and how. I wanted a nylon string pronto.

BUT, and this is a huge but, there was no one teaching at that time who knew a damn thing about classical technique. (To this day, our fair small city has just a few who proclaim to have any knowledge.) So, while the reading of music was great, instruction on a technical level was nil.

A Yamaha nylon was added and I dug deep into "finger style." Happy as a clam.

[Side note: I saw Buddy, years later. We had pulled up next to each other in traffic. I told him I was a former student and I had gone to college and been a music/guitar major. He didn't say much, but smiled, nodded and wished me well. My impression these years later is that he was either processing the information or just didn't care. It certainly wasn't, "Wow! That's great! I had a hand in that? Fantastic!" I don't mean to disparage Buddy or make him out to be a dick, but I tells 'em as I remembers 'em.

Last I heard, Buddy was working in D.C., doing something with the Washington Cathedral. Looking on their web, I see no mention of Harold "Buddy" Davis. And for those who try to look him up, Buddy is black. Not that wacky fellow at buddydavisband.com]

Junior high went and high school came. A twelve-string guitar was added and I loved it. It was another life changing event. I was fascinated by the rich sound of that guitar. I would get lost in the sheer sound, making up pieces and playing them for friends.

One thing: My parents, though tremendously supportive, did not shower me with instrument upon instrument. I felt like I had to earn each instrument by becoming a better player. My step-father, a man of many contradictions and worth a long blog by himself, was always artistically and musically astute. he was instrumental (pun intended) in my development. I was a lucky guy to have such parents to be sure.

High School, Anyone?