Who Is This Waif?

Would you let this boy date your daughter? Would you give him a job? Would you loan him money? He just looks pitiful - You know what I mean?

Well he's on this blog, so that should give you a clue. Here's a couple more clues. He's a musician - of course. He plays in a band. The band only had two guys in it! But they were great! They made some wonderful music. Oh, BTW, the other guy played the drumkit. It was a frosty relationship. The main instrument this boy-waif played was considered an "old folks" instrument. But he made it sound like angels singing. He is retired now, making "Killer Shrimp". Can I get a witness? Do you know what I mean? Can you tell me who he is? His live stuff is the best. He could really entertain an audience. He was like a preacher, giving a sermon on rock n' roll!

Well all I can say now is you figure it out. Heighty Hi to ya

Smoke On The Water - Like You've Never Heard It Before!

Hold on to your seat! These guys are serious. And they do a great job!



Even the Japanese know what rocks!

Once Upon A Time, In A Land Far Far Away

I was born and grew up in a small town. Oh yuck! What did I just say! That sounds like a bad line from Mellencamp. Well.. I did though. And I did learn to play guitar. My formative years followed very closely on the heels of the sixties. 80 miles outside L.A., there was nothing but cows and farm land. Like thousands of American teenagers we were bored silly. Some looked for trouble, stealing cars, breaking into buildings, whatever. Some smoked some dope, some took "whites", downers, or even the occasional acid when you could get hold of some. I never did that though! (My kids might read this, I've gotta keep it clean!). But more than anything we listened to music. The rock gods were our idols. But it was more than the rockers themselves, it was the wonderful sounds and music. I ran around with a few guys. You had to find friends if you wanted to survive the small town "downs". But bike riding and climbing trees only goes so far, and I ain't no Opie type for sure.

I had to have a little money and the only way was to find a job. In a small town there's just not much in the way of jobs. Everything's sown up. the good jobs go to brothers and relatives. So I got a job at the local theater. There were two, one a walk-in and another a drive-in. What a glamorous life, picking up trash and moppin' floors. It didn't pay much, but in those days albums were only about three-fifty. The big pay off was that the walk-in had a great sound system. And brother I cranked it up. I was there when Woodstock happened. What a kick. It was an old theater, lodge rocking seats, a big stage with huge Altec Lansing speakers. The old man that owned it was Mr. Martin. He was an interesting fellow at best. Scary to be sure. Hunched over and a real hermit. One of those business men that have stacks of papers and files laying around everywhere in his stale office.

Mr. Martin had a manager named Mr. Hardy. He was one of those guys; 50-60ish, probably divorced long ago. Bald, with sidewalls; hair that he never shampooed. Always a big cigar hanging out of his mouth. Wire rimmed glasses, honging on his big bulbous nose. Wrinkled shirt and dress pants. But aside from all of that Mr. Hardy was cool. Why? He not only ran the theater, was an easy going boss, but he owned the only real record store in town. He was a jazz man. But we didn't care. He wasn't a big rock fan, but he respected what we listened to. Me and the guys would hang out for hours at the record store, spinning vinyl and looking at the catalogues of what would be out next. I still have some of that vinyl sitting on my shelves. Awesome stuff.

But then me and the guys had to do more. We couldn't just listen. We had to get into the mix our self. And just like so many young testosterone filled youth across American we picked up guitars, drums, keyboards and amplifiers. That wasn't easy. Instruments were expensive. I first started with the guitar and then went to the bass when we needed a bottom end. I played it up as a sacrifice on my part. It wasn't. It was big and powerful. It shook the rafters, the floor would vibrate when I hit a chord and your insides would quiver. But when I hit a chord, the guitar player, Dennis would hit a chord, the drummer , Mike, would pound away and Doug would slam down on a chord, altogether... it was something that sounded like gods in heaven coming down to earth. All of those years of frustration, the angst of youth, the adolescent individuation was never better expressed. It was religion. It was an axe, a sword, a GUN in our hands. Weapons to obtain converts. Even today I believe that our music has a vibration that reaches the inner most human soul. Those sounds and vibrations can open the gates to heaven. When God arrives on earth, he wont come in a quiet Cadillac. It'll be in a thunderous commotion of power.

That's how I was exposed to our music. It was more than a social construct; more than a cultural event. It was more than just performance art. Some bands made it in those days. They got contracts, went on to record million selling albums and songs. Black Sabbath, Judas Priest, Deep Purple, and others. We played for a few years. Played some clubs, some concerts and did a little recording. We grew apart and like most bands, in the end, we couldn't stand to be in the same room together anymore.

Riding bikes, climbing trees and playing the best music is brought back alive these days with a computer and a set of head phones.

It was the best music of all time.