The Most Holy Day of the Year

Happy Halloween!

            Tensions in The House of Representatives began to boil over in several ways. One was that Eric kept trying to shove us toward being more like The Heroes. He got into the habit of saying we might be playing a song wrong because it wasn’t the way The Heroes did it, and other nonsense like that. Again, I loved The Heroes, but I didn’t want to be The Heroes. After a blow-up along those lines, I was surprised that KK, the drummer from Mook’s Session, commented to me that he’d heard that I thought my band to be better than The Heroes. “Hell, man,” I said, “there are other bands on the planet.” He didn’t seem to think so. That was when I realized that everyone from Madisonville was expected to love The Heroes no matter what. Hey, I loved The Heroes, but then as now thought there was room for alternative opinion. I didn’t give a shit what anyone else thought, but found out that anyone who has an opinion that isn’t part of majority rule might get pounced on. All that shit just made me mad because I’m totally against orthodoxy in all its nasty, narrow minded, self aggrandizing concern. Eat me! The Pug-a-Nut had proven that The Heroes’ crowds wanted something new, but KK seemed to hate The Nut, and I guess he hated Billy D, too, because their friendship waned around that time.

            Near the end of summer THOR hadn’t played anything but another free party, even though the members worked like demons to build an interesting and different kind of playlist. I like rehearsal and being with the guys and all, but my idea was that bands should play for other people, and my band just wasn’t doing that.

            The final straw that sent me out of THOR was additional interference from Brillo’s family. One afternoon Billy D called to ask me if THOR would be available to play a Tuesday evening slot at The Nut. I couldn’t believe it. Billy D said he knew we were a little green, and said that Tuesday nights were generally lightly attended but that the band had some appeal due to the Talent Parade telecasts, and he thought it would be a good opportunity for us. I thought so too, while warning him that Brillo’s parents just weren’t going to go for it, though I would give them a chance to debate.

            I immediately called Brillo and laid it out. He seemed interested in the idea and said he’d bring it up right away and let me know at rehearsal later that afternoon. I got to Brillo’s around 4 p.m. I heard everyone talking in the kitchen. I asked Crowbar, in front of everyone, if they were debating The Nut’s offer. “No,” he said, “that was decided hours ago. We’re not playing.” I was pissed. “That stuff in the paper’s all lies,” I said. “I’ve been there. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” Brillo’s parents didn’t care, and that was it. Fuck it! I thought to myself, I’m outta here.

            The part that got me then, and gets me even yet, was the sheer horror of Brillo’s family that people of wealth from the First Baptist Church would look down on other people of wealth from the church whose son might be so bold as to play a venue owned by commoners. To me that’s as constipated as humanity can get, and is one of the reasons (certainly not the only one) I hate the church (all churches and religions) and its orthodoxy to this day.

            Long story short, I left the band not long thereafter. I was getting ready for my freshman year in high school, and to play football, so I just wasn’t going to try to hustle for rehearsal time if the band wasn’t going to play gigs when they were offered on a silver platter. I know we once tried to play again after that, but it was dead and I really didn’t care. I was ready for something new.

Smoke a Peal

It's a cold, rainy day in Madisonville. Get comfy with a nice, warm banana.

            The Pug-a-Nut became the center of Monroe County’s musical universe. Within three weeks of its opening it had destroyed The Heroes. Saturday night crowds packed both parking lot and dance floor. Quite a few people from Tellico Plains had drifted into the scene. More than half of The Heroes’ patrons skipped out, and the rest just stopped going to dances altogether.

            In some ways The Heroes’ public image had begun to work against them. For one thing, the members still wore matching suits. I don’t see anything wrong with doing that, and The Heroes had some great band suits, but hippie fashion, which was just coming to Madisonville, cast a dim light on the appearance of the conformity that matching suits screamed. After the trip through the Battle of the Bands competition, The Heroes got a one-off record deal, but the anti-marijuana song they recorded sounded a thud, released, as it was, when pot started to gain a local market share. That’s a shame because the song had an honest to goodness hardcore psychedelic sound. The song was kind of tricky to play as well, and I’d have to label it a tour de force of a do it yourself ethos. I wish I owned a copy.

            The Thumbers were cut from a different cloth. There was nothing slick about the band or its members. The Heroes sported well kept short haircuts, whereas Thumbers members’ hair had the length and look of the early Beatles’ styles, down to these hats (like I’d seen The Beatles wear) worn by the guitarist and bass player. Band members dressed sort of like The Stones, and sounded a bit like them as well.

            Also like The Stones, The Thumbers weren’t very good at psychedelic music. I guess they just never really had an ear for it. Not that they didn’t try, because any band who had a playlist derived from radio (all of the bands did) couldn’t avoid a few far-out numbers, and The Thumbers did successfully execute some types of those songs, but for whatever reason the guitarist (who was and is a gifted musician) could never manage that big, fat, smoothly dirty fuzztone sound. I don’t remember if the guy owned a wah wah pedal.

            With the new power that came with capturing the entire local music market, The Thumbers could have hogged up the scene to themselves, but that’s not what happened. In fact, The Thumbers went out of town a lot and really didn’t play The Pug-a-Nut that often, so a steady stream of new bands came into Madisonville as result of the club. Although this was bad news for The Heroes, overall I thought it was good to bring new blood into town. I don’t know if The Heroes were ever offered a spot at The Pug-a-Nut, but I don’t believe they ever played there. To them the war was on.

            The Heroes had an important ally in the editor of the local paper who lived up the hill from The Pug-a-Nut (and right across a couple of streets from The Heroes’ lead guitarist) and began a one man crusade against the club, its employees, its owners, its patrons, and even the highway it resided on. He hinted that alcohol was being illegally sold there (and had pictures of piles of empty beer cans swept up behind the Pug), and that the club was a smaller portion of a larger organized crime syndicate that operated along Highway 411 North which he dubbed “Sin Strip.” His stories mostly scared off many patrons and put doubt into parents’ minds all over town. Neither my parents nor CEP’s wanted us to go there. I know we weren’t the only ones.

            After a long absence, Billy D came around to see me. I asked him about the stuff in the paper. He said it was all bullshit, as I had figured in the first place, and that The Pug-a-Nut was a safe and fun place to be. I recall that he also talked to my parents, and before long I had permission to catch an act there.

            I went one Saturday night shortly after school had ended for the summer. I was impressed with the place, and I could instantly see how it had beaten out the digs for The Heroes, even though The Nut had only shortly before been an auto body shop. The place really looked and functioned like a teen club, and one thing that stood out was the gaming section. I remember a pinball machine, and maybe there were other machines, too. In fact, the first thing I did there was play pinball. For one of the few times in my life I hit for about 30 games. Don’t get the wrong idea: it wasn’t one of the gambling machines that paid off (like the ones I had seen in the poolroom and at truck stops). No, the game at The Nut was purely for entertainment.

            The band booked for that evening, a fairly interesting group from Athens, Tennessee, ran through an entire set while I was trying to play off the games I’d won at pinball. Every time I played them down, the machine would hit again and I’d have another 10 or more games to burn. I finally lost count of the number, but I’d won the lot on just two quarter I pumped into the slot. I think I got bored and eventually left games for whomever to enjoy.

            Billy D’s Farfisa was on stage that night, even though the band playing had no keyboard player. After watching for a set, I asked the band if I could sit-in for a number. They agreed. Near the end of the night I took the stage for a tune. The song I attempted with the band was a cover of The Grass Roots’ Midnight Confessions, which had a perfect organ part to show off on, but unfortunately for me, I didn’t know either song or organ part. It was, simply, a disaster. The band hated me, the crowd hated me, and I felt like a dumbass. Well, such is life. At least I had fun a pinball.

Long and Slippery

Moving forward.

            Things began to change for The House of Representatives. Urged on by the drummer, Dusty (not his real name) and his family, the band loaded up, and with our families, drove to the Knoxville studios of television station WATE and auditioned for a spot on Cas Walker’s Talent Parade. Both CEP and I were big fans of that show, and The Heroes had appeared, as had that band’s lead singer (who appeared twice as a guitarist/singer, and won on his second try), but I just didn’t care about playing it. I don’t know why.

            Dusty’s stint with THOR is a hard luck story. He knew more of what playing in a band was about (the girls) than the rest of us horny idiots. Problems arose because the idiots foolishly took the playing of music seriously. Dusty wasn’t so serious in that way. The beautiful neighborhood girls, neighbors of Crowbar and Brillo (one was Crowbar’s sister), often attended practice, and that threw Dusty into a tailspin. He sometimes drifted off time during songs while trying to flirt with the girls. The rest of us didn’t care that he talked to the girls, but going off time was a sin. He wasn’t serious enough (as if a 14 year old can be so serious), so he was already on the way out before we took that Knoxville trip.

            Walking through the Greystone studios was like touring a shrine. The sets for all the shows were spaced throughout a large, underground area. The ship shaped bleachers that housed kids attending a Saturday morning show featuring Popeye cartoons. The news set was not far away, and a fairly small spot surrounded by curtains made up the Talent Parade location.

            I don’t remember any other performers that day, but I know we auditioned for host Hop Edwards on Sunday, got accepted, and were scheduled to play on the following Thursday evening’s show. Just like that. I started warming to the idea of playing on television, but what could THOR do? We spent some hard thinking and rehearsing time trying to come up with something good. Dusty had been told that he wasn’t going to remain in the band, and none of us thought we would win the competition, so we went for something really safe, and lame, by choosing Sleep Walk to launch our television careers. Brillo tried to get me to sing on telly, but I was too scared of screwing up.

            When the band arrived at the studio on Thursday night, the newscast was still going on. That was very interesting for me to see, even though I was totally distracted about performing in an hour or less. We were rushed in and stuck into our little covey and stood around until Hop introduced the band and the cameras pointed at us. We knocked off Sleep Walk, went home, fired Dusty, hired a new drummer, and discovered we had won the competition. What a shock! The Heroes hadn’t even won. We were a bit stunned.

            Dusty’s dad telephoned and asked if his son was tossed out of the band. When he got the answer he didn’t want, he threatened to pull the plug on the entire Talent Parade thing. None of us really cared, which made him even madder. On Talent Parade, if an act won, it was invited back for an encore the following week, and then to compete against other winners after a cycle that played out every six weeks. With its new member, THOR showed up for the encore. While standing behind the organ in the glare of lights, I saw Dusty and his family enter from the darkened far end of the studio. They sat on the bleachers of The Good Ship Lollypop while the show went on, topped off by Wipe Out, a song equally lame to the one of the previous week, to feature the band’s new drummer. It must have felt like a kick in the teeth to Dusty, and I guess that’s what it was, and I have to say that I’m sorry we did him that way. He was one of the hardest workers when it came to putting the band together and was shown the door after a triumphant moment he’d been instrumental in engineering. Shit like that always hurts, but the band continued.

            Bolstered by television fame, THOR was booked to play a dance for The Young Republicans at the Farm Bureau in Madisonville. Like all dances at the FB at that time, it was poorly attended, though the band was paid $25. That performance was followed with another at the same venue a week later, but this time sponsored by THOR, and thereby responsible for the rent. Like the YR gig, this one generated no revenue and the money we’d made the week before was spoken for. That’s what we had decided to do with that money, though we’d foolishly hoped to make a couple of bucks.

            THOR finished its obligation to Talent Parade soon after that FB gig. We stopped at a restaurant and celebrated on the way home. Brillo’s dad wondered who would be paying for our dinners, but Brillo said he’d take care of it. “Where’d you get the money” I asked. “It’s the rent money for the Farm Bureau,” he answered. We giggled and enjoyed our deserts.

Love Thy Banana

Your days will be long in the jungle.

            I’d seen a few other bands at the Farm Bureau. One band, with the brothers who gave lessons to CEP and me, played there twice with a new six, and sometimes seven piece group on stage at the same time. The lead singer, a new member, had not been long out of the army when he joined The Cowls (not a real name). Along with him, his brother also sang and played harmonica and 12 stringed guitar, and every once in a while his wife would join for a few duos with her husband lead singer. The addition of these players increased the band’s song list to about a hundred songs. The old pop song list had been waded up and tossed. This new version of The Cowls covered lots of Bob Dylan and other slightly more obscure but more challenging artists. The guys that taught us left not long after the new people came aboard.

            I also saw a band from Athens, The Rotts (not a real name), who played at the FB a few times, once at a gig sponsored by an Athens radio station. One of the players in The Rotts told me that when the members had inquired about the possibility of renting the FB for a solo venture, they were accosted by The Heroes’ parents. “We thought we were going to have to fight The Heroes’ parents just to play here.” They guy told me. I don’t recall the band playing Madisonville after that.

            Somewhere along the line there was a battle of the bands held in the Madisonville High School gym. Four bands competed for a chance to on to another level of competition. A band from Athens was very slick and good, and had a neat playlist. There was another, less polished band. The band wasn’t pitiful, but was green. I was a little disappointed with The Heroes’ set. They were unusually nervous and appeared to me to be pressing too much. The guitar player’s chord popped off the fuzz box as he danced during Land of a Thousand Dances, a killer most nights, (which, with its wonderfully primitive beat, was executed to perfection by The Heroes' drummer), and he somehow got behind on Hooked On a Feeling. Other bands might have crumbled, but the guys pulled it back together and finished strong.

            The Thumbers followed The Heroes and played a very laid-back, professional sounding set. Billy D played MC from behind his recently purchased Farfisa, and I marveled at his smoothness and ease with the audience. It appeared to me that the band had no set list for the evening and chose instead to select numbers on the fly. I thought the band’s set was very effective. Now, I don’t want to take anything from The Heroes (I loved The Heroes then and still do), and even though the judges deemed The Heroes the winner of the contest, I thought it was the third best band that evening.

            Problem, the band from Athens, exhibited good technical musicianship and delivered a glitch free performance. The Thumbers had two musicians who were better than anyone in Problem, and both bands gave slicker performances than The Heroes. The glitches killed a lot of The Heroes’ momentum. I don’t want to imply that the guitarist singlehandedly spoiled the show because sometimes when bad stuff happens it keeps piling up. I’d seen the guitarist dance as he had done that night many times before without a single incident. The stars just didn’t line up for him at the battle. But maybe they did, since his band won. I want to go on record by saying that when it came to getting great, full, psychedelic sounds, The Heroes blew everybody else away. The guitar player was among the very best fuzz tone and wah wah jockeys Monroe County ever produced, so please realize that I’m not trying to slag anybody. I’ve never played a glitch free gig.

            The free Christmas dance was about the end of the run for The Heroes. When The Pug-a-Nut opened it took about three weeks for The Heroes’ crowds to vanish. I was shocked. I went to a dance at the FB one Saturday night, and with CEP and Lawman turned out to be one of only four guys there. The Heroes’ girlfriends and about two others girls made up the crowd. The band members packed up and left without performing. Same thing happened the next week. Crowds are fickle.

Living Sweet

Thanks to all who read this mess. Please keep reading.

            I’d seen a few other bands at the Farm Bureau. One band, with the brothers who gave lessons to CEP and me, played there twice with a new six, and sometimes seven piece group on stage at the same time. The lead singer, a new member, had not been long out of the army when he joined The Cowls (not a real name). Along with him, his brother also sang and played harmonica and 12 stringed guitar, and every once in a while his wife would join for a few duos with her husband lead singer. The addition of these players increased the band’s song list to about a hundred songs. The old pop song list had been waded up and tossed. This new version of The Cowls covered lots of Bob Dylan and other slightly more obscure but more challenging artists. The guys that taught us left not long after the new people came aboard.

            I also saw a band from Athens, The Rotts (not a real name), who played at the FB a few times, once at a gig sponsored by an Athens radio station. One of the players in The Rotts told me that when the members had inquired about the possibility of renting the FB for a solo venture, they were accosted by The Heroes’ parents. “We thought we were going to have to fight The Heroes’ parents just to play here.” They guy told me. I don’t recall the band playing Madisonville after that.

            Somewhere along the line there was a battle of the bands held in the Madisonville High School gym. Four bands competed for a chance to on to another level of competition. A band from Athens was very slick and good, and had a neat playlist. There was another, less polished band. The band wasn’t pitiful, but was green. I was a little disappointed with The Heroes’ set. They were unusually nervous and appeared to me to be pressing too much. The guitar player’s chord popped off the fuzz box as he danced during Land of a Thousand Dances, a killer most nights, (which, with its wonderfully primitive beat, was executed to perfection by The Heroes drummer), and he somehow got behind on Hooked On a Feeling. Other bands might have crumbled, but the guys pulled it back together and finished strong.

            The Thumbers followed The Heroes and played a very laid-back, professional sounding set. Billy D played MC from behind his recently purchased Farfisa, and I marveled at his smoothness and ease with the audience. It appeared to me that the band had no set list for the evening and chose instead to select numbers on the fly. I thought the band’s set was very effective. Now, I don’t want to take anything from The Heroes (I loved The Heroes then and still do), and even though the judges deemed The Heroes the winner of the contest, I thought it was the third best band that evening.

            Problem, the band from Athens, exhibited good technical musicianship and delivered a glitch free performance. The Thumbers had two musicians who were better than anyone in Problem, and both bands gave slicker performances than The Heroes. The glitches killed a lot of The Heroes’ momentum. I don’t want to imply that the guitarist singlehandedly spoiled the show because sometimes when bad stuff happens it keeps piling up. I’d seen the guitarist dance as he had done that night many times before without a single incident. The stars just didn’t line up for him at the battle. But maybe they did, since his band won. I want to go on record by saying that when it came to getting great, full, psychedelic sounds, The Heroes blew everybody else away. The guitar player was among the very best fuzz tone and wah wah jockeys Monroe County ever produced, so please realize that I’m not trying to slag anybody. I’ve never played a glitch free gig.

            The free Christmas dance was about the end of the run for The Heroes. When The Pug-a-Nut opened it took about three weeks for The Heroes’ crowds to vanish. I was shocked. I went to a dance at the FB one Saturday night, and with CEP and Lawman turned out to be one of only four guys there. The Heroes’ girlfriends and about two others girls made up the crowd. The band members packed up and left without performing. Same thing happened the next week. Crowds are fickle.

Yellow Rain

Time to peal.

            The music scene around Madisonville suddenly changed. While I was playing and trying to build a fan base as a member of The House, Billy D and The Thumbers started to make noise. Having a keyboard in the band widened The Thumbers’ playlist to around a hundred or more songs, far more than needed for any gig I’d ever seen. The Thumbers could play songs from 1964 to that present. I was amazed when Billy D came around to show me some of the songs he and the band played. The drummer of the band, with some guidance from Billy D, had gone from that strange little beat he used to always play, to a bass pedal jockey who could play just about anything (and beat the shit outta the skins to boot). But the real change came with the opening of The Pug-a-Nut, a music and dance club operating out of a former body shop on old Highway 411, slightly north of Madisonville (that building, repurposed often from clubs and game rooms to several restaurants, was torn down around the end of September 2011).

            My understanding here may be faulty, but I believe that Billy D’s older sister and her husband were the adults behind the scene of the club. I think they bailed not so very long after the club began, though the Pug-a-Nut operated for a long time after that. I hadn’t seen Billy D for a month or more before the Pug opened, and once things got going I didn’t see him for awhile longer.

            When I heard about the club, I didn’t figure there would be much difference in the scene. The Thumbers were mountain boys and I thought Madisonville to be a little more white bread uptown acting to embrace them. I figured that Thumbers fans would turn out and that the former world order run by The Heroes would continue on.

            The Heroes had a really good thing going. After the pool gigs of the summer of 67, The Heroes moved down the hill to the Farm Bureau building. With the help of their parents, The Heroes operated dances and used the building like an impromptu teen club. The drummer’s dad, a thick bodied, stern-faced man who always wore overalls (not unlike any I’d seen hippies wear, though I doubt he realized his attire was, at least in some attitudes, cool) sat at a card table just inside the door (I think the table was also outside sometimes, too) and collected a dollar from each of those who requested admittance. The bass player’s dad, who was a member of the auxiliary police force, wore his uniform and stood next to the money man.

            The Heroes’ moms worked the inside. Sitting behind a table and armed with plastic cups, a couple of coolers of ice, a few cases of twelve ounce bottles of Coke, and a change box, the proud mamas chatted together, smoked cigarettes, and sold refreshments (and collected about 66% profit per bottle of beverage sold) at a dime a pop to the patrons inside the often overly warm hall. This Coke money purchased a PA system for the band, and eventually paid for some kind of reverb or echo box that enhanced the band’s vocals (three, and later four, great harmony singers).

            This family type atmosphere, and the wholesome appearance and reputation of the band were the reasons for its success. On the upside, parents trusted that their children would be safe there. Crowds for the late 1967 dances were very strong and seemed to me to only increase as the year passed. In 1968 The Heroes played for many consecutive weeks to crowded houses, the culmination being the free Christmas dance of that same year. That was a packed house. Even though I attended Heroes dances nearly every week, there were scores of faces there I’d never seen before, and the overall atmosphere was a bit more rowdy for whatever reason.

A Long Hello

Hello. Lots to read today. Enjoy.

            Several names were bandied about, a few of them used, at least temporarily, before the band (and to some extent the band’s parents) decided on a final name. The first name was The John Birch Society. No one in the band knew much about that organization, but we thought the name absurdly cool sounding. Brillo’s parents did not like the name so we changed it. Let’s face it, we didn’t have any real attachment to it. The only problem with losing the name was coming up with another. The pressing complication was that we were soon about to play an engagement. Eric came to the rescue by quickly pulling The 2001 Electric Vacuum out of his ass on the night of the show (a talent show held in The Little Theatre of the new high school). He had a black light poster with those words on it and reasoned we might get a bit of tie-in recognition from the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. For what it’s worth, I don’t remember what songs we performed that night. I think we played two or three numbers. That’s all washed away now.

            The band had a powwow the next week and put its noses to the grindstone and came up with the name The House of Representatives. I still like the name because of its openness. One could assume that the name referred to that legislative body of the US government, but we thought also that the House could choose its own causes to represent. The band’s messages were mostly we like and lust for girls, and we like to experiment.

            Some of the songs in the playlist were starting to come around. After I had finally learned to sing it, we got a pretty hefty arrangement, with lots of room for extended jamming, out of She’s Not There, a hybrid cover of a cover extracted from The Zombies via The Vanilla Fudge. The band also sloshed its way through plenty of mindless pop ditties for the pure and simple reason that the ditties were easy to arrange and play, and added quantity to the playlist. I believe a few songs came from the Mook’s Session’s set, and quite a few came from The Heroes because Eric’s brother taught him the basic changes and arrangements. Big Brother once came to our practice and helped us iron out some problems we were having with Proud Mary. After awhile, though, Brillo really came into his own when it came to learning songs. We kind of felt unstoppable.

            The House of Representatives played its second engagement at another talent show, held this time in our junior high gym/auditorium. The band holed up near the eastern side of the home bleachers and watched the acts before and later after us. A brass quartet that played a classical piece won the show, but in a fuck you moment The H of R had procured the auditorium for a one hour free concert following the talent show. The band finally had enough material for a performance exceeding an hour and planned to show it off.

            Actually, the talent show went pretty well. We played Groovin, Time Is Tight, and 1, 2, 3 Red Light during the competition. I thought we sounded pretty good. I know we looked cool. A guy who played trombone in the brass quartet, and who was the singer in Tig’s band, told me he thought we sounded good, and that he’d stayed for the extended set. He sat-in on drums during an impromptu jam one Sunday afternoon at Brillo’s (following some spirited basketball). He was a much better drummer than the fellow who played for The Representatives, but he didn’t own a set of drums.

            For whatever reason, the band members decided that our vocals were not up to standard. I ran into Crawfish one day and invited him over to sing. He had somehow managed to get out of the draft, and so one afternoon he came around to check us out. His singing sounded pretty good. Crawfish added a lot, including a few useable songs, to The House. He agreed to join.

            Trouble reared its head immediately. In a nutshell, Brillo’s parents didn’t like the idea of this older guy playing in the band. Since they owned our practice space we really couldn’t hold out against them. Arguments followed. The best Brillo’s parents could come up with was that since Crawfish was married, and older than us, anyone who might have seen him entering the house might think he was there to see Brillo’s older sister, who was already engaged to be married herself. Yeah, so what? “It just looks bad. It could spoil our daughter’s reputation.” This sort of logic fell on my brain like a thud. My view, then and now, was that’s the problem was with the nosey bastards who might be unable to mind their own businesses while The House of Representatives did the people’s business in the basement. What another thought was quite a ways from the concerns of the members of the band, ready, smart-assed lads all. “Eat me!” we said often.

            Of course now I realize that what Brillo’s parents didn’t like was that a 26 year old married guy with no visible means of support wanted to play in a band with their son. The parents, especially Brillo’s mom, kept trying to make the incident into some sort of moral or religious test. That smelled like a rat to me. All the guy did was sing. He didn’t try to hump Brillo’s sister, he didn’t try to get us on beer or cigarettes, and he didn’t offer or try to sell us any dope. Still, Brillo’s parents wouldn’t budge until they got their ways. We compromised by agreeing to dump Crawfish after a party we had been engaged to play at the end of the week. The parents didn’t like it, but they agreed.

            The party was a typical teen affair, not so unlike the birthday party of my first gig. To be honest, I don’t remember whose party it was or what the occasion was. The band looked wild. Eric had procured the upper part of a high school marching band uniform and looked for all the world like John Lennon on the Sgt. Pepper’s cover. Brillo wore his mom’s handprint on his left cheek. Crawfish told me Brillo’s mom blew-up because Crawfish was still going to sing, and tried to keep her son from playing. Brillo didn’t say much that night.

            The Crawfish incident had really pissed me off. If Brillo’s parents had a real reason why we shouldn’t have played in a band with Crawfish, well that would have been different, but what they laid out was bullshit and we all smelled it. I was much more interested in the band deciding who would play in it. I really didn’t think it was their place to interfere. What’s next? They going start selecting our material, too? We were all about freedom, not this nonsense.

            School was about to let out for the summer and we had used the talent show to finagle a dance at the junior high a few days after classes ended. The principal told us he would announce the dance, and he did, not over the intercom, but in person when he blocked the front door as students were heading out after receiving final report cards. Nothing like that personal touch, I guess.

            The dance was poorly attended and we made three to five dollars each. However, it was still quite successful in most ways. We sounded pretty good and the people seemed to have a good time. Hell, I even saw my mom dancing during a song played near the end of the gig. Another thing was that we had endured a three hour performance. Even though friction was building within the band, we were all still on speaking terms and felt like we were finally ready to take on the big bands in the area.

Cold Day in Bananaville

It's a cold day in Tennessee.

            Progress was slow. Brillo and Eric had the most playing experience, but none of us had done all that much of anything, and Crowbar was starting from scratch. We went over songs hundreds of times (like any other band) in an effort to put together a song list. The band needed 40 to 45 songs to complete the three hour dance format that became standardized around the area, and that took a lot of work. Every member was on the lookout for songs to match our skills. At the same time we didn’t want to be like anyone else, and tried to build an interesting list. There was great experimenting, especially via jamming, which we really didn’t know how to do, so it was really experimental.

            Brillo’s older sister had one of the coolest 45 singles collections I’d ever seen. She had everything. The first time I’d heard any Cream song aside from Sunshine of Your Love was her copy of that same single, with SWLABR on the flip side. She’d collected quite a number of psychedelic songs that had recently fallen off the charts. I believe she owned a few old Beatles discs, including My Bonnie (on the Vee Jay label). The record collection and the player were in the basement near the pool table, so all got a lot of attention.

            Listening to music is one thing (a very good one thing), but listening as study is something else, not unlike the reading work of a poet, or the viewing work of an artist. In fact, music, at all levels, is an art. Some of the artists are natural players gifted with perfect pitch and, to those (including me) who are less gifted, incredible technical abilities. These players come in all stripes from innovators to composers to the largely uninterested. Some of them are smart as hell, and others are dumb shits from the word go. The vast majority of us, though, are of average intelligences and playing abilities. The one thing we all have in common is that we are listening students.

            So the new band was a listening band that often listened together as a band. The members were as interested in experimental listening as we were in experimental playing. That, of course, led to a strange experience around the record player in Brillo’s bedroom one afternoon. We had been rehearsing, but decided to take a break and listen to the Hendrix album Electric Ladyland. We had been lately discussing the possible properties of psychedelic music and decided to put it to the test. Crowbar, familiar with meditation techniques, suggested we spread out and find comfortable sitting position. Someone dropped the disc and Rainy Day, Dream Away (one of Brillo’s personal favorites) warmed up. By the time 1983 (A Merman I Should Turn to Be) began we had all closed our eyes and were clearing our minds enough to let the music carry us along. No drugs were involved, and yet I tripped, as I believe everyone else in that room did that day. Like any enlightenment, the immediate states of mind (which made my head feel ten feet wide) were temporary, but something from that experience stayed with me forever, and even though I’d had a few epiphanies in similar manners before, losing myself in the music that day was special. Practice was deemed officially over and we all went our ways.

            Listening did not stop, however. As in so many other things, Billy D had taught me the ultimate importance of close listening and study. One of the first trainers he put me through was assisting him in procuring words from records. Billy D was friends with the lead singer and keyboardist for The Heroes and was able to borrow his copy of Are You Experienced by The Jimi Hendrix Experience. I worked on Fire because at the time a band called 5 X 5 had covered the song and made it a hit. The Heroes played it and Mook’s Session wanted to as well. We had to wear the grooves thin to put the lyrics together. Even after the hours spent, the song never made it to the playlist.

            Brillo listened daily to his Hendrix collection of Electric Ladyland and Axis: Bold as Love. He and I often listened together. I didn’t own either of those albums and was glad to listen to Hendrix whenever possible. The first two Led Zeppelin albums eventually made their ways into Brillo’s collection, and they were big influences. Steppenwolf was another huge influence on me and Brillo. He owned The Second and At Your Birthday Party. Brillo loved the suite (which John Kay described as a history of the blues) that followed 28 and Magic Carpet Ride on Side Two of The Second. I loved that, too, but I liked some of the goofy songs like Don’t Cry and Around and Down from the album At Your Birthday Party.

Banana That

Here's more of the same of the same.

            I put a lot of passion and sweat into my basketball. Other than that, I felt kinda lost at school, though I’m not sure why. It wasn’t the rigor of the courses because my terrible grades were mostly due to inattention. The truth is that I could have done most of the work without batting an eye, but I hated the shit and did only enough to continue playing. Some of it was that I didn’t have a girlfriend (I have no idea what I’d have done with one if any poor girl had been stupid enough to have me), and I’m not really sure what the rest of it was.

            Some of my distress was because my best friend, Brillo, and I were no longer in the same homeroom, so a lot of the support for my anarchy had been removed. That didn’t stop us. Brillo was a teammate in basketball, and a fellow music lover. We loved most of the same things (and girls) from the year before, so the authorities really couldn’t keep a lid on that pot. We spread our madness as often as we could.

            As basketball season wound down, Brillo and I began to explore the possibility of joining forces in a musical venture. Brillo already had a band of sorts in that he and another of my classmates, Eric Wolf (mostly not his real name), had been singing and playing guitars accompanied by a device called a Rhythm Master, which produced a variety of thin, tinny beats. Brillo and Eric had played a couple of parties, but I had not witnessed them at work and play. In fact, I only vaguely remember them playing a command performance for me in Brillo’s basement, and do not remember a single title from their playlist. I was, however, impressed enough to say that I was in if they wanted to put together a band.

            Brillo had been playing a rather ragged Epiphone guitar for awhile, but he got a new Gretsch Country Gentleman and the same Toby amp that The Heroes had owned. Eric, the brother of The Hero’s lead guitarist, got a 12 string guitar for Christmas. One of Brillo’s neighbors, Crazy Crowbar, a fan of The Beatles, bought a Hofner bass and a mismatched Supra amp and Baldwin cabinet. A friend of ours from school, the same guy who got me into Cub Scouts, and with whom I participated in my first jam, who owned a set of drums, came on as the drummer. Brillo’s family provided a spare section of their basement as practice space and we were off.

            It’s difficult for me to remember most of the early practices. Our routine was that we met at Brillo’s after school and played basketball (part of Brillo’s driveway served as a court, with goal attached to the front porch roof) until everyone showed up. The practice got cranked up around 4:15 or so. After an hour or more Brillo’s family had dinner, and the lot of us usually ate there. That must have cost a bundle. After dinner we played for an hour or so before everyone went home.

More Fun

Have fun!

Phase 9

            Even though Mook’s Session disintegrated, I was still obsessed with music, and Billy D and I were still friends. I spent a lot of time with both BD and KK aside from my basketball obligations, which basically amounted to three practices and a game each week, so there was always a long weekend. Not so long after Mook’s Session, Billy D told me he had purchased a Doric organ. He said it was nice, and I was excited about it. He invited me to stay overnight at his parents’ place, located above the Little T in Vonore, after the Friday night football game.

            I don’t remember anything about the game, not even who Madisonville played, but Billy D and I went to the dance, the first one held in the gym of the new high school, where the hero band (now to be referred to as The Heroes) played. For some reason there was a thick tension in the air. The Heros seemed to play everything with more intensity than usual, but I’ll never know the outcome because Billy D and I headed for Vonore after the fourth song.

            Everyone was asleep at Billy D’s. Perfect. We spent the rest of our waking time listening to Otis Redding and quietly playing that sweet Doric organ. Billy D showed me the chords to These Arms of Mine, and sang as I played. I hoped there was a chance to start another band, but Billy D had other plans. He told me he was about to audition for The Thumbers, a band based in Tellico Plains. That seemed kind of curious to me. I’d seen The Thumbers when I was in 6^th grade. They were really good musicians, but lacked the slick polish of The Heroes. They seemed more country, more raw. I didn’t know how I felt about that.

            About four or five months after my first jam session, the same guy, AB, called again and invited me around to see his band. I was still playing with Mook’s Session. I saw no harm in taking a listen. I didn’t know who AB’s band was, but when I got there discovered it to be The Thumbers. I had seen The Thumbers nearly two years before when the band played for two straight weekends at the old high school. One of the players used a Silvertone guitar with amp built right into the carrying case. I didn’t see that guy around on this particular trip, and learned later that he had been drafted.

            A couple of Thumber members had attended a Mook’s Session practice a few weeks before. I hadn’t thought them impressed enough with me or any of us to engineer a heist of an MS member, but that must have been the case. The Thumbers’ drummer was a fellow I had met before. He was close to my age and had played Little League during the season I had played. He had a most unorthodox style in that he played this little beat that never varied from song to song. I didn’t see how I could play with a drummer like that. They didn’t exactly invite me in, and I went my way.

            Not long after the demise of Mook’s Session, AB invited me to a jam session featuring himself, a drummer from a Sweetwater band, and the rest of The Thumbers. The thing didn’t kick off for many hours after the proposed starting time due to the tardiness of everyone involved. The two original members of the group said almost nothing through the entire jam, and appeared agitated about something. The next time I saw Billy D, he was playing with The Thumbers. AB was no longer with the band (he, too, was drafted), but the drummer I thought couldn’t play began to sound very good after Billy D got ahold of him. I was sent back to the spare bedroom at home to continue practicing.

Occupy Your Mind

This is the final section of Phase 8. Below are pictures of the building where the original and revised versions of Mook's Session practiced (upstairs). It's the same building where Tig's band played on my birthday in 1967, and where I attended Boy Scout meetings for awhile.
One of my youthful horrors, required childhood vacinations, took place on the ground floor around front when the building housed the Health Department.

            My parents got tired of Mook’s Session and threw us out. We were able to rent the room that had been the Boy Scout meeting place, and in which Tig had played a gig (and Billy D had sung). It was neat having a room that allowed us to mill around town at night. I remember having a lot of fun there because we could experiment with the music and be loose in our behavior in ways we couldn’t at my parents’ house.

            Band practice had begun to become problematic due to the workload of school, football, and band. I’m amazed now that we stuck with it as long as we did. We were on fire with music, though. Psychedelic music was in full flower and we all listened and happy to hear it. Journey to the Center of the Mind by The Amboy Dukes was playing while I talked with Elmer the first time. Billy D and I loved Donovan’s The Hurdy Gurdy Man.

            A guitar player named The Truck (not his name) who lived a block from Elmer somehow sat in with Mook’s Session a few times. He had a couple of nice guitars and a fuzz device that allowed him to get a Henry Vestine (Canned Heat) sound. We had jammed in his parents’ kitchen one Saturday morning and asked him over. The addition of another guitar player, one who expanded the range of lead options, made for a bigger sound, and he filled in a few times when CEP couldn’t practice. Before long, however, tensions arose in the band, mainly between Billy D and The Truck. We tried to lock out The Truck one time, but he pulled the lock apart with a single tug (he was a massive fellow). One night while The Truck was playing a lead during On the Road Again, his guitar stopped working.

            “Blowed a fuse,” The Truck said.

            “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all night,” Billy D said.

            The Truck let the comment sink in and lit a cigarette. “You wanna make something of it, D?”

            Billy D turned and looked at me. “Green Onions,” he said.

            “We can go outside, D,” The Truck said.

            “Play it,” Billy D said.

            We launched in, but The Truck unplugged his gear and carried it out. At the end of the school week, report cards were released. I did shamefully. My parents wanted me to quit the band or football. Both things pretty much ended at the same time. I held onto the practice room key for quite a while. Billy D took the key and went to square things with the landlord. Mook’s Session had ended. A lot of pressure fell off my shoulders.

Primate Time

Here's more of The Banana's history.

            Football was rough and I loved it. I felt mean going into the first game, against Tellico. Like the first gig, it was my first live action football contest. I couldn’t reason how they could possibly beat us. I figured they knew they had no chance. Well, we won, with very little thanks to me. No one criticized my work as a tight end, though I could charge myself with plenty of blame from there, but I was a joke as a defensive end. My idea had been to go after the ball and make every play I could. My job, on the other hand, was to protect the flank. My most spectacular play of the game was to run down a loose running back and cream him with a flying tackle to save a touchdown. My heroics sound great except that the play got outside of me in the first place, and not for the first time during the game. Great running by our all-everything fullback was the big difference. A lesson awaited me.

            At practice on Monday, the coaches didn’t seem too happy that we had won. They were particularly sour on me. “We’ve brought in someone to help you,” they said. I attest that I needed help. Not long afterwards, a car drove up and a guy named Ox (this is nearly his real name) stepped onto our practice area. I couldn’t believe Ox was going to be working with us. He was a football god, a monster, the biggest, toughest guy around. I’d seen him up close during a basketball game (a lefty, he played center for The Mighty Tornadoes) at the old high school gym when I was in 6^th grade, and he was the starting tight end and linebacker in football for several years through the 1967 season. He stood about 6’4”, and weighed around 220lbs.

            Actually, I liked Ox’s no bullshit approach. He was very clear about what he wanted. We started to rebuild the defense that day, starting from scratch. Two new guys, students who had failed 7^th grade the year before, had joined the team. They were big, mean boys who added much needed muscle to the interior of the defensive line. I thought Ox was gonna kill us, but that wasn’t the case. I’d heard people say that Ox was a dummy, but that’s not the Ox I knew. Temporary coach Ox taught us our jobs in minute detail, and he explained the overall plan in exactly the same way. A week before a home field rematch with Tellico, he drew a diagram on a chalk board in the varsity dressing room that showed the entire scheme of the defense. He looked at me. “All you do is go there,” he said, and made several emphatic swipes with chalk, “and don’t let anything outside of you. When the play turns in, D’ll take out the blocks, and DD’ll put the make on him. You understand?” “Yeah, I understand.”

            “Ok,” he said, “I want yuns to understand one more thing. If you don’t do what I tell ya, I’m gonna whup yuns’ goddamned asses! I ain’t bullshittin ya, I’ll whup yer goddamned ass. You sure you understand that?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Don’t let him get outside. Don’t let him get outside,” Ox said, tapping the board with the chalk.

            I knew he wasn’t going to have to whip my ass. I totally understood the defense and how it worked, having been first taught practice then theory. The work paid off when we shut out The Bears 19—0. I had to fight off two blockers on every play, but was somehow able to hold my ground the entire game. I told the coach they were killing me, and he said he knew that, but I’d just have to hang tough. It worked out.

            We were beaten by Englewood a couple of weeks later when our coaches decided to take the team off the field and leave before the game ended. A horrible mess ensued after that, and the team was unable to finish the season. I tried out for and made the basketball team. I’d made the team in 7^th grade and was ready for some playing time. Everything looked good, but there’s always trouble ahead.

Beat a Banana

Sometimes you can beat em and join em.

            One night Elmer dropped by to inform us that we had a gig. Some young girl he knew was having a birthday party and invited us to play. We agreed to do it, but thought it was worth $20. He said that would be ok. We had only a couple of practices to get ready, so the band went to work. The party was scheduled for Friday night, and the only reason CEP was able to perform was because the football team had an open date. Everything fell right into place.

            It took only two cars to haul the band and equipment to the gig. Actually, transportation could have been managed in a single vehicle because nearly all cars were huge in the late 60’s. I had not been out and about too often in the wilds of Monroe County, so I really have no idea where the engagement took place, though I believe it was in the midst of a great sea of farmland in western Vonore (possibly in the Lakeside Community). I don’t remember seeing any houses near the one we played, which was an older style of house, probably built in the late 30’s or early 40’s, like I had seen on other farms (many of them still exist today). I guess we were a little late because night had already come on and the party seemed to be in full swing when we pulled in.

            The kids attending the party were closer in age to CEP and me than the other guys. The idea that any of us might get laid (the real reason I started with music in the first place) did not cross my mind. The excitement of getting to play to other humans was overwhelming in itself. I’m sure we checked out the chicks, but mostly stuck to the tasks of setting up. In some ways I envy the simplicity of the band’s rig because all we needed was one electrical extension cord with two female outlets to power the entire show.

            Our stage was a narrow porch, and we had to squeeze into about half that space to allow folks to get into and out of the house, so people nearly brushed KK whenever they passed, and since they were kids they passed a lot. I didn’t realize it at the time but this was my first lesson about stages, meaning that some of those I played on over the years were no bigger or better than that porch. There were no fancy lights, in fact, there was but a single naked bulb shining from an overhead outlet. The entire scene was very Spartan, but I was happy to be there.

            We were anxious and didn’t waste any time. As soon as the equipment was fixed and powered, we launched right in. From there the experience becomes kinda fuzzy because the excitement of playing kind of dominated my sensibility. I remember, though not specifically, quickly learning to cover a bum note or phrase. I watched Billy D a lot. He was a master compared to the rest of us, and he was the calming reassurance that I needed to keep me in line. He knew then what I didn’t learn until later, which was that a band could play a song totally wrong, or even mess up a goodly amount of it, and, as long as the music continued, few people really noticed. Of us, only Billy D knew that the people listening most closely to the music are those playing it. Everyone else is talking, dancing, or playing spin the bottle.

            After hacking our way through a set, we took a break. The break is very important because it allows contact with the outside (non band members) world. One reason for the break was for the birthday girl to blow out the candles on her cake. I went into the house seeking Elmer. He had cornered a woman who looked to be about the age of my grandmother. She seemed very nice and invited the band to have a piece of cake. I don’t remember eating any cake, but who knows? I reminded Elmer about the $20, and he went straight for the nice woman. That made me feel a little embarrassed because the household didn’t seem like it could withstand the fee. Now, I don’t want to get into a who was poorer contest since so many of the well to do in Madisonville seem to go out of their ways to not appear rich, while at the same time bemoaning their expenses or how they merely scrape by, but my family was not well off. However, to me at least, my family appeared to be better off than the inhabitants of that country place.

            Without another word the band went back to work. We must have been getting tired because mistakes began to pile up, not to the point of disaster, but definitely noticeable to us. Again, no one else seemed to care. I really began to feel bad about asking money for the product. The only selling point was that everyone in the band was giving maximal effort, and why not? Comon, I didn’t know shit from shinola. I thought it possible that the band might be discovered even at such an inauspicious occasion as that young girl’s party. How totally naïve I was—an amoeba in a drop of experienced water.

            The party was beginning to break up before the second set was over. As the equipment was being dismantled and loaded, Elmer slipped each one of us a fiver, the $20 we had requested. What if he hadn’t? What could we have done about it? I guess the band members might have felt a little duped, but we would not have had the experience of playing live without that party. Other than a little gas money for Billy D, we could have lived with nothing. I found out later that Elmer had actually sprung for the $20.

            I rode back to Madisonville with Billy D and KK. We stopped at a drive-in, a very popular young person hangout on weekends (then as now, there was really nothing for youth to do but hang out), and we stopped for some of its tasty treats before calling it a night. In the car a couple of spaces over from us three guys in a car seemed to spontaneously crack-up with laughter. “We should fake doing the same thing,” KK said. “Crack-up on three,” he said. He counted, we cracked. At first our laughter was faked, but the zeal which we had thrown into the performance really made us bust up. We were still giggling when our treats came.

            Overall I guess I felt pretty good when I got home. I told my parents all about it, then repeated the story to my grandmother (I usually stayed overnight at her place on the weekends). Before bed I watched television a little while and read some of a Scholastic book entitled 101 Elephant Jokes I’d bought at school. My spinning head continued to spin for a couple of days.

The Early Banana Catches...

Here's a little splash of history.

            As obsessed as I was with the new band, plenty of outside influences intruded on what might have been band time. For one thing, at least for three members of the band, there was school. Now except seeing girls and my friends every day, I hated every moment of school. I could never reconcile the rights the school system took to require anything of me. I did as close to nothing as I could get away with, but that didn’t stop the prodding and complaining by the minions of the state charged with turning out workers bees, or better, grist for the mill. Let’s be honest, the schools aren’t teaching anybody how to get rich. For all the mythology this country spreads about how anyone can be anything, school systems mostly prepare students to be proles (as Orwell called them): unquestioning labor resources for people richer than them. A look around Madisonville will plainly illustrate that the wealthy of the town are the offspring of the previous generation’s wealth. Some of the legacies are as tight-fisted as their parents, who built their businesses with their hard earned capital, but did not feel obliged to spread the profits around to those who provided the muscle and time to assure the business’ success. When people worth millions pay employees no more than eight or nine dollars an hour, even to long term employees, without regular raises, then something is wrong with the system. The schools are on board with that nonsense, and do no more than feed it. Educators tamp down any individual impulse, while at the same time touting the greatness of a country that allows unfettered individualism. I wish I’d gone to school in that country.

            To me then, the only worthwhile activities the schools offered were music and sports. I wasn’t really interested in the marching band, which the junior high didn’t offer anyway, so I gave sports a go. CEP was playing on the high school team while I played with the junior high. Madisonville had a new high school coach. He had played football at UT, and I think he coached there as a graduate assistant. I was surprised to find that he had been a wingback in college because he was so big. The man stood about 6’3” tall, and I don’t know about his playing weight, though he looked pretty fit to me, but he must have weighted 210. That’s nothing now, but the players were smaller across the board then, and he was big for a back. His wife was my 8^th grade art teacher, and was among the most beautiful women I had seen.

            Practices on both levels were miserable, though I wouldn’t trade our practice for what CEP endured. The high school team ran through its fundamental drills at a good clip before taking a run around the huge practice area. Two freshmen never seemed to make the entire run and ended up walking about a third of the way each day. After that the team did form tackling and some block and hit exercises. It looked brutal to me.

            The junior high team started a few weeks behind the high school team. Our practices weren’t picnics either, but at least we didn’t have to risk getting creamed by a mean senior. The ring finger of my left hand was permanently damaged after repeated injury. Football’s a rough assed game, but a person can get nailed in any sport. A fellow in my class broke his arm in 6^th grade football and again in 8^th grade basketball. He had never been seriously injured playing baseball. Injury, like everything else in life, is beyond control.

            School and football sucked up a lot of time, and we were trying to put together a band. Three nights a week the band, and sometimes even the manager, squeezed into my family’s spare (bedless) bedroom to work on crafting a gig. The noise quickly drove my parents crazy. I can’t see how they were able to enjoy life with us around. After some wrangling, Billy D was able to procure the room where Tig’s band had played, and where The Boy Scouts had formally met, as a practice space. The freedom was good for everybody.

Green Behind the Economy

Better late in the day than never.

            Opening day of the 68/69 school year unfolded into a sunny, hot afternoon. Then as now, the first day was shortened. I believe we got out by 11 a.m. Two of my black friends followed me home after school had let out. I’m sure my neighbors hated that I hosted black people in my home, especially since my parents weren’t around. One of the guys had been in my home many times. We’d been friends since I was 10 years old. Both the guys were (still are) great fellows.

            There was no big deal for the longest time. We goofed off and listened to the radio and the like—the usual stuff. For a reason unknown to me, one of the guys kept picking at the other one nearly all day. He rode everybody sometimes, mostly in an irritating but good natured way, and I couldn’t honestly say that anything was any different that day, but then the knife appeared. The knife was an old steak knife with a tape wad for a handle that was inside an old trunk my parents had been given.

            Many things could be said about my dad, but boy was he good at shining shoes and sharpening knives. He’s the only person I’ve known who took a hobbyist’s zeal to those activities. He could easily make a piece of shit shoe look like patent leather, and, depending on his objective, he could really put an edge on a blade. When he finished a project his whit stone would be grooved away where he had circled and pulled the blade. He constantly spat on the stone (he spat on the leather when working on a shoe) as he swirled the blade sharp. The edge produced seemed to be translucent, almost like a dangerous halo.

            I don’t remember exactly how the knife came into play, but one guy had it and the other one wanted it. The guy with the knife kept telling the other guy he was going to get cut if he didn’t leave him alone. The radio from the big triple play stereo pumped out the hits as their argument escalated. The guy who didn’t have the knife would not leave it alone. “Comon, man, lemme see it,” he repeated and sort of hand wrestled the knife holder. “I’m warning you, dammit! I’m gonna cut you, goddammit!” the knife holder said.

            I was relieved when the phone rang. I thought if I removed myself as witness to the action everything would be all right. “Is this Kim Frank?” someone on the line asked. “Yeah.” All the time “Get away from me!” and whatnot continued in the background. “I’m looking to put together a band to manage and heard your name around. You interested? I thought we could call it Captain Frank and the Troopers or something.”

            “No, no, I don’t think that’ll work. I don’t sing or anything. I’m just an organ player,” I said. My two friends didn’t stop. They kept arguing and wrestling in the entrance to the kitchen. “I’ve been playing with some guys. We’ve got a few songs, but we don’t have a set of drums so there’s not much more we can do.”

            “That’s no problem; I got a set of drums,” the phone said. “You guys can use my drums.”

            I couldn’t believe it. I felt as though a band had been delivered me as if by divine assistance. Then I heard, “I told you, goddammit!” and saw the guy who wanted the knife rolling wildly on the floor. Blood streamed from an angled slash across his right wrist.

            “I gotta go,” I told the phone. I tried to quickly explain what had happened. “Call me back.”

            I went to the bathroom and got some first aid stuff. The First Aid course I’d taken from the rescue squad via Boy Scouts came in handy. I knew exactly what to do, but had never encountered a wound that severe before. The slash was pretty deep and nearly five inches long. I called my mom at work, and she came home and took the guy to the doctor. She later remarked that the guy had a lot of guts because he never whimpered at all while the doctor stitched the wrist.

            I wasn’t sure the potential manager would call back but he did. He made his pitch and I told him I’d relay the information to the others. With a set of drums I might actually be able to play in a real band. I told CEP and Lawman right away. They seemed pretty excited, especially Lawman who would have a drum set rather than pots and pans to bang on.

            Finding Billy D was a little tougher. He owned a car and could have been anywhere, so I had to wait around for him to show, which he did before dark. I told him about everything that had transpired. “What’s they guy’s name?” Billy D asked. “Elmer Ripp” (not a real name) I said.

            “Oh, shit, man…don’t you know him?” Billy D said.

            “No.”

            “He’s a queer, man.”

            “What?”

            “He’s a queer. He got me over to his house to listen to records when I was 12. He put the moves on me. He started pissing on the stove in his living room, and I said, ‘There comes my daddy,’ and took off out the door. Elmer got drafted and I hadn’t seen him around in a long time,” Billy D said.

            “That’s too bad,” I said, “we could really use the drums.”

            “Well, hell, maybe we still can use em. We’ll just have to be careful, that’s all. Let’s go over and talk to KK.”

            “Ok, but what’s he got to do with it?”

            “We need a drummer.”

            “What about Lawman?”

            “He’s ok on the pots and pans, but if we’re gonna get drums we gotta get somebody who can play them.”

            We got a solid commitment from KK, and I was left the task of putting together a practice. My parents had the only spare room amongst my band mates’ folks, so I lobbied my parents for its use. Billy D, KK, and I went to Elmer’s to pick up the drums. We talked for awhile before hauling the set to my folks’ place. The rig consisted of high hat, snare, bass, one mounted tom, and a single cymbal (the size of a ride cymbal) which served as ride and crash. It was the most Spartan set I had ever seen, but it fit perfectly into the corner of the room where space was going to be tight no matter what. By the next night we had all the equipment in place and conducted our first practice. Elmer dropped in and met my parents (who loved him right away) and listened to our hacking. He seemed strangely satisfied. We decided to call the band Mook’s Session.