"Sergeant Pepper's"

Underground Atlanta in the 1970's was a rock band's dream. Lined with clubs and bars, the cobblestone/brick streets of "Underground" were busy most weeknights, and flooded with party-goers on weekends and holidays. Clubs such as, "The Pump House," "The Mad Hatter," and "Scarlet O'Hara's," drew the best bands in Atlanta, and were known for the cheapest beer and drinks, as well as the best-looking women in the south. A slam-dunk profitable combination for club owners.

Underground would have reminded most folks of Bourbon Street in New Orleans, Beale Street in Memphis, and/or a poor band's "Music Row." Being under a viaduct made the weather a non-factor, and added a coziness to the atmosphere. Rock was king in Undergound, but one could also hear jazz, dixieland, and on rare nights, maybe even a little country. Since the area was not in close proximity to a residential district of any sort, there were no noise restrictions. You could play as loud and as long as the club owners would allow. Preferably, the louder the better. Decibels seemed to incite folks to dance and drink. There was no quiet, elevator music. The crowds that frequented Underground did not come to sit in a library-quiet-coffee-shop-like corner, hold intellectual conversations, and stylishly sip from wine glasses. The came to boogie.

One of the coolest places to play in Underground was a club called, "Sergeant Pepper's." Like the legendary Cheers from the sit-com, Sergeant Pepper's was below street level. A long staircase led down to the front door. It almost felt like you were entering a New York subway station as you descended down below the streets of Underground. Sergeant Pepper's had rustic looking wooden floors, a large bar, and limited seating that encircled a gigantic dance floor. It was obvious that this place was built for two things - drinking and dancing. The ceilings were exposed beams, with an extensive air-conditioning duct system hanging in full view. Every square centimeter of the ceiling and duct work had been sprayed with foam insulation. Only heaven knows how much asbestos we all breathed in that place.

The only other music scene in Atlanta that rivaled Underground involved the hordes of singles apartments and their party-central clubhouses. Our band was king of this circuit - playing every single weekend, and even on weeknights about half the time. We had all been to Underground to check out the clubs and bands, but had never gotten our foot in the door to play at one of these storied clubs.

Enter our drummer, Robert Banks.

Robert was the epitome of the skinny kid who can't sit still in church, school, or any place else. If there had been conditions like ADD in Robert's day, he would have been ADDDDDDDDDD. This is one of the reasons he made such a great drummer. Pounding the daylights out of a drum kit, surrounded by drumheads and cymbals that begged to be struck over and over, was Robert Banks' heaven. His flaming red hair and spindly legs made him look almost clown-like. It was fun to stand back and watch him devour a set of drums.

Robert's hyper personality also moved him to be the band's self-appointed booking agent. He could talk the britches off a prostitute, and have her paying him for the evening's festivities. Too, Robert never met a stranger. He was not in sales for his day job, but he should have been. Robert got our band more gigs than anybody. In five minutes with a club owner or apartment complex clubhouse entertainment coordinator (yes, they did have those back in the day), Robert could somehow convince them that we were the next Lynyrd Skynyrd. He was almost always able to get us more money than the venue manager/owner would normally pay. We owe that great guy a lot.

The year was 1974. Actually, the gig was to be on New Year's Eve - 1974 (and ending on New Year's morning - 1975). About three weeks prior, Robert waltzed into one of our Christmas Party gigs and announced, "We got it, dude!" "Got what???" was the rest of the band's reaction. "The gig to end all gigs," Robert said, slapping his legs with his drumsticks. "New Year's Eve...Sergeant Pepper's...Underground...9-Until...$100 per hour...Dude!!!"

The other four of us cheered.

The night was magical from start to finish.

Our roadies - Kenny Polson, Billy Page, Scott Goza, and a couple of their friends had lugged our huge Marshall amplifiers down the long flight of stairs and set them up, as always, in their proper stage configuration. They had the PA system all rigged up and ready, and our guitars were sitting on their stands in front of the amps when we arrived about 7:30 PM. We walked in like rock stars. The New Year's Eve crowd had already started to gather. There were great looking, young females everywhere. They cheered when they realized that we were the band! Life was good, and only going to get better!

As usual, we tuned up and ran through one number as a sound check. Our standard sound check tune was, "Sweet Home Alabama." When we cranked into that classic anthem of 70's southern rock, the patrons at Sergeant Pepper's cheered, the ladies hit the dance floor, and even the bartenders and owner stopped what they were doing to listen. You know it's going to be a good night when even the bartenders are bobbing their heads in time with the music. We ran through about half of the song, and stopped. This guitar player thought here was going to be a mini-riot among those gathered. There was still a little over an hour to go. The owner was smiling.

Nine o'clock seemed like it would never come.

But come it finally did. Every booth and table in Sergeant Pepper's was full. As we started our first set, the crowd was ripe for a party. Almost half of those who had been sitting and talking were immediately on their feet. Most of them did not sit down for the rest of the night - at least while we were playing.

There were so many memorable moments on that night. But, as usual, there was one moment that stood out above the rest.

This guitar player was on the left hand side of the stage - as the stage faced the dance floor. Fortunately, the ladies restroom was on the very same side of the stage.

The female bladder is a very delicate and sensitive thing. At every ballgame, concert, movie, and church service, a perpetual stream of female restroom goers snakes their way to the ladies' room under the guise of, "powdering their noses." Too, as young ladies pour liquid into their bodies at a place such as Sergeant Pepper's, and as they actively gyrate around a dance floor, it is a given that their bladders will work overtime.

That night, it was very difficult to concentrate on D - C & G with a constant bevy of eligible, southern belles strolling by. This challenge became even more daunting whenever the line stopped for any appreciable period of time. During one of these times, the mother of all groupies came by the stage.

I never really saw her go by. We were playing Lynyrd Skynyrd's, "Needle & The Spoon." This tune was a very popular cut from their monster album, "Second Helping." Everybody knew and loved Skynyrd, and this song was one of their best. "Needle & The Spoon," has a somewhat unique guitar solo. Seldom did the Skynyrd guitarists use an effects pedal called a, "Wah Wah," but on this particular song, the soloist did.

To play a solo utilizing a wah wah pedal, the guitarist has to stand still, while placing one of his feet out in front of his body to rock back and forth on the pedal. This means that his legs will be spread a little wider apart than normal. He is as helpless in that position as a new baby in its crib.

Solo time came in the song. This guitar player was really getting into the solo. All was going well. When, suddenly, without warning, the feeling of a dainty female hand became unmistakable - as it ascended up this guitarist's left upper thigh. Continuing up the thigh like a reptile sliding through the leaves of a palm tree, this young lady's hand finally and purposely found its mark. And, once she got, "there," she held on for dear life.

I do not remember a single note of the remainder of the solo. I immediately turned and looked. She was blonde, had a body that was built for naughtiness, and was obviously not shy. She winked, pooched her lips and blew a kiss, and gave one last, memorable squeeze. Giggling, she and her female friend turned and made their way through the restroom door.

Everyone who has been in a band and has played out in public has their stories. Some are hard to believe, and some even harder to forget. The 1970's was a great time to be young and in a band in the south. Atlanta was a hopping place in those days. Lots of single folks, lots of places wanting music for those single folks, and lots of memories waiting to be made.

To Sergeant Pepper's, the Pump House, the Mad Hatter, and all the other great music clubs in Underground Atlanta, thank you. You gave us a place to have great fun. And, you paid us well while we were having it. And, to all those young ladies who made being in a band THE place to be, your reaction to our musical efforts was - rewarding!  

This guitar player will never forget you.  

"Bill The Dancing Guitarist"

Playing music has been this writer’s, “drug of choice,” since the age of nine. No high in the world (sorry, honey, not even sex) can compare with having performed well a popular song for a receptive crowd of listeners. Standing ovations are God’s way of paying you back for the fatigue of packing and moving heavy amplifiers and sound equipment, untold hours of practice, and the pain of developing and maintaining calluses on bleeding fingertips.

Thank you, Lord, for the gift of music; and for the blessing of being a rock guitarist in an enormously popular band, amongst the vast array of music venues in Atlanta, Georgia, in the middle of the greatest era of popular music – the 1970’s.

“Silver Creek,” was our band’s name. Previously, we had been known as, “Andromeda,” (a name taken from a boring 1971 sci-fi movie). Whatever band member(s) came up with, “Silver Creek,” thus delivering us from our former name, should be given a Pulitzer Prize.

The nucleus of the band had been together since high school. Our first gigs were a high school talent show (which we won by performing two of the biggest tunes of the day – Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Green River” and Chicago’s “25 or 6 to 4”) and playing in the lunch room during 4th period (A, B, & C Lunch) on St. Patircks’ Day (our school was the O’Keefe “Fighting Irish”). We were one of two bands on campus, and extremely popular with our fellow students.

All bands eventually go through personnel changes. We certainly did. When the band began to get serious about our future, the practice schedule really started cranking up. With this development, both our original drummer and bass player (two brothers) decided they didn’t want to be THAT serious about playing music. The departure of these two dear friends was tough on all of us, but the remnant moved on.

One of our charter members switched from playing third guitar over to bass. He “took to” the change really well, and became a top shelf bass player in almost no time at all. He was also one of our two vocalists. When this writer listens back to tapes from those days, it is amazing to hear what “Buster” could do on a bass, and in singing rock.

Also, some of our guys happened to work with three other musicians who wanted to either start or join a band. Musician #1 was a really good drummer – skinny as a rail, with fiery red hair. “Robert” would become a real asset to our group in the years to come. Musician #2 was a vocalist who was also a songwriter, harmonica player, and the owner a decent PA system – which we badly needed at the time. “Bob” became the tender-hearted core of our band. The third musician (let’s call him “Terry”) was a highly egotistical guitarist and vocalist. Being somewhat of a, “legend in his own mind,” it soon became apparent that he viewed himself as nothing short of a clone of Mick Jagger, Eric Clapton, and Elvis all rolled into one.

All three of these fellows were welcomed into the band, though there would be trouble down the road with Terry. Nonetheless, it was good to see a real band beginning to take shape.

The next hurdle was and is the most common one faced by every band that has ever struck up a tune. Where do we practice?

We had bounced around between parents’ living rooms, neighborhood garages, at least one old barn, and an apartment complex clubhouse (where some of our equipment was eventually stolen). Grrrrrrrr. We were musical gypsies searching for a place to ruin our eardrums and forge our sound. If Silver Creek was ever really going to “be”, we HAD to have a place TO “be.”

About this time, as good fortune would have it, this writer’s parents moved from one metro Atlanta County to another, and into a brick house with a basement. This house was located on what was then still somewhat of a county road, on a piece of land that was surrounded with woods on one side and open terrain on the other. It was THE perfect place for a bunch of loud, head-banger-type musicians to polish their act. Our destiny of becoming a true band was looking up.

Back to Terry, the ego-maniac. Eventually, he was asked to leave the band. Since the day he entered the group his ego had taken charge. From everything including song choices, to lead vocal and guitar duties, to equipment purchases, to what each band member would wear to gigs, to what our business cards would look like, Silver Creek was rapidly becoming “Terry’s band.” Something had to be done. Something was.

A strained, adversarial, tearful, and bitter “intervention” took place at one of our next practices. Terry’s dominance, the wisdom of some of the choices/decisions he had made for the band (without asking our opinions first), as well as a few other pertinent items were passionately discussed. Terry bristled at the idea that he had somehow become the “mac daddy” of the band. He was told that the band would henceforth be a true democracy, and that if he couldn’t live with that then we certainly wished him well. With bruised ego in hand, Terry moved on.

This kind of trouble and conflict, unfortunately, has broken up many a great band down through the history of rock and roll. Anyone who has ever been in a band (or bands) for any period of time will tell you that a group of musicians is often much more difficult to manage and keep together than a marriage. Divorce is ugly and painful - even when it “only” involves a group of guys or gals who do three chords and a chorus together on weekends.

To his credit, Terry did get us our first string of gigs. He also brought to the group a host of good cover tunes for us play. The crown jewel of these songs was a newly-released number by a then regionally-known group called Lynyrd Skynyrd. The song was, “Sweet Home Alabama.” Give the devil his due. Because of Terry’s musical foresight, we were playing “Sweet Home” (as well as a handful of other songs that eventually became hits) even before Atlanta rock radio was playing them. Kudos to you for that, Terry.

With Terry now gone, we were a band of five: two guitars, a bass, one drummer, and a vocalist (who occasionally played rhythm guitar or blues harp). Through the years a few keyboard players came and went, but we were almost always a “guitar band.” This story is about one of the guitar players. We knew him as, “Bill.”

In the 1970’s, with rock music becoming almost an obsession among baby boomers, and with it growing progressively harder-edged all the time, places for live performers and bands to play multiplied like fleas on a collie. Clubs, bars, singles apartment clubhouse parties, fraternity and sorority parties, corporate outings, private parties, restaurants and “lounges,” county fairs, small concert halls, outdoor sports venues, grand openings for new businesses, high school dances and pep rallies, and a hundred other venue types were constantly needing rock and roll bands. The work was steady and the money was decent. Silver Creek had found its place. We were a working band, and loving every rock and roll minute of it.

One of our favorite places to play was a restaurant/bar in a small town just west of Atlanta. “Effie’s Kitchen” had benefited substantially from the growth of Atlanta. The metropolis that Atlanta was destined to become was almost daily reaching farther and farther into places like the west metro county where Effie’s was located. Liquor by the drink, dancing, and loud rock and roll was packing them in. In some places, there was a rock and roll band playing five to six nights a week.

Silver Creek was given a tryout at Effie’s when their regular cover band had a conflict on a Saturday night booking. We were promised that if we did well, there could be a chance for a week-long gig in this little place. That Saturday afternoon we loaded up the gear and headed for what would become a great launching-pad for our career as a cover band.

The largest crowd ever at Effie’s showed up that night to hear our little five piece group. The time was “right,” the crowd was “ripe,” and Silver Creek was rocking. After four hours of almost non-stop cover tunes from Aerosmith, Grand Funk Railroad, Bad Company, ZZ Top, BTO, The Stones, and scores of others, the crowd refused to go home. The spirits were flowing, the music was hot, and the money was rolling in.

When the night was over, the club owner told us we were THE best bar band he had ever heard. We were immediately booked for an entire month, which was longer than Effie’s had ever held a group over. Our time had finally come. We could quit our day jobs.

Effie’s Kitchen, like any other club or lounge, attracted all types of people. Long hairs, rednecks, hippies, geeks, bikers, blue collar and white collar, black and white, male and female. They all came for different reasons, but, certainly, each was there because of rock and roll.

At the risk of overlooking anyone from the preceding collage of faces, bodies, and hearts - and for the sake of brevity - let us focus on perhaps THE most “important” segment of patrons that frequented Effie’s, or any establishment where there was/is dancing, loud rock and roll, and booze. I am speaking, of course, of women.

Women, women and more women. They came in the door like cattle at a county fair auction. Blondes, brunettes, red-heads, tall, round, thin, big-chested, flat-chested, bone-hard ugly, drop-dead gorgeous, some of legal age, and some not. One by one these precious creatures appeared. And, all with one thing in common: they were searching for a good time and for Mr. Right (or, as the country song says, Mr. Right Now!). Too, anyone who has ever followed rock and roll knows a second universal truth about women who show up at clubs, concerts, and most other places where music is to be played. That is, women L-O-V-E the boys in the band! One of THE sweetest places on earth for a musician to be is onstage performing before an adoring crowd of females.

One of the “boys” in our band was “Bill.” He was our second guitarist and sang harmony vocal. Bill was an excellent musician, who could also repair amplifiers and pretty much all things electronic with both hands tied behind him. However, he was as “a-typical” a rock guitarist and performer as there has ever been in the world.

By nature, Bill was a scientist, a borderline egghead, and a scholar. He won every award for science achievement our high school ever doled out. Blindfolded, Bill could take apart a guitar, an amplifier, or even a nuclear power plant and put it all back together in perfect order. He also had an ear for THE song that the crowd was sure to love. Bill was, in many ways, the backbone of our band.

There were two things, though, that Bill was NOT.

First, he was not a dancer by any means. If Bill had starred in “Saturday Night Fever,” the Bee Gees might never have gotten beyond singing for weddings and funerals. Bill rarely if ever moved while onstage. During a four hour gig, he would stand statuesquely in the same place, never moving unless it was a step or two toward the microphone to sing a harmony vocal. His guitar work was impeccable and he capably sang many a harmony line. But, beyond this, Bill’s onstage and real life persona were never going to get him confused with Tom Jones or Elvis.

Second, Bill was not a ladies man. He was in many ways a terribly shy person, and quiet as a whisper in a crowd. It was not that Bill didn’t like girls. And, it was not that he was at a loss for knowing what SHOULD be done whenever a room suddenly filled with a bevy of scantily clad females. Bill was just not the type to openly cavort and carouse. He occasionally confessed a minor crush of sorts for a sister of one of our band mates, but was not about to go off chasing the first pretty pair of jeans that walked by during one of our gigs. (That particular duty fell to this writer, and was a cross he bore repeatedly throughout Silver Creek’s days as a band.)

One particular Saturday night, Effie’s Kitchen was “hopping.” Silver Creek was loud and in fine form. The beer and booze were flowing. The crowd was steadily becoming liquored up, and quickly gravitating toward full party mode. The dance floor was filled on every song. And, as always, women – hot, incredibly good looking women – were everywhere. What a great time to be young, a guitar player, and part of a really, really good rock band. Ahhhhhh, the sweet memories.

At some point during the show, the dance floor emptied enough for one young lady to stand out. And, boy did she ever stand out! She was a strawberry blonde in her early twenties, the possessor of a beautiful face, and an even better physique. She was wearing stacked heels, tight jeans, and the prettiest orange chiffon, 100% cotton, tube top that K-Mart ever sold. That top was perfectly positioned in the one area of this pretty young thing’s upper body that most every guy in that place wanted to be. No one but her and Good Lord knew that the top she wore into Effie’s that night would not be in that position very much longer.

The song that seemed to light this young thing’s fire was ZZ Top’s great dual hit, “Waitin’ On The Bus/Jesus Just Left Chicago.” Her boyfriend had stayed with her on the dance floor through, “Waiting On The Bus,” but retreated to his seat for the second part of the medley. “Jesus Just Left Chicago” was a slow, bluesy type number, with a steady, pulsating bass line. It was THE perfect song for a lead guitarist to show his chops; and, for a pretty young thing in an orange tube top to show hers as well.

We were right in the middle of the guitar solo when the action began. The doll-baby all alone now on the dance floor must have known that every guy in the place was watching her (and every girl, but for different reasons). Slowly, sensuously, and graphically our young mistress began to disrobe. Keep in mind that she was already only half-clothed from the waist up to begin with. One gentle tug after another at that orange top was gradually bringing it ever closer to her navel. And, not a bouncer in sight (a “bouncer” is big male brute who removes rowdy folks from dance floors – not the “OTHER” variety of “bouncer” which had a partner bouncing with it on this girl’s upper torso).

Never has the male portion of any audience we ever played for made that much noise. Every male in Effie’s that special Saturday night was euphorically caught up in ecstatic approval of what they were witnessing!

Being the serious guitarist that this writer was, he was totally and absolutely focused on the solo he was playing, and thoroughly oblivious to the show that was taking center stage right in front of him. Sad to say, but he thought the audience was cheering for him!

Suddenly, I heard Robert, our drummer, screaming at me. “Hey, dude! – D-A-V-I-D!!! – Look, man! – Look at…BILL!” I opened my eyes and saw the eye-popping mammarial display only a few feet away. She was obviously “digging” the solo I was playing. The better I played, the more vigorously she moved that body and that top to places one would have never imagined.

At that point, in my own mind and field of view it was, “Bill W-H-O?”

Robert yelled again, “Man! - Not her!! – Look at BILL!” Being the stalwart drummer he was, Robert was attempting to continue the beat of the song while gesturing wildly toward the opposite end of the stage with one of his drumsticks.

This guitar player was finally able to tear himself away from the unbelievable sight unfolding (or undressing) before his young eyes, and look in the direction that Robert was pointing. What he saw was almost as unbelievable – and a thousand times more entertaining!

Bill was D-A-N-C-I-N-G!!!!

Bill - the science freak, egghead, intellectual, solitary, “stationary” man – was hopelessly overcome with the sensuous, fleshly display he was witnessing. Bill, my buddy and fellow guitarist, was smiling, laughing, moving around, smiling, swaying, grinning, leaning back and forth, shaking his head in approval, and doing something akin to the “bump!”

This stoic, unmovable, lug that stood like the Rock of Gibraltar on the other end of the stage from me, never changing his position or his countenance, was going absolutely rock and roll crazy!!! He was dancing around like Buster Poindexter did when he performed, “Hot, Hot, Hot!,” in his Vegas show. That little stage at Effie’s rocked and rumbled each time Bill would gyrate back and forth and side to side. As the Motown hit says, the earth was truly moving under his feet.

Soon, the bouncers came and got little Miss Orange Chiffon Tube Top(less) and gingerly escorted her off the dance floor. We didn’t see her again the rest of the evening. But, no matter - the deed was done – the transformation complete!! Silver Creek now knew what made our rhythm guitarist “tick” – not to mention jump, shout, shake, rattle, and roll.

Bill never stood still again. From that night until our band took its current thirty year hiatus, Bill enjoyed every minute of every show. He moved around onstage like the late Billy Preston, flirted with the girls in the front row, and became one of THE greatest memories this guitar player still has from the days of rock and roll, and a band called Silver Creek.

Thank you, Bill.

Rock on, brother.

"Drum & Drummer"

Musicians are a curious lot. They practice with great passion, play their hearts out hoping that someone will listen and approve, and do it all at great personal expense to themselves. They spend money they don’t have on instruments they don’t need so they can make syncopated, melodic noise they can’t sell to an audience that won’t listen. Like their audience, musicians will ruin their own hearing from listening habitually to music that is way too loud, long before they discover that there is also great beauty and pleasure in the world of pianissimo.

Why does a musician do these things? The answer is very simple.

Music is their drug, their “fix,” and often (in the case of male musicians) their “woman.” It is in their blood, and their DNA. To a musician, their craft is perhaps the one defining force in their lives. It is far more than something they do, it is something they ARE.

Another oddity regarding musicians has to do with their choice of instrument(s). Musicians wind up playing the instruments that seem to match their individual psychological make-up. Piano players are almost always more effeminate, guitar players more egotistical, bass players more introverted, and drummers – well, drummers are just plain nuts. Seriously. When a person derives pleasure from beating the living daylights out of an expensive collection of wooden canisters, with pieces of leather and/or plastic draped across them, what you actually have is a significant psychological disorder manifesting itself in 4/4 time.

This writer has played music professionally for roughly forty years. Though his dominant instrument of passion and proficiency is not the drums, yours truly did spend five years of his young life playing drums in high school band. Switching from trumpet to drums after elementary school just made sense. After all, beating the snot out of an instrument with two sticks allowed the lips to be reserved exclusively for romantic endeavors. Becoming a drummer seemed a much wiser musicial path to follow than intentionally and religiously placing one’s mouth on an icy piece of steel, especially during the bitter cold of late season football games and parades. Too, playing cadences was extremely cool, and the chicks always seemed to dig the guys in the drum line.

In the various bands that have come and gone in this writer’s musical life, it is the drummers that bring back the most graphic and comical memories - and, none more so than one, Gary “Bird” Millwood.

Gary was from Lebanon, Tennessee. We both attended the same small college in west Tennessee, and were introduced by a mutual musical friend. Gary was a superb drummer and a fine singer, but also a perplexing combination of personality contrasts. He could be, at times, exceptionally quiet and reserved – someone you would never know was in the room. But then, almost instantaneously, he could morph into being “crazy loud” and outrageously funny. Gary was forever coming up with slapstick routines and side-splitting one-liners, much in the same mold as Robins Williams, Jim Carey, and/or early Steve Martin.

On one occasion, our six piece band was practicing at a little cabin owned by our rhythm guitarist’s mom and dad. This small log home was a half mile back off a farm road, in the middle of the woods, and about seven miles from the nearest town. It was the perfect place for amplifiers to be cranked to their absolute max, and for a fanatical drummer to be free to pummel his nine piece drum kit into a deafening submission. What an absolutely ideal setting for the development of permanent hearing loss.

It was getting late on a Saturday afternoon and everyone was hungry. Too, our ears need a break. Our bass player, "Kandy," one of THE greatest female singers this writer has ever known, went into the kitchen to whip up some hamburgers and fries for the band. It was the middle of fall in West Tennessee, and a nip was in the air. Gary had worn a “wind suit” to practice. The layered synthetic material in the wind suit kept his drumming muscles warm during breaks. The burgers and fries really hit the spot, giving each of us a second wind. Someone suggested that we run over a number or two one final time before calling it a day.

The band was tuning up one last time when Gary announced that he had to use the bathroom. Whenever Gary Millwood made a public announcement of something that was about to happen, even if it was only a trip to the tiolet, a great hush would come over the room. It was certain that something bizarre or hilarious was about to take place.

Gary stayed a long time in the bathroom. Though the rest of the band was tuning and warming up, noises could still be heard coming from inside that tiny bathroom. “I wonder what he’s doing in there,” our keyboard player said. “I am sure I don’t want to know,” someone else replied. About that time, the bathroom door opened and we heard Gary’s voice. “Man, those burgers and fries really filled me up!,” he exclaimed loudly. Stepping out of the bathroom, he moved quickly and deftly into full view of the rest of the band.

Gary had zipped all the zippers in his wind suit (i.e., jacket front, ankles, and wrists) as tightly as they could possibly be closed. He had then taken a hair dryer he found in the bathroom, turned it on the highest setting, and inserted it in every possible elastic opening of that wind suit. When he finally stepped out of that bathroom, Gary had inflated that entire wind suit full of air, enlarging it to three times its normal size. He looked like a grossly bloated version of the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

As he stepped down the hall toward us, he again repeated the line, “Boy, those burgers and fries really filled me up!” It must have taken a full fifteen minutes for the rest of group to stop laughing, crying, and rolling on the floor. We never did fully regain our composure that night. Every five years or so, when our group has a reunion, this story always tops the list of our most cherished recollections of Gary.

Drummers not only pull things on others. Sometimes their sins find them out and they become the victim of someone else’s prank or vengeance. And, as in Gary Millwood’s case, sometimes even Mother Nature can get in on the fun.

Vann Gardens was a magnificent old antebellum mansion in a city about fifteen miles due north of our college campus. The house itself was something to behold. The architecture and décor were right out of the pages of, “Gone with the Wind.” In addition, as the name indicates, there was an extensive network of floral gardens just to the rear of the house. This beautiful series of gardens covered several acres, and was dissected by a decorative stone path that wound its way through every section. The path was dimly lit at night by miniature liquid propane lanterns, which bathed the entire area in a soft, golden hue. This romantic setting was perfect for a leisurely stroll under the stars with one’s sweetie.

The good folks at Vann Gardens had heard of our band. They signed us without an audition to play for a formal, junior-senior, collegiate banquet/dance on a Saturday night in late April of 1982. We were quite the popular musical act in that region of Tennessee, staying booked almost every weekend. We played gigs for an array of different occasions and in many types of venues – the most bizarre being a blisteringly hot, middle of July, “Hog Festival.”

Our musical preference and forte was rock and roll, but our versatility as a group allowed us to do a variety of genres of music. Vann Gardens had requested that we begin the evening with soft ballads and other slower paced styles that couples could dance to, and then later switch to the louder, heavier stuff. As long as they paid us when we were through, it didn’t matter if we had to play four hours of bubblegum tunes by Donnie Osmond (gag).

We arrived at Vann Gardens around noon to set up our equipment. The curator showed us to their back patio. The brick and stone work on the Vann Gardens mansion was impeccable and striking. This patio was a mixture of stone and brick, was approximately twenty feet across by eleven feet deep, and was elevated a good twelve feet above the gardens. There were two brick and stone staircases leading away from it and out into the gardens, each at forty-five degree angles to the patio. The whole area was encased by a stone knee wall, which was perfect for positioning our P.A. The main dining room of the home opened onto the patio through two impressive sets of double French doors.

The patio area was just barely large enough to accommodate a six piece band and its equipment. No problemo. We had played in much smaller surroundings - flat-bed trailers being the worst.

The “old standard” stage set-up for rock bands has almost always centered around the drummer. The drum kit, with all of its pieces and parts, is the first item that is set up - usually in the middle of the stage. The rest of the band is then arranged symmetrically on either side. One look at the size of the Vann Gardens patio made it clear that the normal stage configuration would not work. Therefore, Gary had to set up his drums at one end of the patio, with the keyboard player stationed at the other. The rest of us jammed our amplifiers in between.

The only other rock band member with as much equipment as the typical drummer is the keyboard player. Allowing for multiple keyboards, foot pedals, keyboard amp, and Leslie unit,

keys require a substantial chunk of the stage. One of the pieces in a professional keyboardist's "rig" is a Leslie. A Leslie is a large, wooden, rotary speaker cabinet resembling in size and appearance an old console style television set. It alone takes up about as much room onstage as a moderately sized refrigerator. However, given the vintage rock organ sound that can only be gotten from a Leslie speaker cabinet, no band in its right mind would ever complain about its bulky size.

As Gary began setting up his drums, several band members noticed two large, circular, decorative iron bird cages. These cages were mounted on the outside rear wall of the mansion approximately ten feet above the patio floor. They were positioned symmetrically at each end of the patio, and were large enough (at least six feet tall and three feet in diameter) to hold a small-to-moderate sized person inside their bars. One of our female singers remarked, “I wonder what they keep in those things?” “I don’t know,” Gary replied, “if we’re lucky, maybe some female strippers.” Little did Gary know that one of those two cages was going to play a significant role in his performance later that evening.

Once everything was set up we ran through a few numbers, tuned up a final time, made sure our equipment was secure, and left Vann Gardens at approximately 4:00 PM. We had three short hours to shower, change clothes, and get some dinner. The music was scheduled to begin at 7:00 PM sharp.

Doug, our keyboard player, lived in an apartment complex not far from Vann Gardens. It was decided that everyone would meet at Doug’s to get ready. For some bizarre reason, Gary misunderstood and thought that the two girl singers in our band would not be coming to Doug’s. Gary asked Doug for his spare key, and said he had an urgent reason to go on ahead of the rest of us. Something about, “dropping off the kids at the pool.” We should have known better.

When the rest of the band arrived at Doug’s apartment, with girls in tow, Gary was waiting for us. When we opened the door Gary was sitting behind Doug’s upright piano with an unlit stogie in his mouth. When he got up from behind the piano to greet us, it was immediately apparent that Gary was as utterly naked as the day he came into the world. He was obviously unaware that the girls were part of the entourage. He stood and walked toward the door exclaiming loudly, “Man, I thought ya’ll would never get here!” No sooner had he uttered these words that both girls appeared in the door of that apartment. Suddenly, and totally without warning, here were two unsuspecting young ladies, mouths gaping open in sheer disbelief, staring wild-eyed at this crazy, idiot drummer - in all his full-frontal male glory. Earlier in this account, this writer warned that drummers are nuts. This short peek into, “Gary’s World,” should be sufficient proof of this fact.

Gary fell backward as he tripped over the arm of the couch, groping and reaching for pictures, plant leaves, anything he could lay his hands on to try and cover his lower extremities. The girls ran aghast in the direction of one of the back bedrooms, screaming, laughing, and swearing that they had never in all their lives seen such a display of brainlessness. The bolder one of the two took a verbal shot at Gary before slamming the bedroom door, “Kinda’ reminded me of the little coffee stirrer I used this morning at Kermit's (an early proto-type of Starbucks)." Gary was at a total loss for words. He was knowingly deserving of whatever he got in return for his brazen "exhibition."

Gary was still as quiet as a church mouse at dinner. Some of the guys made subtle wise cracks about what had happened back at Doug’s, while the girls just stared at their food and whispered to each other. This writer wondered if our band was going to be able to forget what had taken place. We needed composure and focus in order to do a good job at the gig. “Maybe nothing else will happen with Gary tonight,” this writer remembers thinking and praying within himself - knowing all the while that there wasn't a snowball's chance of such a prayer being answered in the affirmative.

We got back to Vann Gardens about 6:30 PM. The sun was almost down, the moon was bright, and the night air was refreshingly cool. We checked our instruments for tuning, the P.A. system for microphone levels, and huddled for our customary group prayer at 6:56 PM. Just before bowing our heads, Gary asked if he could say something. Cringing in fear at the thought of what he might come up with now only minutes before we were supposed to perform, the rest of the band nervously nodded in agreement.

“Did ya’ll see those birds?”, Gary asked. Taken aback at the left-field nature of Gary’s question, we began looking in the direction of the aforementioned cages.

Prior to our leaving for dinner at 4:00 PM, the cages were empty. During our almost three hour absence, someone from the Vann Gardens staff had placed two large, rather unusual looking, birds in those massive, barred cages. Each of the birds stood in excess of three feet tall, and had large plumes of violet and dark blue feathers jutting from both the head and tail. They looked like something out of Stephen Spielberg's, "Jurassic Park."

The noise they constantly made back and forth to each another was a high-pitched screeching sound, similar to a frightened hawk or falcon. When the P.A. was turned on, their already loud "voices," now amplified over our powerful sound system, could be heard several blocks away. These birds were meant to add to the evening’s ambiance. That is exactly what they wound up doing, but in a much different way than the originally intended one.

As we looked intently and curiously at these birds, it occurred to this writer that perhaps these overgrown cat toys were not yet acquainted with the rocking sounds of Bob Seger, James Taylor, Aerosmith and AC/DC. By night’s end, it was certain they would be.

There was a look of fear and worry in Gary Millwood’s eyes as we bowed our heads to pray. One of those cages was located directly overhead of his brand new set of Pearl drums. The silly looking, miniature peacock in that cage would be "dancing" during every song right over Gary’s drum throne. There was no room to move, and no place to hide. Who says guitar players have all the fun?

When we turned our amplifiers on and began tuning the guitars, the birds did not like it one little bit. They thrashed around those cages like frightened animals do when a storm is coming. Gary looked worried. He had reason to be. He was going to have to drum for almost four hours with his head in a direct line of fire of one of these enormous, high-strung, creatures.

The first set of music began as planned at 7:00 PM. Slow and soft would be the pace for the first two hours of the show. The first tune we played was a then current chart topper by the Eagles, “I Can’t Tell You Why.” Gary’s bird flitted around uneasily in its cage during the first few bars of this song, but settled down for its remainder. The next few songs were equally as benign for the bird, but still unnerving for Gary. Every time he would have to crash a cymbal to accent a song’s crescendo, Gary would cover his head with his arm, lean to the side, and look up fearfully toward the giant bird.

Still, all went well for the first set.

After a five minute break, the second set began. The first song out of the chute was Linda Ronstadt’s, “You’re No Good!” This great song meanders along for the first two thirds of its duration at both a moderate pace and volume. However, it certainly doesn’t finish that way.

With every note we played the band got tighter, the crowd got looser, and Gary grew more forgetful of the danger that brewed over his head. During the dueling guitar solos of, “You’re No Good,” the dam finally burst. As the twin solos crescendoed and meshed together with loud, heavily accented high notes, the song exploded like a cruise missile hitting its target. Gary reared back on his drum throne, did a double cymbal crash, accented it with a mighty kick on the bass drum, followed it with a multiple flam and rolls on the snare and side tom-toms, and concluded with a crushing blow to the largest Paiste cymbal in his kit.

The bird had a coronary.

Well, not exactly a coronary. It was more like a ruptured aneurysm of the colon and digestive tract. Exotic bird fecal matter rained on Gary and his drums like a storm surge from hurricane Katrina. Two of his cymbals, his prized snare drum, and most of his left leg were bathed in exotic bird doo doo. The aftermath of every meal this neurotic bird had consumed that day, and maybe even the day before, came showering down on our zany drummer. As loud and hard as we had pushed that great old Ronstadt song, it was still neither loud nor hard enough to drown out the “plop, plop” splattering sound of the endless stream of exotic bird crap that was drenching Gary and his equipment.

This writer doesn’t remember which band member was first to turn and discover the messy, repulsive predicament our drummer was in. Regardless, to his credit Gary kept right on playing. We finished the song, and were finally able to regain control of ourselves and the crowd - but not until after several minutes of riotous laughter had subsided. Someone notified one of the coordinators inside the Vann Gardens mansion as to what had taken place on the patio. They, in turn, called maintenance. The maintenance guys, after they too had finished laughing, were very helpful.

Gary’s drums were soon as clean and shiny as new. One of our stellar roadies went to a nearby J.C. Penny's and bought Gary some fresh clothes. And, the birds were taken away for the rest of the evening. Gary suggested that they be shot and barbecued on the Vann Gardens grill. He even offered to help do the honors.

The main event coordinator for Vann Gardens was extremely apologetic and compassionate. She fed us, made sure we had non-stop liquid refreshment for the rest of the night, and even brought out some aromatic candles and potpourri to help with the “foul” (pun intended) stench that lingered for the remainder of the gig.

Thankfully, our band did not develop an embarrassing reputation because of this fiasco. Nor did we become known as, “Gary Miller & The Crapping Birds.” We were blessed in that we never, ever encountered such a thing again in any paying gig we ever did. And, to boot, after that night, everyone in the band got a great kick out of the times when the audience would shout out a request for the classic rock anthem, "Free Bird." Everybody but Gary, that is.

The story of Gary Millwood and his encounter with the mortified, diarrhea-plagued bird still circulates from time to time through the hills and valleys of west Tennessee. Each time it does, just like the night it happened, thunderous laughter can be heard.

Thank you, Gary “Bird” Millwood, for making music, and life itself, so much fun to play, to remember, and to write about.

Rock on, brother!

"The Groupies"

In another story earlier in this blog, your writer opined about the girls that come to gigs. Many of these girls, though very different, share a distinguished title: "Groupie."

A groupie is normally a good looking, bodaciously built, fun-loving, ardent female fan of both music and boys. Particularly, the "boys in the band." Groupies arrive at an event or concert fashionably late, and stay even later. They find a way to let everyone attending the show "know" that they are present. They dress well, smell angelic, and look as if they stepped off the cover of a magazine. (And truthfully, for some, that magazine would be, "Field & Stream.")

Groupies know all the words to all the songs. They know what each musical instrument is, (e.g., "that guitar thingy..."), and they know exactly where to stand (and HOW to stand) during the sets AND during the breaks. They find a way to make their "statement," and shamelessly lay claim to whichever band member they intend to bond with. If more than one groupie sets her cap for a particular band member, a good, old-fashioned, "cat fight" is always a possibility.

 Groupies occasionally know how to lure a musician into their web by using subtlety, veiled flirtation, and a smile that says she "might" be interested, or then again - she might not. And then, there are the groupies that wouldn't know how to play "hard to get" if it was on the clearance rack at Wal-Mart.

The groupie story to end all groupie stories for this guitar player is, beyond all doubt, of the latter variety.

The year was 1977. Actually, it was the close of 1976. New Year's Eve, to be exact. Our band, Silvercreek, was one of the three best known bands in all of Atlanta. The top-drawing bands always got invited to play Underground Atlanta on New Year's Eve. In the 1970's, "Underground," was a powerful collection of music clubs. The Mad Hatter, Scarlett O'Hara's, The Pump House, Ruby Red's Warehouse, and Sergeant Pepper's were the main musical watering holes in Underground during those days.

On this particular New Year's Eve in Underground, our stage was Sergeant Pepper's.

The club began filling up early that night. The patrons were in a mood to drink, and enjoy the music. At 9:00 PM the band began the first set of the evening. The dance floor immediately filled up. The stage was small, and quite cramped with our large Marshall Amplifiers. The night began very well, and only got better from there. The stage at Sergeant Pepper's was strategically located so that every full-bladdered female had to walk around its front and left side in order to get to the Ladies Room. This guitar player had the good fortune of being positioned that night on the very same side of the stage as the path to female urinary relief.

Some of the best looking young ladies in all of Underground Atlanta made their way around this guitar player's side of that stage during the course of that blessed New Year's celebration. One little strawberry blonde brings an especially affectionate warmth to this old heart. She was in a cluster of young ladies, most - just as blonde, and just as cute. The song was Lynyrd Skynyrd's, "Needle & The Spoon," from their famed, "Second Helping," album.

As the song started, I remember seeing her get up from her table near the back of the club. She and her associates slowly made their way through the packed dance floor, down the length of the bar, and around the front of the stage.

This pretty, young, thing apparently appreciated the intricacies of guitar playing, for she stopped directly in front of my place onstage, watching admiringly for several minutes as the song neared its climactic solo. I never saw her move. So engaged was this serious guitar player in his craft that he was totally oblivious to the blatant groupie advance that was coming.

As the guitar solo began, suddenly there was this extra hand. It was female. And, it was nowhere near the neck of the guitar. Instead, it was freely, aggressively, and happily exploring intensely personal "territory" of a young guitar player's anatomy.

It was shameless.

And, folks, it was wonderful!

Such moves normally unfold during the cover of night, by the lights of a dashboard, on the front seat of a '72 Chevrolet Nova. On this evening, they took place under the illumination of stage lights, in front of hundreds of young party-goers, and in a way that would have made my mother, Hazel, cringe with the greatest embarrassment.

But, again, it was one of THE most wonderful dividends a young guitar player could possibly reap for all the hours of solitude, practice and sacrifice.

Needless to say, the licks comprising the guitar solo on, "Needle & The Spoon," that monumental evening will forever remain a blur.

I don't know where she is now, but for that unforgettable night, she was..."My Groupie."

Now, after forty-five years in music, groupie dividends keep right on coming. Still, the prettiest females of blonde, brunette, and red-head persuasion come to shows. They cheer, shout adoring things to a rapidly aging male (who greatly appreciates their effort), while pledging life-long "groupie" allegiance. They pay little attention to the paunch, the balding crown, and the gray lining the edges of a once fuller hairline. Instead, they look past today, to a time when a young man brought them a reason to look good, to display their most desirable features, and to enjoy the magic of music.

They are "groupies" in the absolute best sense of that timeless, hallowed title.

Bless them.

They make an old man long for the days of his youth.  

"The Gigs"

"Gig" - What southern males do when they go hunting frogs down by the pond.

For the musician, "gig" is a blessed word, and a cursed word. "Gig" is where musician meets audience. All the hours of practice...All the money spent on instruments, picks, strings, sticks, microphones, speakers, and cables (miles and miles of cables)...All the sweat and labor of lugging and setting up equipment...All of these things, and a hundred more, find their fruition in that one magic moment. The instant those first few decibels of a band's opening number explode out the amplifiers and speakers and into to the ears of others...Ears that actually want to hear them...That is THE moment that it is worth all that comes before or after it!

During those early days in a musician's or band's career, gigs often include anything and everything - Birthday parties, church youth gatherings, school halloween carnivals, grand openings of local restaurants, school dances, old folks homes, and even an occasional open mic night at a local bar or club. Audiences range from those who walk by and gawk in curiosity - often with their fingers stuck in their ears (to express their disdain either for the music or the sheer volume of it), to screaming, swaying, clapping, and grooving, standing-room-only, crowds who have come for no other reason than to see YOU play and sing.

This guitar player's first gig was a sidewalk session at a local Dairy Queen. They let four ten year olds play for an hour, and paid us the lofty sum of $5 per member - plus a free chili dog, fries, coke, and a hot fudge sundae to boot. We might as well have been the headliner at Carnegie Hall. The strangest gig was the grand opening of mobile home sales lot, where we played on the deck of one of the mobile homes. How we got five guys, drums, amplifiers, and PA speakers on that deck, only The Good Lord knows. And, if there were more than three people who drove onto that lot during the three hours we played, I would be greatly surprised. But still, it was a gig.

The most memorable gigs include an annual musical event called, "Hootenanny," hosted by a small college in West Tennessee (with over 2,000 students and alumni present), and the opportunity to open for a revisited version of Creedence Clearwater Revival at a 2,000 seat amphitheater just outside of Atlanta. The people dug our music, and clamored for, "more, more, more," as we left the stage. Nothing that I have personally experienced has ever equalled the thrill of a MONSTER gig in front of a large, enthusiastic audience. Going to heaven someday will be the only event in my life that could mean more, and bring greater happiness.

Some other gigs are memorable for all the wrong reasons. There was the summer night in north Alabama when the promoter had promised us hundreds of adoring fans and a great venue. The reality of it was that about fifteen people watched us sweat our entrails out in heat that was 100 degrees and 100% humidity - on the back of a narrow flat-bed trailer. There was the small college dance when strings broke on the same guitar on three consecutive songs, delaying the show for several minutes with each occurrence.

There was there the biker rallies. The first involved a promised fee of hundreds of dollars. When the promoter came around to pay us, she thanked us for playing the "benefit," and paid us the lofty sum of $30 - TOTAL! No one had mentioned anything about a "benefit" prior to the gig.

Another biker rally in the north Georgia mountains will always be recalled because of a contest called, "Let's Swap Shirts." The little game played itself out right in front of the stage during our set. Dancing couples swapped shirts in the middle of a song. The female portion of each of these biker couples was of sizable girth, unattractive, sweaty, and braless. Those few minutes made each member of the band take an oath that we would NEVER play another biker rally. It was U-G-L-Y!

By far, THE best crowds we ever played for were the folks who frequented the Atlanta singles apartment scene back in the 1970's. The clubhouses of these swinging apartment complexes were alive with party-goers every Friday and Saturday night - year round. These folks knew their music, and they came to have a good time during every song. They were not bashful with their applause, nor with the money they stuffed in the tip jars for the band.

The circuit of clubhouses and complexes included places known as Gold Key, Oak Creek, Quail Creek, Windjammer, Riverbend, and many more. The entertainment coordinators at these places were specialists in planning and hosting parties, especially on or around July 4th, Christmas, Memorial Day, and other holidays and special occasions. There was always good food, games, and plenty of time for socializing. But, everybody knew that the band was, "the thing."

There was one other element to these gigs that made them the apple of a local band's collective eye. Namely, girls. Girls, girls, and more girls. The vast majority of the girls that came to these parties were beautiful, fun-loving, and greatly enamored with bands and the boys in them. Regardless of how much or little we were paid, the girls who came to these gigs made the experience one that we would have gladly PAID to do.

Band members who had girlfriends and wives always took them along to these gigs - mainly because the females insisted. They KNEW that these parties were saturated with pretty young girls. They also KNEW that their musician boyfriend or husband were by default, "chick magnets." Those of us who were romantically unfettered and eligible often made our fellow bandmates extremely jealous. We had the pick of the groupie litter, and we relished every second of the attention and fun we had.

Before concluding this tale, there was one other gig that has hung tough in the old memory for a lot of years. In college, our band did many big shows around campus and elsewhere in Tennessee and the south. But, one particular night in our little college town stands out more than all the rest.

Kermit's Pizza was one of the only local joints around that catered to college students. Their pizza was excellent, and their tiny restaurant was, well, "cozy," at best. When packed out on weekend nights, the dining area held only about fifty to sixty eat-in patrons. Hardly the space to accommodate a full-blown rock show.

But, one cold, February night, it did.

Our drummer called up everybody in the band that evening and suggested that we put on an impromptu show down at Kermit's. Once he had the go-ahead from everybody in the band, his room-mate began putting out the word. By the time we got all the equipment set up, tuned up, and had started into our first number, the placed was packed to the rafters. One estimate had the crowd at 250 people. It was probably much bigger than that.

The booths that normally sat four college students were packed with six or seven, or more. Kids were sitting on the floor, lined up solid on top of the serving counter up front, and gathered around refrigerators, tables, and/or any available chair. There were even people standing out on the front porch of Kermit's. They reported that even at that far-away vantage point, there was no trouble hearing the music.

If the Fire Marshall had shown up, the owners of Kermit's would surely have been arrested, and the restaurant closed down.

Thankfully, that never happened.

What did happen was one of the best shows we ever did, in front of one of THE most enthusiastic mobs of fans that ANY band could ever hope for. I had heard many rumors in the 1970's that often the Stones would finish a show in a large hall or stadium, and then rush down to a local club for a jam session - mainly because of the magic of such an intimate setting.

After that night at Kermit's, I understood perfectly why Mick and Keith and the boys would do such a thing.  

Gigs will always be the "daily bread" for a working musician or band. May they all be memorable, for the right reasons. And, may they all result in a good performance, an even better payday, and a heart and head full of memories to savor for all the years to come.

"The Bands"

Other than a screaming, standing-room-only, adoring audience of fans, the one thing that every musician craves is other musicians. However, long before this craving takes hold, every budding musician begins his/her quest as a loner.

Yes, there are music classes in school - from elementary to college. But, those don't usually come until later down the road. One of the first musical classes this guitar picker was ever subjected to was a private group series of lessons on, of all things, the accordian. I have no earthly idea why my departed mother would ever dream that the accordian would be a good instrument for her son to master. I mean, no hip, young group of partygoers has ever clamored for someone to bring their accordian to a party or beach outing. Such would be as non-sensical as, "make sure you bring your tuba to the pool party on Saturday night."

Regardless of the instrument, learning how to be a musician can sometimes be a solitary, cave-dweller-like existence. While others are out playing ball, chasing lightning bugs, or terrorizing the neighborhood swimming hole, if you are a passionate musician, you are somewhere in a room, by yourself, plunking away at scales, chord changes, and lead licks. It's just part of the process.

At some point, however, the loner musician begins to seek companionship - folks to "groove" with - compatible souls who are also looking to form a band. After bludgeoning parents and siblings with every possible missed chord, improperly phrased lead lick, and ounce of sheer volume that a small practice amp can churn out, the time inevitably came for taking the show "on the road." Before the tour, though, there was one small detail. Who's going to play the drums, bass, and rhythm guitar?

From about age ten, it seemed that there was always someone who wanted to be in a band. I mean, there are only so many grooves in a 45 RPM record. Playing along with a record player was cool at first. Long before You Tube instructional videos, there were long sessions by the phonograph. When this no longer sufficed, there was only one alternative.

In the beginning, bands depend on parents for places to practice, rides to practice, and tolerance for practice. Pity those poor folks who host bands in their homes. The windows rattle, the china trembles, the dog howls, and the neighbors complain. Still, those stalwart parents figure they'd rather know where their child is, even if he and his bandmates are making enough noise to raise dead Lazarus. Basements, garages, carports, porches, back yards, out-buildings, spare bedrooms, and even living rooms are blessed places when a young band is hurting for rehearsal space.  

Every day - bands are born, and bands die. But mostly, bands just fuss. It is easier to keep three Lindsey Lohan marriages intact than to keep a band happy, at peace, and in one piece. Egos get in the way. Other interests get in the way. Romance gets in the way. Everybody wants to be in charge. And, everybody else resents the one who finally is in charge. Someone always has an issue. Sometimes it's the songs that are chosen. Sometimes it's the rehearsal schedule. Sometimes it's the volume and pace of a song. Sometimes it's hurt feelings or a bruised ego. And, sometimes it's nothing at all. To say that musicians can be childish and selfish is to not even touch the garment's hem. "A" band can quickly become, "My" band when one in a group has to have their way. And, this had led to the demise of many a great group of musicians, regardless of whether they are amateur or season professionals.

One of the great dilemmas once a "band" is formed is choosing the band's name. What a band decides to call itself is both earth-shakingly important on the one hand, and totally inconsequential on the other.
A seemingly innocuous name or phrase can easily become a "brand" for a group that finds a measure of success. "Lynyrd Skynyrd," "REM" (Rapid Ear Movement), "The Tubes," "The Troggs," "The Candymen," "The Animals," and even the infamous, "Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts," have each become iconic as band names. Who woulda' thunk it?

My first band was named, "The Bolton Country Boys." Some of the guys in the group lived near the old Bolton community in northwest Atlanta, and so one of the boys' mothers thought this would be a good name. Mothers should NOT name bands.

Other names of bands this picker has been in include, "Silvercreek," "Scot Free," "Battle-Axxe," "Petra," "Mid-Life Crisis," and "The Peach State Rockers." Sometimes, even musicians should not come up with the names for the bands they play in.

A new band should exercise at least some measure of caution in choosing a name. Partly because of litigation - should another band already have the chosen name, and partly because of the message that a band's name can send - especially if that name becomes shortened or familiar enough for only a portion of the name to be enough to identify it. Such as, the "Rolling Stones" eventually becoming, "The Stones." One group I knew in college was named, "Southern Heat." At least one member of that group was a female. And so, the inevitable remark surfaced, "she's in 'Heat'."

As songwriter Neil Sadaka once put it, "Breaking Up Is Hard To Do," so it is with bands. Some of the greatest bands in history stayed together only a short time. The reasons cited are often labeled as, "creative differences." The truth usually is that over time, members of a band get tired of dealing with each others quirks or demands. Usually, feelings get hurt, someone gets dragged through the public domain of gossip and blame, and/or litigation takes place. At the professional level, music is big business. And so, breaking up at that level is similar to dissolving a corporation. Somebody is gonna' have to pay somebody - and in large sums of cash.    

Even at the amateur level, breaking up a band, or kicking someone out of a band, can be a traumatic experience. I remember one of the early bands I was in included a bass player's whose parents wanted to run everything. The bass player came late into the group, and was in no position to control anything. Eventually, however, his parents took control in an ugly fashion, kicked out the founding member of the band, and moved their son to take over the founding member's instrument and his place in the group. It was an ugly scene, filled with drama and confrontation. The band that resulted was fraught with conflict, and lasted only a short time. Its demise was poetic justice and much deserved payback to the ones who came in and wrecked the original group.

The next time you see a band that has held it together for a long time, shower them with admiration. The feat of staying together, making great music, working through the hurdles that come, and overcoming the challenges of the music business, is no small thing. Recently, I had the privilege of seeing ZZ Top for only the second time in a lifetime of concert-going. At the end of their set, guitarist Billy Gibbons came to the microphone and made a hand gesture toward the other two members of the group - drummer Frank Beard and bassist Dusty Hill. Gibbons said, "For the last four decades...that's forty years...same three guys...same three chords."

What a great band. What a great legacy.


"Well I'll Be John Brown"

"The Song(s)"

One would assume that a young boy learning to play guitar in 1964-65 would cut his teeth on some of the hottest rock and roll tunes of the day. Hits from Elvis, The Beatles and The Rolling Stones were certainly at the top of most young guitar slingers' "'gotta learn that one," list. Too, there was the Ventures, and even some country pickers like Chet Atkins.

While most young lads learning the guitar were hot after copying something popular or familiar - not this one.

For some reason, other than the foundational chord patterns of G-C-D, there was, "When Johnny Comes Marching Home."

That's correct. You read it right!

I don't know if it was the Southern roots that helped bring a Civil War classic to my fretboard. Or, if it was merely the fact that this tune was pathetically easy to self-teach. Whatever the reasons, it became my very first "have tune will travel." I played it every time I picked up the guitar, and often enough to make my poor mother plead, "Can't you play something besides that?"

After several million passes at, "WJCMH," the list would come to include classics such as, "Red River Valley," "You Are My Sunshine," "On Top Of Old Smokey" (which was also known by its Weird Al-like spoof, "On Top Of Spaghetti"), "Boogie Woogie," and finally, something that required more than one finger from the fretting hand, "The Wildwood Flower."

Somewhere along the way, the aforementioned Ventures caught my attention. As my technique improved, I began to learn their hits: "Walk Don't Run," "Tequila," "Pipeline," and of course, "Wipeout."

Every drummer in the world knew, "Wipeout." It was obligatory. And so, every guitar player in the world - playing in bands with those drummers, also had to learn that song. You just weren't cool if you didn't know how to play it. It was, by far, THE most popular, and most requested of all tunes-played-by-every-garage-band-there-was from the 1960's.

A close second was the Animals' monster hit, "House Of The Rising Sun."

Long before MTV and You Tube, there was the transistor radio, 45's, LP's and eight track tapes. Learning songs and guitar parts in those days meant that you had to either buy the record, or wear out the old rotary dial on the family's Western Electric telephone by repeated calls to the local radio station request line.

The latter of these was a quite the challenge. On top of annoying the disc jockey who answered the request line, you also had to sit for prolonged periods of time with the guitar on your lap - waiting and hoping for "your song" to be played next. When (and if)  it was finally played, you only got one pass to try and cop what you heard. Then, it was back to the phone.

Learning from a record was not much better. Since there was no good way to slow the music down, you had to pick up the record player stylus over and over and try to place it back on the record in the same place every time. This is, perhaps, one of the things that gave my mother high blood pressure, and caused my father to drink (he stopped drinking when I was twelve, thank The Good Lord). Every record in our house had "potholes" at the different places where great guitar parts appeared.

Through the years, having covered hundreds of tunes - while playing for all sorts of audiences, there are "guitar" songs that stick in a player's memory. None more than THE guitar song of all-time: "Free Bird." After forty-seven years of gigs, rarely has there been a time when someone didn't shout that ageless request at some point during the show. I have even heard it at weddings and a piano recital or two. The Good Book says that, "you reap what you sow." This being true, the endless requests for, "Free Bird," were obviously payback for all those annoying telephone calls to the radio station's request line. Perhaps that voice in every crowd was the same DJ - stalking me.

Naaah.

In the twilight of this guitar player's career, after having written and published an extensive song catalogue of original material, and now while composing themes for movies and television shows, my mind often drifts back to the beginning.

I think of radios, record players, and a song.

THE song.

Who would have known that, "When Johnny Comes Marching Home," could hold such a place in an old man's fading memory.