The bite of the bug(s) influenced local boy to become future rock star
I have no plans to make this column a chronological endeavor – my grey matter doesn’t really work that way. Having said that, I do feel compelled to offer those who choose to read this column a bit of background and how it is that I came to put all my eggs in the basket of attempting to become a rock star.
I do not have enough fingers and toes to count the number of arguments my father and I got into on this topic. The cliched “Get a real job!” spewed from his mouth over and over again, starting in high school and continuing into my early adulthood. And don’t get me wrong, my father was an intelligent man, just set in his ways – not really very broad-minded. And I truly believe, in hindsight, that he had my best intentions at heart.
All three of my brothers seemed to eventually have taken my dad’s advice, though, and to their credit, are financially successful today. It was I, the lone Pisces, who became obsessed with the visual arts and music and became the black sheep of the clan. Three out of four ain’t bad, I guess.
But yeah, it’s always been a challenge to pay the bills. Vacations? Fuggedaboutit. Retirement plan? HA! IRA? What’s that? For the most part, though, I have lived the life I’ve wanted, making a lot of art and music for seven decades, and depending what day of the week you should ask me, I don’t think I would’ve had it any other way. I have an inclination toward the arts, and believe that the world would be a dismal, dull, flat entity without the simultaneous beauty and cacophony that they offer.
The r’n’r bug hit me early, at the spry age of 4-5 years old. My mother (unlike my pop) encouraged my brothers and I to be creative, to find our muse. By buying us records and exposing us to the culture that would be a way of life, she was our hero. Hell, she even bought us all the hippie clothes (bell bottoms, paisley, polka dots, etc,) in the ‘60s. A true enabler, eh?
And not unlike so many others of my generation, it really started with those four dudes from Liverpool. I cannot tell you how much John, Paul, George and Ringo changed/directed my life – for better or worse. Who’s to say? Even my dad couldn’t stop that!
My Dad worked for the C&O railroad and when I was in the sixth grade, he was transferred to Russell, Ky., a real shithole of a town. The house we rented was a dilapidated disaster. Cockroaches, walls you could easily put your fist through, stench – it was bad. But it was there that my brother Dave and I watched the Ed Sullivan show on Feb. 9, 1964. It changed my life, truly.
As I recall, we had one friend in Russell, and though I don’t remember his name, I still recall that he looked a lot like an infant W.C. Fields. All three of us hung out after school, in large part due to The Beatles. Subliminally, there was something scratching at my soul, brought on by this band, but I was in middle school, unaware of most of the outside world – what could I do? I had no inclination whatsoever that I would someday be fronting my own bands.
So, the three of us started a Beatles Club. In that club we would come together in one of our parents’ houses and we’d draw pictures of the band. At that point we didn’t even have any of their music. There were Beatles’ bubblegum trading cards, and we’d trade the cards then draw the pictures. I also learned how to sign/forge the Fab Four’s signatures, which were printed on the cards. I would often sign my school work with one of their names. What a nerd!
Occasionally my family would come back to Toledo to visit the grandparents. Pack up the Chevy II, put the dogs in the trunk (!) and hit the road. I’ll never forget those journeys and the stench of the paper factories as we drove through Chillicothe, a smell of old cabbage and chemicals, as well as the early shards of teenage angst, as we pleaded with my dad to put some R’n’R on the scritchy AM radio.
It was one Easter (‘65?) that I had earned an allowance of $10, a substantial sum for me. Thinking of nothing but Beatles, I took that money, posthaste, to the corner record store, which was called Kaufman Bros on Central Ave. It was a great place, with albums, 45s and reel-to-reel tapes (I still can’t wrap my head around buying/playing albums in that way). They also had listening booths, where you could try out the music before you bought it.
Without any hesitation, a 12-year-old on an inspired mission, I plopped my wrinkled $10 bill on the counter and was the immediate proud owner of “Meet The Beatles! The First Album by England’s Phenomenal Pop Combo.” Though I was ecstatic, I knew my grandparents didn’t have any sort of stereo equipment, so as difficult as it was, I had to wait till I got back to Russell, armpit of America, to put the needle down and immerse myself in Beatlemania.
It did happen, though, and there was absolutely no turning back from there.
