More Rambling B*llsh*t About My Life in Music (n'@)

I've only ever copped one guitar solo from a record. I prefer to improvise, and this goes back to when I first started playing. I doubt I'd ever even heard of improvising at the time. I'd already tried my hand at various instruments, to varying degrees of success. I started on piano. Too much sitting still. I tried violin but for some reason, after a few weeks I was pushed to the cello. This was fine by me...until I broke a cello. So I next opted for something a bit more durable. TRUMPET! (coronet, to be precise) I enjoyed this but again, my thoughts on the subject were never really involved in the equation. Our school's marching band had quite a reputation, and my brother played tuba, so it was assumed I too would excel on tuba. Wrong. 2 or 3 weeks in and I skipped my happy ass out of the school band. 

Next up was drums. Having spent most of my childhood listening to classical music, I was starting to pay attention to songs on the radio, or stuff I heard blaring from my brothers' room. (my sister's taste in music was horrifying...Bobby Sherman & Shawn Cassidy! No thanks!) Of the rock and roll and R&B stuff I heard; I was drawn to the drums originally. So, I talked mum into buying me a kit. A friend of my sister was selling a kit for $100, and I took possession of a very standard 4-piece trap set. I took the money that I had saved up and bought a couple of cymbals and began to terrorize the household. The drums eventually got moved from the basement to the garage. Maybe this was designed to quell my passion for rhythm, but it didn't. What did was my own realization that I was not a good drummer nor was I likely to ever be one. By the age of 12 or 13, I discovered guitar. My life direction changed drastically in one 24-hour period.

Long story short, I was hooked. I was teaching myself and having the time of my life! Some of the chords, I was pretty sure, were designed by the Marquis de Sade himself but I persevered. I played first thing in the morning, after school, and well into the wee hours. Dad was less than thrilled. Mum was infinitely more supportive (she too being a musician) It became all too clear to my parents that I wasn't going to stop, so I was forced into lessons. 

If you ever want to kill a child's passion for music, send them for lessons after they've already started teaching themselves. I had been playing full chords and lots of old folk songs and standards, and my first lessons were basic bitch bullshit. Nothing against my teacher, Kevin, who I'm still close friends with. Learning to read the notes to "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" wasn't going to cut it. It was already easier to just pick out the notes. I could read music already, from having played other instruments. It was just a matter of figuring out where they were on the guitar. (FYI, the coma I was in, in my late 30s, wiped out most of my ability to read music...it hasn't stopped me. It was a skill I, sadly, rarely used.) Kevin did, however, teach me some very valuable lessons. He taught me how to tune a guitar, how to string one, he made me use a pick (which my hands still try to fight off) and taught me the rudiments of finger picking. He taught me about power chords and using harmonics (which I still probably over-use). Had he stuck to pushing the kiddy songs and single string sight reading exercises, I probably would've walked a mile from the guitar. Thankfully, he didn't. He knew I was well on my to being a lifelong guitar junkie, so he got me headed in the right direction. (THANKS AGAIN KEVIN!)

This was the late 70s/early 80s and most of the popular music you heard on the radio had guitar. The problem was the sound. It was electric, which was fine...but there were all of these weird sound effects! I knew nothing about that stuff! I was a big fan of Queen at the time, and had sussed out that Brian May was using, at least, a fuzz box. But where did one get such a thing? For my 13th birthday, my parents got me a decent BRAND-NEW electric guitar. A Fender Musicmaster. I'd play it through an old Gibson amp that we had at the house (from a short-lived attempt by one of my brothers to master the guitar years earlier). I found that if I turned all the knobs all the wayto the right, I'd get a natural distortion. OVERDRIVE!!!! I loved it. My family did not. Our dogs did not. The neighbors, their pets, and I'm guessing the local constabulary, also did not approve of this level of volume. So, deals were made. I could play loud, after school until dinner time. After that, NO LOUD STUFF. As you can guess, I ignored this deal any chance I could, especially as the amps I used got bigger and louder. I also had purchased a fuzzbox! An ElectroHarmonix Mini Muff Fuzz! Greatest $20 I've ever spent! By this point, my music of choice was The Ramones and Sex Pistols. This shiny little box got me close to that, even at infuriatingly low volumes. 

I was never big on trying to learn other people's music. I would figure out the basics of what they were doing and take it my own direction. Some friends of my oldest brother taught me some rudimentary blues stuff and told me about this thing called improvising. I could, if I chose to, make stuff up as I went along! Yet another life-changing event, courtesy of the guitar! If I wanted to play a certain song, I'd ask someone to show me how to play it. I was a quick learner. Show me once, I usually had it. Then I'd record myself playing it, play it back, and improvise over top of it. Thank God for that old GE cassette deck! 

I was also listening to The Beatles a lot. I was almost obsessive about their records. They didn't sound like most of the other stuff I heard. What were those chords? How could someone sing like that? All of the songs were catchy! There were all sorts of guitars too! Plain, clean electric guitars, acoustic guitars, nylon string guitars, 12 strings (damned right I had to get me one of THOSE! Thanks AGAIN to Kevin for selling me an Epi 12 for a dirt-cheap price!). Sometimes there were effects, sometimes there weren't. I was intrigued to say the least. 

One day, a friend gave me an old Jimi Hendrix record. MIND BLOWN! This was somewhere between blues (which I already knew and loved) and crazy, psychedelic rock. I saw footage of Hendrix at the Monterey Pop Festival, playing "Wild Thing". What were those chords? What was that sound? 13-year-old me figured he may never know! But it didn't stop me.  

Somewhere around this point, I had sold the drums, used that money to buy a REAL electric (Fender Telecaster DELUXE...which I still have) and had traded the Musicmaster for a bass. I had heard it was easier to find gigs as a bass player, so I got to work on that as well. I had been asked now and then to sit in with bands and play Hendrix-y sort of stuff (once I learned the magic chord). I was forever trying to start a band. Now and then, I'd get a crappy little basement punk band together and maybe play a house party. Small town Ohio wasn't ready for those sounds. At least not from me. But I kept playing.

My improvisation skills got better and better. I figured out a few patterns that I could go to over most chord progressions. Using the stuff I learned on piano, violin, and cello, I kept up with my scales too. One day, a guy told a friend and I a great trick about guitar. If you hit the wrong note, bend it until it sounds right. I started bending strings every chance I got. It sounded better. I tried bending chords...didn't usually sound better. Lesson learned. 

My friend Tim Fair gave me a hard truth one day. He worked at the local guitar shop, and I was there often, bugging him. He was in a working band and could really play! He had fancy gear and lots of effects pedals. I had recently scored a box of pedals and needed to know what they all did and how to use them. So damned many knobs and gadgets. It was becoming overwhelming. Tim put it to me bluntly: Effects (especially distortion) hide a multitude of sins. To demonstrate, he plugged a guitar into a fancy solid-state amp with built-in effects and played an eye-opening fast riff. Then he played it again without the effects. I could hear everything that wasn't perfect. He pointed out that effects hid all of that and the real skill was in becoming an accurate player. Learn to play how you want it to sound, even without effects. A big order to fill, but I wanted to be able to do that!

There was another guitar store in town, and one of the guys there was a jazz player. He played those big ol' hollowbody guitars (which were NOT cool at the time) and used strings as fat as phone cables. I figured if he could play that fast, fancy, CLEAN jazz stuff, he might have some tips on how to become an accurate player. I started bugging him on a regular basis. He could play stuff like Joe Negri, so I was definitely impressed. He'd show me some weird chord, and suggest things to play over it, and how I should probably learn and PRACTICE modes (fancy scales!) and to practice WITHOUT effects. He suggested only using effects if you really needed them. Since I was mostly playing punk, which was barely even music to him, maybe it would develop my ear and get me playing 'real' music. "Like some of those Beatle chords?" I thought to myself.

When I was maybe 15, I heard The Blasters for the first time. SWEET SHIRLEY BASSEY IN A COCKTAIL DRESS!!!!! Those guys were on fire! They were every bit as fast as any of the punk bands, had as much if not more energy, and their guitars...so natural sounding! No fuzz, no phasers, no wah wah pedals, just pure tone! It wasn't long before I threw all of my effects pedals back in the box and put them away. I wanted the energy The Blasters had. I soon 'borrowed' (stole actually) a record from my brother (BB KING LIVE AT THE COOK COUNTY JAIL) and started trying to find more blues records. My brother eventually got the record back from me. I think it went back and forth between us for a couple of years. I eventually found some John Lee Hooker records. At 16, I was asked to join a friend's new band. They were playing "rockabilly". Never heard of it. So, I asked him what it was. "Like Chuck Berry and Carl Perkins stuff" was his answer. To me, this meant stuff that The Beatles had covered, and stuff I'd hear on a Sunday night 'oldies' station. Sure, I could play that. He was all into a new band called The Strat Cats. I thought they were OK but didn't have the energy of The Blasters. Our record hunting led us to finding acts like Robert Gordon, SUN Records compilations, a lot of Elvis wannabes, and too many bands with 'Cat' in the name. Shortly after joining the band, the bass player quit. I owned a bass so guess who got to be the bass player. You guessed it. While not thrilled at the time, I eventually started to get a lot of work due to it, so it all worked out. 

I played mostly bass, mostly in rockabilly bands for the next 8 years. I got the occasional gig doing recording sessions, played on a few jingles, etc. I really wanted to get back to playing guitar. Where I was living at that point, almost no one knew I played guitar! I put together a short-lived trio and opened a few eyes. I ended up moving back to Pittsburgh. When I joined The Rowdy Bovines, I was originally supposed to play bass. That was until James heard me play guitar at a party. I was playing some Cliff Gallup and Scotty Moore type stuff, mostly just goofing around. James decided then and there that he'd prefer to have me playing guitar. Again, fine by me. 

I insisted on improvising my solos. I'd worked too hard for too long, really beefing up my skills. I wasn't going to spend hours trying to learn someone else's solos. James was ok with this, and the crowds were more than ok with it. James learned to use my improv skills to his advantage. Forgot the words? Have me take a long solo. Need a beer? Have me take an extended solo. Had a case of food poisoning with explosive diarrhea? Have me take yet another long, drawn-out solo. However, there was one song we played that no matter what, I couldn't sort out a good solo over it. I tried and tried. Nothing worked. So, I sat down with a tape of the song and learned that damned solo note for note. Just nothing else really fits. Hats off to Don Leady of The Tailgators. His playing is deceptive. It flows so smoothly with the songs that you don't realize just how damned good he is. Another goal to aspire to!

A Crippled Bobby Hawkins Story

I've been gigging professionally (meaning I get paid to do it) since 1979. Some shows were better than others, some days I got paid more than others. But a gig is a gig. If you're a musician and you're getting paid to do your thing, it's pretty awesome. For large parts of the 1980s, I made my living gigging. I was mostly playing in punk and rockabilly bands, but as you can guess, that's only ever gonna pay so many bills. So, I played in country, Top 40, funk, wedding bands, whatever was paying. I did some session work when I could. That's a particularly tough gig to get. Unless you live in NYC, Chicago, or LA, your options on that are limited. 

When I was 19, a drummer friend called me about playing bass in a blues band. Let me tell you, Ohio in the mid 1980s was not exactly a hotbed of blues music. Even with the popularity of SRV and the Fab T-Birds at the time, there were surprisingly few blues bands. As a lifelong blues fan, I was definitely interested. One of the guitar players, Robbie Wells, had quite a reputation. He'd made it (briefly) to the 'big time' as the guitar player in Rachel Sweet's band. He was about as good as Ohio had to offer. I couldn't wait to hear him play blues. The other guy, Don K (I never could spell his name), was also no slouch on guitar. His most amazing skill though was his singing. To this day, I have to say he was the best white blues shouter I've ever heard (and I know Phil Alvin!). He was also one of the loudest! Once, at a gig in Rayland, OH, I'd suggested to the soundman that he might want to watch out for Don's vocals; he could get really overpowering. The soundman looked at 19-year-old me with disdain. I shrugged and walked away. They were his speakers. If he didn't mind Don blowing them out, fine. Our first song was "Crosscut Saw". The second Don went to the microphone and bellowed 'I'm a crosscut saw, drag me cross your log' I watched Mr. Soundman dive for his control board. I also heard those Yamaha speakers start to sound frazzled. You live, you learn.

This particular combo (sometimes called Rattlesnake Shake, sometimes The Starlings) gigged around for a while but ultimately couldn't keep it together. Lots of reasons (that I won't go into here) but suffice to say, it was my first taste of playing straight ahead blues. It was valuable. I seemed to have a natural feel for it. Over the next few years, I'd go see any blues act I could, big names or not. When I went back to school, up in Kent, I would go see the likes of Robert Junior Lockwood and Glenn Schwartz. I'd go see (and sometimes jam) with Amos Stokes. Professionally, I was still mostly playing rockabilly and some punk rock. I was starting to do session work again too. But if you caught me just sitting around with a guitar, I was probably playing old country blues, or at least trying to. The blues was, and still is, what my playing is all based around. Even when I try to play something else, I hear the blues in it.

By the 1990s, I was back in Pittsburgh and spent a few years with The Rowdy Bovines. On off nights, you could usually find me at a blues jam. The Pittsburgh Blues Society used to have a weekly jam at HoJo's in Oakland, hosted by Mike Sallows and The Rockin' Reptiles. Always fun cutting heads with that bunch! Thursday nights were the weekly jam at Excuses, hosted by The Hell Hounds. That's where I first met Crippled Bobby Hawkins. He and his brother would often show up and play some loud biker blues stuff. We would cross paths here and there, just like most musicians. We became friendly in the way that guys in a bar do. Both of us sharing a rather jagoff sense of humor, I would usually greet him by calling him a 'pizza-twirling, olive oil-guzzling WOP' (due to his Italian heritage) and he would usually greet me by calling me a 'beer-swigging, cabbage licking kraut' (due to my German heritage). This would often resolve to us calling each other 'faMIGlia'. 

Over the next few years, I'd hang out and jam with guys like Jimmy King, James 'Doc' Dougherty, Gil Snyder, Chizmo Charles, etc., all playing the blues. Chizmo could have taught a master class in showmanship. Pittsburgh, at the time, had a lively and healthy blues scene. And I was mostly playing what most folks called rockabilly (I personally thought The Bovines were more akin to punk rock, but I digress).

After The Bovines split, I gigged around with a band called Monkey On A Stick, while I was piecing together my band The Tremblers. My buddy Johnny Motto was in this band. Yinzers of a certain age will remember Motto as the man behind such bands as The Lugnuts and The Polish Hillbillies. Johnny was great at putting bands together. What many might not have known, he was also pretty damned good at blowing blues harp. 

One day in maybe '96-'97, Motto called me up saying that Crippled Bobby Hawkins was looking for a
band for a few shows. Always up for paid work, I told Motto to get me in touch. The 3 of us got together, probably had a few drinks, and Hawkins explained to us that he had 'just fired his band and had a handful of shows booked and wanted to honor the contracts'. I note that because it wasn't the last time I heard it!

I talked to my drummer and bass player, and as they thought it sounded fun we became Hawkins' de facto backup band for these shows, with Motto blowing harp. We never had a rehearsal. It was pretty much here's the song, here's the key, GO!

Our first show was at a little joint in McKees Rocks, down in the bottoms. I think it was called Larry's Bar or something. I drove past it 3 or 4 times trying to find the place! Talk about non-descript! It was small but the place was packed! And we got paid. OK, it wasn't a king's ransom, but it was on par with what we were making most nights. Then came the funny bit...those original handful of shows came and went, and Hawkins was still booking gigs. We spent the next couple of years gigging with him! Some nights we had Southside Jerry Mellix on sax. Some nights, Fred 'Freddie Mack'/'Uptown Slim' MacIntosh on harp. At least once a month, you could find us at Harley's or Dolly B's in McKees Rocks. 

We had our own shows as well. As MEMPHIS MIKE & THE LEGENDARY TREMBLERS, we were gigging often and managed to put out a handful of releases. We started getting press all over, even as far away as Italy (this was the pre-internet days for most of us). In one Italian magazine, there was an article about us AND Hawkins. At least a few nights per month, we were gigging with Hawkins. Another night, another Jimmy Reed song. We were playing lots of different places. Lots of small, out-of-the-way joints, biker bars, private parties, benefits, you name it, we played it. And we always got paid. I joked that we were on our McKees Rocks Tour. 

We did a bunch of shows at a weird little joint called The Riverside. I'd driven past it hundreds of times and always thought it was closed down. It looked deserted and run down. Apparently, the entrance was through a side door. Not exactly upscale clientele, but they paid well. I'll always remember that the place had a hidden doorway that led upstairs to what was essentially a green room. We did a lot of partying up there. At one show, a black guy (who I think was a trucker) said, "Man, if they call you Memphis, let's hear you play some slide guitar!" This wasn't something I did much of back then. But ask and ye shall receive, right? I had a slide with me, so I gave it a go. I was unimpressed but the audience seemed to dig it, so I started doing more of it. Just another one of those things I can blame on Hawkins. 

We always had a colorful crowd. Lots of bikers, rednecks, black folks, white folks, junkies, you name it. We played after hours joints for pimps and hookers as well as Christmas parties! (I still have a Harley Davidson Santa pin on one of my guitar straps from one of those shows) There was the night that Hawkins disappeared after the first set, only to reappear a few days later. His reasoning was he "musta had a bad beer." It was never dull, that's for sure.

One night at The Riverside, I had to break the news to Hawkins; I wasn't gonna be able to work with him for a good while. My auntie had died, and I had her estate to settle, plus I was being asked to do shows down south and with a few other artists. Between all of that, my day job, and my gigs with The Tremblers, I just didn't have the time. Man, Hawkins was pissed off! He called me every name in the book and some I'd never been called. I understood it though. We had a good thing going. I told him that I'd work with him whenever I could. But we pretty much went our separate ways. 

He'd play shows at a joint called The Orchard, and a friend of mine used to go there a lot. He'd always call me and try to get me to come along. One night when I was off, I finally made it. Hawkins and I picked up where we left off and drove the crowd wild for a few songs. After that, I let his regular guitar player (at the time) take over and I sat at the bar and listened. On break, Hawkins and I gabbed like old buddies. He was long since over being angry about my moving forward. After that, I'd go sit in every now and then if I wasn't booked, which wasn't often.

A few years passed and we'd lost touch for the most part. I'd started touring overseas, ended up having a heart attack, some legal troubles, and slowed way down for a while. My regular bass player, Rob, was doing some shows with Hawkins. One day, Hawkins' drummer, a guy named Jimbo or Jambo or Jumbo or whatever it was, called me to ask if I could sit in on a show. I'm always picky about the drummers I work with. If the drummer ain't up to speed, the band is gonna suck. This guy insisted he was THE BEST blues drummer in the area! He had confidence, I'll give him that. So, I asked Rob if he was any good. He told me he could keep a decent beat, so I agreed to do the show. Jimbo-Jambo literally passed out halfway through a song. OK, it was an outdoor gig, and it was warm out, but I was the guy who'd had a heart attack and I wasn't passing out and feeling woozy. We got him revived and finished the show, Hawkins and I cracked jokes about it the rest of the day. From what I understand, this drummer was excellent at booking gigs for Hawkins. He kept them all busy. He didn't seem too thrilled with me after the one show, probably because of the wisecracks. But that's what you're gonna get when you put me and Hawkins together.

Hawkins and I work well together! Always have. Our guitar styles mesh well, and I keep him on his toes onstage. I will mess with him onstage. If he's singing "Every Day I Got The Blues" I'll lean over and ask, loudly, "Every Day?????" 

Around 2010, I slowed my gigging wayyyy down. My day job had become a night job, and I was OK with that. I was having more health issues (cancer) and was only doing Tremblers gigs. I managed to do some recording, and released a few songs here and there, but I was wondering whether or not I'd reached the end of my gigging days.

By 2012, all of that had changed yet again. I kept The Tremblers going, plus I was playing bass in The Bessemers. I started doing some shows with Danny Kay & The Nightlifers and Devilz In The Detailz. I was keeping busy. In 2014 I switched jobs and took an office gig. Monday - Friday, 9-5. WEEKENDS OFF!

Perfect for a musician, right? Hawkins must've thought so. He called me up one day. Apparently, he'd fired his band and had some shows booked that he wanted to honor the contracts for....and up to 2020 that line-up kept the blues alive! Sure, there are still other blues bands in the area, but none of them play the old school stuff we do, or as well as we do. In 2020, with the pandemic going on, plus the socio-political divide in the country, I decided I was stepping away from it all. I was just worn out, like most people were. Rob did the same. Again, Hawkins was pissed off, but there weren't a ton of gigs for anyone at the time. He was able to replace us, no problem.

2021, I had 2 strokes. Man, I thought I was done for. I got home from the hospital only to find that my left arm/hand wouldn't respond the way I wanted. I couldn't play guitar anymore!!!! Things were starting to open up again at the bars and nightspots and I couldn't play! I was pissed off. I forced my body to relearn everything it lost, at least regarding guitar. My left leg is still a bit of a rogue, but I get by OK. After a few months, I was happy enough with my regained abilities, that I wrote, recorded and released a brand-new song. I wasn't ready to go back to gigging much but decided I'd jump at the chance, if asked to do the right show. Hawkins to the rescue!

He had a show booked at The Bull Pen, a place we'd played bunches of time. His guitar player couldn't

make it...could I fill in? Color me THERE brother man! My better half and I had plans to visit Niagra Falls for her birthday, and this show was scheduled for the day after we were getting home, so the timing was perfect. It went pretty smoothly, especially considering it was my first show back after 2 strokes and having to relearn how to play. That show has since been released as CAN WE GET A HELL YEAH? (a concert film) and as a digital download album. 

Next month, December 10th, Hawkins and I return to the stage once more, out at 565 LIVE. We've always rocked this place! We plan to again! Hawkins hasn't said anything about having fired anyone, so we'll see where things go from there. 

The Killer Is Gone

 The Killer is gone but he'll never be forgotten.

A friend and I have had a decades-long, friendly, dispute over who was the real 'king of rock & roll', Elvis or Jerry Lee Lewis? *

My friend is a diehard Elvis fan. Not quite one of the 'Elvis People', as my old friend Billy Poore and I would say (meaning the cult-like followers who, to this day, believe he's alive and may well be the 2nd coming of the Lord) but fanatical enough to overlook the over-the-top ridiculousness of Elvis' post Army career. I mean really, the bulk of those movies were trash. The music was just as bad. "Do The Clam" and "Edge of Reality" come to mind. Sure, he had a few good songs here and there ("Burning Love" and "Suspicious Minds" were both great!) but the majority of it was a snoozefest. Elvis could have claimed the crown and held on to it if he hadn't been so good at following orders. He always had someone to tell him what to do and when to do it. Jerry Lee, on the other hand, didn't take orders from anyone. 

Needless to say, I'm on Team Killer. Jerry Lee rocked unlike anyone before or since. As any piano player knows, his left hand was ruthless. He didn't even really need a full band. Just him and a drummer would have more than sufficed. Add in a bass and guitar (or fiddle, steel, mandolin, whatever) and you had everything you could ever want and more. He could sing his ass off too! He could howl, moan, shout, and growl. He could play straight ahead rock and roll, rockabilly, boogie woogie, honky tonk, blues, country, and/or gospel and probably anything else he had a mind to. And he could do it better...if not better, he could do it with more honest conviction, attitude, and confidence. Elvis never seemed confident, at least not to me. 

Jerry Lee Lewis was just different! He and Elvis both grew up poor, southern, white boys. They both listened to the radio and they both learned their church gospel songs, but Jerry Lee always went farther. As a kid, he'd sneak into Haney's Big House and listen to the black blues artists, live and in the flesh, before getting chased out. When he did, he'd just sneak back in. Elvis' mama babied him. Jerry Lee's daddy saw profit potential in his boy and had him playing piano anywhere he could get a crowd and make a few bucks. I've heard a few stories about him playing piano in a brothel when he was around 12 years old. I can't say for certain whether those stories are true or not, but damn...it explains some of the difference between the two. Elvis crooned. Jerry Lee exploded. 

To a lot of folks, they're both just old 50s artists. Happy Days stuff. But Jerry Lee went even further. After his rock and roll career was all but shattered, he dug in deep and started recording some of the best damned country songs anyone ever heard. The world paid attention and started buying his records by the truckload. He went back to playing the large venues, after years of playing any gig that paid. He was back on top. Unlike Elvis, he never stopped gigging. 

Sure, you could say that Elvis was busy making movies...but like I said, most of those were crap. Jerry Lee got some movie offers too. He was just smarter about them. You can see him at the beginning of the film High School Confidential. He wasn't about to do corny movies like the Presley boy. He held out for more substantial work. He got the chance when he was offered the role of Iago in the musical adaptation of Shakespeare's Othello (Catch My Soul). The Killer rocked it, pure and simple. The rest of the time, Jerry Lee was busy gigging, recording, and keeping his fans happy.

Jerry Lee Lewis was also a real man, and by that, I mean a provider for his family. Sure, Elvis took care of Mom & Dad and later on his wife and kid (and any number of mooches) but Jerry Lee had a lot of wives (7 in total), 6 kids, as well as his parents and siblings. He provided for them all. I've heard he was supportive of his nieces and grandkids as well. He took care of his band too, provided he didn't shoot them. 

Elvis and The Killer both had rough times in their lives. Of the obvious, one could say they brought a lot of it on themselves. But Jerry Lee had it rougher than most. He lost his son Steve Allen when he drowned in the family pool at the age of 3. Jerry Lee Jr. died at 19 in a car crash. Either of those instances would crush most people. The Killer had run-ins with the law, the tax man, and cheated death more times than I can count. I remember in the 1980s, most people didn't think he'd make it to 1990!

Then there was the big mess: marrying his 13-year-old second cousin. That almost killed his career. It definitely derailed it for a number of years. But to his credit, he owned up to it. He didn't lie about it...unlike Elvis, who was known to be romantically involved with Priscilla when she was about the same age. Elvis hid it and kept it hidden until she was of an age most considered OK to get married. Their daughter was born 9 months to the day after their wedding. If you want to believe they never even kissed before the wedding, I can help you buy some lovely property in Florida. 

I spoke with my old friend Hayden today. He worked with Jerry Lee just prior to his first hits. The Killer played piano on some of Hayden's early recordings. Musically and personally, Jerry Lee Lewis was like a wild animal. Sure, you might eventually get to pet him, but he was still a wild animal and was just as likely to eat you alive. 

He played by his own rules and no one else's...but it doesn't mean he didn't try. He went to school to be a preacher but got kicked out for making a joyful noise. I guess the good folks at Southwestern Assemblies of God University were unfamiliar with Psalm 100:1-5. He tried being a salesman. Again, he did it his own way, outselling his competitors and getting himself fired for maybe not following through as expected. It's possible that he just didn't know. I can't say. 

I got to meet him once. What a treat! It was seeming to be a typical 'Hi, thanks for coming to the show, here's an autograph' moment until I requested a couple of songs that I knew he'd recorded but never released. He became suspicious and asked, in no uncertain tone, "Where the hell did you ever hear THOSE???" When I told him I knew a guy he worked with at Mercury Records, he had a laugh and called my friend a name I won't repeat. I told him I had them on a tape in my car if he'd like to hear them. He was intrigued by this, so he asked me to go get them. We listened to them backstage (and had a few drinks). He seemed to have a good time with it. A dozen years or so later, I was introduced to his sister at a gig in the UK. I mentioned this story and she finished it for me. Apparently, Jerry Lee had fond memories of this and had told the story himself a few times. 

Jerry Lee Lewis died today, age 87. That in itself is miraculous. He lived a hard life. He partied like 10 Keith Richards. He married like Elizabeth Taylor. He rocked and rolled like no one before or since. Elvis who? Oh, you mean the dandy fatboy in the rhinestone jumpsuits? Jerry Lee never had to dress like a queen. He was too busy being a king. Rest In Peace Killer. God called you home. He was ready and I hear, you were too. 

* Trick question! The real answer is Little Richard! 

Diamonds & Cadillacs

 They say you should write what you know. OK, sure. If there's one thing, I know it's this: I know and/or have known a lot of cats called 'rockabillies'. 

I've never once in my life sat down to write a song about anything in particular or anyone in particular. The few times, early in my writing career, that I did try to write a song about a particular person, place, or time...it never went anywhere. So, I stopped doing that. Oh sure, I might get a line or two written, but the song would just be a snooze. Or I'd find a cool riff or a nice lick and pfft...no words. I decided to let the songs find me. One, it's easier that way. Two, I've found that if it gets stuck in my head, more'n likely a song will get stuck in someone else's head.

By now I've probably written a few hundred songs. Most have only ever been heard by me and maybe, just maybe, one of the cats or dogs I've cohabitated with over the years. I was about 19 or 20 when I decided there was no point in me trying to write a commercial 'hit'. My playing style was just too all over the place (somewhere between BB King and The Ramones). My college roommate pointed out one day (as I was trying to write a 'hit') that my voice was (way back then) really country sounding. I was definitely not thrilled to hear that. It was the mid 80s and most country music of the day just sucked. I kinda took it as an insult. But I kept on writing anyway. Over the years, I've even recorded a couple of those moldy oldies. (FYI: "Just Go", on my 2003 Back From The Dead album was written in 1985-86. I originally had it in mind for either Jerry Lee Lewis or the Fabulous Thunderbirds. To my knowledge, neither have ever had any interest in recording it)

I wrote a few songs while I was in The Swingin' Caddilacs (a NE Ohio rockabilly band from 1982-1990). We did a couple of them. When I met and started to do session work with Alan Leatherwood up at Ohio Moon Records in Cleveland, in the late 80s, he was impressed enough with some of my embryonic scribblings that he'd encourage me to keep writing. He'd point out that I probably shouldn't use as much profanity as it would never get airplay. (I've actually tried to follow that advice but occasionally suck at following that advice) Al had been 'in the biz' professionally since the early 60s and had worked as a songwriter for a few well-known artists, so I really did listen to everything he said. My lack of confidence is what probably kept my writing more honest and personal (if that makes sense). 

By the 1990s, I'd developed a reputation as a "rockabilly" musician (guitar, electric and upright bass). I've never considered myself to be such...but my thoughts on it have nothing to do with a reputation. That's purely all about how others see me. By this point, I had moved to Pittsburgh and was playing in The Rowdy Bovines. We were considered by most to be '"rockabilly" but I saw us more as a punk rock band. We were never as polished as the Stray Cat clones that we occasionally did shows with. We were possibly a bit twangy but more than that, we were fast, loud, and frequently drunk. 

Drinking was a big part of my life then. I've never considered myself an alcoholic or anything, it's just what a lot of people did at the time; self included. Pittsburgh, in the early 90s had a pretty lively music scene. I could go catch a band almost any night of the week. I was usually more drawn to the blues bands, as they were usually the better musicians. I'd often get to sit in on a song or three, and sometimes this even led to The Bovines getting a gig out of it. We worked with a lot of the touring acts too. The Frantic Flattops, Belmont Playboys, Billy Bacon & The Forbidden Pigs, The Steam Donkeys, The Moondogs, we were frequently gigging with somebody. Some nights, an artist like James Peterson or a band like Laurence Beall & The Sultans would ask me to sit in and I'd end up doing an entire set with them...cold. It really helped my playing and my confidence.

The Bovines started doing some of my songs. Like any addiction, that first taste is never enough. I wanted to write more. The crowds liked the stuff I was writing and that fed my desire to write more. I got into a habit. If I felt like writing, I'd sit up all night, in my basement, drinking wine, and waiting for the muse to visit. I got a lot of good songs that way. "Too Much Of A Man" came after a two bottle night. "Skoodly Boop" came after a Little Charlie & The Nightcats show and a bottle of the less-than-good stuff. But late nights and wine were no guarantee for a song. 

I found that different guitars often had songs hidden in them...you just had to play them long enough for the song to come out. I had an old Gibson L48 archtop (that I traded an amp for) and that one gave up songs like "Walk On". My Gibson 175 gave up songs like "Buggin' Annie" (which I originally wrote after a phone call with my buddy Danny Gatton). The title came from the fact that I was always worried about bothering my 87-year-old auntie, who lived with me at the time. Most of my songs had been hiding out in what I call The Autograph Book: my Gibson ES120T. For years, that was my #1 writing guitar.

By late 1994, The Rowdy Bovines were all but finished. No animosity really, we'd just run our course and James & I were probably a little tired of being around each other all the time. I had a backlog of my own songs and apparently, a crowd that wanted to hear them, so I started my own band. I'd been working on a couple of side projects anyway, so I just put together a new one. A punk rock bass player and a blues/jazz/R&B drummer. It shouldn't have worked...but it did. That was really the most intensely pissed off rhythm section ever. Rather than be annoying about it, they channeled their energy into their playing, and they locked in with each other. I couldn't have asked for better. They kept my music from ever being anything but original. 

After our first couple of shows (which were admittedly rough...I usually paid the guys out of my own pocket, plus renting a PA system, handling promotion, etc) things clicked. We started getting a lot of shows. We were (briefly) the darlings of the press and critics' faves. I recently came across a box of old press clippings. Some of it was almost embarrassing to read.We started getting out of town bookings, which is probably what kept us from ultimately wearing out our welcome (a reality for a lot of bands). One Friday, we had a show up in Cleveland. I couldn't tell you where, but I think we were doing a show with my buddy Denny from Lords of the Highway. Our bass player had a pickup truck, so he offered to do the driving. I had my gear packed and ready to roll and I waited for him in my garage. I decided to pick some guitar while I waited for him, so I pulled out the 120T. I started to play a song I'd started writing years before but never finished. A new song came from it and the entire song started to just flow out of me. I had no idea where it was all coming from, but it kept on coming. The lyrics were about an old guy who had been a hotshit rockabilly guitar picker back in the 50s. As the song was coming out of me, I got to thinking about Charlie Feathers, who I'd spoken with a few times. Verse after verse just kept pouring out. Being the idiot that I often am, I didn't bother to write it all down. I just kept playing it. I figured, if it gets stuck in my head...

My friend Billy Poore always told me that "Diamonds & Cadillacs" is the song I'll be remembered for. Who knows, he could be right. It's not requested much anymore but people tend to still react positively when they hear it. I played it for the band when we got to the gig in Cleveland. The next day, we were recording at Al Leatherwood's studio, so I played it for him. He loved it! He told me he wanted to record it. I told him, "Sure, I was thinking of Charlie Feathers when I wrote it..." BOOM! Al took that all wrong. He seemed to think I was giving Charlie first dibs. Hell, Charlie hadn't even heard it yet. I've always been of the mind that if anyone ever wants to do one of my songs, please, by all means, do it! Perform it, record it, have at it...just give me the credit due. All I've ever asked. I don't think Al ever did record it. I played it for Charlie over the phone once and he loved it. He wanted to record it but died before he got the chance. The song was starting to feel a little cursed. I played it with Sleepy LaBeef a time or two. He loved it. Billy Poore loved it and said he wanted to record it. He might have but I don't think it was ever released. 

My buddy Hayden Thompson, one of the original rockabilly cats, always loved it. He recorded a couple of demos of it and eventually recorded it on Blue Light Records out of Finland with the Hal Peters Trio. Funny story: Hayden called me from Finland, really upset. He told me he'd recorded my song. I guess the guitar player was having too much trouble with the song, so they just played it like a straight-ahead rockin' boogie. It worked fine that way, as far as I was concerned...but Hayden was so bothered by the guitar player that he forgot the entire middle section of the song! I laughed and told him that I wasn't too worried. I was just honored that he, my friend and a rockabilly legend to boot, deemed my little song worthy of recording. I'm still proud of it. 

In 2000, I played at the first Rockabilly Hall of Fame festival in Jackson, TN. Things went so well, I was back the next two years. I worked with a lot of the old original rockabilly cats from the 50s and became friends with a number of them. One of my favorite parts of these fests was the after-show jam sessions back at the hotel. We'd just take over some unused conference room or banquet hall, grab some beer and booze and just have a good old fashion jam. "Hey, you guys know this one?" or "Did ya ever hear this one?" At one of these, SUN artist Mack Self ("Vibrate", "Mad At You") kept saying he'd heard I was a songwriter and wanted to hear some of my stuff. I was surrounded by some REAL songwriters there, and my lack of confidence started rearing its ugly head again. I said I was content to just jam but Mack wasn't having it. He was a big guy, and he could be demanding when he wanted to be. So I said,"Well, I have this song, "Diamonds & Cadillacs". People seem to like it. Charlie dug it. Hayden digs it. Billy Poore digs it. Maybe you guys will. It's in E if you want to jump in..." So, off I went into the intro...

One of the guys added a bass line (played on an acoustic guitar). Somebody started slapping a chair for drums. I looked over at Mack and he was just grinning like a cat who snuck into a seafood store. "GOD DAMN!!!! Now THAT'S Rockabilly!!!", he roared at me when I finished. I think he liked it. The next day, I got to play it for Sam Phillips. He told me he could sell that one! He suggested we get together and have some drinks sometime and talk about it. I was all set to do just that. I was later told that he was often just trying to find a drinking buddy as his sons were usually just glad to get him out of the office. They had the business well under control and dad was, well, just dear old dad. 

By 2002, I was gigging overseas. I heard a couple of acts do the song, I even heard it on the radio once. By 2007, I was almost done with touring. I had a heart attack and a mess of legal troubles, so I stuck close to home. In 2011 I wasn't allowed to leave the state without written permission, so that killed me gigging anywhere I could make real money. "Diamonds & Cadillacs" kept bringing me ever smaller royalty checks up until about 2013. At one point, I had a visit from the FBI about the song! I'd allowed it to be used on a one-off CD pressing for a fundraiser. Long story short, the parties involved ended up in a federal bankruptcy suit and some evil shit was trying to steal my copyright. He failed.  I still get the occasional email or online message from someone, either asking about the song or just to tell me they like it. 27 years after I wrote it, some folks still remember it and every now and then, someone new discovers it. Who knows, maybe Billy Poore was right. Maybe it will be the song I'll be remembered for.

"Diamonds & Cadillacs" by M.C. Metzger (C)(P) 1995

Sitting on the porch with his old guitar

Thinking of the days when he was a star

he had diamond rings and Cadillac cars

but all the world's money didn't go too far

Well it's gone, hell those days are gone.

He's working two jobs every single day

Try to keep his home up any old way

He got a wife at home who don't understand

She never even knew him as a guitar man

well it's  gone, hell those day's are gone.

He had alligator slippers and sharkskin suits

and lots of pretty women to spend his loot

He had diamonds and gold on both of his hands

he was the baddest picker baby in the land

Well it's gone, hell those days are gone.

He's sitting on the porch with his gold guitar

thinking of the days when he was a star

The memories never stray too far

of them diamond rings and them Cadillac cars

They're gone, hell those days are gone

Wednesday at ten they put him in the ground

A broken old man was all they found.

No diamond rings, no Cadillac cars

They never even knew he used to be a star

well he's gone, hell the old boy's gone

Take him home.

TNS: What's In A Name?

*Note: People have said for years I should write a book. In reality, I'm too lazy and not interested in disturbing the sleeping demons. In the meantime, I'll occasionally post blurbs like this. - MM 

I like writing/playing/listening to instrumental music. Lyrics often, to me, get in the way of the song itself. In writing an instrumental, the toughest choice is what to call the piece of music. I rarely think about it until it's finished. Then, I consciously try to keep from sounding pathetically self-important. Music should be fun. The trick is to write and play with emotion without bogging down the listener with your bullshit. I recorded an instrumental piece on my BFTD album. Up until we were getting to release it, the song had no title other that "Jazzy Thing in D". That's how we discussed it in the band. 'Hey, let's do that jazzy thing in D again' 

It was eventually released as "The Incredibly Swingy Jazzy Thing in D" simply because I had to give it a name. Copyrighting, publishing, and the Library of Congress prefer things with actual titles...not just Masterpiece #73.

I've written/recorded/released a number of instrumentals. Some get the full treatment; some are just weird little things I record at home for my own enjoyment. A number of the weirder ones get uploaded to YouTube under the name Zufälligen Einbildungskraft (a name which came from a private joke with a friend in Italy). But one song, in particular, keeps taking on its own life. 

The aforementioned YouTube often leads me down rabbit holes of wonder. Sure, there's the occasional brick wall but I've found some great music there. Oddly enough, it often recommends my own music to me...even if I'm not logged in under my account. I guess that's kinda neat. I've seen a number of people add this particular song to their own playlists, often Halloween themed lists. Now THAT I enjoy! But back to the song...

My personal music tastes and influences are all over the place. Sure, I love old blues and rockabilly...but I also love Bulgarian folk music, Moroccan music, Vietnamese 78s from the 1920s-30s. I love all sorts of sounds and they all sneak into my music at some point.

This particular song started as just a little riff I started playing. I was still married at the time, that should give you some idea how long ago that was! (we divorced in 94) My then wife often pointed out that it sounded, to her, like gypsy music. I was A-OK with this. (I later discovered my own Romani heritage, so...who knew???) 

Bit by bit, I started to craft that little riff into a song. "OH NO! Not another damned song in E" was my first reaction to the almost finished piece. It's a curse I think most guitarists share. We often just naturally go to that E chord position. I tried it in a few other keys, but it didn't sound right in them, so I stuck with E. E minor to be more precise. 

I think I tried the song with The Rowdy Bovines once or twice, but that particular musical unit was already disintegrating, so I let it be. I was already working on a side project that eventually became The Legendary Tremblers, so I tried it with them. It worked better in a trio format. So, I finalized (or so I thought) the arrangement and BOOM, done. But it still didn't have a name.

I would refer to it as 'that gypsy sounding thing' if we'd discuss it during a rehearsal. For us, that worked, especially as the new project hadn't even done a single gig yet, let alone record anything. Remember, this was the analog days. Studios cost money and so did reels of tape. I didn't have the kind of money needed to book a studio for a "maybe one of these days" project. 

The Tremblers finally came together with a solid line-up and started booking shows. That 'gypsy sounding thing' had a solid place in our repertoire...it just didn't really have a name yet. 

By this point it was 1995, I was divorced, in my late 20s, working a steady day job, playing in a couple of bands, doing some road dates, and still the occasional studio session. Life was good. I had met a young lady that would come to our shows, and we became close friends, rather quickly. Nothing romantic ever came of it but everyone else assumed there had to be something there! One day she asked the question that many women have asked me: "Why haven't you written a song about ME?" Mind you, she was joking. As I recall, we had been discussing my writing process and she had even offered up some poetry as possible lyrics (sorry ladies, that rarely works with me. If I don't feel it, I can't write about it). In answering her question, I asked her "What makes you think I haven't written a song about you?" Dammit. Wrong answer to the wrong person. She called me on it. I laughed and said that no, I hadn't actually, but would try. As she always liked that 'gypsy sounding thing' I ended up naming it after her. It became "The Night Stalker" (as Stalker was her surname and we usually saw each other at night). I also loved the old TV show The Night Stalker, so I could actually remember the title!

Within two months of our first show, the band and I ended up doing a gig in Cleveland. My friend and mentor and sometime boss, Alan Leatherwood, suggested we come by his studio to record 'a demo or something'. I knew he really wanted to audition the rest of the band for possible backing work but I'm smart enough to take advantage of a good thing. I knew Al had a nice little studio set up at his house. I also was pretty cocksure that we could record a bunch of songs very quickly, in one or two takes (which we pretty much did). We tracked 10 songs in one session, on an extremely hot day, in a basement studio in Cleveland. We were all shirtless and sweating by the 3rd take, as the AC and/or fans made too much noise and we didn't want that on the recordings (and really, why would we?). Well damn, we had just recorded our first album!

I was less interested in releasing an album than actually having a demo tape to shop around for booking. So, once we had decent rough mixes of a couple of the songs, I put together some two song cassettes (I had landed a box of promo cassettes, at about 3-4 minutes per side, and was damned sure I was gonna use them for something!) with the song "Walk On" on one side, and "The Night Stalker" on the other. I erased the box of promo cassettes I had got my hands on and dubbed these songs on to them. I had a friend print me up some labels (some I just hand wrote) with the band name, song titles and contact phone number and got to the business of booking shows. Pretty soon we were gigging at least a few times every week for months. 

There were some issues with the final mix/mastering process. Digital was just becoming a thing you could feasibly do at a reasonable cost, so Al had picked up some digital gear. As we transferred the mastered songs to a DAT tape, long story short, he and the bass player decided to smoke a few bowls. I've never cared for the smell of the stuff, so I backed away from the board. BIG mistake on all of our parts. Things didn't sound right to ol' Cheech & Chong and they fiddled some knobs. Me, being half deaf, wasn't close enough to realize just how much it effected the overall mix. We ended up with, what to me sounded like, a very thin sounding mix. But it got released on Al's label and shortly thereafter, got pulled due to a cease-and-desist order. Enough cassette copies had gotten around, and we started to get some good press, especially overseas. I remember being sent magazines from Italy, Germany and of all places, New Zealand, where they raved about the album. By this point, I was already writing material for another album.

We had started tracking our next project when a friend of mine called me about adding some of our songs to a compilation disc. It was going to be an all-instrumental album. My friend was (and still is) really into surf stuff. We're not a surf band by any definition but sure, why not? We already had "The Night Stalker" in the can and had just recorded another instrumental ("Selena") so I sent those to my friend for consideration. I hadn't intended him to use those particular recordings. My plan was to beef them up to what I considered better sound quality but to my surprise, he stuck with the original tapes I sent. I guess the producer Don Dixon, was involved with the project and he edited the sound quality a bit. When Leatherwood heard the released CD, he was furious! ("They slowed the track down a whole step! It's in a completely different key now!") I really didn't mind; I was just less than thrilled about the quality of the tapes I had sent...but in the end it worked out. I do know that we got some airplay from it, the CD was on a number of jukeboxes, and I know that the band got at least one scathing review about the 'nearly MONO' sound quality of our tracks on the album. I chuckled when I read that. What's wrong with MONO? I happen to like MONO!

But the story doesn't end there. "The Night Stalker" became a fave with those who enjoy our music and our live performances. We played at a local club called Rosebud 183 times (according to my records) and we played it every time. My friend, the former house sound man, production manager, Kevin would always adjust the lights while we played that one. He loved it and called it The Blue Light Special. It always added an extra effect to this song. 

By the time the 21st century hit, we were still playing "The Night Stalker" at live shows. We had 4-5 releases out and it was on at least two of them. In 2002, along with a new rhythm section, I started recording the Back From The Dead album. We lucked out with financing and got to do this one right! 17 tracks, and yes, one was an instrumental (which a European reviewer likened my playing to my old friend Danny Gatton, so that was a compliment!). My friend, author/songwriter/producer/publisher/raconteur Billy Poore provided the liner notes. I had toured the UK for the first time that spring and was ready for more! This album, released in 2003, took me all the way down to Australia! And there is where the story continues.

Our drummer couldn't make the Australia tour. As we had little idea of just what was in store for us, we agreed to use a local. I figured my stuff is generally simple enough that any decent drummer could pick up on it in a jiffy. I was under the impression that we might play a couple of smallish pubs and by 'festival' I figured something small like a street fair or something. Boy was I wrong! 

Upon landing in Melbourne, we were taken on a quick trip around town, then a quick meeting at the tour manager's house (thank God for his coffee!). We then dropped the bass player (Rob) off at the hotel. No such luxury for this old dog. I got to go do a couple of meet & greets and a couple of radio interviews (one where I fell asleep midsentence due to exhaustion). I was surprised at how well received we were. I was aware that I had ruffled the feathers of one local promoter before I even landed. It had been brought to my attention that he was talking shit about us, most likely because we went with a different promoter...but I digress. (I'll add that when he and I did meet, he acted a bit like a sheepish little bitch, especially when I called him out on some of his quotes, in front of a room full of punters) 

On Day 2, we met the drummer. Brian Francis was and is, in my estimation, THE drummer for my more rockabillyish stuff. HE GETS IT! He's a natural for my way of playing. We got a couple of one-two hour rehearsals in. Mostly just getting the feel, the intros and outros, any weird stops. He got it all perfectly fine. I really don't like rehearsing. I never have. I like improvisation. Keep it fresh! Keep it lively! Brian was on top of it! He and Rob played together like they'd been doing it for years. 

We landed on a Tuesday. Our first show was on a Saturday. Plenty of time for me to get in trouble, which I did. I'll write about that another time. Friday morning came and I was nowhere to be found. Eventually, a very drunk me showed up at the hotel demanding toast. We were supposed to be on the road an hour ago! They poured me into the back of a vehicle, where I passed out and slept until we reached Lake's Entrance (4 hours away). While not hungover, and having slept on my pile of toast, I was hungry. Brian gave me LOTS of good-natured ribbing over the state I was in. I knew I liked this guy. After what seemed like a month in the car, we got to Narooma,NSW, for our first Aussie shows. 

I wasn't expecting this. It was huge! 3 big stages, each with bigger names than ours, I was really feeling a bit of the ol' Imposter Syndrome. But I'd played big shows before, so we just did our thing. Luckily, Rob brought along some digital recording gear and got the soundman to record out first show (later released as LIVE IN AUSTRALIA on Cracked Piston Records). The show went great with one minor exception. As I went into the intro to "The Night Stalker", Brian went into a different beat. UH OH! I looked back at him to try to get him on track, but he was playing what he was playing, so I had a choice: Stop the song and restart OR adapt. I opted for the latter. I looked over at Rob (who has an uncanny ability to follow whatever goofy shit I start playing) and I rewrote the song, live onstage, in front of 8,000 very enthusiastic Aussies. Disaster averted and damn, it went down a treat! 

When the live album came out, we edited out the oops at the beginning, titled it something like "Night Stalker 03" and honestly, I became obsessed with Brian's version. I knew that one of these days, I wanted to redo the song with his beat. In 2007, Brian came to visit, and I got him into the studio and broke his recording cherry. How a drummer of his caliber had never done studio work mystified me. He and I tracked 16-17 songs in about 3 hours. Unfortunately, we forgot to record his version of "The Night Stalker". Dammit!

Fast forward a few years. I'd pretty much stopped touring. I'd had a heart attack and a second bout of cancer. My life was in a series of rough patches. I had discussed with my friends Joe and George about recording a side project that Joe had come up with, based on our mutual love of old classic horror films, sci fi, etc. Losers After Midnight was born! What was initially just going to be a one-off EP, we ended up releasing an EP and a full-length album. (probably more to come too) I told the guys I wanted to redo "The Night Stalker" but with Brian's beat. It reminded me of the Al Caiola version of the Mancini classic "Experiment In Terror" that was used as the theme song to local Saturday night fright flick classic Chilly Billy's Chiller Theater. They guys were up for it, so we did it! And I have to say, we did it well! So well, I renamed it "Nightstalker Twist". I've been seeing that version popping up in a few playlists lately, so I'm obviously not the only who digs it.

If you've read this far, Thank You. You've probably earned a drink. Feel free to check out a couple different versions of "The Night Stalker". I've added the original Alan Leatherwood mix as well as the Losers After Midnight version. Enjoy!

THE NIGHT STALKER - ORIGINAL ALAN LEATHERWOOD MIX

LOSERS AFTER MIDNIGHT - NIGHTSTALKER TWIST

Just A Ramble on Death & Dying

 To hear my friends tell it, they're all going to hell. As they all keep leaving me behind, I get the feeling the joint's gonna be full before I get there.

Now before anyone throws in their two cents worth on the subject of death, dying and the afterlife, you can just stop. Having once been declared dead, I have a bit of unique perspective and a minor level of expertise. Many have asked me "What happens?" Simply put, I don't have the words to describe it, but I can tell you, it ain't the crap you see on TV or read about in your favorite periodical.

I buried my dad earlier this week. I feel like I'm failing at grief at this point. He was just shy of 88 years old. He'd lived a long life, and more importantly I guess, he lived it the way he wanted to. I think I should feel sadder than I do. We were never as close as I would have liked, but he was still my dad. If you think you're going to read horror stories about a shitty childhood, sorry, not happening here. I was lucky that I got to tell my dad that I loved him, and I think we both knew that last good-bye was indeed the last one. We both had smiles on our faces. When it comes to the end, that's how it should be. Sobbing is for those who didn't give it all they could. Fair to say, I did. It might not have ever worked out how I wanted but that's just sometimes how it goes. I know he's at peace, real peace; so that gives me comfort.

I was supposed to be gigging in Cleveland, OH tonight at a tribute for my friend and mentor Alan Leatherwood. He passed back in June after complications from a stroke. That one hit hard and hurt like a sumbitch. Al was my friend. He was damned near family. When I had my heart attack, he called me and told me "Parents aren't supposed to outlive their kids". He was letting me know that I was like a son to him and that meant a lot. He taught me a large chunk of everything I know about the music industry, recording, writing, publishing, etc. I hope he's having a cocktail with Sam Phillips tonight. A lot of stories could go back and forth between those two. 

His passing probably should have hit me even harder than it did but again, I've lost so many dear friends and family this year that I'm really about numb to it. That's a horrible way to feel. I'm fully aware of the empty spaces now filling my existence by each of their passing. Any time the phone rings, or I check my email, or hop onto social media, I'm immediately struck by so many absences. 

The past two years have been filled with death after death in my private little world. Old friends, family, past lovers...they just keep dropping and leaving me behind. Knowing that I'll never see their faces or get to talk to them again...it's a repeated kick in the nads. Talk about a reality check. Sure, as we get older, we tend to check the obituaries a bit more often, but dammit, I'm only in my 50s. This has been way too many, way too soon. 

When an auntie of mine was 85, she told me, "Don't live this long. You run out of money and everyone you really care about is gone. The ones left are usually assholes."  Today, I'm starting to understand that bit of advice. I don't believe there's an excess of assholes in my life, but I understand more clearly now the difference between the people I'm truly close with and everyone else. Doesn't mean I've closed the door on becoming closer with people. Some will just always hold a higher place in my personal Top 10. It doesn't mean we don't try.

My faith has definitely helped me through all of this. Chances are that my faith has given me peace and the ability to see the passing of so many friends, family and lovers in a clear light. Death is inevitable. We're all gonna die. Some of us more than once. Faith does not, however, erase the sting. It just eases the pain a bit. We're never fully ready to lose someone. Never.

We might think we are...until the moment comes. 

Like I said, sobbing is for those who didn't give it all they could. Too often, we make the mistake of believing we have something we don't, time. I'll call later.   I'll send a card tomorrow.   I'm busy today. If you can't make time for those you love, you deserve all the grief you get. We mourn our lost chances. We grieve for the things we didn't say and do. When someone enters our lives and shares love, that is really more important than any meeting, any appointment, any TV show, etc. No one has ever drawn their last breath wishing they'd spent more time at the office. You'll never have enough money or enough time, but you will eventually run out of both. You'll never have enough love in your life either. What's important is what you do with it. Plant that seed and grow a forest. 

I'll leave you dear readers with a couple of quotes that, while simple, scream volumes. I hope you look up their authors and the origin of the quotes.

"Enjoy every sandwich." - Warren Zevon

"Everything we experience is a gift, a present we should cherish and pass on to those we love."  - Alice Herz-Sommer

Haunted By the Ghost of What If

 Most people know I enjoy a cold beer on occasion. Some think that I live on bourbon. Not unlike my youth when most people viewed me under the misconception that I was forever high (I've never particularly cared for smoking weed) the notion that I drink a lot is more myth than actuality. 

 Back in my younger days, however, if you saw me out and about, I was probably drinking. If I was doing a show, I was drinking. In the studio working on a session, I was probably having a few. If you saw me in a bar, I was definitely on my way to blitzville. 

 I wouldn't say I had a drinking problem as much as it was a way to deal with boredom, anxiety, and being stuck in a small town in a shitty, bigoted, redneck state. I've never done well with small towns, and I can honestly say that I've never much cared for the state of Ohio. Sure, I have family there that I love, and I have some dear friends there that I also love but...the state as a whole has never been a good fit for my personality. In short, I was self-medicating. Shit happens. 

 I spent the better part of 20 years of my life in Ohio. I wasn't born there. I never really felt at home there. Everything about the place felt alien to me. Ok, I like some of the food but everything else was just so odd to me. My cousins thought it was hilarious that our family moved there. (The bigger laugh was that theirs moved to Michigan) In my teens, I would frequently sit and watch traffic late at night, jealous that the people in those vehicles were going somewhere, ANYWHERE, else. I tried to leave Ohio a couple of times but always got roped back in. 

 When I was in school the drinking age was 18 and most places didn't check IDs too closely. By 15, I was definitely a weekend warrior. By 18, a daily drinker. By 21, I'd hopped around from one town to another and eventually ended up in a rather Mayberry-like small town. I was close enough to Canton and Akron that I could find most things I'd want and was only 75 miles from Cleveland, which while not Utopia by any stretch of the imagination, was to me a good place to occasionally escape to. Like a lot of folks at that age, I was looking for my true self. I just knew I wasn't going to find it in a small town in Ohio.

 I've always had the ability to make the best of any situation. If I had to compile a list of personal strengths, that would be in the top three. My little personal Mayberry seemed as good a place to start as any. I didn't have any family around and really only had one or two friends at first. I landed a job in a produce warehouse and eventually found work in my chosen field. I was usually a week from being broke but it wasn't totally awful. I had a nice place to live, a decent car, a gorgeous gal, and was working pretty regularly as a musician. The one downside was WAY TOO MANY BARS. My gal enjoyed going out for a few as much as I did, and she was also a bit of a pool shark. Most nights you could find us at our regular watering hole, and I'd usually be drinking with my buddy Jackson while she ran the billiard table. Had I been able to stick to that routine, I would have been fine. But...that's not something I've ever been good at. I get bored, restless, and worst of all, anxious. I have one of those brains that never stops. I'm always thinking of the next thing to do. I like to believe I'm planning for any eventuality but I'm really just anxious and depressed. I'm still that way but I've definitely mellowed with age.

 There was an afterhours bar that my bandmates and I would occasionally frequent. The proprietor was, for lack of a better word, a character. In a small town like that, Brad stuck out like a sore thumb. Like I said, Ohio was and still is (in my eyes) a bigoted, redneck place. The locals would probably be aghast at hearing that and any who read this will probably argue the point but it's just how I see it. And Brad was living proof. 

 The county I was living in was predominantly white...and that's being polite. In the 3-4 years that I lived there; I don't think I ever saw more than a dozen non-white people. There was the Korean family that owned and operated the laundromat I used. There were a few black folks, and maybe a few Asian doctors and their families. Aside from them, it was white suburbia. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with my fellow honkies, but I can honestly say they're not, for the most part, a particularly accepting/inclusive bunch. 

 Brad's family was Italian. He and his brother both looked typically midwestern Italian. Where Brad differed was his effeminate nature, shaved eyebrows and black Eve Arden eye shadow. Yeah, like I said, he stood out. I'm sure he could have toned himself down for public consumption, but Brad was gonna be Brad, no matter what. He was true to himself and for that, I always respected him. His bar could give some folks a bit of the creeps. Always clean, with a great antique billiard table (complete with transparent balls) it looked like a nice place. Brad, however, was particular about his clientele. He didn't let many women in. Whether he was concerned that they might be offended by the porn that was usually on the TV or he just felt they were competition, I never bothered to ask. I learned early on in life that there are all sorts of people and to each their own. That's still how I see the world and probably always will. 

 My favorite thing about his bar was the old Wurlitzer, bubble top jukebox! Better still, he had it loaded with great old jazz, blues, and R&B records. These scratchy old discs were the foundation of our friendship. Brad had a memory like a herd of elephants. He never forgot a name, a face, what you drank, and what - if anything, you played on the jukebox. I first met him a couple of years before I moved to the area. A friend and I had met a couple of gals from there and we all went to a concert up in Kent one weekend. After the show we went to Brad's. I wasn't quite ready for the likes of him, but he seemed pleasant enough. We had a few drinks, and eventually took the gals on home. A year or two after I moved to the area, a bandmate and I went there for a 'few more drinks' (after already closing another bar). Brad remembered me by name and very pointedly asked where I'd been and why I hadn't been back in so long. He then handed me a beer, asking "is this still your drink of choice?" I doubt I've ever been particularly memorable, so I'll chalk it up to Brad having a great memory.

 Like I said, I drank way too much at the time. I think there was something like 88 bars in the area. That was a lot for an area of maybe 25,000 people. If I worked late or had a gig, I'd stop by Brad's. I'd get my drink on and we'd argue about old jazz songs, who sang them, the year and label they were released on, typical music nerd stuff. One night I was telling him about a BBQ that had opened up on the outskirts of town and asked if he'd been there yet. He reminded me that he didn't drive and would have no way to get there. I simply suggested I'd take him. To say that he was touched by this minor gesture would be an understatement. To a lot of the folks in the area, he was a pariah. He was "weird" and "a fag". I'd heard rumors about some issues with him and other guys. Maybe those guys just didn't realize it was a man they were having sex with until their friend/families found out. Maybe they were all blind Who knows. But the good people of Mayberry North dealt with Brad out of necessity. His family owned a restaurant and he owned a bar and the folks in town enjoyed eating AND drinking. So, if you wanted to drink late, you were going to Brad's. But ONLY if he let you in. You had to ring the doorbell, and he'd check the peephole or crack the door before he decided if you were coming in or not. Like I said, he could give some folks the creeps. I always figured he'd had enough of the locals and their bullshit, so he played it safe.

 Safety was generally not much of an issue for Brad. He had 3 Dobermans that had the run of the bar. If you didn't like dogs, you just didn't go there. If the dogs didn't like you, you weren't getting in. It took me a while to get used to having a Doberman resting its head on my leg while I drank. Luckily, I've always liked dogs and dogs usually like me. One of his Dobermans was a miniature, and it would come up to me and run in circles and bark until I picked it up. Brad would usually yell at me to not spoil the dog. I have news for you, they already were spoiled. 

 Small town life went on as small-town life does. My gal was becoming concerned with the frequency of my drinking. At one point she had initiated a No Whiskey rule. Around this time, I'd taken a job managing a gas station/convenience store and usually worked til 11 or 12, unless I had a gig. I'd usually run to our regular watering hole, close that down, and often go to Brad's for 'a few more'. As the gal was becoming more vocal with her concerns, on one night in July of 1989, I pulled into Brad's parking lot...and just sat there. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was drinking too much. She loved me and cared about me, and I was an ass for making her worry, so I started the car back up and drove home. It was the last time I ever went to Brad's after-hours bar. I remember there were a couple of vehicles in the parking lot. Nothing unusual. Nothing memorable.

 My gal was asleep when I got home. She was opening the restaurant she worked at in the morning, which meant she had to be there by 5:30. I crashed out on the couch so as to not wake her. She phoned me about 10 or 11 in the morning and asked if I'd heard about Brad. I wasn't really awake enough to comprehend what exactly she was saying. Something about Brad being dead. I told her I hadn't heard anything about it. I also didn't tell her that I'd stopped there the night before but turned around and came home. I called Brad's home phone but got the answering machine. I left a message...something to the effect of "Hey Brad, what's this rumor I'm hearing that something happened to you? Give me a call!". He didn't call back, so I tried the bar phone. Still no answer. When my gal got home around 1:30 in the afternoon, she brought home the newspaper with the headline Tavern Owner Slain. My heart sank. The article didn't go into great detail, as I recall, just that he had been beaten to death. That evening at work, I ran into one of the local cops that I knew. I was asking him about what happened. He told me he'd heard my phone message and was hoping to talk to me. I told him about stopping there but turning around. He asked if I could remember the vehicles and I gave him the best I could remember. He said he'd be in touch if the cops had any more questions. They never called. Brad was beaten and castrated in his own bar. Like I told the cops, it was unusual that the dogs weren't in the bar...so whoever it was must have been scared by them and convinced Brad to put them in the cellar. It was years before the case was finally closed, no thanks to the cops. The murderer, from what I've been told, was about to get married and after carrying the guilt with him, told his fiancé about it. I hear she turned him in. 

 To this day, I can't help but think WHAT IF I had stopped in for 'a few more drinks'. Maybe Brad would still be alive. He'd be 80 now.  I tried to be a good guy and not worry my gal and my friend ended up murdered. Maybe Brad got touchy feely and the guy wasn't in the mood to put up with it. Maybe he just had it out for Brad. I just can't help but think it probably wouldn't have happened if I'd just got out of the car and gone in and drank. I think about this every year at this time. Every damned year. I don't even need to look at the calendar. It comes in dreams. It'll pop into my head out of nowhere. Then I look up the old headline and see the date...and there it is. And I relive it in my head over and over for a few days. I can honestly say that I miss Brad. He was a kook. He was a character. He could be a bullshitter. He loved his music, he loved his dogs and dammit, he was my friend. He was unapologetically himself and you really gotta respect a person like that. Rest In Peace old friend. 

You Might Be An Asshole

 You might be an asshole. You might not. You might be an asshole one minute and not one the next. There are times when I'm an asshole. In fact, it's a running joke between my better half and myself. I'll often say to her, "Babe, your old man is really an asshole." She'll usually laugh, agree, and then ask, "What did you do now?"

I don't try to be an asshole. I guess you could say it comes naturally. I try to be kind, and understanding, and tolerant. But...some days I'll see or hear something so blatantly ignorant or ridiculous that the asshole in me comes bubbling to the surface. Some days I'm amazed at my ability to contain the asshole in me. Today is one of those days, although, it's still early.

This morning, a friend, out of the blue, started messaging me diabetes memes. As a diabetic, I've pretty much seen all of them. Especially the Wilfred Brimley ones. When I was diagnosed with diabetes, I started up The Wilfred Brimley Society (Eat Your Damned Oatmeal). As a number of my friends and contemporaries have been diagnosed with it as well, I always send them a copy of The Wilfred Brimley Society card (so that they can proudly admit to being a member in good standing of a growing minority). I also offer up any bit of advice that might help. I offer up my own story, and my personal tips for how I keep mine under control (my doc often compliments me on how well I keep it under control). As for the memes, when I was first diagnosed, I used to post them. It was my typical response to personal stress. Self-depricating humor and flipping the bird at the problem. It doesn't cure it. It doesn't really help it but it does help ME. If some folks find it entertaining, well fucking goody goody. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not here to entertain anyone. (more about that later)

As for my friend, who I am certain wasn't trying to be malicious, it all started with my friend sending this meme, out of nowhere.

Yep, I've seen it before. I don't particularly care for it as it's pretty stupid. As I was neither in the mood for it, nor was I in the mood for anything confrontational, I replied with the following photo of MY OWN PERSONAL GLUCOMETER (the thingy I use to check my blood sugar BECAUSE I HAVE DIABETES)

 

One would think this would have clearly communicated, in a friendly and polite way, a reminder that I'm diabetic and MAYBE, just MAYBE the meme was construed as in bad taste; or at least of dubious timing. 

Unlike many folks, I rarely, if ever, post my problems online. I rarely discuss them outside of the house. Period. I'm not big on asking for random advice or help. I don't feel the need to air my dirty laundry in public either.  I try to enjoy as quiet a life as possible. My life is probably pretty dull to most folks. A lot of time spent with my kitties and the squirrel friends. I'm not terribly social. It's not that I don't like people; I just have few occasions to go anywhere. I'm happiest at home. 

Just because I don't talk about my own issues doesn't mean that they don't exist. Oh, they do!  If I was so inclined, I could ramble on about the ongoing struggle of adjusting to a post-stroke life. I could give a daily monologue about the difficulty I have walking or the amount of physical pain I live in. But I don't. 

I could entertain the social media voyeurs with tales of my financial struggles, employment issues, family troubles, etc. I find no catharsis in any of that. I've learned enough to sort out most of my own problems without the added benefit of whining and crying to the wolves. 

But...today this shit pissed me right the fuck off. 

I'm generally pretty thick skinned. It takes a fair bit to elicit a truly emotional response from me but this got me really angry. ("You wouldn't like me when I'm angry." - B. Bannon) Just one of those days. I can take a number of educated guesses as to WHY it pissed me off but suffice to say that it did. 

I'm lucky enough to have a significant other who honestly takes the time to get me. As I was ubercranky, I chatted with her a bit. I pointed out the following, which she asked if it was a quote. No such luck dear reader, just the mess that often brews in my head:

'You wanna know what I find HILARIOUS? Grown adults with a history of shitty life choices who try blame their problems on everything from mental health issues to others being mean and not kowtowing to their every whim...who continue doing the same shit over and over well into their 50s-60s-70s without ever once taking responsibility for their own lives! Fucking mirth right there! How about those hilarious fuckers who put people down because they have a faith or belief system that others might not? A fucking laugh riot! Almost as funny as racism.'

There's no worse beating than the ones we get from those closest to us. I get it almost daily. People trying to be humorous or share some bit of bullshit online wisdom. I am insulted on a regular basis and more often than not by people not meaning to do so. 

We'll call this a reminder. I'm a man of faith. My faith is more important to me than any person alive. Without it, I have very little reason to continue in a dark, hate-filled world. In my faith I find strength. I find the ability to see the beauty in the world. It enables me to look for the good in even the worst people and their actions. Yet, many insult that faith on a regular basis. People like to claim that there's no proof of God's existence. The fact that I haven't seriously fucked YOU up is all the proof you need. Without my faith I would be a very different person. I used to be that person. I know him well. My faith gives me the ability to keep him at bay. Remember the old saying: there are no atheists in a foxhole. Ain't many atheists on the day of a surprise math quiz either. So, the next time you want to talk smack about my faith, don't be surprised if I just throw you out of my life. You won't be the first person I've had to turn my back on and know that it hurts me deeply to ever have to do so. Pray that I don't give up my faith. If I do, and I opt for a more self-serving life, you will likely become my prey. And there ain't a damned thing you'll ever be able to do about it. 

Please understand that I live with an ever-growing number of health problems. To me, it's no big deal. I'm used to it. I was born premature. I spent the first 4-6 weeks of my life in a plastic box. I was a sickly kid. Aside from a few decent years in my 20s, I've dealt with one thing or another almost every day of my life. I literally live in pain. I love when nurses ask if I'm in pain. I laugh and usually say something like "no more than usual". I have at least two disorders that I live with wherein my body is attacking itself. My own body and my own blood are trying to kill me! This makes me tougher than most, even when/if I don't want to be. It also helps me be understanding of the problems of others. But guess what? Some days I just don't give a damn. This morning was definitely one of those times. I hope I can be forgiven for that.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy humor. It has kept me alive. Just never assume that I'll be open to cruel humor or purely stupid humor. I'm stuck in warzone of a body. I'm usually deep in thought or trying to get through more pain than I feel like dealing with. If you don't live like this, consider yourself lucky. If you feel that you just have to show me something like that, try asking me how I'm doing first. Hardly anyone ever asks that. I probably won't ever give a detailed answer. I usually don't feel like sharing that part of me and most people really don't need to know. Just because you can't see it, at this very moment, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. 

OK, I promised more clarity on being entertaining. I often enjoy entertaining people. A good laugh, a good story, a bit of art or music, is always good to share. Just never expect me to do it. That's a lot to live up to. There are times when an artist/musician/writer/comic/etc. JUST DOESN'T FEEL LIKE IT. So don't ask. To do so is an obscene level of arrogance. I'm not a trained monkey nor is anyone else in the arts. If I want to share some of my art or music with you, I will. Understand, that when I do, I am literally giving you a piece of my life, my soul, my heart. It's not available to most of you On Demand. And it never will be. I've made sure to put a lot of my art and music online, available to you 24/7. What more do you want? It's not my place to make you feel special. Ask yourself, do you really want to give that much power to a man who admits to occasionally being an asshole? 

He's Back!!!

 If you've been playing along with the home version, you already know what all's been going on. For everyone else, here's an update.

On February 5, 2022, I performed my last ever show with my band MEMPHIS MIKE & THE LEGENDARY TREMBLERS. After 27 years, thousands of shows, a number of recordings, and achieving more than I ever thought possible, it was time to call it a day.

Aside from the rock & roll fun and excitement, there was also a lot of headaches, heartache and drama. Life, in general. Over a quarter century of my life fronting the same band, doing mostly my own songs. Don't get me wrong...it was great! I wouldn't change a second of it, but it wasn't without its downsides.  

In 2001 I was treated for cancer. 

In 2002 I was declared dead for 7 minutes and spent a week or so in a coma. I got a good album title out of it though...

In 2006 I had a nervous breakdown and was hospitalized. 

In 2007 I suffered a massive heart attack, was essentially forced out of my chosen 'day job' career, almost had to file bankruptcy, went through a few years of legal headaches and that's just the obvious stuff.

In 2010 I was treated for a 2nd cancer. A year later I was forced the rest of the way out of my chosen 'day job' career. All the while, I kept rockin', recording, gigging, and touring when possible.

In 2013 I was diagnosed with diabetes.

Things finally settled and I was happily working in a new profession, fronting the Tremblers and working with a number of other bands. My personal life was doing great, and I was pretty much on top of the world. 

2020 came and just like everyone else, my world came to a standstill. COVID! The gigs all dried up. I was working from home and even managed to do some remote recording sessions. All things considered; it wasn't as bad as it could have been. 

Midway through the year, I terminated my working relationship with one of the acts I was with. Life went on. No one was gigging anyway, so I figured 'this too shall pass'. 

2021 came and so did the vaccines. I was really looking forward to gigging again. I had a few things lined up...and then I got sick. My blood pressure went through the roof. I was in/out of the emergency room. In May, I had my first stroke. I had a second one a month later. I had to relearn how to play guitar, had to learn to walk differently and had to work to be able to sing again. I also went temporarily blind in one eye. 

After a couple of months, I was confident enough in my playing that I took the band into the studio and we recorded a new single, "Hard To Kill". It felt like things were on an upswing.

A month or so after the single was released, I was asked to sit in with the previously mentioned artist. It was my first show back after the stroke and I have to say, I did pretty darned well! I was ready to get back to gigging. 

I spent a few months trying to get the band to rehearse. I especially needed that just to make sure I could get my voice to function properly. The rehearsals just never happened. It seemed like there was little interest in rehearsing and I wasn't even sure if the guys even wanted to gig with me anymore. Understandable really. Would I have another stroke? Maybe on stage? Or worse? Or maybe it was just time to move on.

I let things go for a while. I figured I'd wait until after the first of the year. I recorded and released a solo album and enjoyed my holidays.

2022; a new year. Still no rehearsals. The bass player insisted he was ready to roll....but things just weren't coming together. A show came up for early February. I was excited but little did I know it would be the last one. The drummer was being unusually difficult and then after a week or two informed me he was double booked. So basically, FUCK YOU and YOUR GIG. In this day and age, a double booking just doesn't happen. Every phone has a calendar. I was ready to cancel the gig. I just don't do that and I felt miserable about it. So I had to find a drummer, and most importantly a drummer who knew my stuff. We weren't really going to have time to rehearse. It was all just too much headache by that point. I decided to pull the plug. One last show and make it a good one. I think we managed that.

I've spent the past two months, almost three, fielding calls about other projects. A few 'almosts' but nada. I spent my days working on my guitar playing, as well as my vocals. I was really starting to enjoy it again in ways that I hadn't for years.

I was reminded of a show we did during a blizzard, years ago. That particular show ended up being just the band, the bartender, the promoter, the soundman and maybe one or two brave souls. The promoter suggested that, under the circumstances, why not just have some fun and play whatever we play for ourselves at home. We just laughed and played our regular set. At the time, that was mostly what we played at home too...when/if we were home! But now, I've been sitting around and playing just stuff that I like or always wished I could play or was curious to try. Lots of old jazz and blues from the 1920s and 30s, old New Orleans stuff, old British dance hall stuff. I started mixing and matching different songs and styles, just having fun. I've been tempted to just grab my banjo uke and go busking downtown. Lucky for the good people of Pittsburgh, the weather has not been accommodating.  

But it got me really wanting to play. I messaged my long-suffering bass player Rob and simply asked, "are you as god-damned bored as I am?"

I had a very quick reply from him stating that yes, yes he was.  I told him about the stuff I'd been playing at home and asked if he was interested. Again, a resounding affirmative. I asked if he knew of a good drummer he'd want to work with. He got ahold of a former bandmate (Tod) and it looks like yes Virginia, we has a new band!

Let's be honest. I'm just me. I play how I play. As #1 Son once put it, "it am how it do". If you've heard me before, anything I do probably won't be a huge surprise. What I can tell you is that you'll hear a lot of stuff you've never heard me play before. I'm mixing in a lot of styles that I love but didn't think fit the old band An old song from by The Mississippi Sheiks? Sure, why not? A Los Lobos song? Heck yeah! An obscure California rockabilly track from the 50s? But of course! A mashup of Albert King and The Beatles? Who wouldn't??? Throw in some downhome blues, a little bit of Texas swing, some surf, some twang, make it greasy and perfect for folks to grind and shimmy to...that's our goal. I showed a friend the set list (so far). He can't wait to hear this because he loves the songs I chose. I'm admittedly a bit limited by my voice...but again, nothing new there. 

If all goes to plan, we should be out and making noise by June or so. It'd be great to see YOU at a show. We won't be selling merch or pushing you to check out our website or InstaTwit-O-Gramify Cloudbook but we will happily have a drink with you. We might even ask for a Hell Yeah...but ultimately, as always, that's up to you.