An Album That Changed My Life - Houses of the Holy

The idea for this came from a friend who changed my life almost as much as this album did.

We were supposed to be in church. Well, my friend Mike was anyway.

Somehow, he had arrived at an arrangement with his mother. He would be allowed to go to the late mass, allegedly, with me and Mark. I think it was partly a matter of convenience. With his two sisters, they made a family of five who, as they all got to high school age, probably had a hard time fitting in their little car. So, the rest of them went to the early mass.

I think it was a matter of convenience in another way, too. It was becoming more of a battle to get Mike to worship every week, and, this way, his mother could let herself believe he went to church. And, while out of her sight, he could do what he wanted to do, which was drive around with his friends all afternoon.

That’s how Mark’s car came to be called “The Temple.” On most Sundays, if the surf wasn’t up, I would walk across the street to Mark’s house, and we’d drive around the corner to pick up Mike, ostensibly to go to church. Mark’s car had the best stereo system, so it became our place of worship, a rolling sanctuary where music and marijuana were doled out in strong doses.

We drove for hours, up and down our stretch of the Treasure Coast, from Vero Beach to Jupiter. Between us, we smoked a small forest of marijuana. And we listened to some incredible tunes. But the music selection was dominated by two bands. Pink Floyd. And Led Zeppelin.

Let me tell you a few things about Zeppelin. When they played live, they excelled at escalating their songs to crushing crescendos. A music writer at a Zeppelin show in Boston in 1969 saw concert-goers in the first few rows so invigorated by the band’s performance they began rhythmically slamming their foreheads against the front of the stage. It was from this event, and the subsequent review, that the term “headbangers” was coined.

But Zeppelin doesn’t get enough credit for their ability to unplug from the amps and play without losing their impact. They could be heavy and light. Their name, perhaps more so than any other band name, captures the essence of what they were.  Led. Zeppelin.

We explored the Led Zeppelin catalog in order. By then, everyone had heard the first two albums, and witnessed the blues being transformed into crunchy rock before their very ears. Led Zeppelin III was more acoustic and held hints of the Welsh countryside where most of the material was written. This was part of the genius of Led Zeppelin. Each album was distinctly different from the one that preceded it and the one that followed it, but still bore the unmistakable signature of the band.

After that came the fourth album, officially untitled, which combined the band’s different moods and influences with innovative production into something unique and eternal. And, of course, it informed the world that there just might be a Stairway to Heaven.  

The next one in line was called Houses of the Holy. This was an album that changed my life.

Each member of the band was at his musical peak. Bassist John Paul Jones had introduced the Mellotron to his repertoire. Robert Plant’s rangy yet throaty voice had never been better. John Bonham’s drumming was powerful to the point of being intimidating. Jimmy Page, in addition to being one of the greatest rock guitar players that’s ever lived, had become a gifted producer.

Page had perfected his technique of recording guitars by placing a microphone right in front of the speaker cabinet, as per the usual method, but also placing a microphone twenty-five feet behind it, and running the combined signal into one channel. The effect of this was that it recorded the sound in the space between the two microphones, and captured the ever-elusive ambience of the room in a simple but remarkable way.

I’ve never heard guitar tones better than those on Houses of the Holy. And they were recorded in 1972.

The album dripped with the raw energy of their earlier work, but it was more refined. It would still test the pain threshold of your ear drums if you wanted it to, but it had a pop sensibility that wasn’t in the first four albums. The subject matter wasn’t confined to the usual sexual angst or medieval lore.

 The first track is called “The Song Remains the Same.” Conceptually, it’s a simple expression of unity, the idea that music gives us all common ground. But the song is anything but simple. When I first heard the guitar work, my jaw dropped. It still does.

“Dancing Days” and “Over the Hills and Faraway” are rollicking party songs, the former with a simple but clever guitar riff, the latter with a folky twelve string acoustic opening that segues quickly and powerfully to Page’s layered electric guitars and Plant’s wailing vocals.

“The Crunge” and “D’yer Maker” contain elements of funk and reggae - and humor - that confuse music critics, but, ultimately, display even more of the band’s versatility.

“The Ocean” is a tribute to the fans as they appeared from the band’s point of view on stage – a rocking and rolling sea of people.

“No Quarter” is a dark song that’s dominated in the early portion by Jones’ keyboards. The production style gives it an eerie, almost psychedelic feel. Plant sings of howling dogs of doom and soldiers walking side by side with death. The middle section features an unusual guitar solo by Page, but each member of the band is suitably showcased. When played in concert, it stretched to twelve or fifteen minutes long, and ended in a knee-shaking climax.

Finally, there is “The Rain Song,” a seven and a half minute guitar symphony, with a healthy touch of the Mellotron. Using seasons and weather as an extended metaphor for emotions, Plant’s lyrics tell of the changes that occur in relationships.

I think I knew even then that “The Rain Song” would resonate with me decades into the future.

It was near the end of my senior year in high school. Mike and I were going off to different colleges. Mark was staying behind. Each of us was changing, and we knew it. Our relationship with each other was changing. We knew that too. But we behaved in that peculiar way teenage boys do, unable or unwilling to express complex emotions.

And then comes House of the Holy… with this whole range of feelings I hadn’t expected from a Led Zeppelin album; love, loss, friendship, confusion, sorrow… If the artistic growth of a band can be compared to the course of a human lifetime, like us, this raucus teen was becoming an adult.

I had avoided lengthy relationships with girls. I didn’t do break-ups well. I still don’t. I wanted the trust and comfort level that comes with commitment and time spent together. But I was terrified of being vulnerable, and of what the end might be like. That which I craved most was also that which I feared most.

Some things never change.

My friends and I discussed lyrics that touched us in one way or another, but never talked about why, or how. We recognized the power of music to penetrate pockets of emotion we didn’t want to acknowledge, or didn’t even know we had. But that was as far as we would go. My favorite songs usually expressed the things I felt, but didn’t have the nerve to say.

I will never forget this one Sunday. We were supposed to be in church. Or, at least, my friend Mike was.

But we were in The Temple, driving around, listening to Houses of the Holy. “The Rain Song” came on. It was a beautiful, sunny day. And there was something about that moment that struck us, the three of us.

All the things we were thinking about were there, in one song. Love, loss, friendship, confusion, sorrow. Beginnings… and endings.

Mike piped up from the back seat, and in the long, slow, drawl of someone who was very stoned, said, “Wow. I wish it would rain.”

Just then… I swear to you on a stack of Led Zeppelin albums… I saw a few small splashes on the windshield. Then a few more. Then a steady sprinkle for about thirty seconds. And then it was gone.

“Whoa.”

“Holy shit.”

“Are you kidding me?”

I can’t recall who said what, but I remember hearing those words.

After that, it was a long time before any of us spoke again.

I don’t believe in miracles, so I don’t know what to say about that afternoon, that moment.

Maybe it’s better left unsaid.

When we dropped Mike off a few hours later, his mother was standing in the driveway, smoking a cigarette. As he walked past, she raised a skeptical eyebrow, that gesture of silent interrogation parents do so well. There would have been no use trying to explain that we’d had a spiritual experience far more powerful than any we could have had at St. Patrick’s.

A few weeks later, I was gone. Off to college. I don’t recall any long good-byes. I just… left.

Every time I hear Houses of the Holy, I think of Mike and Mark, and of many other people, too. I think of relationships that didn’t end the way I wanted, or that ended for no reason at all. I think of all the things I left unsaid, and of what I would tell each of those people, if I had the chance.

Because, you see, I can say it now.

But I still can’t say it any better than Robert Plant did...

I’ve felt the coldness of my winter

I never thought it would ever go

I cursed the gloom that fell upon us

But I know that I love you so         

******************************************************************

Track Listing –

The Song Remains the Same

The Rain Song

Over the Hills and Faraway

The Crunge

Dancing Days

D’yer Ma’ker

No Quarter

The Ocean

Telling Ghost Stories on October's Some-Theme Special Night

(Photo by Erik Deckers)

Some of the Writers of Central Florida or Thereabouts at Stardust

We are NOT crazy...

Reading "My Highness" - Storytelling 2016

This is moi, reading "My Highness" at the Storytelling 2016 - Emotionally Powerful Storytelling event. The Sleeping Moon is a lovely venue.

What the Hell?

Note: I wrote this to read on stage at the Short Attention Span Storytelling Hour - an event organized by the Writers of Central Florida or Thereabouts. I started writing about drugs, and, somehow, it turned into my life story. This is the third installment of my unplanned memoir. 


What the hell?

When I booked my first live music event, and joined the world of rock concert promoters, I had no idea that would be among my most useful and frequently-uttered phrases for the next several years.

That simple sentence could stand by itself... What the hell? Or, when someone did something stupid, irresponsible or downright dangerous, I could make it more expressive by adding different endings to it, like... are you doing?... were you thinking?... or... is wrong with you?

For special occasions, I would use the more definitive version... What in the fucking hell? To which I could also add the previously mentioned endings.

I had always been a music lover and an avid concert-goer, but I never intended to get into concert promotion. After graduating from college in Gainesville, I had done several media and advertising-related jobs, and was kind of enjoying myself working as s sports writer.

By then, I was married, and feeling pressure to find a stable job with a solid income. I had set my sights on the best advertising sales position in the market - one of the University of Florida's commercial radio stations, ROCK 104.

Two things happened. A friend of mine who worked at ROCK 104 resigned. That was my opening. Then, shortly after I was hired, an important local advertiser called. His name was Andy Shaara. He owned the world famous Purple Porpoise, a large party complex right across from campus. He had a music venue called the Blowhole, and he wanted to work with the radio station to do more live events. Partly because I knew a few things about music, and partly because I knew Andy, the assignment fell to me.

And it changed my life.

I was introduced to Hound Dog, the house sound guy in the Blowhole. Andy urged me to hire him for my shows. Hound Dog was an old Southern rock veteran with a scraggly exterior and a heart of gold.

He had simple and direct ways of making a point, and he taught me many of the things I would need to know... about the equipment, the lingo, and the nature of the people we'd be working with.

Once, he asked me, "Do you know how you can tell when the drum riser is level?"

I had no idea.

He said, "If the drummer's drooling out of both sides of his mouth."

He became an important part of our operation.

Hound Dog being Hound Dog.

ROCK 104 couldn't really promote their own shows. The university affiliation made the paperwork process cumbersome. So it dawned on me that I could start my own company - Rock Solid Promotions - and promote shows myself. The radio station would provide cheap or free advertising in return for being able to attach their name to the show, and give away a certain amount of tickets and perks to listeners, but I would take the financial risk.

And there is some serious risk in concert promotion.

Established, national bands get a guaranteed payout, whether you sell two tickets or two thousand. I had to choose bands that people would pay to see, negotiate a reasonable guarantee, provide the necessary equipment and staff, and do a good enough job getting the word out so people would actually buy tickets and show up. And that doesn't even factor in the liability for bodily injury...

Despite the risk, it was a cool opportunity. This was my chance to treat every band with respect, provide a professional environment for them to showcase their talents, and, hopefully, have a few bucks left over for my efforts.

But I soon learned that every show was like walking through a minefield. The bigger the show, the bigger the mines. At any given moment, a thousand things could go wrong.

There were lights, smoke generators, equipment trusses and pieces of staging that could crumble without warning. And various electronic items that would simply cease to work for no discernible reason. Microphones broke, cables short-circuited, speakers blew, and buzzing mysteriously appeared in the PA.

The first time we had a national band, they drove the sound system so hard the amplifiers overheated, and the PA cut out in the middle of their set. Twice. I spent most of the show in desperation off to the side of the stage holding a fan over the amps in an effort to keep them functioning. The next day, we got new ones.

We survived that, and dozens of other incidents. We did many smaller shows with local and regional bands while we learned to work together and anticipate problems. We developed a reputation for running a tight ship. The rock music business is a relatively small fraternity, and word got out. Bands liked playing our shows. So the shows got bigger. And better. I stopped calling booking agents. They started calling me.

Me. Monster limo.

If you're a fan of nu-rock, you'll recognize some of the names... Breaking Benjamin, Hoobastank, Nickelback, Days of the New, Fuel, Filter, Chevelle, Three Doors Down, Saliva, Sevendust...

But it's impossible to dive deeply into that world without suffering from it somehow. Hunter Thompson is widely quoted as saying, "The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side."

I was sure I would never become one of the people I despised. I would be honest. I would stay committed to the music, and not the money.

It wasn't musicians that sucked the life out of me, at least not at first. It was the handlers, managers, agents and lawyers. But they got sour from dealing with shady promoters and venues. Everyone trying to make a quick buck off everyone else.

Normally, band performance contracts stipulate a certain percentage split in the profits after a promoter reaches the break-even point on a show. I didn't like doing math at the end of the night, so I built in a flat bonus. Sell "x" number of tickets, get an extra five hundred or thousand bucks, or whatever it was.

One night, after a successful show, the tour manager for the headlining band approached me, and I could tell from his body language he was ready for a confrontation. He asked if they were getting their bonus. He must have assumed I would pad my expenses, misreport ticket sales or come up with some other bullshit excuse for not paying.

But I said, "Absolutely! It was a great night, great crowd, and your guys were awesome. Let me finish cashing out the openers, and I'll bring you your money and we'll have a beer."

And he almost fell down. His demeanor changed immediately. But that's how it usually was... Everyone expected the worst, right up until the moment that it didn't happen.

Tour managers were part of the problem. It's their job to advocate for their band, make sure they're fed and lubed, and that they look and sound as good as they can. Many of them thought that meant complaining about everything the minute they showed up for load-in... lights, amps, PA, monitors, mixing console, and even the brand of bottled water in the dressing room...

What the hell?

Hound Dog helped to keep people in their place. I recall a soundcheck for a band of young hotshots when the singer kept getting feedback in his monitors. I was with Hound Dog behind the front of house mixing console, watching him calmly drag from a cigarette and sip from a bottle of Budweiser while the singer continued to make a common mistake. He just wanted to be loud, so he was gripping the mic with both hands and cramming it into his face to get it as close to his mouth as he could.

After starting and stopping several times, the singer was frustrated.

Hound Dog leaned forward to flip the talk-back switch, "Want my advice?"

The kid shrugged and then nodded.

"Stop holding the microphone like you're sucking a cock."

Good old Hound Dog...

I was never a celebrity worshipper, and that worked in my favor when dealing with some pretty well-known people. I treated them like human beings. They weren't used to that. Sometimes, we'd just sit around and chat after load-in and soundcheck was done, before the crowd arrived.

One band was ecstatic when I drove them to Starbucks for coffee. They were grateful just to be someplace other than the back of their tour bus or the bowels of a venue that smelled like stale beer and dried vomit.

Usually, the guys would relax and open up a bit. Carl Bell from Fuel told me his favorite musician joke.

"What does a stripper do with her asshole before she goes to work? Drops him off at band practice."

Heavy drinking was part of the culture. We worked while we were standing around drinking, the same way bankers cut deals on the golf course, I guess. We discussed ideas, and hammered out details. That's how business got done.

I don't think my wife ever really believed that. Somewhere during this period, she became... my ex-wife.

Ric Trapp (L) in control. I'm (R) supervising. Or staring off into space, apparently.

Eventually, things got ridiculous.

After I decided to get into artist management, several record labels were interested in one of our bands, so their A&R people all wanted to talk to me.

And there was one festival where every conversation started with someone grabbing my arm, pulling me away, saying, "Let me buy you a drink."

In my backstage wanderings, I vaguely recall meeting Kyle Cook from Matchbox 20, Brent Smith from Shinedown, and studio guy Russ T Cobb, who produced Avril Lavigne's first record, among other things. But, by this time, I was having a hard time speaking. I wasn't out of control. But it wasn't good.

And then there was the time I got in a Jagermeister drinking contest with guys from Saliva and Sevendust. Frequently, when I tell people that, they want to know who won. I can assure you... nobody wins a Jagermeister drinking contest.

Because of my advertising background, I involved sponsors in all my shows, usually beers and liquors. I hung out with a guy who was a tour liaison for Jagermeister. As far as I could tell, his key function was delivering bottles of Jager to the tour buses after the show.

We went on one bus, and the band guys were sitting around the table. On top of the table was a naked woman on her hands and knees. And the guys were, rather casually, taking turns using drumsticks to penetrate certain entrances to her body. Although I think you could argue that one of them was more of an exit.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, but I was pretty uncomfortable. They invited us to stay, but, fortunately, we had more Jager to deliver.

When we stepped off the bus, all I could say was, "Dude, what the hell?"

My friend just laughed, and said, "It's rock and roll, Brian. You should know that by now."

It wasn't ALL bad.

Rock and roll certainly has a dark side, and, for me, it kind of had a cumulative effect.

I watched the beginning of one show from the wings of the stage, and wondered why a roadie was standing behind the speaker stack with a garbage bag. And then, about two songs in, the lead singer walked back behind the stack and puked in the bag. Someone told me, when you snort heroin, vomiting is a common side effect. This was routine.

Heroin was one drug I never tried. I was afraid I would like it.

Once, before a show, I watched Travis Meeks from Days of the New wander off into the crowd to beg for tranquilizers.

"Dude, got any tranquilizers? No? Hi sweetheart, got any tranquilizers? Hey man, got any tranquilizers?"

I guess he'd run out.

I spent an afternoon driving around with Richie Patrick from Filter. They'd had the previous day off, and he spent it alone in his hotel room. I didn't see him consume anything, but, when I picked him up, he was not well. Mostly, he just seemed... sad. And lonely.

A week later he checked into rehab.

I mention those two by name because their troubles are well-documented.

ROCK 104 crew with Sevendust. I'm in the yellow hat.

For years, I'd been enamored with music, and fascinated by the people who made it, and I had finally broken into this world that seemed so glamorous and exciting, and it really... wasn't. It made you realize your childhood fantasies were... just that. It was like finding out Peter Pan died of old age.

It was bad enough watching people damage themselves in the name of music, but, as I got further up the ladder, it changed me.

I was co-managing a band with a good friend, and record labels loved them. They were kind of an updated version of Alice in Chains with a touch of Linkin Park. They were going to be huge. We had a Friday dinner with our lawyer and the VP for A&R from the label we chose, who happened to be a good friend. It was the best possible scenario for a baby band. And a half-million dollar advance upon signing, which meant a fifty thousand dollar payday for me.

And the band chose that weekend to tell me the drummer and the guitar playing weren't getting along.

What in the fucking hell?

The guitar player wrote all the melodies. The drummer just drummed. So it was very clear in my mind. The drummer's gotta go, right? Shitcan the old one, bring in a new one, and we're good.

I went to Europe for three weeks, determined not to think about it, and anxious to quell the urge to murder the little bastard drummer.

When I got back, my business partner had a whole string of messages from the band, talking about their history and their commitment to each other, and all this crap. We wouldn't have to fire one of the guys. They were breaking up.

And I realized, I had given no thought to the human side of it. I hadn't cared about witnessing the painful unraveling of long friendships. It didn't dawn on me that the stress they felt must have been as great as the stress on us. Probably more...

I wanted to manage a famous band. I wanted... the paycheck. And I realized my passion for music and musicians had been replaced by a lust for money and prestige.

I had become... one of the people I despised.

As I thought about it, I decided, there and then, I was done.

We had a little independent A&R operation during the year or so that it took me to disengage, and for the phone calls and the e-mails to stop.

Matt Adams (L) kicking back in a limo.

In retrospect, I liked the responsibility, calling the shots, and being the one everyone looked to when things started going wrong. When a show was really cranking, we would look at each other across the room... me and Hound Dog... and my production manager Matt Adams... and there was a strong sense of satisfaction.

Hound Dog liked nothing more than making bands sound good and making people happy with music.

Cancer killed him last year.

I left with lots of good memories, and many other moments I've probably forgotten. Over the years, I've turned down every offer to get back into it. It's a profession that doesn't reward ethical behavior, so it's not for me.

And I don't miss it.

If I may use the words of Grace Slick when describing her career, "It was kind of like high school. It was fun, but I wouldn't want to do it again."

Actually, there is one thing I miss... ten years of never having to pay to go to a concert. Have you seen the ticket prices these days?

What the hell?

Life: Where's the Microphone for That?

I was getting dressed this morning while listening to music on one of the streaming services, and the old song "Jackie Blue" by the Ozark Mountain Daredevils started playing. It's one of those songs that I never seek out, but I always enjoy hearing, especially since it only happens once every few years now.



A dose of nostalgia can be a good way to start the day, and I was really enjoying the moment, until I noticed that "Jackie Blue" sounded... different.

Music recorded before the digital age is "digitally remastered" before it is transferred to CD, or streamed on music listening services like Pandora or Spotify. The idea is that the remastering process improves the sound quality to make some of the old recordings more palatable to the modern listener. But, more often than not, I find that the process changes the character of the original version.

Here's a little Technology 101...

When recording a song, you have a recording engineer whose job it is to capture the best possible quality sound out of the voice or instrument being recorded. He helps arrange the speaker cabinets and place the various microphones methodically to achieve the desired result. After that, a mixing engineer combines the many tracks that might be recorded for a song, adjusts the volume levels of each of the tracks (so, the drums don't drown out the guitars, etc), tweaks the panning (shifting of sound from left to right or right to left in a stereo recording), and adds any post-production effects that might be desired. Then, a mastering engineer takes the final "mix" of the song and equalizes, balances and compresses it to produce the "master" recording - the final imprint of the song that will be transferred to CD's, downloaded as MP3's, or streamed through various internet sources.

For newer recordings whose original source is digital (the signal, when recorded, is converted to a sequence of numbers), this is fairly straight-forward. But for all those classic hits that began life in analog form (an electronic or magnetic representation of the actual original sound), this poses a problem. When your only source for a song is the original analog master recording, digitizing and remastering it changes it slightly, but noticeably. The original source recordings often have a certain warmth or depth to the sound that doesn't translate to digital formats. Something is lost in the process.

Back in the day, the original masters had their blemishes, but it was seen as inevitable, and, therefore, acceptable, or even desirable. They weren't perfect because the original recordings weren't perfect, but it didn't seem to hurt the music any. It wasn't about perfection.

As technology seeped into the very process of recording, it might have hurt as much as it helped. Nobody understands this better than Keith Richards. In his 2010 memoir, "Life", Keith explains how he began to view technology as a limitation rather than an advantage.

“Very soon after Exile (Exile on Main Street, 1972), so much technology came in that even the smartest engineer in the world didn’t know what was really going on. How come I could get a great drum sound (before) with one microphone, and now with fifteen microphones I get a drum sound that’s like someone shitting on a tin roof?"

As engineers were armed with better amplifiers and microphones, and the ability to record a seemingly infinite number of tracks, they detached singers from the band, and then they detached the band from each other, so that each sound could be recorded with no bleed-through from the other instruments. As Keith says, "...the bass player would be battened off, so they were all in their little pigeonholes and cubicles. And you’re playing this enormous room and not using any of it. The idea of separation is the total antitheses of rock and roll, which is a bunch of guys in a room making a sound and just capturing it. It’s the sound they make together, not separated. This mythical bullshit about stereo and high tech and Dolby, it’s just totally against the whole grain of what music should be."

I found some old pictures of the Stones recording in the basement of Keith's rented villa in the French Riviera in 1971, and compared them with a video of the Who recording "Who Are You?" just a half dozen years later.  In the video, the band members are separated from each other during the recording process. Bass player, John Entwistle, has to lean forward in order to see through the plexi-glass partition and, briefly, make eye contact with drummer, Keith Moon. Singer, Roger Daltrey, is literally in another room - the vocal booth - although it does have a window view. And they're not even hearing what's happening in the main room. They're listening to a mix of sounds going through the recording console and then being sent back down the line to their headphones.
It's great that digital technology has eliminated some of the mechanical flaws in previous playback systems, like the "rumble" of turntables or the "wow and flutter" of tapes. But, while actually recording new music these days, you track each instrument separately, and you can edit out every breath sound and every finger squeak on a guitar, and artificially tune any sour note with a few clicks of a mouse. You can easily end up with something that isn't necessarily true to the original entity. Sort of like Photoshopping a fashion model; sure, the magazine cover is attractive, I guess, but you know that's not what she really looks like.

Once, during a recording session for a band I managed, the engineer didn't like the sound of one of the rack toms on the drummer's kit. We recorded the drums anyway, but then, from somewhere or other, he sampled a drum sound that he did like, and, since each drum had been mic'ed separately, he was able to go back in ProTools, and digitally replace every one of the hits on that particular tom-tom with the sampled sound. I remember, at first, being glad that it sounded so clean. But I also remember thinking that this was becoming less like a band recording and more like an audio jigsaw puzzle.

Because Keith Richards was part of the Rolling Stones (meaning... able to do whatever the hell he wanted), he at least tried to escape the trap that most others fell into. "Nobody had the balls to dismantle it," he writes. "And I started to think, what was it that turned me on to doing this? It was these guys that made records in one room with three microphones. They weren’t recording every little snitch of the drums or the bass. They were recording the room. You can’t get those indefinable things by stripping it apart. The enthusiasm, the spirit, the soul, whatever you want to call it, where’s the microphone for that?"

Maybe this is why rock music is disappearing. Other genres seem to be able to survive in the presence of all this technology, and, some would argue, in the absence of real talent. But rock seems to really exemplify the cliché that the whole of something can be greater than the sum of its parts. Maybe the whole has been split apart and neutralized?

In theory, it's desirable to eliminate noise and distortion, but removing every imperfection seems to leave a void where there was once some indescribable but important part of the music. It's like a recently embalmed corpse. There's certainly a resemblance to what was once a human being, but there's no life.

Major artist recordings made in the digital age are almost always neat and clean, at least from an engineer's point of view. There is very little that is spontaneous or accidental. No paint is spilled on the audio canvas. Or, at least, there is no evidence of it after the process is over. When mistakes occur, they are erased, or edited out. It is, for lack of a better word, sterile. If, God forbid, I should ever need a major operation, I want the appointed surgeon to work in an environment like that. But not my favorite rock bands. I want them rolling around with strippers in a bourbon-filled pigsty with a few microphones placed discreetly nearby.

I've noticed, many times, that the new, digital versions of some of my favorite old songs were different. But, for some reason, it really struck me the other day while listening to Larry Lee, the drummer of the Ozark Mountain Daredevils, singing his heart out. It was clear and crisp and... kind of hollow. It's impossible to come around, decades after the fact, and use a room full of fancy machinery to take something that was good, but, by its very nature, imperfect, and try to make it perfect. It's like putting a filet mignon in a microwave rather than on a grill. It still gets cooked, but the high-tech method doesn't give you the same flavor.

When it comes to rock music, I'm very critical. But, ultimately, as long as you understand the limitations of remastered recordings - or the advantages, depending on your viewpoint - you can still listen, and enjoy, and let the feeling of nostalgia bubble up inside you like champagne.

This is what good music does to me. It's a catalyst for an energetic reaction that can be difficult to contain. It makes me feel different. It warms me. When I listen to a tune I really like, I'm often convinced that someone standing next to me must be able to sense what's happening inside me, or even hear it. And I wish I could capture those moments.

But there's no microphone for that.

My Highness (Categories)

Note: I wrote this to read on stage at the Short Attention Span Hour - a monthly event organized by the Writers of Central Florida or Thereabouts. When I began, it was supposed to be just a story about smoking pot. It turned into something resembling an early portion of my unplanned memoir.

I was high once... for three years. It's not that difficult to do. In the morning, you perform the proverbial wake and bake. And you stay high until you go to bed. 

One might wonder how this happens...

I lived just outside of Boston until I was thirteen, then moved to Florida in time for high school. I had already smoked marijuana in Massachusetts – I was a precocious child – but, in the late 70’s, in Florida, it was everywhere. 

My parents chose to live in the Stuart – Jensen Beach area, on the east coast, a hundred miles north of Miami. Where the Indian River ends at the tip of Hutchinson Island, the St. Lucie Inlet forms the St. Lucie River, which then splits into two wide branches and many tributaries.  The small city of Stuart is surrounded by water on three sides. The breeze was constant. We never used air conditioning. But, for a restless teenage kid, there wasn’t much to do besides play sports… surf… and get high.  So… I did.

Stuart, Florida

High school can be very cliquish, but I was fortunate in that I straddled the usual social boundaries. I played football, so I was ok with the ra-ra crowd. I surfed, so I carried a bit of that sun-drenched mystique. I could hold my own in the classroom - some people respected that. And the reliable drug connections I developed meant I always had weed, which made me acceptable to… almost everyone else.  

While the many waterways around Stuart made for a truly scenic area, they also made it an ideal location…  for smugglers. During Prohibition, it was rum from the Caribbean. During the 70’s, it was drugs from Columbia and Mexico. Obviously, there were many successful trips, but it wasn’t unusual for small vessels to approach the coast, and, if they detected danger, they would toss their illicit cargo overboard and haul ass. It was common for bales of ocean-soaked marijuana to float up on shore to be discovered by some early morning surfer or fisherman. And, of course, we called it… seaweed.

Seaweed

You could dry it out, and it gave you a nice, mellow buzz. But you had to smoke a lot of it.That's where Helen came in handy.

"Helen" was a pipe that belonged to my friend Mark. The bowl on this thing was about the size of a small coffee mug - perfect for cheap seaweed. This stuff was usually loaded with stems and seeds, and it wasn't worth the effort it took to clean it. You would just stuff a whole fistful of it into the bowl, fire it up, and be on your way.

The problem was , sometimes, when seeds got hot enough... they'd burst... kind of like popcorn.

We christened her "Helen" after the most destructive volcanic event in the modern history of the United States.  It killed 57 people, destroyed 250 homes, 185 miles of highway, 47 bridges, and 15 miles of railway. This was, of course, Mt. St. Helens.

Smoking seaweed out of this ginormous bowl... was kind of like our own little Mt. St. Helens. Every now and then, a seed would explode and shower you with cheap weed in various stages of incineration.

We were always driving around in my friend's car, listening to music and getting high. So, a typical experience with Helen might sound like this...

*lighter flicks*  *inhale*   *POP*  *screams*  *pat flames on your lap*

This would be followed by the hysterical laughter of those in the car who weren't currently on fire.

Eventually,we had little burn holes all over the front of our entire wardrobe. It was around this time we began playing a game we called “Categories.” This was a way to challenge ourselves mentally, even when we were getting high.

We picked two categories that were entirely unrelated, and came up with a term or name that included both categories – usually by slightly bastardizing one of the words. Frequently, one of the categories was music or movies, and the other involved body parts or fluids… because… you know… it was more fun that way.

I’ll give you an example. I don’t recall how it started, but one of our first attempts involved movie titles and… excrement. I was pretty happy with my effort - Logan’s Runs. But the winner was - Two Stools for Sister Sara.

We would keep throwing out ideas until somebody had one that left us laughing too hard to continue.

I applied to the state’s two major universities – the one in Tallahassee and the one in Gainesville - and was accepted to both, so I had an important choice to make. I had no idea where to go until one day I saw an article in Playboy magazine – we only read it for the articles.

This was their very first ranking of top party schools. I remember looking at the list, and not seeing any that interested me. Then I saw a giant footnote at the bottom. It said, “You will notice that the University of Florida is not on this list. That’s because we feel it would be unfair to compare amateurs with professionals.”

The next day, I enrolled at the University of Florida.

If you know me at all, or have heard me read before, you know that music has played an important part in my life. Let me give you some background on the music scene I stumbled into upon arrival in Gainesville…

Bernie Leaden and Don Felder met when they were in Gainesville High School. Felder started a band called the Continentals. Also in this band was a guy named Stephen Stills, who was attending the University of Florida at the time. Stills left, and moved to Los Angeles where he helped form a band called Buffalo Springfield, and later, partnered with David Crosby, Graham Nash and, sometimes, former band mate Neil Young. Does this ring a bell?

Meanwhile, Bernie Leaden replaced Stills in the Continentals. But, then, Leadon left for L.A. as well, where he met Don Henley and Glenn Frey and formed a band called… the Eagles. When the Eagles went looking to add a slide guitar player in 1974, they called Don Felder, who was back in Gainesville. Duane Allman had taught Felder how to play the slide.

Flier - Mudcrutch with Skynyrd

There was a seedy but fabulous rock and roll club named Dubs - a short drive north of town – out on 441. The house band in the mid-Seventies was called Mudcrutch – which originally included Tom Leadon – Bernie’s brother. Tom Leaden left the band, but, in the meantime, they had acquired a quirky, but talented singer-guitarist, and, when they, too, reconvened in L.A., they became Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

The area of Northeast Florida between Gainesville and Jacksonville was a Southern rock hotspot that spawned Blackfoot, Molly Hatchett, .38 Special, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and several members of the Allman Brothers.

By the time I arrived, a famous old blues musician had settled on the town’s outskirts. His real name was Ellas McDaniel. You might know him as… Bo Diddley.

Gainesville’s downtown music plaza is named after him.

During the time I was discovering all this, I remember another game of Categories. In this case, the categories were classic music artists and body parts. The winner was… Urethra Franklin.

Now, in case you weren’t aware… marijuana enhances your music listening experience. I guess it’s not surprising that the music scene in Gainesville was also the marijuana scene. Or maybe it was the other way around. I don’t know. But I found myself immersed in this amazing music culture – with weed being a common bond that brought us together.

Mudcrutch Poster That Mentions Sub Circus

 I remember going to a jam session in the upstairs loft of the Subterranean Circus – a well-known head shop and hippie hang-out. In the corner was this guy everyone called “Gainesville Bob.” He was homeless. He didn’t bathe or change his clothes, so the sight of him was a bit disturbing. He frequently lingered by the dumpster behind Leonardo’s Pizza – living on discarded crusts. But he kept to himself. He never begged or bothered anyone. He rarely spoke.

I wondered what he was doing in this gathering of musicians. And then someone handed him a little Casio keyboard, and he started playing. And he was good. Really good. It turns out his name was Robert Peterson. He had played in the Candymen – Roy Orbison’s backing band. Then he played in the McCoys – who are best known for their hit “Hang on Sloopy” – which went to number one in 1965. Their guitar player was Rick Derringer. Somewhere, somehow, Bob’s brain short-circuited. He ended up living on the streets of Gainesville. And I remember thinking, holy crap. What a town. Even the vagrants have talent!

Gainesville Bob (photographer unknown)

That was an important lesson for me though, and I still try to keep it in the back of my mind. Because we tend to put people into categories - sometimes without even realizing it. But all of us have a story – every one of us. Even those who are different… or don’t have a place to live. I admit, my natural inclination would have been to avoid Gainesville Bob. But someone invited him to the Sub Circus sessions. And I was glad they did.

The star of some of these jam sessions was a multi-talented, young kid with a funny hippie name. He was about 17 then, but he had charisma. You could see it. He could draw people in without even trying. His family had moved to a small ranch south of town, and he was making his way into the music scene. Eventually, he formed a band called Aleka’s Attic with his sister, Rain. They played at some of the small, alternative clubs. I still have some pictures somewhere. His name was River Phoenix.

Aleka's Attic in Gainesville (photographer unknown)

 After a few years, my marijuana use declined somewhat. I smoked daily, but not continuously. This was probably at least partly due to an exponential increase in alcohol consumption. I mean… it was Gainesville…

If there is a hell, there are a number of reasons it is likely to be my eventual destination, not the least of which is the winner I had in the game of Categories we played one night while walking back from the Sub Circus. We stuck with the excrement category, because… why wouldn’t you? But the other category was famous book titles. And my offering was… the Diarrhea of Anne Frank.

At some point, I went to dinner with several people at a Gainesville restaurant. The group included a friend of my roommate named Jack Mason. He played and sang in N’Dolphin and the Space Masons – two bands that are remembered fondly. For some reason, his parents were there. And I recall one of the usual, brief conversations when you meet someone and ask what they do for a living. Even though I was high, I could sense some discomfort from Jack’s father, but he said, “I’m a writer.” Over the years, I’ve seen that same discomfort many times – when “I’m a writer” meant “I like to write, but I do something else for a living.”

But, back then, I thought it was cool. I’m pretty sure my reaction was something like, “Right on, man.”

I think I kind of knew he had been an assault helicopter pilot in Vietnam, and was suffering from what we would now call PTSD, and had been working… delivering newspapers.

What I didn’t know was that he had been arrested a couple of years before that for attempting to smuggle a load of Columbian marijuana on a sailboat. And it turned out, he had been writing. While awaiting an appeal and sentencing, he found an agent. And that agent found a publisher. Several months after this dinner, in the summer of 1983, Robert Mason appeared on the Today Show. His book had received positive reviews. The week after his TV appearance, he reported to federal prison. His book – Chickenhawk – became a hardcover and paperback best-seller while he spent two years in jail.

After this dinner, there was a game of Categories. The categories were musical artists and bodily fluids. The winner was – Semen and Garfunkel.

Ten years passed. I lost contact with many people. I tried to fit myself into the proper category – as our culture demands. I had done what most people do – the things we are programmed to do… Graduated from college. Got a job that required a coat and tie. Got married. Bought cars. Bought houses.

I stopped getting high.

But, by the mid-90’s, I began to realize I had sold my soul in return for a stable life.

And I wanted my soul back.

By then, the Subterranean Circus had been plowed under to make room for a parking lot. In July of 1993, Robert Peterson - - Gainesville Bob - died when he was hit by a car while crossing a street late at night. And, in October that same year, River Phoenix died from a drug overdose in Los Angeles.

As I learned of these events, how could I not think of those old days – and the pleasant haze of my highness?

I didn’t know exactly how it had happened, but I knew I had followed a path that wasn’t right for me.

I wanted to be the person who thought it was perfectly reasonable when someone said they wanted to write a best seller, or be in a rock band. I wanted to have friends who didn’t think it was impractical or crazy if you wanted to do something creative. They’d just say, “Right on, man.”

I didn’t need bigger and better things. I didn’t really need things at all. Experiences were what kept me alive. Those were the things that stayed in my mind. Those will be the things I enjoy doing as long as I can, and will enjoy remembering as long as I’m able.

Of course, everything in my life had to come apart before I could rebuild it.

It took a while. I’m still in the rebuilding phase.

I may always be… rebuilding. There was one last game of Categories I recall from my highness. And I should add that the more we played the game, the more we narrowed the categories – to make it more difficult. In this case, the categories were bodily secretions and figure skaters. The winner – Peggy Phlegming (Fleming).