If you ever played an instrument. If you ever thought about being a musician. If you ever felt being in a band would be fun. Or if you ever dreamed about being a rock star, this story is for you.
There are 17 chapters in this telling. The first three are below and the next 14 will be published over subsequent weeks. I hope you will stay the course relive some of the greatest years of my life with me. And the lessons I learned.
Runover on LeRoy Street—My Years in Garage Ban
Chapter 1. Thanks for the Inspiration, Jimmy
My daughter was 27, and so were most of her friends. I liked it when they were around. Beer flowed, music played, lots of laughs. I also felt like one of them, despite being 30 years older. Their fun was my fun, I always figured.
It seemed totally reasonable to me that when Milton, one of my daughters friends, asked me one day if I wanted to play in his band.
Milton really knew I was just a kid.
I’d never been in a band before. Sure, I’d been talking conga lessons from my Jewish drum teacher for 10 years. But my weekly lessons with Barry were never intended as a prelude to playing in a real band. More they were about the encouragement of a terrific teacher who never told me it would be unlikely that I’d ever rival the great Latin conga players.
So when Milton said he and his friend, Jives, and a couple of other guys jammed regularly and could use congas on some of their tunes, I just figured my time to become a rock and roll star had finally arrived.
Milton said the name of his band was the Jivin’ Miltones. Get it, Jives and Milton. Jivin’ Miltones. Seemed a perfectly good name to me. Milton thought it would be good if I had a name, too. And at that moment, I became Bongo Bob and the band became Bongo Bob and the Jivin’ Miltones. There couldn’t have been a better name in the world
But, hold on. This story is moving too fast. Perspective is needed.
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I was 7 when my mother made me take violin lessons. I was 8 when I left my violin outside my 3rd grade room in the hope that someone would claim it and I’d never have to take another violin lesson.
I was 9 when I started taking piano lessons. And I endured four mostly tolerable if far less than inspirational years with the piano. I mastered Caprice in C, most of the requisite Fur Elise and even played a flawless version of Rhapsody in Blue at my grammar school graduation. I know it was flawless because David Frommbe, my piano playing buddy in 8th grade gave me a big thumbs-up and zero sign as when I finished my piece.
My piano career ended as my high school began. And I never looked back. Never regretted even once not having to practice daily or take a weekly lesson.
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Flash ahead about 15 years. I was watching Jimmy Krause pound on his bongo drums in room filled with strange-smelling smoke. Jimmy was pretty good. At least I thought so. His fingers skipped across the skins and the rhythms were toe-taping. Playing bongos the way Jimmy did looked so simple. So much so that I never recovered.
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There was a wonderful drum store on Wabash St. in downtown Chicago. Professional and wannabe drummers hung out at Frank’s. On any Saturday you could encounter the great and not- so-great banging on drums, congas, bongos, dimbecks and jembes. Almost anything hands or sticks could hit and that would produce a sound.
My first teacher was a guy at Franks named Scott, and because of my Jimmy epiphany he had to be a bongo teacher. Now, if the truth be known, bongos aren’t all the interesting. Aside from serving as boring focal while some guy is reading incomprehensible poetry at a local coffee house, bongos don’t have much to say. Unless, you happen to be playing with Tito Puente or the Buena Vista Social Club, both of which had no connection to what I knew about bongos. All I wanted to do was play like Jimmy.
Scott didn’t know too much more about bongos either. He showed me a couple of things including the basic pattern that all bongo players learn. It’s called the Martillo pattern, and although to this day nobody really cares that I can play Martillo, it was a big thing for me.
I loved practicing Martillo, and through many strange smoked filled nights of the 1960s I played incessantly for my less than impressed friends and my overly-tolerant wife. But, hey, all the masters have to pay their dues.
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My life as a bongo player had limits. Problem is there isn’t a great demand for bongo players. Not that I really looked that hard.
I was content to sit in my basement and play to Crosby Stills and Nash and America albums, or any of my dozen’s of Latin records and daydream about being in front of thousands of people all marveling at the way I played Martillo on my bongos.
What I finally discovered about bongos is that they are very much like the violin. If you leave them outside your room, they’ll disappear.
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In the early 1980s, my friend Jessie came along. He had actually made a living playing music, which for the initiated is no small feat. But like many Keith Richard or Pete Townsend hopefuls, Jessie decided the vagaries of music business were better left to the fantasies of others and opted to make a legitimate living, if you regard opening an advertising agency as legitimate.
Nevertheless, Jessie was a real live musician and he was my bud. So I figured he had to let me sit next to him that day while he was strumming on his guitar and my bongos were close-by. As I picked them up I remember thinking, “What if I really don’t know shit about the Martillo?”
I’ll never forget what Jessie said to me when we finished jamming. He said, “You’re not bad.” Now for many that might not be much. But to me it was a lightning bolt from heaven, a veritable nod from a god. Not being bad I thought could almost mean being good. Here I was. My first experience being in a band. Me and Jessie. And I wasn’t bad. Wow!
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The very next week I reached the conclusion there wasn’t much future playing bongos with Jessie. Since I only saw him once a year at my men’s gathering in California and because he was usually pretty busy with his advertising agency anyway, getting anything serious going was probably out of the question.
Actually, we never really discussed if we should gig together. My guess is that Jessie probably wouldn’t have been interested.
But what I did vow then and there was to learn to play the congas.
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Why congas? Can’t remember. I didn’t know anything about them. The fact that there was a conga drum in my basement was puzzling to me because I don’t even know how it got there. Maybe it was because of Ricky Ricardo, you know, Lucy’s husband. Ricky played congas so I must have bought one so I could play like Ricky. Guess at some point I got over my fixation on playing like Jimmy Krause and turned my attention to Ricky. Just don’t know.
Anyway, I started looking around for somebody to teach me to play congas.
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My wife asked me why take conga lessons since I already played them. My reply was, “No, honey. You don’t understand. I play bongos. Congas are different than bongos.” It took her a bunch of years to call bongos bongos and congas congas. Actually, I’ve found that most everybody calls bongos bongos and congas bongos. Sometimes they call congas Congos but I just patiently tell them Congo is a continent, not a set of drums.
I’ve never quite figured why people can’t get it straight. Congas are congas. Bongos are bongos. And remember to pronounce them “cuuuungas.” When you say “cuuuungas” most musicians—but not all—know what you’re talking about. Some still think you’re talking about bongos.
Come to think of it, I’ve never heard anyone refer to bongos as congas, but that’s something else I guess.
It might help to remember that bongos are small and played while sitting down with the drums positioned snuggly between your legs. Actually, you can also play congas sitting down with the drums between your legs. But congas are big drums and you can’t really wrap your legs around them, unless you have really, really long legs. You just kind of straddle them. Maybe that’s what confuses people.
Think of it this way. Usually, when you practice congas it’s just easier to sit down, but when you want to be serious you put them on conga stands and play them standing up and kind of jumping around. It’s also possible to put bongos on stand and play them standing up but that’s pretty unusual. Better yet, just remember bongos are small drums usually played in non-existent coffee shops. Congas are big and really cool sounding.
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My first conga teacher ran a local music store. Usually when I went in for a lesson he was waiting on a customer. My 1pm lesson might start at 2pm or even 3pm. Sometimes Fred would just send me home after a while because customers kept coming in the store.
But over a couple of months Fred did manage to teach me a few things although I’m pretty hard pressed to remember exactly what. I remember he put on a metronome and we’d count 1-2-3-4- and I’d pound out 1-2-3-4- on my conga.
You might think this is silly, 1-2-3.4- for full hour, but au contrare. Being able to count to 4 is very important to playing congas. I know this because I’ve tried to teach some of my MD and PH.D friends to count to 4 so that they can play congas. You’d be amazed how hard it is. They really had trouble. You might want to take a heavy blunt instrument yourself and pound it on a table you don’t like. Pound for a full hour—1-2-3-4. Keep it very steady, 1-2-3-4. Bet you give up early.
Fred stayed my teacher until the music store went out of business. I showed up for a lesson one day and the door was locked. Looking through the window and seeing the store was empty tipped me off there wouldn’t be a lesson that day. There wasn’t even a sign on the door saying where to get in touch with Fred or what happened. It was OK though. I was getting ready to dump Fred anyway.
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Finding a good conga teacher is not as easy as you might think. I looked under congas in the yellow pages and under music teachers. I talked to a couple of musical geniuses who told me I’d have to live in Cuba if I really wanted to learn congas. In the end, it was probably a good conclusion that my business was too important to move to Cuba, not to mention the fact that I didn’t have enough money to live there myself much less bring my wife and daughter. My search for a conga teacher continued.
It only took a month or so before somebody told me the best hand drum teacher in Chicago was Barry Meyers. Barry Meyers I thought. How could I possibly learn to play like the great Cuban congueros from a teacher named Barry Meyers? But, at that point, my options seemed pretty limited so I made an appointment to Barry and trekked over to his house.
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I’d never seen a basement like that in my life. Drums all over the place. Drums to play with sticks. Drums to play with mallets. Drums to play with hands. Drums to play with fingers. Dozens of tambourines, maracas, bells, chimes, woodblocks, shakers. You name something to hit and Barry had it. Imagine dying and going to drum heaven.
Barry once made a living as a classical percussionist. You know, one of those strange people who play in a symphony orchestra and wait for 15 minutes before they get their chance to hit something. It always amazed me how they knew exactly when it was their turn. Actually I knew deep down such timing comes from being able to read music but it was still is kind of freaky to me.
Anyway, Barry was a great guy and he told me he could teach me to play congas and that seemed enough.
Chapter 2. My Barry Years
Barry kind of felt me out during our first few lessons. He’d ask me a question about my music background and I proudly answered I played the violin, piano and bongos.
He asked if me about learning to read music because it’s really hard to be musician and not read music. My answer was that I could play Caprice in C, Fur Elise and Rhapsody in Blue. In my heart I knew I’d never get beyond a couple of bars of each and would have to admit to forgetting all my grammar school music lessons. But jeez, I was 47 years old. What did he expect?
Reading drum music was different than readying piano and violin music. It was pretty interesting. Barry actually insisted on teaching me the fundamentals of reading drum music which was wise because after a couple of months I was able to count to 4 pretty regularly. Although I thought Fred taught me everything I needed to know about counting to 4, I was sadly mistaken. Under Barry, the meaning of 4 became so much more profound.
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Every single Monday like clockwork, I’d leave my office at 3:30 to get to my 4:00 lesson with Barry. I’d bring along a stack of CDs, Marvin Gaye, Santana, Dire Straits, Jimmy Buffet, and Poncho Sanchez, one of the world best congueros. Barry was also teaching me some pretty hip conga language like “chops”, and “hey, man”, and “find the pocket.” He really didn’t speak Spanish, but when he said Poncho was a great conguero, it meant a lot more than referring to him as just a “cuuunga” player. Conguero was one great word.
The first tune I wanted to learn was What’s Going On by Marvin Gaye. I just figured if I could play to that, I’d be on my way. Actually it took me three years before I had clue how to play congas on What’s Going On. And even to this day I’m pretty convinced that an old, white, Jewish guy has no business playing along with Marvin.
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There are three sounds, or notes, on a conga. The tone, the slap and the bass. Mastering those three simple sounds takes a life-time of practice. Since half my life was over by the time I got to Barry, I’m petty glad he never mentioned that fact.
Some lessons, we’d sit and play tone notes over and over and over again. 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4. Then we switch to slap notes, 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4. Then bass notes, 1-2-3-4. Then tone notes, 1-2-3-4, followed by slap notes, 1-2-3-4, followed by base notes, 1-2-3-4. You get the idea.
Besides that, learning to hit a conga drum right ain’t so easy. Hit it wrong and you can sprain your hand or even break a finger or two. It’s also easy to develop a kind of a carpel tunnel syndrome and not be able to type or grip a pen. One day a urologist friend of mine told me about a disease call congitis that could be contracted from hitting my congas too hard. I was pretty sure he was kidding—but not that sure.
Nevertheless, most weeks I’d practice my tones and slaps until my hands swelled and my fingers were numb. Some weeks practice was easy, other weeks it was an ordeal to go down to the basement and even look at those drums.
But as the years went by Barry taught me the meaning of the clave, the essential rhythm that is center to all Afro-Cuban music. A rhythm called Tumbao. He taught me samba, meurenge, calypso, reggae, and pop rhythms. We practiced funk as could only played by the Neville Brothers and salsa as only could from Gloria Estephan and the Miami Sound machine. We listened to world music and figured out conga patterns that would fit. Rather Barry figured out the patterns and I tried to follow along.
At some point Barry showed me how to play the tambourine, maracas and shakers. I was a pretty fast learner when it came to what’s referred to as “percussion toys—at least good enough to play along with Mick and Keith if they ever needed me on stage.
We also fiddled around the with cow bells and before you know it I was able to bang out some pretty cool bell patterns. Although it’s kind of cool musician thing, something I learned much later, and that’s certainly worth passing on to future generations, is that there isn’t a rock and rock song ever played that couldn’t use more cow bells.
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As we listened to music Barry was always telling to find the 1. Since I had learned to count to 4 by then I was always pissed off that I couldn’t find the 1. One day it sort of dawned on me that a bar of drum music was broken up into 4 beats. You’d think I’d know that after learning to count to 4 so well but it took an amazingly long time to compute.
You could play quarter notes steadily on a conga, 1-2-3-4, like you’ve already learned and mastered. You could play eighth notes, which are played twice as fast as quarter notes and go 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and. Or you could play sixteenth notes which go twice as fast as eighth notes and go 1 e a and 2 e a and 3 e a and, 4 e a and. Knowing all that was very interesting but the real deal is to decide the numbers you want to hit when playing a tune, and whether to put a tone, slap or bass note on that number.
Of course, every type of music has a different 4 count and the only way to get beat right is to know the count for the type of music you’re playing and to put the tone, slap or bass note where it belongs. Amazing! I finally understood why Barry wanted me to learn to read drum music.
Yet to confuse things a little more, most conga players play on two or three drums and have to decide what note to play on what count and on what drum. So now maybe you have some idea why I was having so much trouble finding the 1. It’s not so easy, ugh.
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One day I was in Seattle and went to Paul Allen’s rock and roll museum. If you like music, the museum is a must.
There’s an exhibit that describes funk as played by James Brown. You learn that when playing funk, the emphasis is always on the 1. Like ONE- 2-3-4, ONE- 2-3-4, ONE- 2-3-4. That is, the beat or the pulse of the music always puts the emphasis to the 1. As a result, learning where the 1 was when playing funk, it was really easy for me to play funk on my congas.
That day was a big breakthrough. Finding the 1 when playing funk allowed me to begin hearing where the 1 was on the many other rhythms I was learning. In reality my music career started that day. And to think I had only been studying with Barry for 6 years!
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My weeks with Barry were always fun and challenging. As I progressed and become Barry’s longest running, and oldest student, Barry would do his own homework to keep me interested. It was easy for him to pick up a music book of rhythms before my lesson and pick out one that he thought I’d enjoy learning. First he’d play it for me and then it was my turn. Often he’d go to his drum kit and play something simple and I’d follow along on the congas. Usually we’d find a song from one of my CDs and fit in a conga rhythm or tambourine pattern.
In over ten years studying with Barry and over 400 lessons, I never left that basement feeling my money was being wasted. Barry charged me $30 and hour for all those years, although he had long since raised his rates for the new students that came to him. Maybe he kept me at 30 bucks out of pity. But whatever, Barry, the $12,000 spent with you was the best money I ever spend anywhere.
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Barry was always telling me to watch my timing. He was adamant about this and he’d yell at me, “You’re behind, or you’re ahead. Play faster, play slower.” When you try to play to a tune from CD, Barry said the music didn’t move and it was especially important to be steady or you’d get front or behind the 1. Being off the 1 meant that I’d be off the beat and the result would be the tune is going in one direction and I’d be going in another.
Unlike CDs, the music in band moves, actually making it easier to play in a band than to a CD. But that’s a story for later.
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It happened around year seven or eight. Hey, nobody ever accused me of being a musical prodigy. But persistence was my middle name and I loved my drums. One day, totally out of the blue, John and Andrea asked me if I wanted to play my congas at their daughter Melissa’s wedding.
Chapter 3. Freaked Out
My first thought was “Oh…mygod.” It took about 2 seconds after that for me to spit out, “Hell, yea.”
Melissa was getting married to Lessa. Rather getting committed which seemed pretty much the same thing to me. I’d known Melissa since she was born, and now I was being asked to play at her wedding. John said it wasn’t a done deal yet. He’d have to first ask Mavis if it was OK that I played with her band but he thought it would be a go.
It took almost a month before I got the definitive word. My first gig was to be with Mavis Beck and her Blues Band in front of 150 people who I figured would think I was totally and completely screwy. Turns about, Marty, Melissa’s real father and Andrea’s ex didn’t know I was going to be on stage with the band until the moment I sat down behind my congas.
Marty was really pissed and can’t say I blame him. He did pay for half the wedding. John and Andrea probably should have said something about me playing with the band but they knew Marty would probably have a shit fit and nix everything. To their everlasting credit, though, they kept their mouth’s shut.
Anyway, here I was going to play the blues, which I hated, in a band that I had never seen and wouldn’t hear until they started playing at the wedding. I was beyond freaked out but there seemed no turning back. Besides, I knew I had a secret weapon.
Over the next two months Barry explained that playing the blues was not that complex for a conga player. That to stay in the pocket you should remember to put emphasis on the 2 and 4 and could mostly play in a short swinging tempo. I practiced blues everyday for the next two months and my confidence grew.
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The morning of the wedding I seriously considered leaving my congas at home and blowing the whole thing off. By then I was a basket case I was so nervous. And until I got to the wedding the day is a complete blur. I don’t even remember putting my congas in the car.
When I arrived at Center for the wedding, I hid my congas on the banquet hall stage where the band was going to play. I put them behind a curtain figuring that nobody would notice them or think anything if they just mysteriously made their way back to the car.
The ceremony was warm and caring and people were very happy for Melissa and Lisa. I was pretty focused on my imminent death and didn’t hear much of what was said.
I drank a lot at the reception. The doors to the banquet hall were closed which was just as well. It let me think the band probably was going to blow off the gig themselves, saving me from the disdain and ridicule that was about to happen. I just couldn’t believe it when the door opened.
There stood five of the coolest looking dudes you had ever seen. And there was Mavis, a big lady, dressed to the nines in really fabulous blues singer clothes and with a huge welcome grin on her face. She and the band were about to have a blast. I grabbed another drink.
The band started playing and Mavis started singing and the guests were doing what guest do at wedding reception. Laughing, crying, dancing, and congratulating each other. It was hard for me to understand why everyone was having so much fun.
I was just standing there listening to the music and thinking about playing 2 and 4 in a short swinging tempo. The music that was going on in my head and the music the band was playing were on different planets. I was completed and utterly freaked.
Finally, Mavis started singing Fever, that great Peggy Lee tune. You know:
Never know how much I love you,
Never know how much I care,
When I put my arms around you,
There’s a fever that’s so hard to bear.
You give me fever.
It happened. I’m not sure how I got on stage or how my congas got next to the tall, skinny, super fly, bass player wearing a hat that Sly Stone must have given him. This guy was beyond cool. For me to even look at him was out-of-the-question. One thing I was sure about, though, was that I could play Fever.
My hands started moving on my congas. I was looking straight down at the floor. Mavis was singing. Super fly was playing next to me. The guitar and keyboard players were actually playing and the drummer was even drumming. I’m not real sure when Fever ended and the next song began. I was too busy looking at the floor and hoping nobody could hear me. The band played a couple of more songs and I played along.
There are certain moments that can change a life forever. Some people call them “eureka” or “aha” experiences. Others refer to them as “peak experiences.” One of mine came when I finally looked up from the floor and eyed Sly and his bass. He very slowly turned his head and looked back at me. A very long look And then he did it. He pursed his lips and he nodded. Let me repeat that. He actually pursed his lips and he nodded to me. And at that moment a simple nod from a total stranger transformed my life.
The band continued playing but I got up to find my wife and dance. After the band finished the first set, Mavis was standing at the bar when I bellied up. She said, “Hey, where did you go? We could have used you on a couple of songs.” Since this gig stuff was pretty new to me, I didn’t really know how to respond. Thanking her and asking if I could play during the next set seemed appropriate.
I played the entire final set with Mavis Beck and the band as many years raced through my mind. Jimmy Krause, Jessie, my hundreds of lessons with Barry, all my hours of practice. In the end, though, it was what I had hoped. And that was the confidence to begin thinking of myself as a conga player, as a real musician. Man, I couldn’t have been happier. It had been a long, long journey.
Chapter 4. Round Lake
Playing in a live band was a revelation. It was so much better than sitting alone in my basement playing along with my Santana or Bob Marley CDs. It sent my fantasy into overdrive—I just had to find my own band.
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There are a number of websites in Chicago that are set up for musicians who are trying to hook up with other musicians. If you are a band looking to add to your line-up, you’d post under “Musicians Wanted.” If you were a musician looking to hook up with a band, you’d post under “Musicians Available.” My first posting read:
“Conga player looking to find a band that plays Latin music such as Santana, Miami Sound Machine and Marc Anthony. I play all the Latin conga patterns.”
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A couple of days later I received an email from Juan Echezzaria Juan said he had a six-piece band that played regularly in the Round Lake area and they’d like to add congas. With great eagerness and anticipation I dialed the phone number on the email.
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We had a great conversation. Juan said the band had been together for a while but a couple of guys had recently left and their line-up was changing. His band was called “Echezzaria and Others.” I didn’t get the romance of the name but when he said they played a lot of Santana, I didn’t really care. I wanted to jam and was beside myself when Juan invited me to come to his house and play with his band.
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Round Lake is about 30 miles from my house. You drive northwest out of Chicago until you get fairly close to the Illinois/Wisconsin border. We used to pass Round Lake on our way to our Wisconsin summer home. My impression of the area was that of sleepy summer community centered around a big lake that was great for water skiing and lousy for pizza restaurants.
I told my wife I had found my first band, Echezzaria and Others, and they played a lot of Latin music and that I was going out to Round Lake to jam. She was less than ecstatic and said maybe I should give it a second thought. I didn’t get her problem.
I checked with my friend Peter and we discussed the fact that Juan and his band probably had an average age of 25, which might be an issue. Peter didn’t think that it would be a big problem. He said, “What do you care? If they ask how old you are, just lie.”
--- So one Wednesday night, I loaded my congas in the back seat of my BMW and took off for Round Lake. I was really excited.
Juan’s directions made it easy to get into the area. But as I approached town, the directions took me off the main road. I stopped at small liquor store to pick up a six-pack of Bud. I had seen a lot of concerts and the guys in the bands were always drinking beer. I figured Juan and the band would think it was cool if I picked up some brew.
As I left the parking lot of the liquor store the neighborhood changed. The streets became narrower and quaint cottages became trailer homes, pretty hard-scrabble stuff. After a couple of twists and turns, I found the address. There stood, well almost stood, a run-down ranch house in terrible need of a paint job. The driveway was paved but sported deep cracks from the street up to the side door. The front yard was a combination of dirt, weeds and a few patches of grass. There was a cyclone fence around the house.
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Now you should give me some credit here. For a moment, albeit a brief one, I thought about making a quick exit. But I was about to jam with a real Latin band and I was pumped. I turned left and pulled my BMW into the driveway.
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Almost immediately, this chubby guy opened the screen door and came out of the house. As he walked toward the car I noticed a couple of splotches of tomato sauce on his t-shirt, but I was relieved to see he had a can of Bud in his hand. He appeared to be about 30, which made him years and years and years younger that me. This is going to fun, I thought.
Juan said, “Hey, you Bob?” Lemme help you with your drums.” Such courtesy was another very good signal, I thought. I was pretty confident that I was about to join a great band.
There was no furniture in Juan’s living room. Only his guitar, a big guitar amp and a couple of folding chairs. I figured it was pretty cool that Juan moved all the furniture out his living room so the band could have more room. When I looked around, though, I didn’t see any furniture in the dining room either and started wondering if his way of relaxing was just sitting on folding chairs.
The kitchen was a couple of steps down off the living room. A woman appeared in the doorway and Juan introduced her as his wife. The two little boys hanging onto her dress also had tomato sauce stains on their T-shirts. Must have been a pretty good spaghetti dinner, I thought.
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I put my congas on my conga stands, popped open a Bud and sat down on one of the folding chairs. Juan sat down next to me and started tuning his guitar. I started warming up, playing Tumbao and couple of other conga rhythms. I couldn’t wait for the rest of the band to show up.
After about 15 minutes, I asked Juan when the other guys were coming. He said, “Oh, Tony will be over soon. He’s pretty reliable. But the other two guys that were supposed to come copped out. Screw them. They’re out of the band.” Hummmm, I thought.
A few minutes later Tony walked in. He looked like he was about 7 feet tall and weighed about 135 pounds soaking wet. A weird-looking dude, to say the least. He introduced himself and proceeded to take his guitar out of the case and hook up to his amp. It looked like my practice with Echezzria and Others would consist of Juan Echezzria, Tony something, and me.
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Juan asked me what I wanted to play and I said “Santana.” It was right after Juan started playing “Evil Ways” that I noticed the tattoos on his knuckles. Ten knuckles, one letter on each of the first nine spelled out, “Fuck ‘Em’ All.” Two things crossed my mind. First, why he couldn’t figure out a ten letter phrase, like “Fuck Congas” or “Fuck BMW Guy” or something even catchier? The second thing that crossed my mind was how the hell was I going to get out of here?
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We played for about an hour and drank a few beers. Juan played an original song he wrote about the Illinois State Lottery. It went something like this:
-I won the Illinois lottery, wow man, wow
I left it all behind,
Went on vacation
And never came back.
Wow, wow, wow
Wow, wow, wow
Tony also wrote an original song about his job working in a mailroom. His song had a good beat and he was very intense as he sang it:
-The mail comes everyday, everyday
It’s 10 am and it’s a pain
I push my cart from office to office
Whether snow, wind or rain.
Mail, mail, so much mail
Letters, packages, magazines,
All sorted to where they go,
Someday it goes so slow,
Mail, yeah, yeah
Mail yeah, yeah.
So slow, so slow
So slow, so slow.
Juan and Tony played pretty well and seemed like good guys. I was pretty sure their tunes, Lottery and Mailroom, wouldn’t make the top 40 but they were real serious about getting Echezzaria and Others back to full strength.
They said they knew a bunch of bars in the Round Lake area that would book them when they were ready and seemed excited that they could get $300 in covers from their following. They explained that since it was their band, they each took 25% of the covers and the rest of the band split the remainder. That left $150 to divide by 4 or $37.50 apiece. I decided being a musician wasn’t about the money.
Anyway, Juan and Tony seemed pretty interested in having me in the band
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I was still wondering how I could make my exit when Juan said he wanted to take a break. I kind of stretched, yawned and said my hands hurt and that I had an early meeting the next morning. They understood and thanked me for coming. Juan said, “Hey man, do you know any keyboard or bass players? We wanna have you back so if you have some other guys, bring ‘em along.” I said I knew a few guys who would probably be interested and I’d check with them. Juan and Tony seemed pleased.
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Juan helped me load my drums and commented that my BMW was cool. I told him it was pretty old and not running that great. As I got in the car, Juan told me he’d email mail me about their next practice and I should check with my musician buddies about joining his band.
He smiled and waved as I backed out of the driveway.
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When I got home my wife said, “How was it?” I told her about the night from beginning to end and she just stared at me. When I mentioned the knuckle tattoo, she shook her head. She told me how worried she was and how lucky I was to get out alive. She made me promise to never again play with strange musicians I found on the Internet and to get out as fast as I could if I was ever in another situation like that. She really thought I had dodged a bullet. In actuality, the only thing that really worried me was having my BMW stolen from Juan’s driveway.
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Juan never did email me, which was just as well, and I didn’t follow-up. I would have had to tell him I didn’t really know any keyboard or bass players and besides my wife wouldn’t let me play regularly with Echezzaria and Others because she feared for my life.
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For me, I kind of looked at the night as being a part of the music biz. There is no way of arguing with the fact that if you don’t take auditions, how will you ever find a band? The episode probably wasn’t one of my swiftest moves, but it did make me more anxious than ever to find the right band.
Chapter 5. Bongo Bob and The Jivin’ Miltones
The next months went by unceremoniously. A couple of more guys emailed me about jamming but I was content to continue my lessons with Barry and didn’t respond. Barry said he was proud of me for my willingness to put it all on the line. He said it takes a lot of guts to play with strangers and the more experiences I had, good or bad, the better player I’d become. Like my wife though, he didn’t think it would a good idea to pursue Echezzaria and Others. He said, “Bob, you might want to be a little picky when you are tempted to jam with strangers.” It was good advice.
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S0, as this story started, it comes around to the real beginning.
-Milton and his girlfriend Andrea were hanging at our summer home. My daughter Hilary was there with her boyfriend Henry and so where some of their other friends. Hilary had told me Milton played drums and had a band but it didn’t seem relevant to me. I hadn’t seen Milton in a couple of years and was sure they didn’t play Latin music anyway.
It was a nice day and Milton was pretty drunk. Milton liked to get drunk. At most band practices Milton would start slow and pick up speed. The more beer he drank the faster and louder he played. But it never mattered because everyone else was in the same boat.
Anyway, Milton said he remembered that I played congas. Right away I was impressed because he said congas, not bongos. His band was going to practice in a week or so and he wondered if I’d like to jam with them. Milton didn’t have any tattoos and his career had been pretty successful. Nevertheless, I did my due diligence and asked him who was in the band and where they played.
Milton gave a couple of names including Jives, which I thought was a pretty weird name. Milton said he played lead guitar and was an anesthesiologist. It occurred to me that if I ever needed an operation, I wouldn’t want my anesthesiologist to be named Jives But the fact that Jives was a doctor was good since now I was pretty sure Milton and his band didn’t pose a life threatening situation.
He said they play rock and stuff and just had a good time. Nothing serious. Most of the time they practiced at Jives house but the practice space was small. I said I’d like to jam with the band and that the basement in my house was pretty big. Milton jumped at this. “Coowoll,” he said. Remember when “cool” was pronounced “coowall?” I always liked say “coowall” instead of “cool.”
And right then and there, even before my audition the Jivin’ Miltones Milton added Bongo Bob to the line up. I was sure it had more to do with having a big basement than any my considerable musical skills.
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I couldn’t wait for my next lesson with Barry. For almost 10 years I had been studying Latin rhythms with a blend of Motown and funk thrown in. I wasn’t playing a lot of rock, at least that’s what I thought. Barry explained that virtually any of the dozens of rhythms I had learned could be adapted to rock tunes. Like the blues, if you put emphasis on the two and four and stay in the pocket, you’ll sound fine.
One thing Barry told me that stayed with me was that rock musicians don’t have a clue about conga or percussion players. He explained that sometimes drummers play congas but they play them the way they play drums. Drum patterns and conga patterns are different and are intended to complement, rather than mimic each other. He said anything I played would be new to Milton, Jives and the other guys so I shouldn’t worry about it and just do my thing.
Barry gave me another great tip. He said, “Don’t ever stop playing. Even if you get off the band will keep playing and you can just come back in when you find the groove again.” To this day I just push on through when I’m off and nobody is ever the wiser.
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For the next week, I practiced to my rock CDs. The Stones, Credence, Van Morrison. I found the tunes where congas fit nicely and on others I just blended in by playing tambourine or maracas. Finally the day came when Bongo Bob and the Jivin’ Miltones debuted in my basement.
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In addition to Milton and Jives, Carroll and Chuck showed up. The line up was Milton on drums, Jives on lead guitar, Carroll on rhythm guitar, Chuck on keyboard and me on congas and percussion.
The four of them knew each other, of course, and after a few pleasantries they dragged their equipment to the basement and spent the next hour setting up. Patience isn’t my middle name and it I couldn’t believe how long it took for these guys to set up and then tune up.
Tuning up is a particularly big thing with guitar players. More than once it occurred to me some guitar players actually prefer tuning up to playing. I’ve even thought of putting together a band that does nothing but tune up. I’d definitely have Carroll and Jives in that band.
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Once everybody was ready I discovered the next thing about being in a band is deciding what tune play. This is not easy and can easily take 15, 20 minutes, maybe more. I just sat there as the two guitar players negotiated our opening tune. For Chris sake, I was thinking, just play something. We’re not at The House of Blues.
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Carroll finally deferred to Jives and they started playing Live Forever, an Oasis tune. Later I discovered that Carroll usually deferred to Jives when it came to what we played but it really ticked him off. Jives was real good at getting the band to play what he liked and it usually took a major effort from Carroll and the rest of us to get him to play tunes the we liked.
Lesson #1 about garage bands. If you like a tune and the band is reluctant to play it, threaten to quit. While this strategy creates stress and tension, remember a basic fact of life in a garage band is the presence of stress and tension. It also works particularly well if you have great practice space in your basement.
I listened to Live Forever a few seconds and decided it wasn’t a conga tune. I picked up my tambourine and played along. Jives was singing the chorus really loud, “We’re gonna live forever, we’re gonna live forever, we’re gonna live forever.” The louder Jives sang the louder Milton played his drums and the louder Chuck played his keyboard. Carroll was playing his guitar and his mouth was moving, so I figured he was singing too. Unfortunately I couldn’t hear him over the din.
Lesson #2 about garage bands. Only old guys care if the volume is so high that their ears hurt Only old guys are will tell the band the to turn it down. When that doesn’t work, threatening to quit will work for a week or two. After that, keep threatening quit when it’s too loud.
When Live Forever mercifully ended, Milton blurted out, “Well, alright.” Jives was real happy and grabbed a beer. Carroll and Chuck nodded and started talking. I was content I had gotten through my first tune but I couldn’t hear a word Carroll and Chuck were saying to each other because of the ringing in my ears.
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We played for a couple of hours. Wild Nights by Van Morrison. Rockin’ in the Free World by Neil Young. Born on the Bayou by Creedence. And 8 or 10 others. The guys knew lots of tunes. Sometimes Carroll did most of the singing, other times Jives took the lead. After each song, everyone grabbed another beer.
I played along on my congas for most tunes and just tried to fit in. At the end of the evening, we all agreed it had been fun and that we should get together the following week. Milton said his friend John played bass and he was going to invite him the following week. I wondered how loud a bass player could be.
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Even though Milton had dubbed me Bongo Bob, I didn’t regard myself as a permanent member of The Jivin’ Miltones just yet. There was the possibility that they thought I sucked. Maybe, they’d decide I wasn’t loud enough and they’d fire me. Turns out they let me stay.
Lesson #3 about garage bands. When you have a nice basement and everybody can get drunk during practice, it takes a long time to be fired.
Chapter 6. At Lake Barrington.
For the next several weeks, the five of us continued to jam. Each week Milton said John, his bass playing buddy, was coming and that John was really good. Milton said, “John knows all our stuff and can really sing. He’d be great.” I was beginning to think John was a figment of Milton’s imagination but after a month or so, John finally showed.
Lesson #4 about garage bands. There is tremendous anticipation whenever a new guy comes to jam. There is the expectation that he is the one missing piece that will push the band to stardom. You heard it here first….it never, ever happens.
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By now I was getting the lay of the land. Jives and Milton usually showed up together and Chuck and Carroll would arrive within 30 seconds of each other. Carroll never said much to Jives and Chuck never said much to anybody. But once everyone was together on the first order of business was to grab a beer. Later business usually led to strange smelling smoke.
Carroll was always whispering something to Chuck and pointing to the sheet that outlined the chord changes of a tune we were going to play. It seemed to me the only way Chuck could play anything is if Carroll whispered something to him. In five years playing with Carroll, he never whispered anything to me. I finally concluded that not being whispered to by Carroll had no meaning whatsoever.
Jives didn’t pay much attention to anyone, just plugged his guitar into his amp and started picking away. Milton was always in a good mood and would come bounding into the basement and give me warm greeting—“Hey Bongo, how’s it going?” Milton really loved jam and it was contagious. Only problem was that drummers are supposed to be rock-steady and set the foundation for the song. When Milton imbibed a bit too much, 1-2-3-4 became more like 2-2-3-5. Try finding the 1 when that happens.
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Over the next couple of months, we worked on almost 30 tunes and they were starting to sound pretty good. Stones, David Byrne, Santana, Tom Petty, Talking Heads. A lot of tunes where I thought congas added a great groove. I found what Barry said to be true, that playing in a band was easier than playing to CDs. Staying in the pocket on rock tunes was easy, certainly easier than playing complex Latin rhythms, and when I was lost I just hung in and faked it. I was getting comfortable with my role in the band and the way I played.
I remember the moment it occurred to me this band could go someplace. That we should be on stage and playing in front of our friends. I knew we had to schedule a gig.
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One day, John finally showed up and was everything Milton advertised. He was one terrific bass player and I couldn’t believe how our sound changed. In addition to adding a profession feel to the band, a calming effect emerged. The band took on an air of purpose and after a few more practices I suggested we were good enough to schedule a gig.
Lesson #5 about garage bands. Most guys in garage bands feel it will take at least 5 years to prepare for a gig. Suggesting one after only a couple of months of practice is sheer madness.
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The band continued to practice every week or so. John had a commitment to another band and many weeks he couldn’t practice with us. While that slowed our progress it did give us time to consider the tunes we’d play if we ever did get a gig scheduled.
We had worked our way through 40 tunes and had enough material for at least 4 sets. When I said I was up for playing everything we knew, the guys thought I had lost my mind. Carroll said, “You’re crazy. We could never learn all those tunes well enough to play at a gig and it would take 5 hours besides.” Carroll knew this because he and the Jivin’ Miltones had already played a gig before I joined them. Deferring to their vast experience when gigging, the decision was made to prepare three sets of tunes on which we would focus.
Lesson #6 about garage bands. Getting everyone to agree what tunes to play at a gig will take at least a year. Once the tunes are agreed upon, it will take another year to determine the order in which they should be played. To quicken the process, appoint a dictator.
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The issue of finding a place to gig is a very big thing.
Lesson #7 about garage bands. Don’t ever suggest your band schedule a gig unless you are willing to find a place to play and coordinate the effort. In fact, play the waiting game. Practice for a couple of years and see if someone else volunteers to find a place before you do. Remember, once you’re the gig getting guy, you’ll regret it.
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My friend Nick lived in an up and coming area of Barrington, which was on the chain of lakes north of Chicago. Nick also played drums and was studying with Barry, which made him a bit envious of the fact that I was in a real band. One day Nick said that he thought he could get us booked at a bar in Lake Barrington and, indeed, he came through. He told me to give him a date.
When I told the guys I have secured a gig venue, Carroll screamed, “We’re not ready to gig.” Carroll always felt we weren’t ready but he always changed his mind. With a little encouragement from the rest of us, we agreed on a date two months later, on a February night in the dead of winter.
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Practices became purposeful. Three sets were determined and each week we practiced the sets as long as time allowed. As with almost anything in life, a must deadline makes you focus. And strange as it might sound, as we focused, we actually improved.
The prospect of playing in front of my family and friends was intoxicating. We made up flyers and gave them to anyone we thought might make their way out to Lake Barrington. Nick said the bar itself would have or 20 or 30 people eating and drinking so even if none of our friends came we’d have an audience. I was pretty sure I could count on three people—my wife, my daughter and her husband. Beyond that, who knew?
Lesson # 8 about garage bands. For every 100 people you invite to your gig, about 50 will tell you they’ll definitely be there and about 10 will actually show, if you’re lucky. This awakening will tell you that your music is a much bigger priority for you than it is for most of your friends. Get over it.
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Gig day dawned bright and crisp. Our friends couldn’t use the weather as an excuse for blowing us off.
Although I was excited, I managed to get a good night’s sleep. As the day dragged by I practiced a little but fearing my hands would give out before the end of the evening, I didn’t overdo it. I thought about being in front of my eighth grade graduation class and playing Rhapsody in Blue but the fact is I had no idea what to expect.
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We were scheduled to begin playing at nine so we all decided to arrive at seven to set up.
Lesson #9 about garage bands. A third of the band will arrive early to a gig, a third on time and a third late. I’m the only guy in the world who ever gets crazy about guys who are late. Don’t they know this is really serious stuff?
By 8:30 everybody had tuned up and we where set to go. All that was left to do was belly up to the bar and wait till nine. As the room was filling up—and so were we. With beer and shots that is. I remember being at a Stone’s concert and seeing a case of Heineken on the stage next to half a dozen bottles of Jack. It seemed perfectly reasonable to me that if Mick, Keith, Ron and Charlie loaded up at their concerts, it was OK for Bongo Bob and the Jivin’ Miltones.
As usual, Milton seemed to be out front in his allotment. The more he drank the more excited he became, and the more nervous I got . Why the rest of the guys were so relaxed was a puzzling to me. Maybe being numb correlated with playing great.
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Friends keep coming. My cousin from San Francisco flew in and surprised me. I saw some guy sneaking across the bar with a coat over his head. When I went to the table in the back where my friends were sitting, there sat Chucky Wucky. “Hey Bongo”, he said. “Wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Your first gig as a professional.”
Actually I was happy to find anyplace that would let us play and the only deal the band got was free liquor…which sure was paying off. Turned out some idiot did pass a hat around during the third set and collected $19. Milton took that money on behalf of the band and I never did see my $3.16 cut.
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The bar was pretty full and my friend Peter said, “So start playing.” I said I had no control over anything or anybody but I’d see what I could do. The guys were hanging on the bar sucking down shots and when I told them it was time to play. Jives just laughed and handed me a shot. As we all pounded down another, the guys sort wondered over the stage and starting tuning up…again.
It was 9:30. The room was full. People were yelling. The band was ready. As I looked around the room, I had no sense of why I was there or what was about to happen. All that came to mind was this must be how the Beatles started. Really. That’s what I thought!
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Jives looked at everyone. We looked back. He nodded, counted 1-2-3-4 and we started playing an old Yardbirds tune called For Your Love. When we finished, it seemed like the room exploded in applause. I breathed a sign of relief and we moved right into Stepping Stone, followed by Born on the Bayou and then Jenny, Jenny. I loved Jenny, Jenny. Great lyrics.
“Jenny, Jenny, 8675309, Jenny, Jenny, 8675309, etc. etc., etc.”
I once dialed a number in Chicago, 312-867-5309, a woman actually answered. When I asked for Jenny, she hung up.
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It was a great first set and it seemed to go by in an instant. I was jumping around playing tambourine and maracas and some people started dancing. The room was crowded and more and more people were still arriving.
Jerry and Shelia drove 60 miles from Indiana, picked up some friends from the city and drove another 40 miles out to Lake Barrington. I really appreciated their effort and especially the couple they brought. Never really got their names and don’t remember him at all, but she was a real hottie—and I sensed that she wanted me— then and there. My gawd, I thought, my first groupie. Being a musician really did make it easy.
Since my wife was watching me watch her and her husband was watching her watch me, I figured would ever come of it, not that it ever would. But here it is years later, and it’s still a great fantasy.
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We finished the set and took our bows. Walking up to my friends I felt like a conquering hero. They seemed involved in conversation with each other and didn’t pay too much attention to me. Peter said, “Hey old man, you did pretty good.” I could always count on Peter to say the right thing.
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As we swung into the 2nd set, confidence was high. People were having a good time and the band was basically a bunch of guys who were drunk as skunks. All except John, that is. John was professional about things and didn’t drink when he gigged. Much later, I learned the wisdom of staying sober when playing in front of an audience. Although the music sounds good to the people playing, it comes out sloppy and disjointed to the people listening. John was right. We were just a bunch of amateurs.
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The bar started to thin out at the end of the 2nd set and only the hard core remained as we started the 3rd set with Twist and Shout. My friend Nick who played drums and got us the gig at the bar was itching to try is hand. Milton was feeling no pain and had taken to playing his drums standing up rather than sitting down. Needless to say, our tempo became 6 guys playing at totally different speeds, which didn’t seem to matter much to anybody—except John.
After a couple of tunes, I looked over at Milton and was surprised to see Nick sitting at the drums. Milton had retreated to the bar.
Nick hadn’t played a lick with the guys but that didn’t seem to bother him. And by now, nobody in the bar was paying attention to us anyway, so who cared. Nick started banging away and the band played a couple of tunes before Milton came back. It was about 1am when we finished the 3rd set.
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As we packed up, we tipped a few more and congratulated each other on a great gig. Driving home and reflecting on the night, I couldn’t help thinking how much fun it was to play music in front of an audience. And as I pulled into an all night diner to satisfy an unbelievable appetite, I couldn’t wait for the band to get together the following week so we could start planning our next gig.
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At the very next practice, Bongo Bob and the Jivin’ Miltones fell apart. John thought the band was terrible because everyone got so drunk at Lake Barrington. He told us he was disappointed and wasn’t interested in making a commitment. Jives and Milton seemed content to take a pass as well. After all, Jives could always fall back on his anesthesiology practice and Milton was kind of full-time at whatever he was full-time at.
I didn’t get it. Here we had practiced for months and people at Lake Barrington seemed enjoy us. Why break up a good thing, I thought. Much later I learned what proved to be my most important lesson and that is:
Lesson #10 about garage bands. Never, never, never assume things are good. Just when you think everybody in the band is getting along, having fun and enjoying themselves somebody will quit. You can take that to the bank.
Chapter 7. The Groove Bruthas
It was hard to consider my musical career over. I toyed with the idea of a solo career just playing my congas and tambourine. My friend Peter didn’t think it was a good idea and said he probably wouldn’t show up for any of my gigs. I scrapped that idea pretty fast.
Fortunately, Carroll and Chuck still wanted to jam. Carroll knew all the tunes and did most of the guitar work and singing anyway, and Chuck always filled in ably on keyboard—as long as Carroll kept whispering things to him. But now that Milton and Jives were gone, it seemed a good idea to change the name of the band. Being The Bongo Bob Band wasn’t very catchy.
Carroll, Chuck and I had taken to emailing each other whenever there was something to say and Carroll always opened his emails with “Hey brothers.” When we jammed he often said, “Nice going brother”, or “Brother, I can’t hear you.” I always regarded my playing as adding a unique groove that bands don’t get unless they have percussion and from there it wasn’t a big leap to the Groove Brothers.
By now, I had mentioned to Nick that we needed a new drummer and the door was open to him. Carroll had friend who was also a drummer but said Brooks had taken up the bass and might like to jam with us on bass. So several weeks later, Nick and Brooks joined us and a new band was formed.
Somewhere I got the inspiration to change Groove Brothers to Groove Bruthas. Groove Bruthas had that certain cache I figured.
The other guys thought the name was cool and so it was decided. Carroll, Chuck, Brooks, Nick and me became The Groove Bruthas.
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We practiced regularly through the rest of that winter and early spring and in May I floated the idea of throwing a big 4th of July party at our summer home just outside Chicago where the band would play.
The idea was unanimously adopted and two sets of tunes were agreed upon. A second gig was in the offing.
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The Groove Bruthas was Nick’s first band and he worked hard on learning the tunes and keeping a steady beat. Trouble was he had a hard time remembering how the tunes went from week to week. Carroll wasn’t the kind to be openly critical and, in fact, was very tolerant of Nick’s drumming. Each week he or Brooks would patiently explain to Nick where the breaks were on the tunes where he was having trouble. Usually after two or three run-throughs Nick would play it right and everybody was happy. But then the following week, the same thing happened again.
Whatever, Nick was my friend and we enjoyed jamming together and with the guys. Besides, I was convinced The Groove Bruthas probably would never be booked at The House of Blues so what the hell. We were booked at Bongo Bob’s Summer House of Rock and that was good enough.
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The 4th of July couldn’t come fast enough. This time I knew my friends would come cause who could pass on a great party with a live band. And, although it cost me about 800 bucks for booze and food for 130 people, it seemed like a small price to pay to draw a crowd that would surely “dig me.”
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The day was a super hit. The burgers and hot dogs seemed extra tasty and the beer and vodka quickly diminished. We played Beatles, Jimmy Buffett, Santana, Stones and Bob Marley tunes. Stuff everyone knew and loved. Little kids danced and so did big kids. I passed out tambourines, shakers and cow bells and friends banged away with the band. Everyone was a musician for a day. In the end, we decided it had been one of those parties that was unforgettable, pure magic.
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As it turned out the best things about the day was that nobody quit the band. Nick’s drumming was just fine. Brooks played bass like John Entwhistle, Chuck never once needed Carroll to whisper anything to him and Carroll sung his heart out while carrying the whole band with his guitar playing. Me, well, I just loved being one of the boys in the band.
Chapter 8. Ben, Aaron and Marc Join the Grove Bruthas.
During this time, I was also hedging my bets and posted my availability on a local musician website. It was shortly after that Ben emailed me.
Ben said he played guitar and was looking for a conga player to accompany him. Nothing serious, just for fun. He said lived in a suburb called Highland Park and invited me to his house to jam.
Now, I didn’t know Ben from Juan Echezzaria and my sojourn to Round Lake made me suspicious to going into strange homes. But Highland Park wasn’t Round Lake. Think Scarsdale, NY, Shaker Heights, Ohio or Atherton, CA and you can imagine Highland Park, IL. My wife even opined that Ben probably wasn’t an ax-murderer who was living in Highland Park and trying to lure a naïve conga players to an early demise. So I made a date with Ben.
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Ben’s house didn’t have a cyclone fence around it. And the driveway wasn’t even cracked. In fact, the driveway wound from the street around the stand alone 4 car garage, through the beautifully landscaped back yard all the way to the portico that protected guests from getting wet if it happened to be raining when they arrived at the front door. Ben lived in a mansion.
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I liked Ben the minute he opened the door. Actually, I probably liked his adorable wife even better. As we made our way upstairs to his music room, I took note of the understated elegance of the house and the tasteful artwork on the walls. Most importantly, I was certain nothing nasty awaited me.
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Ben’s music room wasn’t a music room at all. It was a recording studio. Thousands of dollars in recording equipment all surrounded by three neatly placed rows of guitars, 35 by count. Not being a guitar guy such a guitars collection didn’t make much sense to me but for Ben they were like candy, and he couldn’t get enough.
Ben loved his guitars and recording studio and spent hours picking away and recording. He’d lay down a track and then play over it on another track. Often he’d play bass and record a bass track and then drums and a drum track. Most of his music sounded like it should be coming out of elevator speakers but who was I to cast aspersions.
Ben had a great knack for improvisation and we had jammed for several hours that afternoon. First he’d record me alone playing my congas. Then I sat and listened he’d play a guitar track over his recording of me. Then we’d improvise together. For a couple of hours we just had ball.
As I was leaving I told Ben about the Groove Bruthas and that we needed a lead guitar player—and asked him if he’d like to come by and jam. Ben thought it would be fun and agreed to stop by. Little did I know what I was getting into.
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Ben always hated the name of band. He said someday some real brothers would get pissed off we were trying to be hip and stick an ice pick in his abdomen.
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Ben wasn’t much or a joiner. While I loved him for his intellect, sense of humor and musical talents, he was a terrible band member. If the tune called for the lead to rock out and he felt like laying back he’d lay back. If the tune was soft and Ben felt like playing loud that’s exactly what he’d do.
Usually Ben was the last to show for practices and the first to leave. He’d come bounding down to the basement an hour or so late, hook his guitar to his amp and start loading up.
If we were working on a tune Ben didn’t like, he’d wince and shake it head. At breaks Ben would whisper to me, “That stuff is just crap. These guys can’t play.” When Ben became overly petulant, somebody would usually just fire one up, pass it to him and he wouldn’t care much after that.
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The tunes Ben liked required him to take center stage playing lead, naturally. Maybe a Santana or Dire Straights tune. Usually he played so loud I’d scream over the music for him to quiet down. If he even heard me he’d just look straight at me, wink and keeping blasting away. Problem is, I really loved Ben.
Lesson #11 about garage bands. There is always somebody who thinks he’s a better musician than all the rest. Sometimes that can help everyone improve. Often, though, it’s a recipe for hurt feelings.
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Nick took most of Ben’s heat. He hated the way Nick played drums. In the middle of a song, he’d stop playing, look at Nick and say “Man, You’re all over the place. What are you playing?” Fact is, Nick didn’t know exactly what he was playing but everyone but Ben would give Nick direction and he’d eventually figure it out.
“Nick”, Ben would say in complete seriousness, “Just play like Ringo.” Just play like Ringo, I’d think. What’s he talking about? In a thousand lifetimes, Nick couldn’t play like Ringo.
At the end of practices, Ben would tell Nick to go home and listen to Beatles CDs—and come in the next week and play just like Ringo. “Nick, you have to listen to Ringo more”, he’d say ozzing with sarcasm. “You have to be able to play like Ringo.” Poor Nick. He got so nervous he couldn’t sleep the night before practices.
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Nevertheless, Ben stuck around for almost a year. We played at the Christmas party for a friend of mine who owned a beauty salon. Nick was out of town so we commandeered Milton because he knew the tunes we were playing and was the only option anyway. It didn’t make much difference since each of us had taken to playing at our own tempo. One thing that’s certain. You’d never accuse this band at this party of being tight.
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It was kind a strange conglomeration of people who couldn’t have cared less about having a band at their Christmas party. My friend, Bob, failed to tell me that he handed out the yearly bonuses at the party. All anyone really cared about was comparing their checks and bitching about the size of their bonus.
Ben did have a guy from his office haul all his equipment to and from the party. Not that you’d call him a primadona or anything—or maybe you would. He said to me, “No way I’m hauling this stuff myself. Why don’t you have someone haul your stuff?”
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Soon after the Christmas party, Nick saw an opportunity to make a graceful exit from the band. Fact is, Nick’s drumming was coming along and even though the rest of were encouraging him, the verbal abuse from Ben was just too much. His lack of sleep before practices also caused splitting headaches during practices.
I was sorry to see Nick leave but it taught me another lesson:
Lesson #12 about garage bands. Once there is a bad vibe between two or more guys, might as well start searching for fresh talent. There’s no fix and change is certain. The sooner the better.
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We soon found Aaron who was really excited about playing drums with us. He was a big, good natured guy and stayed with band for almost two years, until he moved his family to South Carolina or some state like that. Aaron’s arms were like tree-trunks and he hit his drums harder than I thought was humanly possible. Needless to say, this produced an earth-shattering sound that everyone but me seemed to think was pretty cool.
Oh, I’d bitch and complain. Usually, at the end of a practice I’d get Carroll aside and tell him that if he didn’t support me in getting Aaron to tone it down, my basement would close. This always seemed to scare the shit out of Carroll and he always agreed to help me quiet things down the next week. But toning down for Aaron meant going from earth-shatteringly loud to only excruciatingly loud. And being the piece of milquetoast I am, and knowing that Aaron loved being in the band, I never closed the basement.
Lesson #13 about garage bands. When practices get so loud your ears ache, get up leave the room. While the message will be clear it’s too loud for you, it’s won’t be a message that will have any impact whatsoever.
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For a living, Aaron replaced broken doors or broken glass or something like that. One day I decided to be a good guy and try to put a couple of bucks in Aaron’s pocket. We had two doors on the outside house that were broken and needed to be replaced. Aaron was happy to get the work and I gave him a couple of hundred bucks to buy some doors and install them.
After a few months Aaron still hadn’t gotten around to the project and I was feeling ripped off. I must have asked him ten times to fix the damn doors when finally, one day when we were away, Aaron installed two crummy doors that didn’t quite fit in the door frames. My wife had shit fit.
Of course, Aaron didn’t have a sales receipt so we couldn’t return the doors to Home Depot, where he claimed they’d been bought. My wife convinced me to chalk up the money to charity and seeing I had no choice, that’s what I did. The episode didn’t bother Aaron in the least. Anyway, after left the state, we spent another couple of hundred to have the right doors installed the right way.
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Aaron had a buddy who played keyboard and sang. At one practice he asked if we’d like to have Marc jam with us. Since we already had Chuck on keys, there was some reluctance in having two keyboard players but we really did need somebody beside Carroll to sing. Ben hated at least one thing about every guy in the band and in Carroll’s case it was primarily his voice—and to a somewhat lesser degree, his guitar playing. Actually there wasn’t much else for Ben to dislike about Carroll except, perhaps, that he didn’t live in a mansion. We decided to check out Marc.
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Marc was 29 when he joined the band and 33 when he left. He actually chose to celebrate turning 30 at a practice in my basement. I was kind of sorry he didn’t have better plans for moving into a new decade of life but, hey, it was good enough for Marc and it spoke volumes about his commitment to the band.
In those four years, Marc’s shoulder length black hair never changed nor do I think he ever changed clothes. At least at our practices and gigs he always, always, always wore loose fitting black workout pants and a black sweat shirt kind of thing. Come to think of it, he must have worn different workout pants because sometimes the pant legs had white stripes down the side—kind of like the baseball pants worn by White Sox players.
To me, Marc bore an amazing physical resemblance to Jack Black in the movie School of Rock. A kind of chunky, goofy guy that had a good heart but tons of trouble sorting things out.
He wasn’t the son that I never had, but I liked Marc and he was a great band member. He had a decent voice that got better over the years and tons of enthusiasm for playing rock and roll. And he seemed to know the words to every rock tune ever written.
Another thing about Marc was that if he didn’t have bad luck he’d have had no luck at all. You know—the guy with the little black cloud that hung perpetually over his head. Could never find a date, hated his job and hated his car—at least until he totaled it and got a couple of grand from the insurance company and picked up big old 90 or 91 Oldsmobile which he seemed to like—or maybe it was a Buick.
One day I made a huge mistake by saying, “Hey Marky, did you have a good day.” His response was, “Please don’t call me Marky and no my day wasn’t very good.” After that, I rarely asked him how it was going and when I did I could predict his response, that being, “About the same.” And, for certain, I never called him Marky again.
Turns out that Marc indeed became a pivotal musical force in the band. He could learn tunes quickly and soon, along with Carroll, was doing a big share of the singing and harmonizing.
You can imagine what Ben thought of Marc. Mostly as immature caricature of Iggy Pop or some other silly rock star. For me, he was just the kid that every rock and roll band had to have.
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During this time Brooks, our bass player, also decided to quit the band. Several years later I learned a hard lesson about the way Brooks operated, at least when it came to bands. But that’s a story for later. What was imperative was to begin a search for a new bass player, which naturally fell to me.
Soon after, I found Tim. Tim was in his 40s and cut out of the Marc mold. Big guy, long hair, kind of a brooding disposition. Tim was a family man with a fun wife and two cute kids. He worked as a shop foreman which fit perfectly into Ben’s view of the world. Another soul- mate he could relate to. Not!
Tim played rhythm and lead guitar and was just learning to play bass. And although Tim wasn’t much of a bass player at the time he said he’d be happy to fill in on bass as best he could—which was good enough for us. Best thing was that Tim sang. He had kind a deep, gravely Mark Knoppler kind of voice, which Ben giggled at, but that I thought added a nice harmony to Carroll and Marc’s higher pitched voices. And, so, the Groove Bruthas reached a full complement of 7 guys.
--
With Aaron, Marc and Tim firmly on board and up to speed, I started looking for bars that would book the band.
Lesson #13 about garage bands. You might hate your job, hate your boss, hate your mother-in-lay or even hate you life. But there is nothing more hateful in the entire world than booking a garage band.
I began driving the streets of Chicago looking for bars that booked bands. I’d find an area that looked promising, park my car and begin going in an out of bars. Usually, the person who did the booking wasn’t around and the bartender would tell me to leave a band demo—which, of course, I didn’t have.
Often I’d find a promising spot only to learn that they didn’t book cover bands—only bands that played original music. If by chance the booking guy was around and they booked cover bands, he’d want to know where the band had played in the past or how big a following the band had.
Carroll would always say, “What the shit do these bar guys want? Are we supposed play for free and pack the bar so they make money. Shit, we’re the talent. We shouldn’t have to worry about packing the guy’s bar.” Carroll finally got the message that is exactly the deal. Play for virtually nothing and pack the place so they’ll let you play for virtually nothing a second time.
Since the Groove Bruthas hadn’t played anywhere but my basement impressing the bar guy with our history wasn’t much of an option. And lying about how many people we’d draw always bothered me—although later on deciding to lie proved just the thing.
So here I was, 56 years old, going in and out of bars trying to sell some totally uninterested 20 something guy or pimply faced waitress how cool we were and how lucky they’d be to book us. Didn’t work! After a couple of weeks and about 50 bars I concluded there was no chance of getting booked.
Marc kept saying it’s not about having a demo, it’s about sucking up to the bar owners and making them your bud. Then they’ll book you. Of course, Marc never once tried this himself so his credibility here was pretty suspect. Sucking up to bar owners I thought. That certainly would complete my life.
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One day, after reaching complete despair and concluding I’d never find a place for the band to play, somebody mentioned that The Mutiny would book us. And sure enough it was a good lead. The Mutiny was, indeed, a bar that would book us. In fact they would book anybody.
One night when the owner was in I trekked over to The Mutiny. John, the owner, seemed pretty close to my age—an older guy, that is. I think he took pity on me but we did hit it off. John cared only that everyone in the band was over 21. His MO was to book bands from the suburbs and hope that the band would pack the place with their rich friends who would cheer on them on and buy lots of drinks.
I assured John we were all over 21 and so were our friends but I think he noticed my BMW parked outside and concluded some of my rich friends would probably follow me to his place. After some banter, John sorta chuckled and gave me date on a Friday night a few months later. OK, so maybe Marc was right about making new buds in order to get booked.
John said, “I always book a new band on a Friday night to check out the crowd they draw. Then we’ll see about a Saturday night. Whoopee. Our own Friday night I thought! There was no doubt in my mind that The Mutiny was a major step toward stardom.
--
Although bands were not paid to play at The Mutiny, each band member received the option of two small pitchers of beer or two highballs. Of course, John was quick to point out the highballs would only be poured from the well-brands and if anyone wanted a premium brand, there would be a change. The guys were pretty excited to get free liquor. Seemed a good deal to me but I was more excited because this was our first gig at a city bar that was convenient for all my over 21 friends.
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To picture The Mutiny, think about using your nose—to smell stale beer, stale smoke and stale people sitting at the bar. Actually, The Mutiny was a great place for garage bands to get exposure. The stage was big and there was a decent PA—and plenty of room for a crowd. Best thing about The Mutiny, though, was no matter how raucous the crowd, there was absolutely nothing that could be broken that would matter in the least. Fact is there was a mop and bucket in one corner that was to be used for the express purpose of tiding up after someone had too much to drink. Nice touch, I thought.
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We put together two 11 tune sets plus four encore tunes—which I was sure we needed after the ovation we’d certainly get at the end of the second set—and we practiced long and hard for thee months to get ready for the gig.
I loved a couple of the tunes, Barometer Soup by Jimmy Buffett and a Stones tune called Dead Flowers, and I loved singing the chorus on them. During one practice I was singing away and after the tune Ben looked at me and said, “Bongo, Don’t ever do that again.”
True, my voice was terrible but I thought with a little practice I could get better. So over the next few weeks I practiced in the basement by myself. I’d turn on the PA, grab a mic, and every single day sit for an hour or so and sing Stones and Jimmy Buffett tunes as loud as I could. Occasionally my wife would come down, look at me funny, shake her head, giggle and go back upstairs. But I figured I was finding my voice.
After a couple of weeks I was pretty sure I had it and couldn’t wait for the next practice to prove I could sing. I put my heart into singing the chorus on Dead Flowers.
You can send me dead flowers in the morning
You can send me dead flowers by the mail
You can send me dead flowers at my wedding,
And I won’t forget to put roses on your grave.
OK, so they’re not the catchiest lyrics ever written but I liked them and I put out the strongest voice I had. When the tune was over I looked at Ben and he just looked at me, smiled, and said, “Man, you weren’t even close.” To this day, I have never tried to sing in a band again, at least not so that anybody could hear me.
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The night of the gig, Ben’s groupie set up his stuff while the rest of us put our equipment in place and got the mics set. A friend of Marc’s agreed to be our sound man and was working his butt off to get the amps working and the mic levels set. Being the expert on everything in the human experience, Ben was telling Dave what to do. Mostly, I think he wanted his levels set so that he’d drown out everyone else. At one point Dave cornered me and said, “Who is that guy? I’m going punch him out. Get him out of my face.”
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A little after nine we started to play. A lot of my friends actually showed. Nick and Peter came with their wives and dragged along some of their friends as well. My kids came and so did their friends. Even friends and family I’d sent flyers but didn’t expect suddenly appeared. Friends of Marc, Chuck and Aaron also added to the crowd.
Ben’s wife Lisa came with my wife but his other friends failed to show—primarily because he didn’t invite anybody. The Mutiny wasn’t exactly Ben’s picture of were he’d debut as a musician. He was waiting until we were booked at a tasty jazz club before he went public. He’s still waiting.
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The gig was a blast. The practices had paid off and we peaked as a band.
Lesson #14 about garage bands. All the aggravation, all the stressing and all the ill-feelings that are part of being in a garage band are forgotten when you’re playing in front of a crowd that’s having fun. It truly is the most fun possible with clothes on.
After the first set, I worked the room. My friends said they loved seeing me have so much fun and that the band was really 'cookin’.
It was a fantasy come alive.
Around eleven we started second set. By encore time, only our hard core fans and some rather smelly bar regulars remained. They were all yelling, screaming and falling down drunk and we took that as signal to play on. What the hell. This was grrrreat.
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About 2am we had packed up and were ready go. John shook my hand and said we were a terrific band and could come back to The Mutiny whenever we wanted—even on a Saturday night.
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Me and Ben were hungry and along with his groupie went to an-all night restaurant where I had best scrambled eggs I’d ever had in my life. Ben enjoyed the night and actually complemented the guys on their playing. I could have left well enough alone but it was time to put my cards on the table.
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I wanted Ben to be a committed member of the Groove Bruthas. To be on time for practices and to be more nurturing to the guys—who actually looked up to him for his talent. I envisioned the band using The Mutiny as a springboard for growth and the motivation to play regularly at some of the better bars in town. Ben had to decide whether he was in or out.
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He couldn’t commit. Ben was making changes in his career and was frequently out of town. He simply couldn’t commit to a night a week away from his family—and who could blame him. He laughed and said, “You mean you’re firing me. Fired from the Groove Bruthas! Who would have guessed? Please don’t tell anybody.”
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Ben was a good friend at the time—and stayed that way for several years until he moved out of town. Truth be know, I was sorry to see him go. But I understood Ben and there was respect between us. With the other guys it was oil and water and Ben leaving was the right thing for both.
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