Runover on Leroy Street

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 Bands

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 Grossman. Barry Grossman I thought. How could I possibly learn to play like the great Cuban congueros from Barry Grossman? 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 Stone 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 hundred 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 musician. Man, I couldn’t have been happier. It had been a long, long journey.