(or: Behind the Ill-Conceived and Badly-Played Music)
When I heard that Billy Preston died, it, of course, reminded me of myself. Specifically, it reminded me of the time that the father of a high-school friend said that my keyboard playing reminded him of Billy Preston. Time has only served to magnify the extent to which this comparison was not at all apt; perhaps the rest of the statement was "if Billy Preston were hit on the head with a mallet and tied in a large sack."
I was not a good keyboard player, is basically what I'm trying to tell you here. I have also been a not-good percussionist, a not-good vocalist and a not-good bass guitar player. Below, for the first time, a chronology of my career to date, tracing the roots of my lack of musical genius.
Pre-1976: Early Solo Work. Somewhere in the North Carolina mountains, there are some cassette tapes featuring a 6- or 7-year-old boy singing kids' songs (the titles of which are lost to history). Look to find these tapes no more, for they are almost certainly gone. As a third child, my childhood was under-documented; I think my parents had worn themselves out taking pictures of my older two siblings. I also grew up before the proliferation of home video recording and after the peak of 8-mm home movie filming. Add a mother given to frequent all-encompassing cleaning purges, and you'll find very little evidence that I was a child at all. Sometimes I wonder if I was, myself.
1976: The Third Grade Is Pretending To Be Chickens. It's hard to remember a time when this country wasn't gripped by Ray Stevens mania, but back in 1976 the fever was just reaching the hinterlands. You all, of course, know his revolutionary version of the big band classic "In the Mood," with the melody clucked by chickens. Our third grade teacher, being in tune with the national zeitgeist, saw an opportunity and had some of us lip-sync the number onstage at the school talent show. I don't remember wearing full chicken costumes, but I'm pretty sure there were construction-paper beaks, at least. I also don't remember if we won, although it hardly seems likely. And I'm not making this up; there were witnesses.
Summer, 1977: Early Middle-Period Solo Work. On the penultimate night at a week-long sleepaway camp for Episcopal kids, the talent show copied the format of "The Gong Show." (Was it 1977? Help me out, King Vitaman.) This was my number, in its entirety:
"It's so lonesome in the saddle
Since my horse died."
What could the judges do but award me first place? Naught. I think my prize was a free tiny steel can of Donald Duck orange juice. My horrible secret, however, was that I had ripped off an actual "Gong Show" act that my family had been laughing about for the past year or so. Good artists borrow; great artists steal outright.
1986: The Screaming Parentheses. This was the year I got compared to Billy Preston, God help us both. It was also a year in which keyboard synthesizers were becoming available to high schoolers with particularly indulgent parents. Mark -- one of the new-waviest kids with one of the floppiest haircuts -- had some keyboards, and Lee had a drum machine. I had nothing… nothing but moxie! (Note: I didn't actually have much moxie.) The great promise of electronic music was that any grouping of two or more pasty white boys could, one day, be the next Tubeway Army or Cabaret Voltaire. Unfortunately, our sleepy little mountain town was not ready for the next Cabaret Voltaire, or indeed even for the actual Cabaret Voltaire.
Anyway, it was out of this promise that The Screaming Parentheses were born. Well, at first we called ourselves "Horizontal Staircase," but this new name had a symbol -- (!). Mark wrote all our songs, seeing as he was the only one who actually knew how to play the keyboards at all. Our best song was called "Fallwell Should Be Shot," and that's the one we chose to take to the school's talent show that year. I don't think we were even remotely serious about our chances of winning -- we were provocateurs, man.
My main part in "Falwell" consisted of exactly two alternating notes (as well as screaming "Shot!" at appropriate times during the chorus). It was definitely a background part, but at the talent show we screwed up and set the levels on our Radio Shack mixer so that my keyboard was the loudest thing in the mix, drowning out even Mark's lead vocals. Fitting, since I was, of course, the least competent musician on stage. I also had the solo in the song, which was me basically hitting the two notes I had already been playing in a slightly different pattern, adding in other surrounding keys that I thought might sound good. I think I also did one of those things where I took my finger and ran it up the keyboard (kind of like in the intro to "Let's Go Crazy.") This may be what drew the Billy Preston comparison from Mark's father.
Our performance bewildered and angered the audience, which was pretty much exactly what we were hoping for. I don't need to tell you that we didn't win. I think the winner that year was some girl who sang "Memory" from Cats, because every talent show during those years was won by some girl who sang "Memory" from Cats. A couple of years later, somebody actually did shoot Jerry Falwell, but I don't think the Screaming Parentheses drove him to it.
A couple of years later, Lee, who also played drums, and Mark started playing with an older guy, a pretty talented guitarist who was, I think, the first documented punk at my high school. Their band, One-Legged Santa, worked up a repertoire of reverb-laden psychobilly songs that I didn't figure out until later were all Cramps covers -- or, more precisely, covers of Cramps covers of old crazy rockabilly songs. They were awesome.
1990: Biffen Gjaney. (Pronounced "Biff 'n' Janey." Long story.) A band started from some jam sessions that my senior-year college roommate, a bassist (now a physics professor), had with a guitarist (now a potter) and his friend, a singer (now a TV director). Eventually, a couple of violinists came on board, and I was allowed to tag along because I had recently bought some used bongos (pictured above; the stickers were all mine). Later, I brought along a snare drum I borrowed from Lee. I also wrote the lyrics for some songs, including "Another Song About Unrequited Love" and "I Like Dogs;" alas, I do not have copies of these lyrics, and I don't think they ever recorded those songs. Some of our other songs, like "Just Another Wednesday," "Get Back Home to You" and "Tracks," were quite catchy and good.
But the important thing to remember about my career as a percussionist is this: I was not good at keeping time, which was a drawback since that's kind of the percussionist's main responsibility. The guitarist was justifiably alarmed to find out that I was trying to follow along with him while he was trying to follow me. Thus we were chasing each other down the rabbit hole of gradually unraveling tempo.
Eventually the band decided that they wanted a fuller sound, and they generously asked me if I wanted to try to learn how to play a drum kit, probably hoping I'd say "no." It made sense for me to leave, since I also had the comedy troupe going on at the same time and I was also about to flunk a crucial lit class. So I left the band amicably, and then they started getting paying gigs.
One of the violinists became a professional musician; she now tours with nationally-known artists and has played on albums that many of you probably own.
1990: The Golden Archies. A "side project," with me, the bassist from Biffen Gjaney, and our friend, a singer/songwriter/guitarist. We performed once, at the campus radio station. My main artistic contribution was to suggest that we introduce "(I'm Not Your) Stepping Stone" by saying, "This is a song the Sex Pistols stole from the Monkees. We're gonna steal it back" (c.f. U2 introducing "Helter Skelter" in Rattle and Hum).
2005: The Bass. As a fan of James Jamerson and Donald "Duck" Dunn, I had often suspected that my instrument -- my "axe," if you will -- would end up being the bass. I'm pretty good at going "doot doot doot" along with the bass parts of most songs. In '05, my then-girlfriend, herself a guitarist (owner of a bitchin' Danelectro), loaned me her bass and a practice amp, along with a circa early-'60s Mel Bay book to get me started. (I still maintain that "my girlfriend loaned me her bass" is one of the coolest things a human being can say.) And I tried, honest. But learning a musical instrument is hard, and I am so very lazy. Eventually, we broke up and she took her bass back home, which was probably for the best. Between that and my performance as a percussionist, I think it will be a while before I can be safely entrusted with a groove, if ever.
2006: Guitar Hero. At a party with Stewpants, attempted to play this game. Being as how I do like the rock and roll, I figured this is one non-Tempest, non-trivia video game at which I could acquit myself fairly well. I was wrong. After trying to get through "More Than a Feeling," "Killer Queen" and "I Wanna Be Sedated," it was obvious that I should just go back to playing Jenga, another game I'm no good at.
2006 and Beyond: ? I keep promising VD that I'm going to adapt the lyrics to "Bela Lugosi's Dead" to be a Christmas carol ("Père Noël Est Mort"). Do I mean it, or will I continue to be the King of Empty Promises? Only time will tell.
Rest in peace, Billy.
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