Chronicle

Doctor, Doctor

First off, I would like to thank Dr. John for randomly including my link on his website today. Of course, I thought it was a different Dr. John, the world famous funky piano player also known as Mac Rebbenack. But no, our Dr. is just a regular guy who instructs readers to look at a random blog and mention his name when leaving a comment. This is obviously a guerilla marketing/blogging tactic I was hitherto unaware of. So if you visit his site mention me. Back at you night tripper. Several people from the good doctor’s stratosphere left insightful and encouraging comments.

The Road Goes On Forever

While taking my recommended stroll in the coolish Ozark air this morning my mind drifted to a series of events that happened during a crazy road trip years ago. It all happened about this time of the summer in 1990.

Steve Michaels was a beady-eyed, rotund singer/bass player from Wisconsin. Although we never got along together personally, I had been playing in various configurations of his band for most of the year. Steve was a pure country singer with a very fine voice. I was more interested in rock, jazz, and blues. I think he more or less tolerated me because I knew all the songs and my voice blended well with him on harmonies.

We were playing six night a week gigs at various roadhouses across America. The pay was poor but steady and the liquor flowed freely. Steve did not drink so that’s probably part of why we got along so rocky. We were rarely on the same level.

One thing Steve was very proud of was a Silver Eagle bus that we used as our tour rig. It was an old Wisconsin Dells tourist coach that he gutted and put some bunks in. I think it made him feel kind of big league even though we were working in these dives.

We were on our way to Farmington, New Mexico when the engine blew up just after Raton Pass. We got the bus towed (scary) to a local diesel mechanic and rented a truck to get to the gig. We played two weeks in Farmington and the bus wasn’t fixed, so we bought a small wheelbase Dodge van to get to the next job in Hobbs. It was a four piece band and there was not enough room for everyone to have their own seat so one guy had to sit on another guys lap. No air conditioning in the middle of summer.

When we got to Hobbs, Steve took me aside to tell me he was breaking up the band and this was the last gig. He had been offered a job with a band from Nashville that was making good money. Ironically, the primary reason they hired him was that he had a bus. So, we parted ways.

Several weeks later, I was sitting around broke when Steve called, “I talked this new band into hiring you.” The plan was this; I would go to Pierre, South Dakota stay with the band for a week, learn the songs and replace the other guitar player the next week. I had about $50 to my name and I didn’t want to miss out on a weeks pay. I heard through the grapevine about another band looking for a guitar player. When I got to Pierre, I took the guy aside and gave him the contact info. He left that day and I went on that night with no rehearsal.

We played that week in Pierre, and the next week in Scottsbluff, Nebraska. After we were done on Saturday night in Scottsbluff, Steve and I hopped in a little Datsun and drove to Raton, New Mexico to pick up the bus, which was supposedly repaired. Our plan was to tow the Datsun back to Scottsbluff, pick up the band and be in Sioux Falls in time for sound check on Monday afternoon. So, after a wild midnight ride through Colorado the mechanic says, “It’ll probably leak some oil for 150 miles or so, takes a while for the rings to seat”. We went a couple of hours and the Datsun was covered stem to stern with oil that had blown out of the bus. We put in several gallons of oil and went on our way. Every couple of hours the same thing. We knew that the bus wasn’t fixed but had no choice but to keep going.

We picked up the band and things got worse. Driving through Nebraska the clutch failed. We could still go but we could not downshift. Sometimes, going up a hill , the bus would stall. We would unhitch the oil-doused Datsun, back the bus down the hill, restart the bus in first gear and re-hitch at the top of the hill. One hill was several miles long and very curvy on a two-lane road with no shoulder. About 100 feet from the crest of the hill, the bus stalled. There was no way to back down the curvy road. This was outside of Valentine in a very remote spot. Steve got out, sat by the side of the road and stated crying. It seemed hopeless. Then, from the other direction came another band with another Silver Eagle. These guys drove down the hill, turned around, and push-started our bus with theirs. The name of the band was Two For The Show, I never ran across them again but we sure appreciated their help.

When we got on the interstate in South Dakota we realized that this Sunday was the last day of the huge Sturgis bike rally. We had to do the back the bus down the hill act many times; angry bikers flipped off me by the thousand.

We finally made it to Sioux Falls after burning 27 gallons of oil for the trip. We played that week and the band broke up. I guess they realized that the bus was not going to be a reality.

Minutes after I heard the news Steve came knocking on my motel room door. He said, “I got a gig in Jackpot, Nevada next week. We will take Brian (the drummer) and pick up David Jones in Cheyenne.” David was a keyboard player whom we had both worked with before. David was a big bear of a man; he and I had a falling out about money so I had misgivings. I agreed to go otherwise I would be stranded.

Steve made a side trip up to Wisconsin to drop off the Datsun and gather the aforementioned Dodge van and we were off.

We stopped in Cheyenne and spent the night. It snowed four inches and it was deep into July. David and I met face to face and semi buried the hatchet. We were on our way to play three weeks in Jackpot.

Jackpot is a small cluster of casinos on the Nevada and Idaho border. For us, it developed into a strange scene. There were several stages and bands playing at all hours. We were on the smallest stage and had the graveyard shift, midnight to 5:00 a.m. The staff was very reserved to almost unfriendly. I think they had strict non-fraternization rules. There was not any partying with the help or the guests. My routine was, play till five, play blackjack till 10:00 or 11:00, drink tequila in my room till 1:00 or 2:00, sleep till around 9:00 then do it again. Some days I would eat some days not. The band was not hanging out with each other at all. I didn’t see much of David but I suspect he had about the same routine going. What I did not know until later was that David was a manic-depressive and with the odd hours he had messed up the routine of taking his medication.

We left Jackpot and headed up to Idaho Falls. We were to play at a Best Western there it was a nice place. On the way, there was tension between David and Steve. We had a small window of time that afternoon in which to set up. David wanted to eat first but there wasn’t time. He and Steve exchanged some heated words.

That night at starting time, David walked onstage with two restaurant trays. One was loaded with steak sandwiches, the other with Turkey and Cokes. As I said before, David was a big guy. I had noticed a pattern with him. After 10-12 drinks, his right eye would droop and he would go through a personality change. As he walked onstage, his eye was drooping.

Halfway through the first song David quit playing. I looked over and he was nonchalantly eating a sandwich. He took a few bites and then downed a drink. Steve said something to him after the song that seemed to upset him more. On the next song same routine, sandwich; drink. After that more words, then David put both forearms across the keys of the organ during a country ballad. This made a huge, acid, psycho caterwauling sound. At a rough and ready roadhouse, you might be able to slip this kind of thing by but not at a hotel bar.

After the shortened set, Steve (who had a habit of asking my advice than doing the exact opposite) asked, “What would you do?” “I’d fire the son of a bitch right now”, I replied. To my surprise, he fired him on the spot. The club manager decided not to fire the whole band and was very gracious in letting David stay in his room for the rest of the week so he could make other arrangements.

So, we were now a three piece band. David would come in, sit droopy-eyed, and watch us with angst. It was uncomfortable.

At this point, I was still not aware of David’s manic depression. I had no idea what that meant anyway.

Early on Saturday morning my phone rang and a drunken David was on the line from the room next door. David said, “Stevie Ray Vaughan is dead man”. I thought he was messing with me because we had just picked up a couple of Stevie tunes to do three piece. I said something angry and hung up the phone. I turned on the news and saw the awful story of the helicopter crash and the phone rang again. This time David said he had taken some pills. I asked what were they and how many. He gave me the name and I called poison control. They told me that it was a lethal dose. I hung up under protest from the nurse and went next door.

For some reason David had all his gear set up in the room. All his keyboards and amps as well as a full double-kick Ludwig drum set. There were hundreds of post-it notes stuck to gear, walls, ceiling and furniture. They were everywhere. On every note there was handwriting, they said things like, “Jack”, “Jack can save me”, “Must call Jack”. This stuff was on every one of those post-its. I was pretty weirded out. When I confronted David, he said he really had not taken the pills. He wanted to know that I wasn’t mad at him. Honestly, I was very pissed at him.

That night I was talking to the bandleader at the other Best Western down the street. He had heard some rumors and asked me why David had acted so strange. I remember saying in a very sarcastic tone, “He claims he’s manic-depressive”. The bandleader was offended by the tone and said, “I am manic-depressive also and you are an asshole for not showing some understanding.” The next day this guy turns around and hires David. He moves from Best Western to Best Western! We end up limping out of town a much less marketable three piece without him.

Over the years, I have gained a lot more knowledge of the manic depression cycle. I have found that many creative people fit the description.

Years later, I got together David and we sorted things out in our own way. That is a whole other story that involves playing softball with a blind man and the Wyoming State Patrol. Maybe another time.

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