Most young men between the ages of twelve & sixteen, growing up in the sixties, toyed with the idea of becoming a musician. The number one instrument of choice was the guitar. To accomplish this dream, a Silvertone or Gibson acoustic flat top was available at most Western Auto stores for about $25.00. The biggest problem was that most boys this age did not have the $25.00. The two obvious ways to access the means were Mom & Dad or work. Mom & Dad were generally the easiest route; however, it meant waiting for a birthday or Christmas. “Money didn’t grow on trees you know”. The other avenues for acquiring this wealth were getting a paper route or mowing yards. For me, since I was the oldest, Mom & Dad were indeed the easiest approach to solve my debt crisis. The oldest kids, you see, were the trailblazers & the trend setters and for better or worse, parents of kids in the sixties wanted their children to have more than they had. After all, having grown up in the depression, and attending high school during World War Two was synonymous with “doing without”, and most of my buddies understood by the time they reached their teens that this was an opportunity to exploit.
So, on my way through puberty I reasoned that if I could get a guitar and learn to sing, I was just another undiscovered Elvis Presley. As it turned out I had a knack for singing and soon joined the church youth choir. My next move, while waiting for Christmas to arrive, was to buy all the 45 rpm records I could afford. Most dust jackets on the records in those days included the lyrics to the songs, so I would hole up in my bedroom during afternoons and evenings practicing my tone inflections. My Mom didn’t mind the wailing so much, but when my Dad arrived home from work, all bets were off on my budding career. “Turn that thing down” and “take that out to the garage” were the instructions that were shouted up the stairway in my direction. I wondered many times if Elvis had endured the same indignities before he hit the bigtime.
Christmas came and to no one’s surprise, a Silvertone Flat Top was propped against our family tree with a red bow around it’s neck and a note that Santa hoped that I would enjoy it. For the next week I picked and banged on that thing to my utter delight. What sounded like music to me was not permeating my household. I began to hear comments around the supper table like, “when do your lessons start” and “hope you learn something soon”. Even LB1 (Little Brother One), the staunchest ally on my trek to stardom, was expressing concerns about my progress. He had shared a bedroom with me since he was born and had become accustomed to my many whims. However, this one had necessitated his need to cover his head with pillows to get to sleep at night. I guess I should have gotten a clue when he no longer sang along on my 45th rendition of Sea Cruise by Frankie Ford.
So, a phone call was placed to Muncie Music Center with an inquiry as to the cost of guitar lessons. Big time snag here, my mom could not rob enough from the weekly food budget and my dad told me we needed a new lawn mower instead. The only chance I would have was to find one of my buddies to teach me. I had plenty of wannabe teachers but mostly they were just a few chords away from the beginner stage. Primarily though the biggest obstacle that I needed to hurdle was genetics. I had fat fingers. No matter how hard I plucked or strummed the only sound I could replicate sounded most like an alley cat with it’s tail caught in the backyard gate on a Saturday night. I laid my dilemma at the feet of one of my best friends who had struggled though trying to give me lessons while simultaneously keeping my fingers uncaught from the guitar strings. His solution was simple, you can sing, we always need singers, the world is full of lousy guitar players. I was not sure if I was encouraged or disillusioned. Not wanting to go down without collaborative feedback I cornered LB1 while he was brushing his teeth the next morning. I indicated that I was considering retiring from my guitar lessons in favor of focusing on my signing career. Looking back at me through the bathroom mirror, “Thank God” he spluttered through his Crest ringed lips.
Plunging fast forward into my future, the next few weeks were spent looking for opportunities to put my abilities into practice while climbing toward my first million dollars. In those days, most of us had been banished to our garages to work on our fledgling careers. It was helpful if the room was heated but the best attribute was good wiring and several plug-in outlets. Because our amplifiers often overloaded the fuse boxes and plunged the whole house into darkness, we were always in need of backup practice locations. It was not uncommon to see drum kits, amplifiers and microphones loaded into wagons or wheelbarrows rolling down the street on the way to another garage that had a stronger fuse box. Thus, the term Garage Band was coined and is still being used today. At the time, it was a pain in the neck and ended more than one promising career, but for those who stuck it out, it became a badge of honor.
Overcoming all the logistical challenges was insignificant to the human element. The majority of these “bands” were male and most had girlfriends. Maintaining a girlfriend was hard work. Girls wanted attention; guys wanted stardom. Practices were canceled or postponed, arguments ensued about the issue of priorities and infighting was commonplace about the importance of “practice”.
Then, out of the blue, one of the guys got asked if the band could play somewhere on Friday night for a 30-minute intermission fill in. Suddenly, we need a name, outfits, shoes, hair styles and most of all permission from our parents to go. Our parents were amazed that someone, anyone, was interested in paying to hear what they had been wearing ear plugs to shut out. Mostly, we needed the parents because we were not old enough to drive and needed the family station wagon to haul our equipment to the venue. Most of these venues were church socials or sock hops or street fairs and the pay was minimal. The pay mattered not in the beginning, we knew it was only a matter of time, before we would be commanding the big money on Saturday night at the American legion.
Friday night came, we stood in the wings, wearing our new madras button-down shirts and waiting on our next step up the ladder to fame and fortune. With our hearts beating in our ears, we ascended those three steps to the stage as the main act retreated in the opposite direction. They smiled at us, seeing their own reflection from just last year. We assumed our positions, looked out at the audience, who mostly had left to go get popcorn, our drummer popped his cymbals and my life changed forever.
On the ride home my buddy’s dad told us he thought we did a great job and pointed out that the audience clapped afterward. We didn’t feel it necessary to tell him that our girlfriends had brought their girlfriends and hand clapping was obligatory. On the ride home the mood was mostly quiet and reflective. In some strange way, we had crossed over the Rubicon. We were on the other side; we had been paid for our talent. We were on our way. Sleep would not come this night easily. Flashes of the audience, watching in admiration, were embedded in my subconscious.
Mom was the first one to ask at the breakfast table about our “gib”. Correcting her gently with “Gig, mom” I told her it was cool, trying to withhold my enthusiasm. Dad looked up from the morning paper and inquired “oh was that last night?”, as he returned to the editorial page. I grabbed a banana and headed down the street to Dave’s garage, I felt strangely older. He was there, the overhead door was open, and he was holding his guitar and staring at the clouds. I climbed up on a bar stool stared at the same clouds and asked how he felt. “Cool” he said. “Me too” I volunteered. “Do you see this as a future” he asked. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t take a hundred dollars for the way I feel right now” I said.
“Me neither” Dave replied.
That’s the way it was while I was growing up in the sixties.