Life Lessons from Rock and Roll
As with any occupation, there are a lot of things you learn about life in a rock band. I found my share:
1) Never, ever piss off the roadies. We knew of a band that traveled in our circuits called “White Witch.” They were the opening act for the Allman Bros. at many shows. Their signature move (this was in the 1970s) when it was still novel, was for the drummer to do a solo in which he would finish by hitting just one drum and an explosive pot with a column of flame would go off. Then he’d hit another, with another explosion, etc.
He irritated one of his roadies, who juiced the explosion pots. On the first hit, a giant column—-many times larger than normal—-shot up. The drummer knew he was in trouble.
On the next hit, the explosion was nearly double the first. With the crowd going nuts and great trepidation he approached the third.
That explosion sent him completely off the stage.
Life lesson: don’t piss off those on whom you depend.
2) Always say grounded. Jesus spoke of building a house on a good foundation. We were playing in Flagstaff, Arizona on a stage that was about four feet high. On each end of the stage, sitting on the floor, were our “Voice of God” PA cabinets that stood six feet high. In the open space behind each cabinet—-to each side of the stage—-was an open space where we threw our cases, boxes, and lots of blankets which we used to pack stuff with.
Our guitarist, Chuck, had the habit of launching into the Jimi Hendrix version of the “Star Spangled Banner” when it suited him. The other guys walked off stage while he did this, but I’m behind a giant set of drums and was trapped. So I just kind of “rat-a-tat-tatted” behind his solo.
It was a lively crowd, and Chuck got carried away. He came back to his double tall Marshall amp stack and began rubbing the guitar, sexually, against the amps while it screamed its feedback (“EEEEOOOOWWAAAAAA”). But then he rubbed so hard that several of the frets came off his guitar.
In horror he looked at me and said, “What do I do??” I replied, “Well, they like it when you break stuff, so break something.”
He took off his guitar, threw it on the ground, and it continued the feedback moaning and screaming “EEESSSOOOOWAAAA”. The crowd loved it. He looked again. “What now?” I said, “Keep breakin’ stuff.” So, knowing he had the blankets on each side, he hoisted the guitar above his head as it howled, then threw it off stages. “EEEEEEOOOOOOOWWAAA”.
The crowd was definitely into this. “Now what?” he asked. “Keep breakin’ stuff,” I yelled.”
Chuck was a big guy, six-foot and easily 280 pounds. He hoisted up one of the Marshall speaker cabinets over his head (no small feat) and like a caveman yelled “Aaaaagggghhh” and threw it off stage.
He didn’t realize the cord was wrapped around his leg.
Have you ever watched the roadrunner cartoons where the roadrunner’s body would disappear first, but his head would stay on screen for a second? That was Chuck as it dawned on him he was going to be flying off stage.
You have to be grounded, part one.
3) Speaking of grounded, while playing Mobile, Alabama at a club called the Silver Fox, our keyboard player Audra forgot to ground his microphone. We started a song by “Free.” Audnra always played with his keyboard facing us, not to the front and the crowd. He leaned into the mic to sing and was knocked unconscious by the charge—-but somehow Aundra (also a huge guy) stayed on his feet. More astoundingly, he continued to play to the end of the song. His eyes were rolled back in his head and he was bent over backwards at a 45 degree angle. We said, “Man, Aundra, you were really into that song.” He said, “I don’t remember a thing after I went to sing.”
Life lesson: Make sure you are grounded, part deux.
4) Another visit to drummers and fire: opening for the James Gang (with Tommy Bolin, not Joe Walsh) in Yuma, Arizona, I had experimented with a flaming drum solo. I would use traditional tympani mallets, soak them in lighter fluid. Our singer, Corky, would squeeze them out, light them, and hand them to me. Meanwhile, the lights would go out and the rest of the band would wipe down my cymbals with flammable goo.
The crowd of 5,000 was really into it when the lights went out, and Corky, being the first time we did this, was so anxious he forgot to squeeze out the mallets before handing them to me.
My approach to the solo was to take something very easy and make it look hard. So I first took the power rock position of crossing my flaming sticks into a big “X” above my head. Then, very theatrically, I would hit just ONE cymbal on my left. “BOOM”—-Mekong Delta. It looked like Apocalypse Now. Half the stage was on fire, my guitarist had a fire extinguisher aimed at his guitar, and the crowd went NUTS. I realized what Corky had done. I screamed “CORKEEEEEE!”
He was behind me, head bobbing to my bass drum beat. He yelled ‘Yeah man!!”
I tried the right side cymbal. Pillar of fire, Mekong Delta again.
I had nine tom toms, so I tried a roll that hit all nine. Now I had eleven pillars of fire around me. Not good. I was about to become a human sacrifice. The crowd was insane at the thought.
The only place remaining for me to hit that wasn’t on fire was between my legs: my snare drum. So, expecting to be carted out in an ambulance, I began the fastest roll I ever performed in my life. It worked. Slowly the flames died out. I screamed at Corky. “CORKEEE!”
He was still bobbing his head to the bass drum. “Yeah man!!!!!”
Life lesson: Trust but verify.
These and other life lessons I learned in rock and roll proved quite valuable over the years, even as a university professor.