Did you ever want to be famous? I mean the instantly recognizable Elvis Presley or Howdy Doody type of fame where people keep you in their memory ad infinitum (“He’s not really dead” and “He’s not really a puppet”). I did at one time, but eventually figured it was better to be one small step up from a nobody than to be an outrageously popular top-of-the-heap somebody.
When I was in a rock group that had a minor hit on the WLS Silver Dollar Survey, the accompanying modest fame was great for getting girls, but not so great at concerts, where our gold tuxedo jackets had buttons ripped off along with some sparkling fabric when we were mobbed by screaming, overly-enthused teenybopper female-types, or being chased down auditorium hallways by the aforementioned and seeking refuge in men’s bathrooms.
That fame was sort of fun, but fleeting, and soon the five us were back to our Nowhere Man lives. Nonetheless (when was the last time you heard somebody use that word?), during our days of glory we had other interesting experiences that didn’t involve rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth teenagers of the opposite gender. At one concert, in addition to our regular shtick, we were also going to be the back up band for Johnny Tillotson (Poetry in Motion, Talk Back Trembling Lips). Johnny was a friend of our lead guitar player and we knew the songs he’d be singing. Our combined musical repertoire amounted to any tune that could be played in three chords, so we practiced and picked out notes by ear while listening to Johnny Tillotson records. We were well prepared at show time as we pumped out our songs. During the break, Johnny told us he had a bit of a cold, so drop the key a half step. What?! We didn’t play by keys and notes and stuff like that. We played by ear. Did he ever think how hard it would be for a drummer to play a half-key lower? Our two days of rehearsing drained out of us with the sweat on our foreheads. We managed to muddle through the set without flushing our short-lived careers down the porcelain receptacle.
Thinking we should be on the road more, our manager got us booked to play on a parade float in Crown Point, Indiana, the town made famous by John Dillinger. I never realized how many times a float made quick stops and turns until I stood behind my portable organ, attempting to play without falling over it. If you’ve ever fallen over your organ, you know how painful that can be. I believe the gas-powered generator feeding us electric juice was more on key than we were.
Another on-the-road trip contracted for us was not on an asphalt road but on a rail road. We plied our trade in a club car for a Rich Central High School after-prom party on an Illinois Railroad overnight jaunt from Homewood to Southern Illinois University. The school had commandeered an entire train for the soiree´-on-wheels. Once we were used to the rockin’ and rollin’ of the train, it wasn’t too bad. We even played for free the next morning on the trip back north, but most of the student population was too burned out to remain in an upright position to absorb anything. We could have hammered out Louie, Louie all the way home and no one would have noticed.
There was a short period of excitement for us due to our lead singer (I’ll call him Tom) frolicking on the sly with some guy’s wife. The guy offered to resolve the uncomfortable situation by leaving Tom’s bullet-riddled body in a conveniently located ditch. We decided to do our rehearsing on the third floor of our bass player’s farmhouse so Tom would have an overview of the surrounding area. Tom kept a loaded shotgun standing next to the window at each practice just in case the irate husband had staked out the perfect ditch.
Eventually our recording contract with King expired and we faded into the One-Hit-Wonders sunset. King was more interested in their heavy hitters such as James Brown anyway, so thoughts of renewing our contract also faded into the One-Hit-Wonders sunset.
But such is life. All the members of my band, except me, have passed into Rock ‘n’ Roll Heaven. And some days I’m not so sure about me.