from a letter

Your experience put me in mind of the days after I returned from the hospital in summer of '94. Keep in mind that this commital came after several months of shaping Johnny Bravo into a band that I had extremely high hopes for. Things came together so quickly, so smoothly and so naturally that I felt there was no way our music and style wouldn't catch on, especially in the musical environment of what was going on in the 90s (perhaps, in my opinion, the worst decade for pop/rock/alternative music, despite a few bright and shining lights in the darkness). We had a phenomenal lyricist in Mike Christian. I had a real gift for coming up with skeletons of songs for Hardwich to hang his guitar parts on. Randy was a great drummer whose enthusiasm for finally playing original music after years with a cover band was manifest in a more original style that I was able to lock into. But most of all...the MOST important thing...we all became the best of friends in the process. The absolute BEST of friends.

So it was with a crushing sense of heartbreak that I found myself away from them. The recovery from the episode took several days, so I was basically out of it when Mike, Mike & Matt Lisle came to visit. From what I've been told I couldn't even speak. It is a process, bouncing back from a manic episode, and it happens in stages. Soon enough I began to get back my passion for the band. Every time I called the guys, or whenever they called me, all I could talk about was getting out, getting back together and getting the show back on the road. I had a deep fear that this unexpected halt would find the others, especially Randy, looking to play with other bands. (I think I was most worried about Randy because I knew he could find paying gigs whenever he wanted). But they all assured me we would pick up where we left off just as soon as I came home and was ready.

Which we did. We'd rented the storage area of an old pawn shop that had been closed forever so we congregated there, gear at the ready...Christian even had a Hammond B3 organ that he'd recently purchased from "Crazy Charlie" Roberson. Of course there was plenty of dope to go around...looking back I'm not sure if I got high. I may have given my weed usage a sabbatical in hopes of an even greater degree of recovery, but then again it is entirely possible I got good and high. (on second thought, I probably did NOT get stoned, because I would have blamed my less than stellar playing on the drugs, and I know it wasn't for that reason)

We started out playing some of the old familiar material. I don't know if I can describe how I felt when I played. I felt like every note I played was a stroke of luck, that I'd lost my talent. I felt like the ideas I threw out were lame. I knew the other guys noticed and were disappointed. Now all of this was in my mind. I was playing fine, I just wasn't able to find my own personal groove, my own style, it was all so rote. Though I thought that the material I was coming up with was very lame, when things turned around several months later and we recorded it I realized it was actually quite good. In fact at least one of my favorite Johnny Bravo songs was written during this period.

Even so, this particular month found me loathe to perform in front of an audience. This was nothing but paranoia. I just knew that people were looking at me, judging my ability as well as the sound of the band and the songs I played a key role in writing. We had only performed a couple of times in the pre-hospital past and they were great times, but now things felt different.

It was kind of ironic, then, that though we'd always sought out opportunities to perform it wasn't until I'd developed this fear of playing that we were asked to play a pretty good gig with a good possibility of doing more in the future.

It was Friday night at the Samarai and we were to 0pen for Randy's old band Warren Peace. Their lead singer had suggested and asked us to do it. Just one night. Even so I dreaded the thought, if it weren't for the excitement of the others I would definitely have said "no". But I loved those guys. They knew I wasn't "feeling it" just yet and I think they took that into consideration, but they were ripe for playing in front of people (like I would have been). So I said "yes", since it was only one show.

The performance went off exactly as I knew it would. I was so paranoid, there was no way anyone could not have sensed it. From the very first song I could not wait for the last song to end. I'm not sure exactly how well I played. Probably a lot better than I thought I did. I was nervous. When our show ended I was so relieved. I'm not sure but I think around that time I was already considering leaving the band because 1.) I didn't want to weigh the others down and 2.) it had become a bane, constantly reminding me of what used to be and pointing out what I felt sure could never again be.

Get this. JJ (WP's singer) was bowled over. He LOVED us. He liked it so much that he asked us to play again the next night. This was a sad milestone. For the first time in my life I didn't want to play a gig I was asked to play. Of course Mike, Mike & Randy were excited about the possibility and really wanted to do it. But I just couldn't. I'd hoped they'd understand. I don't know if they did or not. They did everything short of begging to talk me into coming back the next night and doing that show with them. It should tell you how messed up I was, how awful the experience was for me, that I dismissed them, put my foot down and stood my ground with a firm "no". I couldn't do it. I knew I was losing all of the talent I might have had.

The strain eventually became too much. Randy got another offer to play with his old band and I don't think any of us thought the band could bounce back from the last couple of months. In defense of Randy (and the others as well) I was probably the one whose disposition, etc., led to an atmosphere that wasn't conducive to what was necessary to keep the band going. We actually wrote some pretty good songs during that period, though.

I laid down the bass and didn't play for two or three years. I didn't want to. I wasn't sure I could anymore, after the depressing way Johnny Bravo turned out. I went to work at Oakridge, spent my time raising my son, to be honest I didn't miss it all that much.

But in 97 I got a call from Richard Alkire who was wanting me to join the house band at Charlie's Palace. It was primarilly a country music gig, so I would have no trouble working my way in...country is easy for me and I'd already played a lot of the songs they were doing. I guess I'd progressed past the point where paranoia was a legitimate fear because I actually found myself excited about the prospect of playin in front of people again. I accepted the offer.

The next year and a half was filled with some of the most fun music making I've ever been part of. I guess it should be stated that I never played a single night when I wasn't good and stoned. Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, $50 a night. I was well liked by several people who frequented the club and was already pretty good friends with most everybody on the stage. It was low stress because, as I mentioned, country music comes very naturally for me (who knows why...).

a few random words about my dad

Some recollections about my father...

My dad wore western shirts almost exclusively. Or white t-shirts when he was settled in at home. Never once did I ever see him where a shirt with a logo on it. He wore caps with logos all the time, but never shirts. He always wore cowboy boots. Seriously, I can't remember a single time I saw him wearing regular shoes.

His hobbies, at least when I was a kid, were raising a couple of horses and the rodeo. He had a female stallion (?) named Tootsie and Trigger, a Shetland pony I liked to think of as mine. He might as well have been ours. I'll never forget the time I was on his back and something made me kick his hind quarters, that horse took off 60 mph and left me on my ass before shifting gears.

Anyway, dad really loved rodeo, and he was a pretty good calf-roper. I seem to recall someone saying he liked to buck bronchos and maybe even ride bulls, but if I ever saw him do that I don't remember.

He drove a truck for a long time. I can remember waiting for him to get home on Christmas eve so we could open our presents. I don't remember how long stretches of time were between runs.

He was an industrious workaholic. The first thing he did when we moved into our new house, about 1970, he built a storm shelter on the west side. Many was the time the neighbors from both sides would show up and go underground with us when the tornado siren blew. He, on the other hand, stayed up watching for the twister until it was absolutely necessary that he go below. I think I got that habit from him.

Next he designed and built a little tin shed (that's what we called it) where he could keep his tools and do stuff. He even tapped an electrical line into it so he'd have light when it got dark. Eventually he expanded it so he'd have some extra room to store a riding lawnmower he'd bought. I loved that tin shed. Many times I wanted to take my bed and all my stuff out there and make it my own pad. Which sounded like a good idea at the time but even though dad had wired it for light, there was no heating unit or air conditioner.

He did his own roofing and every winter he'd put up what he called "bisqueen" on all the windows to seal in the heat. Every couple of weeks he would re-arrange all of the furniture in the living room. I assume he got tired of looking everything in the same place for too long. Actually that's something I'd like to do, but our furniture is too big and there's not really another place we could put the tv.
After I moved out he built a big shop in the back yard (actually it was built on what used to be a garden). I don't know his exact purpose for building it at the time, but eventually he used it for painting cars. He did that as a second job, as far as I know.

The last several years of his life his full time job was driving a school bus. Most of the kids really liked him. He was a very likable person. But I heard that one time some little shit asses made fun of his ears and that hurt him. I mean, I don't know how much he let it get it to him...he may have just brushed it off, I may just be projecting how it would have made me feel. Caseys got big ears, get used to it. Kids can be mean.

Every single morning, without fail, he would go to one of the local cafes/restaurants and drink a few cups of coffee. Most of the time he had buddies there to swap lies with but no matter, he was a creature of habit when it came to that. And he was fiercely loyal to the particular coffee shop he was patronizing...that is, he was until you pissed him off. You could find him at the 99'er every morning about such and such time, unless Norma Lee or somebody else behind the counter said or did something that made him mad, then you'd find him at the Downtown cafe, or wherever. Inevitably he'd get pissed at them a month or two later and all was forgiven at the 99'er. Once I remember he was super pissed at both of them so he'd get his coffee at a truck stop 7 miles down Hwy 99 at the Interstate 40 exit. There came a point when he'd ask me to come along and I did sometimes. I know this, though...I didn't go along nearly as much as I wish I had.

It was kind of the same way with his best friend. They'd be thick as thieves for years then one or the other would get pissed off and they avoided each other like the plague. Then, maybe a couple of months, maybe a couple of years later they would "kiss and make up" and it was like if you saw one of them you only had to wait a minute to see the other. To an extent that's the way it's gone with the only person in this town I've sort of considered a friend. Off and on, to the point where we have even acknowledged it and tried to figure out why it is the way it is.

Of course there were bad times between me and him. And of course I don't want to talk about them here. But when it was all said and done I respected and admired him for living through the hardest part of his life. That December was hell for all of us (him, Charles and me). Some of that stuff is buried pretty deep anyway, I'm not even sure myself if my memories are to be trusted. This blog is supposed to be honest and transparent, so I'm sure eventually I'll come around to some of the less pleasant things, but not now.

In the Light of the Holy

In the Light of the Holy
In the Light of the Holy
I can finally see beyond the Looking Glass
Questions few can bring themselves to ask
     I have found some Answers
For the Future and the Past
     No longer matter
In the Light of the Holy

In the Light of the Holy
In the Night there are songs I've heard
That Lift my Spirit to the Starlit Sky
That force the Teardrops from my stubborn Eye
     and I feel no Shame
Illuminate the Truth behind the Lie
     and ease the Pain
In the Light of the Holy

I will take no chances, it is worth the risk
No Sacrifice to see the World like this
My sole Regret is everything I missed
Before I opened my eyes
Before I opened my Mind

In the Light of the Holy
And the Light of the Holy
Shines brighter than it ever has before
Reflecting on the banks of Heaven's shore
     bright as sunshine
In the Light of the Holy