Traveling Man

Six Liverpudlians

The other day on PBS I watched the documentary Best of the Beatles.  It's a pun title and the same as used on one of Pete Best's albums - the one that really pissed off John and the other Be-at-les.  The fairly straightforward documentary is both entertaining and enlightening, with just a smidge of self-serving commentary from local Liverpudlians, family, and Pete himself.  Mostly it's honest and poignant and more evocative of the era than other more expensive, high-profile pieces I've seen.

Pete really was one of the Beatles, along with John, Paul, George, and Stuart Sutcliffe, who died very young (of a brain aneurysm, I believe.)  Just before signing a record contract (Decca?), Pete was booted out of the group and Ringo was brought in.  I've always thought this a bit unfair, but there might have been other conflicts: its sometimes implied that Pete wasn't a top-notch drummer (this seems unlikely), or that he was getting all the girls (Pete's suggestion), or that he wasn't completely compatible with the raucous, even licentious Beatles of the Hamburg era.  Perhaps.  Tough break for Pete, though, who'd had his sights set on stardom.

Pete eventually left the music business and made an ordinary English living, like the rest of his mates.  Sometime in the 1980s he got a new band, and together with his brother went on the road.

Last October here in Wilmington, DE, I picked up the paper and noticed a small ad listing Pete and his band, playing that evening at Kelly's Logan's House, a bar that serves food and offers a small upstairs room and stage, only a mile or so from my downtown apartment.  Although Kelly's, established in 1864 and on the National Register of Historic Places, was across the street from our favorite grocery, I'd never been inside.

Reading that ad, I had one of the strangest feelings I've ever experienced.  I can't explain it, or even describe the emotion.  It really took me back, though.  In 1964, when I was fifteen, I lived in Houston, and was offered tickets  to the Beatles concert at the Coliseum.  Staying loyal to the Beach Boys, I turned down the tickets.  Later I fell in with the British Invasion - the Hermits, The Animals, the Stones, etc. - and went to every gathering.  This was the real beginning of the 1960s in Texas.

I've always loved live music. Texas was (and still is) full of hillbilly, rockabilly, folk and country singers, pickers, garage and bar bands.  Everything.  In 1956, at Magnolia Gardens (near Galveston), I saw Elvis perform.  1-9-5-6.  I was seven and even then he was electrifying.  (And the dance floor was concrete, so that's dangerous.)

Really dumb choice, of course, rejecting those tickets.  I knew the Beatles concerts were short - about 45 minutes in those days - and deafening, so that you couldn't really hear the music; but I've always regetted missing the experience.  I didn't miss any concerts after that, chasing festivals around the country to be in the moment.  But I missed that quintessential Beatles concert.  Over the years I got to hear Ringo and Paul in concert, and Ravi Shankar and other near-misses; these were Beatle-like experiences.  The day in 1981, when I walked by the Dakota near Central Park, struck home the most.  I mourned the talent and legend and lost promise of John Lennon; a very sad day for everyone.  An unfinished life.

Let's be respectful but joyous.  It's 2007 and I'm here in Wilmington.  Laurie was out of town on a business trip, so I reserved a ticket, then had dinner, took the bus over, and arrived early enough to pay for the $22 ticket and walk inside.  I don't drink alcohol so I bought a Coke and found a seat in the tiny upstairs room.  There was a second bar at the room's back and a small dance floor, plus a few stools arranged in front of the windows; but the stage, covered with two drum kits and ampliers and guitar stands, dominated the room.

I'll cut to the chase.  A local band opened and they were quite entertaining; I think they were energized to be opening for Pete.  After that, Best's band took over.  I think the second drum set belong's to Pete's brother; they both play, while Pete (who is 65) also sings a bit.  An interesting band with lots of credits, talented musicians and singers.  Pete selected songs he'd actually played in the early Beatle years, plus some later songs that were crowd-pleasers.  The room wasn't full - less than a hundred people, probably, and fairly young.  There were only a few seats (I'd grabbed a stool early and a young blonde parked on my lap  for most of Pete's concert; I wasn't annoyed, exactly, since the floor was crowded, but she might at least have asked.)

After the music, Pete chatted and signed autographs.  I know this is a little cheesy, given the vagaries of history and how far the Fab Four had actually carried their banner without Pete along for the ride.  But I truly admired the forgotten Beatle, who took the ingredients he'd been given and made pudding with it.

Imagine that

I enjoy listening to the singers on American Idol.  I was struck by David Archuleta's rendition of "Imagine".  It troubled me at first, since most versions sound like either that of a poor Lennon imitator, or of a Vegas lounge singer (in the Bill Murray vein.)  But listening to the song again, I liked David's version quite it bit.  It wasn't perfect, but I think Lennon would have liked this.  It had one thing John ached for but could not conjure up, not at the point in life when he'd written it: innocence.

Bedouin tribes ascending

I've always lusted for guitars.  While I was still a teenager, I owned a Gibson Hummingbird, a Rickenbacker (the same style John Lennon played on Ed Sullivan), and a Fender Stratocaster (made famous by Jimi Hendrix), all at the same time.  Amazingly, those guitars were affordable then.  We had a band called Private Dryve (or Pryvate Drive - I can't remember).  I wanted to name the band Empire, but I was outvoted.  Like most garage band quartets of the 1960s, we had roles within the band: I was the iconoclast and rhythm guitarist, and sang as little as possible.  We were awful as musicians, too, but it was a lot of fun to play.   My least-forgettable moment was jamming with a garage band that later had a Number One hit, then disappeared from the mainstream.  They were visionary, though.  Brilliant artists.  I'll leave them alone.

In 1981, while in New York on a business trip to see Isaac Asimov (a deal that didn't work out), I wandered through Central Park and later found myself in front of the Dakota, where Yoko Ono lived and where John had been gunned down on that sidewalk.  I don't know what I expected to see.  It was very sad.  Years later I was able to fold that sadness into his music, but it took a long time.

A. A. Milne once said: "Wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest a little boy and his Bear will always be playing."

That's how I'll always think of John.

You know that can't be bad.

I stopped playing music for a long time.  On my 50th birthday a few years ago, I decided to buy myself a present: a new guitar.  I'd only had one guitar since the 1960s, an old 3/4 Martin I'd found in a pawnshop in Nashville in 1971 for $50.  The head was broken off and put back on with a nail, and though I had the guitar repaired, the head fell off again and I gave up.

So it was my 50th birthday and I wanted a guitar.  After playing in music stores for a month, I chose an acoustic Martin.  The Dreadnought's mahogany body and rosewood fretboard are modeled after their 1940s guitars.  Its sound is warm and rich, while the trebles are clear and crisp, like bells; I was in Heaven.

Years passed.  Last February, my son Sean and I went to Mardi Gras, then met Laurie in Houston for her parents' 50th wedding anniversary celebration.  I'd already been in Houston the previous November (after attending the World Fantasy Convention in Austin) to visit relatives; and since the Martin 's neck had been mysteriously cracked a while back, I'd been pondering a new guitar.  I saw some I liked in Houston, but I didn't commit.  I'm really slow about commitment.

So, after the anniversary party (my second time in Houston in four months), I went back to the music store to play guitars.  I fell in love with a Taylor.  The rep Jimmy offered me a great discount and free shipping, and my new guitar was in Wilmington almost before I got home.

A year passed.  Last week, I realized I missed the Martin.  Since the guitar has a lifetime guarantee, I called the factory, but they told me they didn't fix guitars.  However, I found a promising local  repairman, and delivered the guitar to a music store; he had an arrangement with the owners and said he'd pick up the Martin soon.  After I handed off the guitar to a young girl working there, I wandered about the store, slowly gravitating to the music room, which is by tradition full of nice guitars, and is soundproofed, in case you scream with pleasure.

For an hour - completely ignoring my bus, which came and went - I picked up numerous styles of guitars and plucked away.  I finally settled on a stool with a twelve-string Taylor (twelve strings are impossible to keep tuned, so I never bought one) and a small but hearty amplifier (my Taylor is acoustic-electric, but I haven't owned an amp since the 1960s.)  Amazingly, the two pieces of equipment fit together, like a Spartan and a good fight.

The bus came by again.  It was snowing now, and I wanted to get home.  Finally coming to my senses, I bought a few guitar picks and some new strings and left, nodding to the girl as she promised once more to fix my Martin.

On the bus ride home, I realized I was going to buy the twelve-string and amplifier. 

But I guess you knew that already.

Ralph Stanley concert

Yesterday, I saw Ralph Stanley (still in pretty good voice at 80) and his Clinch Mountain Boys. Pete Rowan was there also, with the Tony Rice quartet. Ralph did "O Death" and "I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow," with plenty of other bluegrass and gospel standards. He may be the oldest musician I have seen still performing, and he was also sitting quietly at the record table with the rest of his boys, including his son and grandson, signing and chatting. He reminisced about mustering out of the Army in 1946 and starting his music career. Amazing.