My father's next duty assignment took us to Abilene, Texas and Dyess Air Force Base. This bastion of fundamentalist southern Christian denominations put a big dent in my philisophical growth. The individualism and creativity that characterized the popular music and styles of the day were rooted out, hunted down and crushed by the southwestern conservatism native to the area at the time. Looking different and being a military dependent generally meant an ass kicking was forthcoming at some point. My musical aspirations were applied to a new base kid band Transvaal Street Company. The name was selected from a mysterious place name from a history textbook. We thought it sounded cool and made no real connection to its South African origin. We played dances at the base youth center, and less successfully, at the Airmen's Club. We played British blues, Canned Heat, Hendrix and Credence Clearwater Revival.
One of the leaders in my Boy Scout troop in New Jersey, Carl Martin, had been assigned to Dyess around the same time as my father. He was an extremely accomplished guitarist, notably in the styles of artists like Chet Atkins. He could play in alternate tunings and chicken pick. From campfire sessions with him and other talented Scouters like Bennie Young, I had learned how to follow along playing rhythm guitar and could pick up on most songs quickly from my memory of my parents country records. His son David was quickly becoming a versatile and skilled bass guitarist. One day while visiting the Martin home, David and I were tapped to play a Christmas Eve gig in Brownwood, Texas. This was my first roadhouse job. I was only thirteen. Carl graciously allowed me to use his 1954 Les Paul goldtop and Gibson stereo amp for the job. The three piece band was put together with no rehearsal after the bandleader's regular crew quit or were otherwise engaged. David and I rode the cold eighty miles in the back of his pickup truck to this impending disaster.
The bandleader was a classicly trained musician who played fiddle and sang with a beautiful tenor voice. Beautiful, assuming chorale and opera is your choice in auditory pleasure. The patrons of the Lakewood Club however, were far more interested in the Nashville stylings of Ray Price, Marty Robbins and George Jones. The bandleader had me sing a a song from the songbook he carried with him that I was using for chord and lyric prompts (no rehearsal, remember) for some variety. My years of listening to my parents records paid off with an unexpected dividend. The club patrons had heard enough of their music turned into show tunes. They began to express their preference for my truer renditions by yelling "Let the hippie sing!", every time the bandleader would begin a song. I was thrust into the role of lead vocalist in addition to my guitar duties for the last two sets. This went along more or less satisfactorily until, insult to injury, the bridge on the bandleader's fiddle broke at the beginning of the last set. He now had no voice in the band at all. He wheeled in an old out of tune upright piano from the back of the club. He pounded some beers and then pounded holy hell out of that piano Jerry Lee Lewis style for the rest of the night. This suited me fine. I was now free to use my growing command of 50's and 60's rock grooves. We rode the freezing eighty miles back to Abilene, clutching our incredible salary of $6.00 each for the night's work. I was hooked.
Chapter 3 - Chicks Dig Guitar Players... - coming soon
