CHAPTER 4: Home Town Jams: The Beginning

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Home Town Jams: The Beginning

Many fun times with J.B. Pemberton followed at his house. He and I were just having a ball. My mom and dad were proud of my talent, too, and that meant a lot to me. Dad got me a small Gibson amp and I would go over to J.B.'s and we would play songs that Ted had taught us. I can't tell you how much fun those times were. We would play for 2 or 3 hours at a time and that's way more attention span than I had ever endured before. This was for the pure fun of it and it was sounding good. We did this 10 or 15 times over the next couple of years. I was having the time of my life ... and so was J.B. He also played a chromatic harmonica pretty well, too, but guitar was the order of the day. It was unbelievable that after taking lessons for a few months with Ted (actually a matter of weeks) that I was playing guitar and able to play with my friend J.B. Something that had been a complete mystery to me, playing an instrument, was now attainable. I couldn't believe it. I was so excited. All this due to my Dad trading his 22 rifle for that first guitar and putting me in there with Ted.

My Mother

Before now, I haven't written much about my Mom, Effie Allsup. She was my biggest fan. If anybody was the Queen of "loving that I was interested in music" ... it was Mom. She was always supportive. Always encouraging. Not just for awhile, but for always. My mother was wonderful. The most tender person I ever knew. She alluded to her father many times and how he would have loved to see me play. Mom knew instinctively just how much I love music. It was a source of great happiness for her, and in return, her smiles filled me with joy. I lost my mom in April of 2000. She was 81 and I will miss her forever. I pray that I will see her again. A beautifully kind person like her just can't come to an end. I don't understand how it all works, but I feel pretty certain of that. How was I dealt the hand that included such a loving mother? As she lay there in her little bed at home ... so weak in those last days ... I kneeled over her, hugged her, and kissed her on the cheek. I had carried her in my arms, only a couple of weeks before, to get her in the car so we could have a doctor look at her. I feel so fortunate that the very last words I said to her before her death were "I love you, mom." Tears filled both our eyes, and although she was weak and suffering from the mid stages of Alzheimer's, she told me she loved me, too. I left ... went on the road to play music with 3DN... and she died. I was back East in Torrington, CT when I got the news. A phone call. One I had dreaded my entire life.

My mom, Effie circa 1987

I came back home to California for the funeral and to be with my dad, Fred, and family members. He asked me to play Amazing Grace on my Dobro at her funeral. It was a difficult decision at first. I definitely did not want to become a sideshow at my mother's funeral. Still, my dad had asked me to do it. I think that was the only song he ever liked that I played. For my Dad ... I did it. I was able to do it from a private room, upstairs at the back of the chapel where the services were held. I was out of view from everyone else, like I had wanted it to be. This was not a performance; I was burying my mother. When I started up the stairs to get ready to play, one of the young men that worked at the funeral home came up to me and asked me for my autograph. The nightmare I had so hoped would not happen, was happening. I was thinking, "Not here. My God! Not at my mother's funeral. Don't you understand?" As I looked up at him with amazement, I realized that he had no idea what I was thinking. He should have, but he didn't. I quickly came to the conclusion that the best thing to do was to just say "thanks" and sign an autograph for him. This would resolve it in the simplest and quickest way. He didn't mean to be rude; it was just a little unthoughtful of him. He had no bad intent. In fact, I'm sure he was a nice person and just acted before thinking it through. I looked around in dread that family members, or anyone else, had seen or heard what had transpired. Fortunately, we were alone. One of the unforeseen downsides of semi-notoriety. This was not part of my initial dream of music and success, at all. As I played the song, I don't believe I've ever felt a piece of music so strongly in my entire life. Every note and slide on the strings spoke the sadness of our loss. Although nervous that I would make a mistake at a time that it just HAD to be perfect. I knew it really didn't matter. It was the intent that counted. Fortunately, the music just had its way with me and out it came ... and then just that quickly ... it was over. I was proud to do it, for my mom, and for my dad. The lump in my throat was as big as an apple, but it felt good in my sorrow. Some that attended the funeral didn't approve or even understand, although most were very supportive about it. It may have been perceived by some as a bit blasphemous in nature, considering that instrumental music was never a part of the worship services in the Church of Christ. Or maybe it was just "less than reverent." It's hard to know what people's feelings are. Amazing Grace played on a Dobro ... blues style. It was right for me. It was right for my dad. That's all that mattered. After my initial squirming over being asked by him to do it, I ended up feeling so glad that I was able to do something for him. So very glad he had asked me to do something for him.

   1960: I built this kind of statue figure out of three 2" x 4" boards for the body and then ... well, you look. I called it "Arnold." This was also my bedroom, where I would practice all my new guitar songs that Ted Nelson was teaching me. As you can see from the picture, I definitely had guitar fever.

Music Nerd meets Music Nerd

   I had heard that a fellow classmate in 8th grade, Norman Fletcher, was into music and interested in learning the guitar. One night, I called him and we ended up being best friends and music mates. I would learn my lessons from Ted Nelson, then go over to Norm's house and teach him the routines. Pretty soon Norman was playing, too. In fact, he was playing good. He pursued the music on his own, as well. We spent all our free time together figuring out chords from Kingston Trio songs, as well as the vocals. The Ventures were new and "Walk Don't Run" was a cool instrumental. We learned that and more of their tunes. "Perfidia," "Skokian" to name a few. As our music insanity grew, we knew we had to get the nerve up to play somewhere. At Roosevelt Jr. High School, there was an upcoming assembly that all the students would attend. We decided we needed a drummer, preferably one that had some drums. We went to the music department there and were told that Jeff Lengyel was studying drums in band. We spoke with Jeff and he agreed to do it. He didn't have drums as I recall. Oh wait, he had one, a marching drum that he still had from the Palo Alto Military Academy that he had attended. We needed a snare and a bass drum, but as I recall, Jeff borrowed another tom tom from the band department. He may have also borrowed a cymbal, but that was it. Our big debut was two songs, if I remember correctly. One was "Charlie and the MTA" by the Kingston Trio and "Walk Don't Run" by the Ventures. That's right. Scared to death, but we did all right. We played well enough for us to become hooked. That was it. From that moment on, we had a mission and a cause. WE WERE A BAND!! We would rehearse (and I use the term loosely) at Jeff's house occasionally. We had no direction. We didn't play well enough to have a direction. Mostly we were playing a mixture of folk songs, Ventures tunes, and songs that Ted was teaching me in my lessons. A strange mixture, but we were on a roll. (* On a side note: A telltale sign of things to come happened one day when Jeff started "directing" this home movie of him and I doing magic. You know, the basics like: Hold the student body card in your hand. Be very still. Stop the camera. Drop the card without moving your hand. Restart the camera. Play it back and amaze yourself and your friends with how that card disappeared from your hand. So, there were the early signs of Jeff's calling in life, what would become a lifelong affair with a Panaflex camera and Hollywood. Personally, I say he missed his true calling, Gumby and clay animation.)

1961 below: My Dad in his most recurring routine: At the breakfast table in a sleeveless under shirt. Coffee and biscuit in hand. An image of him that is forever stamped in my mind.

   Upon entering high school in 1961, I got to see the "name" local band of Modesto: Kent Whitt & the Downbeats. They played at a Davis High dance. They were the best group in town. They were also the only group in town, at least that I knew about. I remember one day after school I was walking across the paved basketball courts outside the gymnasium and Kent Whitt was loading "in" his drums for a dance that night. He had this cool tear drop trailer for his drums and mics with the name of the band on it. When I first saw that trailer, the coolness of it hit me hard. I wanted us to have one. It was too bad that we were too young, had no money, no car and were still in school. End of story.

The guitarist in this group was a guy named Connie Hightman. Connie is a great player, and has played for years around Modesto. Connie held the bar high for all us younger pickers. In later years, I even bought a telecaster from him. The keyboardist was Bob DeLeon, who went on to be a disc jockey for a number of years. On saxophone was a little guy named Bobby Hedman. He was a really wonderful player with great tone. His horn? A Selmer Mark IV tenor with a metal mouth piece. Later, he and I would end up in a group together. On bass guitar was Bill Gross. I recall one time when Bill and I were riding in his Volkswagen. We were driving along when suddenly, he just locked up the brakes. and screeched to a halt. I braced myself and was waiting to see what the trouble was. He jumped out of the car, ran over to a fire hydrant, took a leak on the fire hydrant, then came back to the car and drove on like nothing had happened. I caught my breath and asked him "What was that all about?" He shrugged his shoulders and said "Huh? Oh, I don't know. I saw a dog do it somewhere" ... and that's the end of that story. The point being: These were the local "cool" guys. They were someone for the young musicians to look up to, and we did. And we did. An important thing, having hero's.

Norman, Jeff, and I just couldn't seem to get enough prank playing done in any one day. We were continually on the edge of disaster. To cite one case in particular: You know the old "phone the grocery store and ask 'em if they've got Prince Albert (tobacco) in a can" routine? Then when they say "yes," you say "well let him out , stupid," then give a wild hair raising laugh and hang up (It was hardly cutting edge, but at 13 or 14 it was funny). We started with that, but quickly moved on to winging it. We said "Let's just get out the phone book, close our eyes and pick a name from the book and call it." And so we did. The guy's name was Burl Rightmier. We started off just by talking ignorant and doing country accents and putting him on in general until he would slam down the phone and hang up. It escalated from there. We'd take turns calling him. It became a routine, like clock work. Virtually everyday. One day, me, the next day Jeff, then Norman. Once, we called and I think his wife answered. We asked for "Burl" and she said he was out back irrigating. Being nice guys, we said we would hold on and wait for him if she would go get him. She did. He must have been way out in the back 40 acres with his irrigating boots on. It took about 8 to 10 minutes for him to come to the phone. Man was he pissed when he found out it was just us again, but something new was added this time. He thought he knew who we were. In fact, he thought it was just one person that kept phoning him. He said "Fucky! Is that you? Damn it, stop calling here. I thought we had a talk about this. Whenever you're drinking you always blah, blah, and ....etc." and just kept going off on us as we would reply in an exaggerated country accent using the F word mixed with rural metaphors. Kind of a Festus Hagen or Chester from the television series "Gunsmoke" kind of thing. Well, that was like throwing gas on a fire to us. We must have hounded that poor man for a couple of years. Sometimes not calling him for a month or so, and then, get right back into it on a regular basis. All 3 of us. This was young boy orneriness in full bloom. Norman told me later that, while working at his dad's grocery store (Norman's Fine Foods) a guy came in that he knew named Bill Washam and just "out of the blue" started talking about how his very best friend for years, Burl Rightmier, had turned on him and never wanted to speak with him again, without ever explaining why. So if you think we were just young boys wasting our time on music. Not so, not so at all. We were wasting our time on lots of things. We had other inspirations that took flight on occasion, as well. This was just one of them. Very busy, we were. Nothing really harmful, just serious pain in the ass, mischievous stuff.

   In high school, Norman, Jeff and I were were to meet Danny Johnson, who had just started playing piano and organ. We wanted a keyboard man and he agreed to go for it. Danny was perfect for us. As well as having a burning desire to play music, he also had a "sick" adolescent sense of humor himself. One that included a great respect for the high level of our stupidity. Yes. He would work perfectly. We practiced and practiced and soon started playing dances at the school gymnasium. The following pages chronicle the outcome of our efforts, and then some.

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