Chapter 60 – The Big C

Between the songs I posted on Fame Games (doing quite well, I might add), the gigs at Kimbro’s, the buying and selling of rare musical instruments on Ebay, I was keeping busy. The next mountain to climb was Daniel’s Bar Mitzvah slated for October 17, 2009—another year to go. His mother and I traded off taking him to Congregation Micah on Sundays and we knew he would do great when the time came for his torah portion. Morgan was anticipating the second ceremony knowing his would be not only the next Bar Mitzvah, but the last one. It must be hard being the youngest of three boys. Both of his brothers had a one-on-one experience with me on our trips to L.A., and soon it would be his turn. Unfortunately, with the expense of the Bar Mitzvah looming, it was going to be impossible to leave that summer, when he, as his brothers had been, ten years old. Little did I know, the ominous news I would soon receive would put a damper on everything.

In the middle of August 2009, Donna was lying in bed next to me with a worried look on her face. I asked her what was wrong and she said she wanted me to check something on her left breast she had noticed a week ago. She ran my hand over a lump the size of a half dollar and I screamed, “HOLY SHIT! How long has that been there?”

The next morning Donna made an appointment at her GYN, and the next thing we knew she had another appointment at a surgeon at Williamson Medical Center. Ironically she was recovering from chemotherapy from a stint with lymphoma herself and when we met her, she had a bandana covering her head. This damned disease is rampant! The doctor asked Donna if she was busy tomorrow since she wanted to bypass the biopsy and remove the lump. Benign or malignant, it would be best to get rid of the thing. On August 20^th, my good friend, Doug Fieger’s birthday (who had been diagnosed with cancer some years earlier but seemed to be on the road to recovery) I was outside the hospital waiting on news from the surgeon. I was so nervous I was smoking a cigarette (a roll-your-own) when the phone rang, the surgeon told me in no uncertain terms that it was a tumor and was malignant. I looked at the cigarette in my hands and felt disgusted that I should be smoking when I heard the news that my wife had breast cancer. I tossed the ciggie down and crushed it under my boot. I wanted to cry but couldn’t—I guess I was in shock. I think I stayed that way for at least a year afterwards. The prognosis was scary since the tumor had gone beyond the margins which means that it was spreading and they had also found a second in the same breast. She had to have surgery to remove the breast—maybe both.

How could this be happening to her? There is no history of cancer in her family. If anyone should have it (knock on wood ten times) it should be me. My mother and father both had breast cancer, and my father had died from a sarcoma of the lungs in 1989, two months shy of his70^th birthday. I tried to think of all the reasons why. Maybe it was in the plastic bottles she would drink from everyday? It couldn’t have been her diet, and she didn’t smoke. What the hell!

In a letter to her sister on September 1, Donna wrote: Saw the plastic surgeon today who will do the reconstruction. He spent a lot of time with us and explained the whole procedure and explained which option is best for me. It's going to be more lengthy than I thought as immediately after the mastectomy they have to put in an expander which stays in for about 4 months and is gradually inflated by injecting saline every week or two. They have to stretch the remaining skin and muscle to make room for the implant and then when it's the right size they remove the spacer and put in the permanent implant. It looks like the surgery will be Sept 16^th or 17^th as the 2 surgeons can't coordinate it until then. I see the oncologist on Fri so I won't have any more new information until then. I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact my hair's going to fall out but I've talked with a couple of people who have just gone through it and they said the chemo wasn't as bad as they thought it would be. 

Donna was going to lose her hair from the chemotherapy (scheduled to begin after the surgery in late September), that was a given, so to lessen the shock I bought an auburn Joan Collins bob style wig on Ebay—not some cheap thing, but a nice one from real human hair. The plastic surgeon, Dr. Behar, was a guy from my neck of the woods, New York, and we hit it off right away. There were times when we were talking so much about the east coast, and what it was like being a Jew in the Bible-belt in his office, Donna had to interrupt while pointing to her chest, “Uh guys, I’m the patient here, remember?” We both looked sheepishly at each other with guilt. Want to know what kind of woman Donna is? She was planning on scheduling her chemo on Thursday afternoons so she could miss only one day of work (Friday) and be back at it by Monday. I don’t know how she could do it. I would tell her later, she didn’t have to go back until she felt better or until the chemo was over but she said, “I just want to go back to my normal routine, all of this cancer stuff will only get me down if I have to sit around the house all day dwelling on it. Plus, I hear working can be the best thing you can do to get on with things.” How could I argue with that? I mean, she has got to be the toughest person I’ve ever met in my life. I don’t think I could be that strong. What a hero! The hardest part for her was how she was going to tell the children. Before the surgery we sat the three boys down in the den and I said that there was some very upsetting news, but that everything was going to be okay. I can’t remember the exact words but we told them that their mother had cancer and that the doctor was going to cut out the bad stuff and would have medicine to fight anything that was left in her body so it wouldn’t spread. She has the best doctors we could find and they think your mom will be fine after awhile. “She is going to be very weak boys, so anything you can do to help out around the house will be appreciated. Please try not to worry.”

All three of their reactions were different. Jonathan became tearful since he was the oldest and knew the dangers of the dreaded disease. Daniel asked if all her hair was going to fall out with a concerned look on his face. Morgan, the stoic one, said nothing.

The surgery on the 17^th went well and after a day in the hospital she was released. I tried the best I could to wait on her hand and foot while taking care of the boy’s needs. I had no idea she did so much and I was exhausted by bedtime and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

In a second letter to her best friend, Irene, on September 30, Donna wrote:  Hi, here's the latest news on this weeks appt's. I'm feeling well and doing better every day. Beginning to work on getting my shoulder movement back and using it a bit more. It's amazing how much you use your shoulder and chest muscles for driving, especially parking. We went to a "College Night" at Jonathans high school last night and I drove there but had James drive back as I was a bit sore, probably from the doctor appt earlier that day and having drain removed and expanding process started.

Here's the plan:-

Wed 30... nothing except Bar Mitzvah work/planning.

Thurs 1... day surgery to have port placed under the collar bone and into a vein to have IV chemo through.

Fri 2...Daniel birthday, whole body PET scan, 2 soccer practices.

Sat 3... Haircuts for the boys, 2 soccer games (both at same place at 9am luckily).

Sun 4... Hebrew Sunday School.

Mon 5... nuclear medicine Heart scan at the hospital (I'm beginning to glow in the dark!!)

Tues 6th...plastic surgeon appt, school soccer tryouts for Daniel.

Wed 7th... Nothing as yet except Bar Mitzvah stuff.

Thurs 8th...Start chemotherapy.

Haven't anything else planned beyond that at this point except for the the Bar Mitzvah.

    In between all this we (or rather James) is trying to paint, do some tiling, steam clean carpets and I'm trying to organise (she spells it the British way) a Bar Mitzvah and party for 100 people. The house is a wreck and my mum, dad and you arrive on the 13th, Susan on the 15th and Jonathan's friend Sam the 16th. Robbie and Carol are coming on the 14th but they're going straight to Memphis to do a little sightseeing and then back to Nashville. They're staying in a hotel and so are Max and his girlfriend and Emily. We're just trying to take it day by day just now and hoping everything falls into place.

    Today is also Daniel's birthday. It's hard to believe he's 13 already but in some ways he seems very grown up. You wouldn't recognize him. When all 3 of the boys are together they are told that they are like the Jonas Brothers. (do you know them?). Of course they hate that as they say they are a girl band. They'd much rather look like Ozzie Osborne. YUCK.

     Anyway, hope you booked enough time to read all this. Hope you're staying well, staying happy and staying busy. Too much time on your hands is dangerous and bad for you. At least that's what I tell James when I need him to do something! 

     Talk with you soon. Thanks again. Love you.

Donna XXX

To be continued . . .

Chapter 59 - Daniel’s Turn

Dad and Daniel in 2002

Daniel now at 18

My niece, Emily, was graduating from Harvard-Westlake High School, and all the Tennessee Haymers made the excursion. My brother, Robbie and my sister-in-law, Carol were living up in the Encino Hills at the time in a huge gated house with Emily (Max was living down in Orange County, a junior now at UC Irvine). There was a nice kidney-shaped pool in the backyard and a Weber grill on the patio. We made good use of both those accoutrements— believe you me.

It was a beautiful late-spring day in May as we drove our rented Chevy Impala to Harvard-Westlake. I had never seen so many Jaguars, Rolls Royces, Mercedes and Porsches since I graduated Beverly Hills High School in 1970. When I saw Steven Spielberg escorting his son, Theo, and Denzel Washington arm-in-arm with his daughter, Katia to the tune of the Pomp and Circumstances March I flashed back to that day thirty-six years earlier. The only difference, instead of the graduating class wearing black armbands to protest the war in Viet Nam, the class of 2006 were wearing Armani suits, diamond earrings and shoes that cost more than three nights stay at the Chateau Marmont. Maybe some of the students had thoughts of protesting the war In Iraq, but I didn’t see any evidence of it at all. Maybe they had matured enough to know the time and place for such demonstrations, and graduation ceremony wasn’t such a time. When they called Emily’s name and she came to the podium to accept her diploma, I knew it was the passing of the torch, another reminder that time was marching on for all of us. Nonetheless, I was so proud of her and wondered what joys, trials and tribulations she would face in the real world (after college, of course). After going on a tour with her mom of many colleges and universities, she had settled on the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor and would be attending that remarkable center of learning the following September.

After the graduation, we decided a trip to Las Vegas would be fun. I had my usual system in mind—to start with blackjack, play a little craps where I would try to find some fat-cat with a pile of chips and emulate his betting. We stayed at the Luxor, the hotel on the south side of the strip built in the shape of a pyramid. I would have had a great time if I hadn’t had lost all my money within the first twenty minutes. After that, I hung out by the pool, drank non-alcoholic beer and cokes and worked on my tan. I couldn’t wait to leave, but tried not to show my impatience with the ultimate city of sin (being one to wear my heart on my sleeve, it wasn’t working.) I think everyone else had a pretty good time but I swore I’d never to go back the Vegas again.

On the drive back to my sister, Susan’s house in Nichols Canyon (where we would be staying at the tail-end of our trip), we stopped at Lake Arrowhead and walked around my old stomping grounds. I remembered going there in 1970 with my first girlfriend, Debbie Taylor, whose father had a cabin called Gypsy’s Hideaway about a ten minute drive from the lake. We would light candles and sit by the roaring cedar wood fire listening to Crosby, Stills and Nash and James Taylor’s, Sweet Baby James. Although it sucks to be getting older, I feel sorry for people who missed those days, especially the sixties; we had The Beatles, The Stones and Bob Dylan (in their hey-day), The Animals, The Lovin’ Spoonful, The Buffalo Springfield and we were part of a scene that will probably never repeat itself again. It was an iconic time!

During the trip, Daniel kept asking when his turn would come to do a one-on-one with me to L.A. He was worried that since we were already here, this vacation would supersede our trip. I promised him the second installment of the 10 year-old father/son sojourn to L.A. would become a reality. The trip would coincide with a Senior Recital performance by my nephew, Max, in Winifred Smith Hall at UC Irvine in June 2007, four months before Daniel’s eleventh birthday. We had plenty of time to plan things out—one thing for sure; we weren’t going to Las Vegas.

It was finally Daniel’s turn, since I had made two trips to L.A. with Jonathan—one when he was six to drive my Mom’s Toyota Camry back to Tennessee and the second for his participation in WACK (Wild and Crazy Kids). In June of 2007, Daniel and I flew to LAX and stayed our first night at the Fleg’s (my cousin and his wife, Richard’s house) they shared with their daughter, Amanda (born three days after Jonathan in March of 1992). Daniel really liked the company but his favorite creature was their long-haired dachshund, Milo. He really loved that little guy and I could tell I was going to have to get a dog like him when we got back to Tennessee.

On our second day in town, we rented a couple of bicycles in Venice and rode those puppies all the way to the near edge of Malibu. We both were exhausted by the time we made Sunset Beach and we parked our bikes in the sand and headed for the ocean. We didn’t have out swimming trunks on so we waded in the cool water chasing the breakers back to the shore just in time before we got out clothes soaked. It was the highlight of the trip for both of us. That night we met Robbie, Carol and Susan at a Japanese restaurant and I could tell Daniel was feeling a bit out of sorts. He had his head down on the table after the meal and wasn’t very talkative (not like him at all). That night we stayed at Susan’s house in Nichols Canyon. I could see she still had the blown up poster of Mom on an easel in the living room. Susan, still devastated by the loss of our mother (not that I wasn’t), and seeing that photo up there made me miss her terribly. I asked Daniel if he remembered the days when she used to paint watercolors with him in the guest room in Thompson Station. He said he did and having the pictures of her all over Susan’s house brought the memory home to him. That made me happy. It was a shame he never got to meet my father, none of my kids did—they would have loved him. At least they got to see him on the TV from time to time.

Daniel was looking pale as a ghost that evening. I checked his temperature and he was running a low grade fever. I asked Susan if she had something that might reduce his fever and all she had was some Sudafed or Tylenol. Daniel, being used to that horrible tasting liquid, hated taking medicine. But he had never really taken pills and wasn’t sure how to do it. I demonstrated the process by taking a vitamin and he began to get the idea but still was unsure how to get that large oblong object down his throat without choking. After about fifteen minutes of balking and refusal, he finally was able to take his medicine. He went to bed and was asleep in no time. Susan and I sat in the living room talking and hoping Daniel was going to be able to make the trip down to Irvine the next day for Max’s performance. After awhile, I went into the middle room we were sharing and checked his head. He was still warm, was perspiring his sheets were clammy. I thought it was a good sign—maybe he would sweat it out. One could only hope. I was wishing that Donna had been there, but this was a father/son trip and good old dad was going to have to take the reins. I didn’t even call her that night knowing I would have spilled the beans about his illness—I didn’t want to worry her. I went to bed on the big chair watching him sleep on the daybed next to me and I finally drifted off.

The next morning I awoke at the crack of dawn. I let Daniel sleep and went into the kitchen to make a pot of Trader Joe’s French Roast coffee. Susan must have smelled the aroma of those savory beans and came in to the kitchen as the sun was peeking through the sliding glass doors leading out to the balcony. She asked how Daniel was feeling and I told her he was still asleep and it would be best to let him sleep as long as possible. It was going to be a long day and I hoped he would be able to make it without a trip to the doctor or emergency room if things took a turn for the worse. When he woke up around eight, he was soaked. I ran a hot bath for him and gave him another Tylenol after he picked at his cereal. He did much better with the pill that time. I made him a cup of herbal tea and he drank it while he was bathing. After that he was feeling better and was watching the Power Rangers on the TV. I thought he was going to make it after all. With Susan in the passenger seat and Daniel resting in the back, I drove the rented Mustang down to Irvine and we got to Chakra, the Indian restaurant, in time for appetizers. Daniel didn’t take too kindly to spicy food but did like the Nan bread and Tandoori chicken. Still, it was obvious he wasn’t up to snuff. Carol said she knew he was coming down with something after his behavior in the Japanese restaurant two days earlier. She thought it was probably a virus that would run itself out in a couple of days. I was hoping she was right. Mothers seem to know best about these things. I think eating that spicy food had done the trick since by the time the meal was over, Daniel’s fever had broken and he seemed ready to face the music—Max’s music.

The performance at Winifred Smith Hall was brilliant and the pièce de resistance was his duet with his professor, Kei Akagi. They performed Senor Mouse, by Chick Corea, and I must say I was overwhelmed by the magic of the moment. Max was brilliant and I knew (even though I was a bit envious) he had a brilliant future ahead of him. Even Daniel was impressed. I was so relieved he was feeling better. The trip was winding down and we spent the last night back at Richard and Sue’s house in Cheviot Hills, the closest to the airport. Daniel said he had a great time and was sorry to leave, especially Milo, but he missed his mom and brothers. That made me a little tearful knowing that he was close to his siblings. Donna and I must have done a few things right. Maybe more than that!

Chapter 58 – Stuck Inside of Motown with the Nashville Blues Again

I was gearing up for another Americana Tonight showcase in August 2006 and the monthly gig at Kimbro’s proved to be a great warm-up gig. I was auditioning a second guitar player so I could concentrate on my vocals. It was back to Craigslist. First there was a guitar player, Ray, that lived out in Ashland City. After meeting up with him at the local Starbuck’s and giving him a CD, I decided to get together with him at his house to go over some of the material. Driving the winding road to his cabin in the hills, I thought I was going to get sick (my vertigo was a concern for me but hadn’t kicked in to its full capacity yet). Upon arrival he pulled out an old Harmony semi-hollow body guitar, much like my old Harmony Rocket, the first guitar I ever had. He played the songs competently enough but nothing that really knocked my socks off, still he was a contender.

On the way back down the hill, the curving road got to me. I didn’t know if I could make it with my nausea and double vision. I pulled over to the side of the road and open the window. It wasn’t getting any better. I had one of three choices. One: I could tough it out and try and make it down the hill and vertigo be damned. Two, I could call my wife and have her pick me up, but she would probably get lost and I didn’t want to worry her. Or three, I could wait it out. Since it was getting dark and after waiting a half an hour or so, I chose option one. I felt like I was drunk, even though I hadn’t had anything to drink and was taking the curvy road with one eye close while taking deep breaths to alleviate the nausea. Somehow I made it to the flats and by the time I got on I-40, I was almost back to normal.

I, being the type of person who looks for signs and meanings in things that most people would just ignore, decided that the vertigo came about by a combination of the winding road and the music created from Ray and myself. I must have meant that Ray was not the person for the gig. Stupid, I know, but it was that kind of thinking that seemed to influence my decisions. I kept looking for another guitar player.

I got a response from a singer/ songwriter named Joe Rathbone. Joe was one of those musicians, like I was, that could play many instruments but his guitar playing was too much in a rhythm style and I felt that it didn’t really make the sound the way I imagined. He told me he could try playing bass, but I wasn’t ready to give up on Greg yet, even though he kept making the same mistakes over and over again. Still Greg was solid when he was on top of his game. It became a moot point since Joe found out he had another gig on August 16^th and wouldn’t be able to make the gig at Douglas Corner anyway. I guess things always work out for the best. Joe later had separated from his wife and ended up moving in with Josh, the drummer. They became good friends and Josh even began playing bass (a new instrument he was learning) in Joe Rathbone’s band a few months later. I still needed a guitar player and ended up hiring a guy named CJ that played minimally. Sometimes I had to stop playing completely to hear what he was doing. It was actually quite good. Since time was running out, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

The second installment of Americana Tonight went over well enough but I still wasn’t happy with the band’s configuration. I thought I would keep looking while playing our monthly gigs at Kimbro’s, The Family Wash and a few other local hot spots in Nashville. One day when I was playing golf at Forrest Crossing in Franklin, I paired up with another golfer by the name of Gary Geier (he told me it was like Geiger without the G). He was a half Hawaiian dude with greasy black hair that kind of reminded me of Wayne Newton, and his golf skills were on a par with mine. I think we either tied or I lost by one stroke. I got his phone number and we made plans to play again the following week. On our second round together, he told me he was also a singer that was trying to make it in Music City and was looking to put a band together to do some county hits mixed with songs from the 80s. I told him to stop by my gig at Kimbro’s to check out my guitar playing but he said it wouldn’t be necessary since he knew I could handle his county/80s gig coming up in two weeks time. He emailed a list of songs and I got to work right away to learn the material. It kind of sucked, but it paid fifty bucks—not bad for an hour’s work.

I had a feeling there was something sleazy about Gary. He would use gamesmanship and tried to psyche me out to throw me off my golf game. He would stop me in the backswing of my putt and say, “I’ll bet you two dollars you can’t make that putt.” I had to regroup after taking the bet and go into my routine again while he tried his best to vibe me into missing. It was beginning to piss me off. Gary had a job in some fly-by-night sales company selling time shares or something like that, and one day he invited me to play golf with his boss and another one of his co-workers. These guys were beyond sleazy. His boss even took wide stance, unzipped his pants and relieved himself on the green. I guess after two six packs of beer something had to give (or take as the case may be). This was a sacrilege to me and golf in general. This was bad enough, but what happened next was a personal affront that I could never forget.

While I was learning those banal county and 80s songs I began to wonder why I hadn’t heard from Gary. He had stopped by Kimbro’s a few nights before and saw my band and me playing our little hearts out. He seemed impressed and began chatting away with all the band members, especially CJ—the other guitar player

The night before the gig I was getting concerned. I still hadn’t heard from Gary and he wasn’t returning my phone calls, not even an email to give me the address of the place we were supposed to play. Did he cancel the gig, or find another guitar player and not even have the decency to notify me? I kept practicing anyway thinking that he would get in touch at the last minute with the details, but no call or email ever came. I had nothing else to do but blow it off.

At next Kimbro’s performance a week or two later, I found out from CJ that Gary had hired him to play guitar at his gig. I couldn’t believe it. I really didn’t blame CJ. Most likely Gary hadn’t even told him that he promised the gig to me. Still, it left a bitter taste in my mouth for both Gary and CJ. It just seemed disloyal and I fired him. It wasn’t long after that when Greg Bailey separated from his wife and decided to move to Mississippi. I knew the band, as it was was over. Now with Josh playing bass and drums with Joe Rathbone and Greg and CJ gone, I was on my own again. I played a few solo gigs but I really missed the power of the band and soon made plans to find more players.

In the meantime, Joe was preparing for a couple of gigs in Detroit. One was a radio show hosted by Motor City’s local hero, Mitch Albom, a best-selling radio personality, author, screenwriter and musician best known for his book, Tuesdays With Morrie. Joe needed a steel guitar player to perform live on the radio show. The second gig was at a Dylanfest at the Blind Pig in Ann Arbor a day later. Man, that was my cup of tea. I was going to sing lead on two Dylan songs, Tonight I’ll be Staying Here With You and Stuck Inside of Memphis With the Mobile Blues Again.

Before Joe, Eve Fleishman (a wonderful jazz and torch singer) and I headed up north in Joe’s old Nissan Maxima with over 250,000 miles on it, I had contacted some local bass players and drummers on Craigslist and we were set to go. Hopefully these guys could cut the mustard, but in my experience, Detroit musicians are some of the best in the country. I had heard their stuff on the internet and was confident in their abilities. The main problem was Joe. He and I didn’t exactly see eye to eye on many things. Joe, another brooding Scorpio, was going through a hard time with his separation from his wife and two-year old daughter. In fact all three of us are Scorpios and it’s a wonder the car didn’t just implode from the vibes. When we were lost somewhere near Cincinnati, I asked a Highway Patrolman parked next to us for directions. After I got the info and we pulled away Joe read me the riot act. He must have had some bad experiences with the police and I couldn’t understand why he was getting so irate about me asking for simple directions. We had nothing to hide—no dope or open containers—so what was his problem?

The next incident happened when he couldn’t get his car to start. We checked the battery and it was fine. I looked at the plugs and they were okay to. Then I happened to look at the gas cap and noticed a crack. That was it! All he needed was a new gas cap. I found an AutoZone and paid twelve dollars out of my own money for a new cap. I thought that would smooth things over between us. It didn’t. After calling up my cousin Bobby Graff who lived in nearby Troy (he came out to the Dylanfest along with my niece Emily who was attending the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor) to meet us at a local Mongolian BBQ restaurant, Joe was really putting out the vibes. I couldn’t take it anymore and stepped away from Bobby and Eve (Bobby was quite taken with Eve and was busy chatting her up) confronted him right there and then. Although I didn’t want it too, I felt it could have come to blows. Joe was at least four inches taller than me but I think we weighed about the same. I hadn’t been in a fight since elementary school but enough was enough. He backed down, but never came clean about what was bothering him. The rest of the trip I ignored him and spent most of the time talking with Eve. By the time we made it back to Nashville, I knew Joe and I were not going to be friends—not even business associates. At least I had the memory of playing live in Detroit and pretending to be Bob Dylan for a few minutes. I had a blast and I think out of the twenty Dylan acts, we were one of the best. But now it was time for me to gear up for my new album and find some new musicians. This time I would try to capture a live feel in the studio as opposed to playing all the instruments myself as I had done with my previous three records. I wanted a killer drummer, a rocking keyboardist and a bass player who could play the upright. I knew they were out there it was only a matter of putting out the word. Oh well . . . back to Craigslist!

Chapter 57 – Michael Kennedy Remembered

                                    Michael in the early seventies with his Gold-top Les Paul

                                        Mitch Mitchell, Michael Kennedy and Chas Chandler

In Chapter 26 of Silverspoon, the World’s Greatest Band Nobody Ever Heard, the one called Michael’s Abrupt Departure, I touched on the last few years I communicated with Michael Kennedy, but I didn’t really do it justice. There was so much more to the story. I don’t remember exactly how he found my address, maybe it was from Larry Harrison, but I don’t know how he would have found him since he moved around as much as I did. It could have been Stephen, but I doubt it. I know for a fact it wasn’t BJ— he hated BJ’s guts (the guy could hold a grudge). Anyway, one day, out of the blue, I get a letter in blue aviator stationary with a Philadelphia postmark. I think it was early 2002 because the aftermath of nine-eleven was still fresh in the air, still a major topic of conversation, news articles and CNN.

I, at the time, was not a letter writing kind of guy, but I did keep phone numbers (I still have a dot-matrix printout address book that I still refer to in my office). I noticed that the address on the letter was the same one he had back in the seventies, in Jenkintown, so I figured he had the same phone number—I was right. I called him and when I heard that same East-Coast, Philadelphian whine answer on the other end of the line, I knew I had gotten the right number. We talked for over an hour about all the things that had happened to both of us since 1976: When he left L.A. after marrying Larry’s girlfriend, Cynthia, he told me the marriage, officially annulled after three weeks, which I already knew from Larry, but it was nice to finally have his side of the story. He said he had been checking the charts for my name over the years thinking that I should have been a star. He was disappointed when I said that I hadn’t achieved the success we felt I should have reached, but I did have two solo records under my belt at the time and had gotten some good reviews. He asked me why I moved to Tennessee; was I into country music now? I told him I liked where country music was going in 1994, but now it was so banal and stupid, I couldn’t stand it (it’s gotten worse, if that’s possible). I also said I had picked up the pedal steel guitar, which was not the easiest instrument in the world, and he was impressed.

After that conversation, Michael continued to send me letters and gift boxes. He included Beatles memorabilia, tapes of his stuff that he was working on or had completed over the years, guitar parts I told him I was looking for (one was a pickup ring for a 1964 Gretsch Anniversary I had been searching out for years). He became my mentor in the guitar and amplifier world and helped me find rare and exotic deals on Ebay and other musical sources. In fact, he helped me find the Hofner Beatle Bass on Ebay that I still have sitting under my piano (when I’m not playing it). It was the Fourth of July and he made me aware of a listing for a 1970 Hofner on Ebay that was closing in a few hours in my neighboring town of Franklin. It had no bids and I was a bit skeptical of the legitimacy of the ad. So, I emailed the address on the listing and the guy and he said the bass was real and used to belong to Les Paul’s son. He had cut a small hole in the back for a battery pack, therefore it reduced the overall value, but hey, it was still an early Beatle bass. I bid $500. I guess since it was a holiday, everyone was out barbequing or setting off fireworks. I won the auction at five bills. When I went to pick the bass up at his house, I thought the guy looked familiar. He was in L.A. at the same time I was and was at the most outrageous party at Mickey Dolenz’s house in the mid-seventies where Phil Spector, Doug Dillard, most of the Monkees and to top it off, Brian Wilson in his bathrobe at the organ doing his best Carl Wilson impersonation for hours upon hours (it was kind of sad, actually). The guy also played the pedal steel and recorded the steel part on Stephen Bishop’s On and On (he and his brother were in Bishop’s band). The guy’s name? Billy London. He and I are still good friends to this day, but I’m not going to sell the bass back to him.

When George W. Bush declared victory aboard that aircraft carrier in 2003, Michael was as appalled as I was about it. We had already collaborated on two songs by mail and over the phone (he would send cassettes and later CDs, I would upload them on Protools and add my touches, then send it back to him and so forth, it was a tedious process but it was great to be able to create with Michael, a really brilliant guitarist). When he sent a track with a screaming guitar and interesting chord changes, I wrote lyrics about a town in eastern Afghanistan, where a lot of fighting was going on by the name of Jalalabad. It was an imaginary first person account of Osama Bin-Laden hiding out there (or in Yemen).

Got to make a break tonight, Mo.

They’re closing in so I really gotta go.

There’s a heavy with a hot-wired van.

He’s gonna meet us tonight at midnight sharp

Outside the gates of Jalalabad.

After completing the recording, I became a little paranoid, thinking that government agents would be knocking on my door thinking I was a terrorist or something. I know it was stupid, but that’s the kind of fear the government was instilling in the American public at the time (still are). Michael told me there was a guy, another Larry, that had a small record company in Philly that wanted to buy the song outright. Since I didn’t want to have my name associated with the song, I agreed. Got a thousand bucks and that was that. Now I think it might have been a hasty decision, since it was the last thing I ever did musically with Michael, and it was pretty good considering what I had to work with when I got the initial recording. The guitars (although rocking) had an annoying high-pitched feedback which I had to squash with compression and equalization to keep under control. I will send a link to the song on my reverbnation account if I can find it.

As the years progressed, Michael became (what I thought) clinically depressed. He told me he wanted to shoot himself. I was livid. First of all suicide is a major no-no in my book and I hate fucking guns. I tried to talk him down from the metaphoric building, and when that didn’t seem to work. I said that I would never have any respect for a person that took the easy way out. I said his legacy, in my book, would be thoroughly tainted. We had harsh words and didn’t speak after that until I got the email. The heading was MK END. He wrote on September 12, 2006:

      I couldn’t swallow. blocked.
            had a scope put in to look.
            they called a helicopter to rush me to a big hospital that did cancer surgery.
            in hospital for 1 month. took 2 months to get up after that stay. another month to drive a    bit.
            feel weak and bad now.
            don’t call on phone ‘til im up to it. Not this week for sure.  I’m on meds.
            We will def speak next week. I’ll let you know when im up to it.
            thanks, m

I wrote back:

            Michael - just wanted to say I think you are one of the best rock n'
            roll guitarists I've had the privilege to know. GOD bless you and I
            hope you have PEACE my brother. I love you.

            James

On 10/26/2006 he wrote another email: in hospice now
            end soon - have Lennon and red ric 12 w/ me
            see ya around
            mk

That was the last time I ever heard from him. He died on November 18, 2006. It was the seventeenth anniversary of the day my father died. Bad day!

I still have some of the letters and recordings from Michael. I have the gift boxes, (at least some of the contents) including the wooden Martin coasters made from the part of the guitar they cut out to make the sound holes. I have the VHS tape of Titanic, the Beatles posters and records, the Vox adverts (pictured) from the sixties, but most of all I have the memories. It’s too bad there was such a long gap in our friendship (more than twenty-five years), but at least we got to record together again (even if it was courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service). Michael did make it into the Rock Encyclopedia with his old band, Horsepower and sang on the Beatles song, Piggies, from the movie, Helter Skelter in 1976 with our band, Silverspoon. See You Around, Michael; someday maybe, I’ll see you around.

Chapter 56 – Boomtown

Oh my God what is happening?

Everyone I know is struggling to believe.

And why is there so much pain in the world?

God only knows, but He’s not telling me.

-  God Only Knows - JWH

I was at a soccer coaches meeting (since I had volunteered to coach my son’s team) in the Williamson County facility on August 28^th, 2005. There were reports of a devastating hurricane approaching the New Orleans area and it looked like it was going to be a direct hit. I was speaking with another coach, Ann Rice, whose daughter Katrina’s birthday was the next day. I thought it was ironic—something the little girl would never forget if the predictions were accurate of the damage this hurricane would wreak.

The next morning I was watching CNN, as most people I imagined were doing, and the scenes that they captured were beyond belief. Hundreds of thousands displaced from their homes. People stranded at the Superdome, daring rescues in the deluge, you name it, and it was all there. I happened to watch a report of a guy, Dwayne Jones, who told a reporter that there were thousands of people at the Convention Center also stranded and that he should gather his team of cameras and go there. They were in dire need of help. This person, Mr. Dwayne Jones, was not only a hero but after that report of all these people discovered at the Convention Center, nobody, as far as I know, heard a thing about him again. He, like so many others, was the unsung hero of Hurricane Katrina.

I was inspired and wrote a song aptly entitled Dwayne Jones. With a new collection of songs in my arsenal, and a regular gig at Kimbro’s and The Family Wash in East Nashville, I thought a new record was brewing. I had my anthem, God Only Knows (But He’s Not Telling Me), Somebody’s Father, Somebody’s Son and You Don’t Know Jack in the can and now I was inspired to write Evacuation Plan, which was a what-to-do-in-an-emergency pamphlet put to music. I had actually taken most of the lyrics from the Red Cross website and rearranged them into lyric form. Once again, I then wrote the title track, Boomtown, about unwanted progress coming to the neighboring small Southern town and projecting after the boon, the place would be on the decline (like most of America these days, I’m afraid). Once again, I played all the instruments on the record and by the beginning of 2006, the record mastered.

I was working for selling advertising for a music magazine in Nashville and my only sale was to a CD duplicating company. Instead of a commission, I traded it for them to reproduce 300 copies of my record. Not a bad deal! One day, Larry, the owner of the said music magazine company had found a small black and white Lhasa Apso dog and was trying to find a home for her. He said he was going to take her to the pound when I said I would take her instead. I named her Bagger after the movie The Legend of Bagger Vance, because she like to shag golf balls. I knew Donna wouldn’t be too happy about having another dog, since we already had Bailey and Bruno and a few cats.

One day I was speaking with my neighbor and casually mentioned that I might be looking for a home for wee Bagger. Sometimes I should learn to keep my mouth shut because I was beginning to grow attached to the dog. She said she would take her and I thought she was serious but I hadn’t really committed to giving her up yet; at least that’s what I thought. The next day I had let Bagger out for a pee and I couldn’t find her anywhere. I thought maybe she’d run away or had gotten hit by a car. I checked the yard and the streets—nothing.

That night I thought I saw her in my neighbor’s yard, but she looked different. She had her hair cut and styled. I moseyed over to ask Debbie (my obnoxious neighbor) if that was Bagger and she said, yes. “You told me I could have her and I jumped on it.”

“Well, I guess maybe I did mention something of that sort, but I had no idea that you would take her without asking me. To tell you the truth, I wanted to keep her.”

“Sorry, but I took her to the vet and spent over a hundred dollars having her “fixed”, not to mention the haircut. She’s mine now!”

What could I do? Sure, I could have insisted on taking the dog back, but I figured she was right next door and I could see her anytime I wanted. Besides, Donna wouldn’t have to worry about another poor animal to take care of, even though I think she had grown rather fond of the dog, too. Neighbors! Jeez. I guess that’s why the Robert Frost wrote in The Mending Wall, Good fences make good neighbors. I would love to prescribe to the adage of love thy neighbor and mostly I do, but these people are too much. I don’t know what it is about that property. The people that lived there before were weird and had a kid named Drew (one of Jonathan’s friends at the time), who I’m sure has aspirations to be the next Unabomber. Makes you wonder. Is the the house that attracts the people or vice versa?  One day I will build that fence, or maybe they’ll move, but I know some family as bad, if not worse will move in. Maybe we’ll move.

We’ve been in Middle Tennessee for over ten years and I still hadn’t gotten used to it. Nashville was a growing city, though it had never prepared itself for the extreme amount of development it had experienced in such a short time. Streets are too narrow and can’t accommodate the overabundance of commuters. Traffic is almost as bad as in Los Angeles—worse sometimes, when you considered the lack of alternate routes. There’s no real transportation system in place: no passenger trains or subways, just a limited number of bus routes. Most folks still took their cars and trucks.

Did I say Trucks? I’d never seen so many Ford F-150s, Chevy Silverados, Dodge Rams and GMC Sierras in my life. It was only the damn Yankees, like me, who drove foreign sports cars. You know what they say down here: A Yankee was a northerner who came south; a damn Yankee was one who stayed. And churches? Fahgettaboutit! The first thing they asked you when you came down here was, “What church do you go to?” When I told them I was Jewish, Nashvillians want to either convert me on the spot, or simply say, “My, isn’t that interesting! You ought to come down on Sunday and talk to our pastor.” For others, it was a little less confrontational: “I had a good friend once who was Jewish.”

The once quiet and unassuming Southern town of Spring Hill (the neighboring town to the south) had grown up in a big way. Unfortunately it grew in places like Burger King’s MacDonald’s, Wendy’s and Pizza Hut.  At least they built a Home Depot and a Lowe’s but no Bank of America or Wells Fargo so I still have to trek to Franklin (ten miles to the north) to do my banking. That’s why I wrote the title track to my new CD.

Another one goes up

Another one comes down

And I don’t recognize this sleepy Southern Town

They got those big ideas and dreams of steel and gold

Now I realize all the pretty things pockets just can’t hold

And it’s sundown on this boom town

And it’s sunrise in my little darling’s eyes. - 

Boomtown - JWH

Where would we go anyway? Back to LA? Not with the traffic, crime and general malaise mixed with aggression in the attitude of most people there. Oshkosh Wisconsin? Probably a very nice northern town but the winter? I don’t think I could handle that. What about Seattle? Too rainy. Phoenix? Too hot (even though it’s a dry heat.) Scotland? A strong possibility, but we would have to quarantine all of our animals. Looks like I’m kind of stuck here. Oh well, I guess it could be worse.

Chapter 55 – Man o’ Americana

In late December 2004, the Tennessee Haymers made their way back to Scotland. It would be the first time my children and me would ever experience the old country in the winter. I knew Christmas would be a blast . . . and the New Year . . . who knew what that would be like, except there would be a lot of drinking, hugging, kissing, and general tomfoolery. I even was crazy enough to bring my golf clubs—I wasn’t about to go to the home of golf without them. On one of the warmer days (about 40 degrees) I went down to Thornton Golf Course while Donna and the boys were at an aquarium called Deep Sea world in Queensferry near Edinburgh. I was at my own amusement park. The weather was cold but I dressed in layers (it was hard to swing the club around all that clothing but I managed). The course was beautiful and challenging but the management wouldn’t allow anyone to hit off the fairways without placing the ball on these little plastic mats, 8”-by- 3”. It thought it was ridiculous but I guess they did it to preserve their grass since a divot wouldn’t grow back until spring. I could see their point. I made sure to hit the ball in the first cut of roughs so I could avoid the stupid mats. It worked out well.

My instincts about New Years Eve was right on the money. They have a tradition called first footin’ where at the stroke of midnight everyone goes outside and knocks on all the neighbors doors with a bottle of whiskey, lager or whatever and the true craziness really begins. I was a bit more than six years sober, so I didn’t partake in that part of the festivities, but I got to see the locals make fun-loving fools of themselves. Because they were all drunk, everyone assumed I was as drunk as they were. It was hilarious to be the only sober person among fifty or more staggering Scots. It was a great trip but Donna and I knew with three children now, it was going to be awhile since we could afford to head back over there. I haven’t been back since and, I must say, I really miss it—especially the golf and the wild assortment of characters— but the local food . . . well (except for the Indian restaurants which are some of the best in the world) I can leave that alone.

We were back in America in the beginning of January and with six months left go until Jonathan’s Bar Mitzvah at the end of June we were all beginning to sweat from nerves, apprehension and plain old exhaustion. The only one that was keeping it together was Jonathan. He’d only been studying Hebrew for a little over a year and was doing amazingly. I don’t know how he could learn such a difficult language so easily, but I guess that’s where his aptitude lies. When I first asked Jonathan why he wanted to be Bar Mitzvah, a year back he said, “Dad, I want to do something meaningful with my life and learn about my Jewish heritage.” How could I argue with that? I remember my main motivation when I was thirteen was the money, and the party. What a great kid!

On the morning of June 25, 2005 all the relatives were wandering in to the temple. Donna’s Mom and Dad, and her baby sister, Heather, had come from Scotland. My Uncle Ellis and Aunt Enid, my sister, Susan, brother, Robbie and his two almost grown kids, Max and Emily, my Cousin Richard and his wife, Sue and their daughter, Amanda who is three whole days younger than Jonathan all made it in from California. The Amazon woman, Vange, her husband Howard and I think eight of their soon to be ten children had arrived, the only one who was late was the photographer, Holly, but she made it ten minutes before the shebang clicked into gear. I got to say Jonathan was a star that day and I was so proud of him I could have plotzed right then and there.

On the musical front, I was sending out my record, Field Recordings to radio stations all over the world getting contacts from the Indie Bible, resource and reference book that lived up to its name. Radio stations were actually playing my songs in places like Germany, Britain, Australia, France, Holland, Denmark, Japan and the good old USA. I had the playlists to prove it. I felt like I was back on the map again, and hadn’t felt that way since Silverspoon was recording at The Record Plant with Mal Evans and Bob Merritt, not to mention the Keith Moon record soon after that. The reviews I got were very promising. Lord Litter, one of Germany’s top deejays wrote to me saying, “Very cool “reduced” music—I will definitely play.” Gerd Strassen, also from Germany’s “Ems-Vechte Welle radio FM 95.6 said, “Thank you so much for sending me “Field Recordings” I really enjoyed it. My faves are Making Ground, Eternity’s Waltz, This Song, followed by Experimenting Peace and Monday Morning Memory.” Not bad, I thought, that’s more than half the record.

I thought the overall best review was from Eddie Russell, a deejay in Texas. He said, “Greetings James . . . my goodness . . . . I sure enjoyed my initial review of your pure rootsy CD Field Recordings yesterday . . . where all holds together on the whole with staggering magnitude. Thanks again for the great inspiration due to your job well done . . . . Eddie.”

Eddie was instrumental in referring me to a plethora of the afore mentioned radio stations and I only hope that he is still around somewhere spinning those CD’s or MP3s.

With momentum moving in a positive direction, I knew I needed a band. I began auditioning bass players, drummers and second guitarist from ads I found on Craigslist. My ad was fairly specific and the responses well received. My routine was this: I would meet the prospective band members at the closest Starbucks and give them a CD and I would accept any CD’s, tapes or links to music they played on. We would feel each other out and if we were still interested in taking it the next step, we would get together and play. The whole process took a little more than a month and by the end of the summer I had a four piece band. It was Josh Fuson on drums, Greg (It’s a Wonderful Life) Bailey on bass, and Grant (Big Smoky) Johnson on second guitar and pedal steel.

There was a new venue called Americana Tonight hosted by Mark Wehrner to be held at Douglas Corner in Nashville on November 11^th (see picture. Notice how my middle name is spelled W$esley). It was a major showcase in Nashville for up-and-coming acts in the genre. We rehearsed in my living room for a couple of weeks and ended up doing five songs. It was pretty darn tight and we got a great reaction. Soon after that I booked a gig at a local club in Franklin called Kimbro’s where we played once a month on Friday nights for about six months. In the meantime, I was inspired to write and I had nearly twenty-five new songs to record. With the radio stations playing my songs and a new band I had ideas of booking gigs oversees and I was making inquiries to get going in that arena. I thought it was time to make a new record now with three CDs under my belt, there would be an arsenal that nobody in his or her right mind could turn down; at least that’s what I thought. Time would tell.

The biggest stumbling block was money. Nashville, (like Los Angeles and New York) is an impossible place to make a living playing music unless you’re playing the big venues. Everyone wants you to play for free and if you complain about it, the club owners tell you to get lost since plenty of kids are lining up around the block to have their music heard. I still had to pay my band members and the only way to do that was to sell CDs or with tips. But how many CDs can you sell if only ten or twenty patrons show up at the gig? Frustrating business! I needed something magical to happen, but it seemed like I had used all the alchemy I was able to conjure when I was in Silverspoon. I mean things were going okay, but I felt like I was all alone in a strange town that really didn’t get me, not like they did when I was In LA, or maybe it was because I was younger then and everything seemed fresh and there always somebody around willing to promote, wine and dine and dole out the powdered refreshments. I just wasn’t there anymore and I was relatively sober (except for a few joints once in a while). It was all about the money now and if you had a young band and could write songs about sexy, redneck girls drinking beer on the tailgate of their pick-up trucks you stood a chance. What’s an old man o’ Americana gonna do?

Chapter 54 – Field Recordings

It ain’t classical, it ain’t blues

But baby needs a new pair of shoes

Ain’t too short or too long – this song.

It ain’t positive, it ain’t dark

It might ignite a spark

It may not hit the charts – I still like it – This Song by JWH from the album - “Field Recordings”.

At the end of my first record, See You Around, I had taken the leap into the state of the art realm of music production—Protools. Of course, all I could afford was the minimal version called the M Box. My good friend, Chas Sandford, had been goading me to get into the twenty-first century with my recording equipment, after all, he had the best and most expensive version of Protools, all the plug-ins under God’s little sun patched into every conceivable module of vintage and current gear. That’s why I called him Mr. Accessory. I purchased a Studiomaster console from him that once belonged to his late brother, Richard, bought a Blue microphone and now I was all set to begin my second project, Field Recordings, which would be my first completely digital record.

From 1937 to 1942, Alan Lomax was Assistant in Charge of the Archive of Folk Song of the Library of Congress to which he and his father and numerous collaborators contributed more than ten thousand field recordings. He would go down to places like Mississippi, Alabama and Tennessee and capture recordings in a “field” of some of the most renown blues and folk artist of the era. People such as Leadbelly, Woody Guthrie, Sonny Terry, Pete Seeger and many other too numerous to mention. I thought by naming my record Field Recordings, not only would it be a nod to the great Alan Lomax, but it would describe the simplistic approach I was trying to capture in the record. I hope I succeeded. I think I did.

It was difficult at first to point and click my way through the mixing board on the computer monitor (I had always preferred a hand’s on approach) but the trade-off of having a plethora of tracks at my disposal was well worth the learning curve I had to navigate. With more than twenty new songs to choose from I picked the best ones, in my opinion, and the ones that seemed to complement each other. I ended up with only nine, but the last song, Monday Morning Memory is eight minutes and thirty-two seconds. It is a stream of conscious rant about a typical Monday in the life of James Wesley Haymer.  Once again I played all the instruments and sang all the vocal parts on all the songs on this album. It’s not that I’m opposed to a band; it just was so hard to get people down to Thompson Station at the strange hours I’d like to record.

There was this new website on the internet called Fame Games. It was an online musical artist competition. You would upload your song and submit it in the various categories they had available. I did quite well and voted the top artist in the folk/rock category a few times. It was a great boost for my ego as well as giving some exposure to fans etc. that would have never had a chance to hear my music. It’s a shame they are no longer in business. I turned a few of my friends onto that site and one of them was the infamous Sunset Slim.

Slim is a character right out of a Damon Runyon novel—the original rambling-gambling man. I hadn’t seen him in thirty years until a friend, Bruce Bradley, a waiter at Mario’s, ran into a guy that blew his mind and he began to tell me the story. He came in to the restaurant dressed in a top hat and tails with a young beauty in a Kill Bill, Uma Thurman wig. Slim was telling Bruce how he just got back from Vegas and was in the running for the World Series of Poker. He was flashing hundreds and ordering the most expensive things on the menu. He gave Bruce and exorbitant tip, which made his whole week. The next week he told me about this eccentric guy when we were playing golf at Harpeth Hills. He described Slim to a T and I knew that I knew the guy. It could only be one person. In the seventies, I worked with a guy named Bobby Paine in a boiler room selling toner and office supplies. He was a character then and after work he said he was recording a county record. I told him I played guitar and keyboards and he told me to come down to the session. I played a cool Hammond B-3 part on a song called Honky-tonk Hell and he gave me a crisp hundred dollar bill for my efforts.

I told Bruce the next time the guy came into the restaurant to give him my number. I got a call a few days later and I knew it was him. Who else could it be? He was living in Nashville now with Jeannie, the girl from the restaurant who is at least thirty years his junior. Not too bad. I never knew that Slim and I had so much in common (my wife is 12 years younger than me.) Not only is he a talented singer/songwriter whose songs are a real throwback to the days when country music was real and the songs were about trains, card games, heavy drinking and cheating (his pictured album All Bets Are Off is really worth a listen), he is a very accomplished golfer. Now we play music and gold together (more golf than music these days). We have a bet called a Nassau where the winner of the front nine gets five bucks, the winner of the back nine also gets five and if you win the overall score it’s another fiver. We usually end up with the same score (somewhere in the mid to high seventies). Slim always wears the most expensive golf outfits and sometimes they are, well let me just say, they are a statement. I once asked Jim, the starter for Greystone Golf Club (a place we frequent) if Slim had arrived yet. Jim rolled his eyes and said. “Oh yeah, you can’t miss him.” He was right. Slim was wearing yellow and green paisley long pants (I’ve never seen the guy wear shorts even on 90-100 degree days) and a purple silk shirt with some outrageous chapeaux on his head to compliment the get-up. I think he dressed like that to distract his opponents. I can testify that it works. You could write a book about the guy and someday I might just do that. I did write a song called The Ballad of Sunset Slim, and it got some play on Fame Games.

Another track on Field Recordings called For Elise, is a bluesy/folk version of Beethoven’s Für Elise (who I give co-writing credit). It contains some Hamlet inspired lyrics. From the exposure on Fame Games, I (after sending out hundreds of CDs) got lots of airplay in Europe, Australia and even the good ole USA. I thought things were finally going in the right direction in my career again.

Here is a sample of the lyrics some in For Elise:

Someone call an ambulance, forget man you’d better call a priest.

Guess I got to get it off my mind then I’ll go in peace.

You know that there was poison in wine just look in my valise.

Everything I did, I did for love and for Elise.

Go to - http://www.reverbnation.com/q/55ubwp to hear these tunes.