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 16th 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!
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