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The Night They Drove Old Dixie DownNov 28 '01 Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line I'm able to tell this tale through the Novocaine of time, and because everyone has a "worst time story", and lives. A sense of humor helps. Really.
Pull your chair closer to your monitor, and I will delve back through the mists of time to a fateful concert long ago and far way. But first, I must properly set the stage. I Start To Sing About the age of 8 my parents caught my younger sisters and I harmonizing to some kiddie 45's we had. We weren't quite the Carter Family but the novelty of kids belting out "tell 'em on the highways, tell 'em on the byways, that this you know is true...the Lord is countin' on you" came years before The Gong Show and embarrassing closer to The Amateur Hour and Andy Williams Show. Hustled off to the home of The Lady Opera Singer, I was given an audition and felt to have excellent lungs. Now she would work on my vibrato and range. In much the same way my eyes glazed over with East Side, West Side on my guitar practice, so to Madame O's fascination with Oklahoma! became a bone of major contention. Here I was, listening and grooving to stuff like Walk Right In, The Lion Sleeps Tonight, Because They're Young, and Shake, Snake, Rattle & Roll. then an early victim of light operatic training abuse the rest of the time. Abuse? Yes, having a most hefty heifer, the size of Aunt Bea, straddle my stomach/chest, as I lay flat on my back, and was commanded to sing strikes me as somewhat abnormal, even back in the dawn of the British Invasion. I Think I Can Sing Years of A Capella, Choir and Glee shaped and sharpened my voice into a second soprano/alto range that 2 years of Boarding School's (Ojai Valley School) smoking privileges, would strive to destroy. So imagine my surprise, walking into my first dorm, (Allen Hall), at San Jose State University, and coming upon a comely young man strumming a Martin guitar. Was that Jefferson Airplane, (waaaay before Starship, friends), I asked. Although I couldn't come close to Signe Tolie's clear soprano, (pre-dating Slick too, I'm afraid), I could bluster my way through, similar in the way so many Fake Books created ersatz guitarists of the most plebeian talents. We Decide To Form A Band Now the late 60's was a trying time. Here I was, in a co-ed dorm, sitting in on Alan Watts lectures, Tim Leary visits and a bunch of stuff happening at places like Fillmore West and Winterland in San Francisco. Weird names, (Moby Grape, Chocolate Watchband, Electric Prunes), were the norm. We occasionally attended classes. (I myself had 3 majors: Psychology, Art and Oriental Philosophy). Gathering together an unlikely bunch of acoustic guitarists, tambourine players, a guy from Compton who claimed to be related to Jimi Hendrix and the like, we fashioned ourselves Pure Snerd. I think this might have been in reference to something out of my favorite reading material, Zapp Comix, (associated with the strange, brilliant and troubled Robert Crumb), but I could be wrong. We were all part of a funky bunch of party animal/part time students I'd dubbed Farm Pups, and practicing for gigs was probably the farthest thing from most of our minds. Tripping out on the newest albums, and going to concerts took up a good part of our time, and in my case, I couldn't get too much of "Ooooh Captain, there's a problem with the dilithium crystals. I canna get much more power out o' her. She's givin' us all she's got," and assorted hammy but fervent acting. Hammy, But Fervent Performing I am happy to say this was one of my (few) thin periods: a time when diet pills were legally prescribed to millions of people with sluggish metabolisms. Picture a tall, platinum blonde, whose lungs had very nicely developed, thank you. Maybe I did owe Mrs. O some credit, I guess, but I would never guess the main reason I was picked to help front Pure Snerd. The night of our first, official, (read: paid), concert loomed. Sensing ourselves seasoned, after a couple of sets in front of zoned out dorm denizens and near catatonic and swozzled frat fumblers, we felt ready to approach the Student Body in all our (deluded) glory. The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down We knew 9 songs, and could stretch that out by jamming, into a couple of decent sets. Unfortunately less professional than enthusiastic, no one thought about the need for a sound check. You know, to test the various microphones and amps, wiring, acoustics, etc. Keyword being before the gig. My knees were knocking as we mounted the stage, but it was hard to tell beneath my voluminous Army (Navy?) surplus bell bottoms. As I tottered on platform high heels, something kept throwing my center of gravity off, and I had to stick out my chest to compensate. "Do that a lot!" the band leader, Michael T., tersely instructed sotto voce. Hendrix's cousin and I shared a mike, which seemed to hover just inches from a pool of frenzied sharks circling below. If you've ever had that dry mouth, electric gutted and choked throat feeling prior to public speaking, you'll know what I mean. Luckily, I was nearsighted enough to need glasses, but didn't wear them, so the snarls and gnashing of Student Body zombies was mostly heard but not seen. The lights dimmed and the first guitar notes rang out. My mind was an utter and complete blank...I couldn't remember a single word! Shooting a quick glance to the singer next to me I noted his deer-frozen-in-car-headlights stare. Oh oh! This was going to be bad. Very Bad. Luckily our first song was Big Brother & The Holding Co.'s Combination Of The Two. For those not familiar with prehistoric psych rock, that one starts out "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa." I knew that part. Janis Joplin vamped with her cute guitar player Andrew on this one. Since I couldn't hear myself sing, I could only hope I was on key, and that unearthly shrieking sound was just feedback. Again, the audience was no clue. Have you ever seen those big mouth groupers? Steinhardt Aquarium in San Francisco's Golden Gate Park has them, and the crowd seemed transfixed. Always the dancer, I started swinging my hips and gyrating around. It was a sight to see: this half Indian hippie girl dressed in something that looked like a paisley bedspread and the wanna be Hendrix guy, replete with the most micro Afro this side of Uncle T., with pseudo-militant headband and Day-Glo sashes, (over-kill), bopping around when they were supposed to be vocalizing. I had one big number to get through at the end of the first set. My voice really had to carry the song, and I thought I might be able to remember the words and unfreeze my throat for a few verses. So what happened next? Honestly I don't remember. I've learned this is common in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. You can remember up to just before a terrible, very bad, no good, awfully rotten thing, and then pffft! Total amnesia. I've pieced it together, though, from unbiased crowd accounts, and it goes like this: The guitar player was the only one that actually faced the crowd. The sort of bass player and the tambourine/percussion guy huddled back by the amps and everyone assumed they were absorbed with smoking a doobie, or conducting some acid flashback palaver. They randomly paused to perform. Freedom's Just Another Word For Nothing Left To Lose The harmonica guy nodded off during the second set. This was also the set where the strain of trying to shake my money maker and balance at the same time took it's toll on the flimsy gauze of my ethnic bedspread style caftan top. It's said it only ripped 3 or 4 inches down the front during the first set, but by the second set, wow! So oblivious, flapping in the breeze, I apparently missed the part where the guitar player stealthily turned down the volume on the singers' mike, from 5 to say 1. I've learned that the bass player and guitar guy had an escalating war in which each turned up his respective amps. Laughable in its way, because these were small, practice amps, maybe Fenders...nothing close to massive towers of Marshalls that would come to be the real rockers' norm. Which explains the purpose of neutral-dude mixing boards, way beyond our reach, but certainly better able to level the um, playing field. The consensus was that I'd looked "really good" up there, all right, but uh, well, after the first set, or maybe sort of during that set too, you really couldn't hear me sing, except for some "Whoas" and "Alrights". Down the road there was plenty of chance for backup singing, (no more fronting the band), and hey, even some awesome tambourine shaking of my own. The infamous blouse became just so many dusting cloths, though strangely enough they always seemed to just...disappear. I just hope and pray I never see this stuff show up on Ebay!!!  |
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