The Music Faded and the Dance Ended --- Part 6 (Home Brew)

The weekends off were great. I did my best at making up for lost time with my high school friends.

Dave, Rick, Craig and I were either fishin, huntin. Dirt biking, or just down on the Luckiamute, skippin’ rocks.

Music was still very much a part of my life. Pat and I were best friends and I continued to hang out at his place and play the guitar and bass. There came a point when the student was teaching the teacher. We would take our guitars to backyard gatherings like BBQs and birthday parties and on occasion, we’d be over at Beau’s playing bluegrass.

I really loved the down home feel of bluegrass music. I went ahead and bought a banjo from Ray down at Music West and set about learning some songs. Pat, of course, could pick a little banjo and taught me how to play ‘Cripple Creek’, ‘The Ballad of Jed Clampet’, and ‘Dueling Banjos’. I never took the time to go further with the banjo, but I did have one fantastic experience playing those three songs.

Craig was in the drama class in our senior year. Rick and Dave and I gave him so much crap about that, too. “Whatcha takin’ next semester, Craig, --sewing –knitting? Hahahaha.”

“SHUTTUP YOU ASSHOLES!!!”

Craig enjoyed his drama class and somehow roped me into playing a bit part in the senior play. The play was called “Hillbilly Weddin’,” and the only reason they wanted me in the play was to have me pick the banjo just before the last act.

There was an underclassman that played a real kick-ass bluegrass acoustic. His family had cut some albums and they were very good. I had to demand he play with me in order for me to even attempt this thing. I got my way, and Jim played backup for me.

Randy was a senior along with me and was a part of that trio, playing rhythm guitar. Randy didn’t quite fit with the feel of the music but he was there just the same. His folks bought him a new Martin D35 acoustic guitar with mother-of-pearl inlay. My God! That was a beautiful box. The solid spruce top was flawless and the solid rosewood on the sides and back were among the most stunning pieces of wood I’d ever seen. That guitar sang sweet music!

I don’t know whatever became of that guitar, but I do know what became of Randy. He parked his car one day, wondered out into the woods, and shot himself in the head.

I was terrified to sit on that stage with the spotlight right on me. Jim sat next to me and Randy was on the other side of him. There were nearly a thousand people in the bleachers and on chairs in the school gymnasium. With the lighting set the way it was, all I could see were the first two rows. The microphone must have been three feet away and behind it was a video camera. The pressure was intense. I was trembling on the inside like an earthquake.

I had chosen my own words carefully and practiced them for days. My voice quivered on that first line, but then the sound system was so high quality that it helped me relax. I finished the introduction to the song and we kicked-it-in with ‘Dueling Banjos.’ When Jim and I got to the pickin’ part of the song, I could see the folks stomping their feet and clapping their hands to the music. A feeling of euphoria rushed through my body and washed all of my timidity away.

It was just a twenty minute gig and I had great fun doing it. When we finished and the crowd applauded, --I can’t even begin to describe the thrill I felt. I rode on that high for days.

When I told Pat about it, he smiled big with pride. He couldn’t have been happier for me. I also think he was a bit jealous.

When God puts a golden nugget in your mouth and says, “Go forth and use my gift,” you ought not spit it out.

Pat missed the lime lights and the folks. I sensed his yearning; and it nagged at him more than Sharlene ever could.

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Rick, Craig, Dave and I graduated high school and Dave went on to college. He worked odd jobs on weekends to help himself through. He went to work for a logging company doing fire watch. Basically, he would go out to the operation after the loggers went home and stay the night to make sure that no rouge spark from a chainsaw smoldered in the underbrush and caught fire. He had access to a radio and a fire truck (just in case).

He would also stay from Friday afternoon to Monday morning. It gave him a lot of time for study, but the loneliness and boredom sets in rather quickly.

He called me up on the phone one day and asked me if I’d spend the weekend with him. Nobody wants to be out amongst the cougars, bears, and Sasquatch; who wants to die alone? I figured, "sure, why not?"

Dave brought a book for me to read while he was hitting the books for school. He’d already finished it and wanted me to check it out. It was called, ‘How to Make ESP work For You.’ It was an easy read and I got through it in no time. Dave and I thought, ‘why not give this a shot?’

Now, I pride myself on having fairly decent reading comprehension skills, so I must’ve missed something in there. Danged if that stuff didn’t work at all! I tried and tried to have an out-of-body experience, but for some reason, it just didn’t happen. Monday morning came around and Dave drove me home.

We rounded the corner before my place and I couldn’t believe what I saw. There were four-foot flames dancing on the embers of what used to be the home I’d spent my whole life in.

Everybody was safe, but very little was saved. The old house went up like a match. I lost my acoustic guitar, my electric, and my banjo. One of Pat’s guitars was also a casualty, and Rick lost his set of drums. My bass, amp, and some other stuff had been up at Pat’s; so it wasn’t a total loss.

I had gone to work for Brothers Builders (the guys that built Beau’s house) and learned to frame houses. We built custom houses, and a lot of love went into that work. We cut every board down the 1/64 of an inch and we hammered every nail by hand. I enjoyed it and looked forward to going to work everday.

I drove an old 68 Ford Falcon with a 6 cylinder engine and three-on-the-tree. It had a bad clutch and there was a blown exhaust manifold gasket on it; so it sounded like hell, drove like hell, but it always started and got me back and forth to work.

I’d been looking forward to payday because I was in a position to put some of my paycheck toward a hollow-bodied electric guitar.

After work I chugged into Ray’s parking lot. I went into the store to see if Ray might have a decent used hollow-body.

Ray was behind the counter doing paperwork. He gave his usual greeting as I approached him. I told him about the house-fire and said I was there to see what he had in the way of a used guitar. Ray came out from behind the counter with a grin; and we headed for the guitar racks.

The racks were set up with the electrics on the top and the acoustics on the bottom. The used guitars were on the left and the new guitars went from cheap the more expensive, from left to right. I headed for the left side and Ray went straight for the right end.

He pulled a guitar from the wall and said, “Charley, I just got this in today and you really have to see it!”

I’m the kind of guy that admires beautiful things; so I went over to take a look. He held in his hands, a brand new Gibson ES335TD with a walnut finish. I didn’t know whether to take into my hands or bow before it. It was gorgeous!



When I wrapped my left hand around the neck of that guitar I knew I was holding something special. It was like taking a bite out of the sweetest, juiciest, shiniest, red delicious apple you’ve ever seen. I looked at the price tag and handed it back to Ray, and said, “Ray, I can’t afford something like this!”

I’d done all my business with Ray for many years I’d bought two basses, three guitars, two amps, and a banjo. Ray had a ledger that kept track of my payments over the years. He still had it although, at the time, I owed him nothing. Ray said, “Sure you can! What did you figure on spending on a used one?”

I said,“Between a hundred and a hundred fifty, I suppose.”

He said, “Charley, your credit’s good here. I’ll write this down on the ledger, you just write a check for a hundred dollars, and you can owe me six-hundred fifty. – and I’ll go get the case.”

I walked out of that store feeling as though I’d just taken out a 15 year mortgage with an ARM. I was ecstatic on one hand and was scared s**tless on the other.

I snuggled that guitar up to me in the seat of my ole car and grinned ear-to-ear all the way home. On the way home, I was thinking to myself, “wait ‘till you see this, Pat!”

I got home and called Pat right away. “Hey! I got something to show you! –you busy?”

PAT: “naw, just come on up; you know you’re always welcome. Besides, it’s been a while, and I’ve been wanting to talk with you.”

“okee doke, I’ll be up in a minute.”


I was in a hurry so I stopped my old falcon about 50 feet from Pat’s gate. I put the car into first gear and dropped the clutch; and that worn out old clutch plate allowed my car to creep along on its own.

The car started to chug its way toward the gate. I ran to the gate, opened it, and my car, chuggity-chug --chuggity-chugged, its way through gate by itself.

Once the car was in clear of the gate, I hustled to get it closed and locked, then ran to catch up with the car. I then, raced up to the house.

I couldn’t wait to open up that case. When I did, Pat’s jaw hit the floor. It was almost as though there were beams of divine light emanating from the case.

Pat pulled the guitar out of the case and wrapped his hand around that neck, and felt the same rush I got over at Ray’s.

That guitar was as quality as quality gets. It was the type of guitar that can make a mediocre guitar player good, and a good guitar player, a musician.

We broke into song after song and loved it. Pat set there for a moment, staring into space, then turned to me and said, “Chazzly! I can do this!” I just smiled real big.

We smiled at each other then looked at Sharlene, she looked back at us, and we looked at each other, then back at Sharlene, (who, by the way, had a look of surrender on her face.) --I said, “I’ll call Rick tomorrow” and Pat said, “I’ll call Chuck at the Eagles, to see if has any openings.

Pat cased up my guitar and handed it to me. I took it from his hands and then made an appropriate decision.

“You know what Pat? I think this beauty is safer up here with you; besides, you need to practice on your lead licks; --if I want to play it, --I know where it’s at.”

He smiled a big smile and then kissed Sharlene. I noticed him reopening the case as I was headed out the door for home.

When the three of us got together at my folks place to practice for the first time; we knew, on-the-spot our polish was still there. We weren’t worried about the job.

Now all we needed was a name and a logo (eh, and a PA system). We kicked around some ideas for our band name and nothing was ‘floating our boat.’ Then my dad suggested, “Peter Payne and the Shots.”

I giggled my butt off, but Pat stood there with a ‘not too impressed look on his face.’ He was an ex Navy man and probably had some painful memories that cut a little too close to home. I doubt it, but who knows?

Brevity is the soul of wit, and I liked the idea of a one-to-two word name that would reflect our music and our lives. Our music had a down-home feel, and my dad was brewing home-brewed beer, at the time. Pat had a still cooking in the old house on his ranch.

“How about if we call ourselves ‘Home Brew’” I asked. --It was a fit with all of us! I drew up a logo later that night.

We went to Ray and worked a deal on a PA system; then went to the lodge to set up our equipment. That first Friday night, we played our hearts out.

We were home. Home Brew

The Music Faded and the Dance Ended --- Part 5 (Sometimes Life Just Gets in The Way)

Pat was a handsome man with a powerful personality. He was very outgoing and could instinctively gauge the crowd. He knew the most appropriate song to play at any given time. He was a great communicator and entertainer and would talk directly to the people. It only stood to reason that there were many women in the crowd that swooned over him.

If I had a dollar for every time I saw a woman dance past the front of the stage and flash a smile at Pat with her wanting-bedroom eyes, I could buy a David Hartley signature ‘Rains’ SD10 pedal steel guitar, a top-shelf volume peddle, a digital delay, a peddle steel chair, and still have enough left over to take you all out for steak and lobster afterwards.

Pat was as human as anyone else and I’m sure the temptation was overwhelming at times. I was more than just his bass player and sidekick; I was his marital safety device. I rode with him every night to and from our gigs. I was stuck to him like glue and had to bring him back down to Earth, on occasion. –“Pat! This is poison, man! And, I need a ride home! –shut it down!” He knew, and he did.

Pat held to his commitments to his family, and Sharlene never really had to worry, but she did, anyway.

Pat was very smart, articulate, and had no fear of people. One time we played a one-night-stand for a private business in the huge ballroom at the Elk’s Lodge in Corvallis. The band showed up early to set up, tune up, and to set the balance for the acoustics in the room. Mike’s wife June, and I’m not sure who our other guests were, but they were to show up a little closer to start time. When they showed up, the guy at the door refused to let them in. He came to us and even after discussing the situation with Pat, was not backing down on the fact they weren’t allowed in. Pat called the person that booked the job and simply said, “If they’re not good enough for this place, neither are we. We can break this stuff down easier than we can set it up.”

Needless to say, we finished the night out.

The guy that gave us all of the trouble at the door joined the crowd and decided he was going to lock-horns with Pat. I don’t know if this guy had a strong personality/ego that clashed with Pat’s, or whether or not he was just a pure, plain and simple idiot. My money’s on the latter.

This man stood in front of the stage and would belligerently tell us we didn’t do this right or that right. He eventually became more confrontational towards Pat. Pat didn’t seem too phased about it, but I was pissed. I wanted to put the back of my brand new Fender Precision bass up to the side of his head at full-swing. Pat turned and said, “Calm down Chazzly! I’ll have a talk with him on the break.” (Chazzly is the name Pat called me by)

By the time I sat my bass down for the break, Pat was already halfway across the dance floor making a bee-line for that a$$hole. Pat approached the man and firmly tapped him on the shoulder. It was too far away to hear what was going on.

The man stood up and they spoke for nearly a minute. The guy sat back down and Pat turned back toward us. He mingled with the folks until he finally made his way to our table. He sat down and jumped right into our conversation as if nothing ever happened.

I asked, “So? What did you say to that guy?”

“Oh that guy? –He’s alright,” Pat said with a smile.

That man never moved from his chair the rest of the time he was there. He didn’t even so much as turn around to look at us. He left with his tail between his legs long before our last set.

Pat was around 6’4”, 225 to 250lbs of pure muscle and guts. I once watched him carry a large calf in his arms, backwards, up hill, and over 300 yards to his barn in order the get the ailing mother cow into where he could tend to her. He didn’t even break a sweat.

Pat was a strong man, but his real strength was his family.

Pat and Sharlene had a daughter they named Judith. She was probably two years old by this time. Pat was working his excavating business and was busy drumming up work for his cat, taking care of his family, paying the bills, and having to understand the worry Sharlene had to have felt while he was out with us in the clubs every weekend. He was burning the candle at both ends and had to make a choice.

One night Pat picked me up and we headed for the Eagles lodge where we were playing; we played a great night of music and when the last call was called. Pat said, “I’m gonna go get our money, but I want to meet you guys here for a band meeting.”

What the hell is a ‘Band Meeting?’ We’re flying by the seat of our jeans here!

Pat came back to the table and divvied up the cash.

Pat sighed a deep sigh and said, “Guys, --you know I love what we’re doing; the music couldn’t be better. You guys are my friends, really close friends! And, I really hate to do this to you, but this is my last night. I’d like to tell you why, but I can’t. You’re my best friends and I’m sorry. It tears my heart out to leave you high and dry like this, but it’s either this or my family.”

Mike, Rick, and I were shocked. This was outta the blue. I knew him well, but I really never saw this coming. We scrambled to figure out how finish out our contract.

I helped Pat load his amp and stuff into the car, then pondered at the empty space he left on that stage and in our music.

On the way home, Pat opened up his heart to me, I knew then where he was coming from and I never second guessed him after that.

As with all relationships that are based in emotion, hard feelings find their way in. the band broke up before the contract was filled.

True friends always stay together and we all worked it out over time.

Mike moved on to bigger things in the music world, and Rick and I rejoined our old friends at the fishin’ hole.

The Music Faded and the Dance Ended --- Part 4 (The Spirit of Song)

When Pat was pushin’ dirt with his dozer, he befriended a man named Beau V.

Beau had a backhoe business and he and Pat worked together on many building projects during the housing boom of the 70’s. They became good friends (I’d like to think he was his second best friend). It turned out that Beau was a musician, too. He had an old --old ‘Martin’ guitar and a dobro, and played them both very well.

I was a little jealous of Beau until the day Pat dragged me along to a backyard outing at Beau’s place. It was a nice place nestled in the woods on the other side of Philomath from us.

The guy that I eventually went to work for, framing houses, had built Beau’s house. It was big and beautiful with massive decks. In fact, I think my future boss was there that day. It was a new clique that I soon became a part of.

On their deck was a huge stainless steel vat chocked full of boiled shrimp, all the food and side dishes you could imagine. We ate, then ate some more, talked, joked, laughed, and then we finally brought out our instruments.

Being the young’un of the bunch, I felt a bit uncomfortable to say the least. It wasn’t until we started playing when I felt a little more at home.

There must have been twelve of us strummin’ along to Pat’s singing. There was a banjo player, fiddle player, mandolin picker, and Beau playing his dobro. It was Bluegrass! It was all new to me.

I learned what bluegrass music was all about. I loved it! It was based on fun, family, and tradition. What a day that was!

“Chicken in the Bread Pan Kickin’ out Dough…” –How cool is that!!!!

Beau dragged out his old Martin; and I swear –that small old-fashion-looking guitar put out more sound and prettier music than all of the rest of our guitars put together. I wish I knew the history of that ole box. It rang like a bell.

I was still very intimidated with all of these older folks, but I hung in there the best I could. Pat sensed my immature feelings, as well. He knew when it was time to go.

The party faded out and we ‘headed for the barn.’ For tthose in Miami Beach (Rush), that means we went home.

On the way home from the party, we got to giggling and laughing about this or that, and the day turned out to be great. As Pat would say, “it was one for the books.”

After that day I started to understand that all music had a ‘feel’ and a purpose to it. I broadened my horizons, so to speak, and opened my ears to other artists and the feeling of their music.

Mike G.:

I really hate to admit it, but I was a hippie wannabe back then.

There was a man by name of Mike G. (not to be confused with Mike our lead player) who was the first man I'd ever seen with hair over his collar. As a matter of fact, he looked like girl from behind. Damndest thing I ever saw!

Mike was a hard worker that worked for the V&S railroad, on the section crew (tamping ties and driving spikes with a sledge hammer). It was said that he could drive a spike with just one big WHACK! He was as skinny and boney as me, but nothing could put him down.

Mike G. loved his pot. He was a hippie! He used to ride the train up to his ‘garden’ during his harvest season. He would wait by the tracks, with a bag full of dope, for the return trip of the train and catch the caboose back to Hoskins where he lived. The old engineer Sam would slow the train to a stop so Mike could load his stash and get onboard. Nobody ever said a thing.

Mike played the guitar also and as with most hippies, he was into obscure music. He wasn’t so sick as to be into sitar and pan flute music, but he liked a lot of stuff that were never hits.

He had old albums by Graham Parsons and Willie Nelson before they became household names. He was also talented with the writing of his own music and lyrics.

Pat and Mike G. played a sit down job together at ‘The Coffee Shop’ in Corvallis one night, and when Mike started playing his song called ‘Shit out of Luck,’ the owner literally pulled the plug on them.

Mike G. and I would smoke a little weed and listen to various types of music on his high-end Marantz stereo system (back in the seventies that was a big deal). I really liked the lyrics of Willie Nelson’s work. I never cared much for his vocal styling, but some of his songs are immortal. Ray Price made famous a song written by Willie called ‘Night Life.’ I came to characterize that title with the particular sound that can also be found in a lot of Motown music, like Etta James’ ‘At Last.’ I loved the mood of that particular flavor of music. I call it ‘Night Life’ music.

I continued to explore this new world of emotion that touched me through the strings, the beat, and the vocals. I liked some of this, and some of that, and not so much of the others.

Bubble gum music was cheesy and disco was one step above that, in my opinion. Metal, well, let’s just not go there. These three styles are hardly worth mention, but music was music. I took it all in and listened.

There are classical instrumentals that can put a tear in your eye for no reason other then the love of God and the effort and love of the musicians playing it. Opera holds extreme emotion, too, and can make you cry no matter what language it’s sung in. I say that with the exception of the female vocalists. They grated my nerves more than to hear the voice of my second ex-wife ~shudders~.

Personally, I LOVE the heart-felt, love-based, feeling of yearning in the old country songs.

My interest in all the types of music was one thing, but the music Pat, Mike, Rick, and I were playing on stage together was another.

We read each others minds. I knew what they were going to do before they did it and they knew the same. I swear we each played to what we knew the others were going to do and we complimented every note. We were playing out of our hearts and not from a sheet. We played to and for the folks, and of course, ourselves. It was a high!

One night, we were playing a song. It could have been ‘Silver Wings’ or one of my other favorites; I don’t remember which. The dance floor was crowded and we were clicking right on time with each other with the music, the mind, and the soul.

As the song ended, a chill went through us. When the sustained notes from our guitars and Rick’s symbols faded to silence, Mike turned and said, “Whoa, did you feel that?”

Yeah, we all did!

It was as if the Holy Spirit himself passed through us, stood before us, and applauded, as if to say, “beautiful music my friends, you did well.”

The Music Faded and the Dance Ended --- Part 3 (Silver Wings)

The weekends turned into months, --then years. My learning escalated along with my confidence. I was in a whole new world that was as seductive as it could possibly be. Pat thrived on it too. I could tell by the way he moved up to the microphone and then poured his soul into the feel of the song, just after one of Mike’s mesmerizing lead breaks.

Pat played up his talent and sang straight from his big heart. Mike was great, also. Our band became more of a marriage of souls with the purpose of touching the hearts of the folks who came in, sat down, drank, danced, had a great time, and then became a part of us.

I was still a minor, but I learned to mingle with the crowd. I was young enough to not be spoiled by the pain and turmoil that comes with the years of adulthood. I communicated with them in a naïve kid-like way, but still was able to reach the love that was in their hearts. I loved them. I would give anything to step back in time, stand on stage and watch those folks two-step around the dance floor again, and dream on each other, --one more time!

As the boom in country music built during the seventies, we went from place to place. We would play the lodges, clubs, and the beer taverns. We kicked butt! Like all bands, we developed a following. I may not remember their names, but I remember their hearts.

We had other bands come in and check us out where ever it was we were playing (ya know, what’s our competition? And how do they sound?) And, when time allowed, we did the same. I remember a band that came into the Kings Valley Tavern to check us out. The bass player of this well-established band came up to me and told me what a SOLID bass payer I was; I swelled with pride. We became good friends after that.

As the weeks went by the places, that hired bands, sought to bring in the crowds. Money is money and capitalism is a great thing.

Sunday jam sessions became very popular. There was always a jam session somewhere every Sunday. It was a strange day to pour drinks and play music, but it as fun as could be.

Those jam sessions were great for us. We either got jobs from them or we just met other musicians. We got our name around and we got to know a lot of other players in the area. It was one hell of a hay-ride (to say the least).

Although, this new life for me was so cool, my teenage years suffered badly and my high school friends, pretty much, went their own way for the most part. My high school friend Rick, on the other hand, was a bit different. He started learning to play drums in school and loved music. He was a good friend (the first day we met we got into a fist fight while walking down the hall after Math class. Kids are stupid!) He eventually became our drummer and stayed a life-long friend.

It really would have been nice to go camping, fishing, hunting, or just bombing around with my buds, but I was playing, and that seemed to matter most to me. To this day, I’m not sure why, but I still wouldn’t trade any of it for the world.

A brief but very important aside (Misty):

Ted’s folks took in Foster children and gave them a warm and loving country home for a time. Most of the time, they provided that home for teenaged girls. Ted’s place was a magnet for the boys in our community. I was no exception. During the week I was in high school, but on the weekends (during the day), Id either be at Pat’s place or Ted’s.

They took in a girl named Misty. Misty was a couple of years younger than me. She was a petite brunette with green eyes, pretty face, and a sweet voice. I was captivated by her from the get go. She became more than just puppy love to me. She was the real deal (or so I thought). There comes a time when a boy becomes a man; Misty changed my life forever.

The music took on a whole new life to me. I had a love in my life to center my emotions around. The songs had a truer meaning than ever before.

During this intense and naïve love affair, Misty got the chance to go spend a week with her brother who lived out of state. She caught a plane there and that was one of the most difficult weeks of my life, and then some. At the same time Pat was teaching me a new song (new to me, anyway) that was more complicated in the chord progression than what I’d been used to. The song is a Merle Haggard song called “Silver Wings.”

We played the song the following weekend and, that emotion, that song, and that particular moment in my life has stuck with me as one my fondest memories.


Silver Wings (by Merle Haggard):

Silver wings shinning in the sunlight,
roaring engines headed somewhere in flight.
Their taking you away, leaving me lonely,
silver wings slowly fading out of sight.
Don't leave me I cry, don't take that airplane ride.
But you locked me out of your mind. Left me
standing here behind.
Silver wings shining in the sunlight,
roaring engines headed somewhere in flight.
Their taking you away, leaving me lonely.
silver wings slowly fading out of sight.
Silver wings shining in the sunlight,
roaring engines headed somewhere in flight,
their taking you away. Leaving me lonely.
Silver wings slowly fading out of sight.
Slowly fading out of sight.

Misty came back but she wasn't the same person. I knew She was leaving my world as I felt my music world growing, at the same time. I had no choice but to pour my love into song, now that Misty was gone. And, I did it with a passion.

The Music Faded and the Dance Ended --- Part 2 (The Band Came Alive)

Over the years I’ve heard many musicians and actors state they’ve done their best shows when they felt fear and nervousness going into the gig. Those emotions take you straight to the here-and-now of the moment. Your concentration level is high and you put your best effort into your performance. If I had the talent, at the time, I’d have been a star that first night playing bass, I was scared to death.

Although, I only had a week to practice on the bass, I did fairly well considering the fact that one year earlier; I’d never picked up an instrument in my life. Pat covered my back, though. He turned the bass level up on his guitar and filled in the parts where I went weak.

After Cousin Joe and Boots left the band and Roger and I replaced them, it became a whole new ballgame. The sound was totally different and took some getting used to.

Roger was a far better guitarist than Cousin Joe. Not only was he technically superior, he was humble, friendly, and had stage presence.

I was no Boots on the bass, but that first weekend went well, all in all. It was a whole new band with a new sound and the folks danced and really enjoyed it.

The following Monday I had to return the rented amplifier. It was a sad thing that my first real business transaction in my new adult-like life had to turn as sour as it did. I couldn’t have been more careful with that amp than if I had been holding a nest of hummingbird eggs.

The man did a quick inspection, went right to a very small tear in the vinyl on the back of this used amp, and then charged me five dollars for damages. I was mad! I knew I needed my own equipment, and fast.

Pat drove me into town to the music store where he usually did his business and introduced me to the owner, Ray.

Ray was your typical salesman. He was a middle-aged man with big white teeth and a Cheshire cat smile.

Pat explained our situation to him and Ray seemed to drop any age worries he may have had, and set out to sell me some stuff.

Ray had a used Fender MusicMaster bass on the rack and a brand new Fender Bassman 10 amplifier and that combo looked like the perfect setup for an amateur bass player in transition from a six-string guitar. Pat helped me negotiate terms of payment (there went his silver tongue of his again) and we walked out of Ray’s store that day with my new equipment.

I went into Music West every week after that and made the agreed payment until my debt was paid. It was done solely out of the money I made on weekends playing in the band, and I was very proud that I stood up to the plate and paid it off, on time, with my own money.

I spent a lot of time with Roger, at his place, learning songs he wanted to do. I learned some great instrumentals from him like ‘Night Train’, ‘Walk Don’t Run’, and “Chicken Pickin’”. We would play on into the night until his wife ran me out.

Roger’s wife, Penny, was a very troubled woman. She would show up every weekend, but she did it more to watch over Roger than to enjoy him. Your first, second, and third impression of her was: She was a B****. It became clear years later; she was just very mentally disturbed.

Roger had a friend and fellow lead guitarist named Mike who got along better than anyone else could with Penny. He tagged along on weekends and kept her company while Roger and we played. That arrangement went well for a few months until one night Roger informed us that he had a shift change at work and could no longer be a part of the band. He recommended Mike as his replacement. We hated to see him go.

Mike was into “The Beetles”, “The Ventures”, and other sixties and seventies music.

He showed up on his first night and played well. The only problem was, we were trying to hear pure country, and he was playing more of a sixties pop style. There was a twinge of concern in the private conversations that weekend, but by the next week; Mike had taken what we done together, and, in Pats words, “He broke it down to the nuts and bolts and put it all back together to fit.”

Mike’s lead breaks became a time for us to drift into his brilliance. Sometimes we’d struggle to get back into our own parts.

He became a fast and forever friend of mine. Mike is one of the nicest and most giving men you’d ever meet in you life.

I was learning the bass at what seemed more on an hourly basis rather then daily or weekly. The music became more and more alive to me and my ability and confidence grew. I continued to learn from Pat on the guitar (finger pickin’ and such) and sometimes shared it with Mike, and describe the way I was hearing a particular song. He always had an open mind and I felt like a peer more than just a snot-nosed kid learning to play the guitar and bass.

The time came when our stint at the Eagles was over. It had been more than six months of steady and evolving work. We needed a new job to take the band to, so Pat put his silver tongue to work.

The laws had just been changed to allow dancing in taverns, thus bringing about a boom in country music, in our neck of the woods anyway. Prior to that change, dancing was only allowed in certain lodges and night clubs. The work opportunities became plentiful.

Pat contacted the owner of a local tavern and assured him we could bring in a lot of customers. He told him we weren’t that expensive, and the beer and good times would flow. The owner agreed to give us a try and see where it went. We packed up our equipment, from the Eagles lodge, and moved on to new scenery.

Kings Valley Tavern:

Kings Valley Tavern was not a stand-alone building. It was the northern half of what was the local store and gas station.

It was a fairly large and old building that replaced the old store that burned down early last century. The floors throughout the building were just planks. If I remember right they were rough sawn 2 X 10’s. They would treat the floor with motor oil every now and again. The southern side of the building was the store side.

The store was very antique. Going there was like stepping back to the early years of the twentieth century. In my memory, I can still see the old wood-framed glass candy display case and the old antique cash register.

The bar was long, straight and extended more than half the length of the tavern. There were pock marks on the old wood floor from the years of the logger’s corked boots as they came in for a cold one after a hard days work. There was no stage, but there was sufficient room for a dance floor in the rear of the place.

I made a make-shift poster letting people know that music was coming to our wide-spot-in-the-road, and taped them to the windows of the store and tavern.

It was just a Saturday night deal and, when we showed up, we didn’t realize how much this place wasn’t ready for us. We had to beg and borrow extension cords just to turn on our amps. There was a dangling wire from the ceiling with a single light fixture with an incandescent light bulb hanging over us (which we unscrewed; we were looking for mood and affect). The people came in, danced, had a great time, the tavern made money and they were very happy with the first night. We assessed what we needed to do to make it into more of a ‘night life scene’.

That week we got busy. I found some low watt incandescent colored light bulbs that we could put in our only pseudo-stage’s light source (the dangling wire). Pat and I built some speaker enclosures for our new Bogen PA system, and Mike upgraded to a Fender Twin Reverb amp.

The word got around about our music and by that next Saturday, we were ready. We packed 'em in like sardines. It was wild.

There’s a huge difference between the clubs, lodges, and the beer taverns. The clubs and lodges were mundane and reserved, whereas the beer taverns were very lively. People could just cut loose and have fun. The downside of that was that the fun could turn to violence at the drop of a beer glass.

You never really worried about that sort of nonsense at a lodge because the people were restrained by the rules.

We were lucky. Kings Valley Tavern was fun, exciting, and, for the most part, people behaved themselves. We packed 'em in every Saturday night and they filled the dance floor. They loved us and we loved them. We shook that place so much that Ivan the bartender had to take a hammer, on the breaks, and pound the nails back into the floor.

One time Ivan brought me up a coffee cup full of beer and sat it on my amp; he was trying to be discrete. I drank it and later he brought up a pitcher and sat it there. I poured my beers and joined the party. We were way out in the sticks, and we never got caught.

Mike and I can tell you: of all the years we’ve worked together, the somewhat big names we backed up, the fancy places we played, and all the lighting and sound technology that we could ever hope for, Kings Valley Tavern holds the deepest place in our musician hearts. And always will!