Passion Is No Ordinary Word

When we were kids, our Christmas tradition kind of had two parts. On Christmas Eve was the Gift Exchange, were we would all get the practical gifts like new clothes and books and such; everything was wrapped and signed. Then on Christmas Morning was the 'Santa Episode' where we would get whatever toys and things we REALLY wanted, unwrapped to try and keep the debris under control. On these mornings we could barely sleep, and invariable wound up sneaking downstairs at 4 AM to pick through the best stuff to take back to our rooms and play with until my Dad would yell "Dammit, Go Back To Sleep!"

in 1971, one of the things I got from 'Santa' was a small avocado green AM/FM radio. I can't remember if I had asked for it or not, but hey, how cool! Totally Groovy, am I right?

I scarfed that sucker and the associated batteries and scurried back to our bedroom, turning it on as soft as it could go. O glorious days of independent rock radio! The first song that came out of it was "Heartbreaker" by Led Zeppelin. Holy shit. Even as a ten year old with a tinny little radio playing nearly inaudibly, it 'fractured my tender psyche'. It totally restructured my mind. Listen to it now, it's still that good.

Once I could work, I spent the money from my part time jobs on a Realistic compact stereo from Radio Shack. Played tapes too; not those 8-track jobbies that my brother favored, but the newfangled 'compact cassette' ("Home Taping is KILLING music!" remember that?) And started to buy albums. By high school, my taste was definitely leaning toward the heavy stuff; Zep, Nazareth, Queen, Styx.... My brother took me to my first Rock concert, Neil Diamond at the Madison Coliseum (the famous Clamshell). A year later, my best friend and I went to see Styx on the Pieces of Eight tour in the same place.

In 1979, WMAD was playing an entire new release album on Sunday nights. Straight through, no interruption, just a somewhat bigger gap when they flipped the disc (I know this is all gibberish to you kids, just bear with me). I would set a tape to record and go to sleep, and would have a new slab of rock to listen to the next morning. One Monday I woke to find Bon Scott screaming Highway To Hell at me and peeling paint. So good, so good, so fucking good.

The next week was the Cars debut album. I didn't know what the hell was going on, but I liked it. I saw Elvis Costello on SNL (of course I didn't have dates on Saturday nights), and the B-52's, and Devo. I bought London Calling. My friends were starting to refuse to let me pick music. But it was all good; once I went to college, I discovered it was called Punk. Or New Wave for the more timid. The Ramones, the Boomtown Rats, Elvis, B-52's, there was so much energy floating around. That first summer after my freshman year, I bought a guitar.

It was ostensibly a '56 or '57 Gibson standard, modified from original so it was cheap. I carried it home on my bike. Some chumpwad replaced the original unique pickup with DiMarzio Humbuckers, while ignoring the worn tuning pegs that couldn't hold a tune. I disassembled it, stripped the clunky paint job to reveal a nice cherry, and refinished it myself, adding the best tuning pegs I could afford. Without the original pickups, it now had a unique mutt of a sound and a great action, good for punk. A friend borrowed it occasionally to play some Devo covers in a band called the Animated Geeks. God I loved that guitar.

Of course, I wound up pursuing an architecture degree in Milwaukee. The big City. A real music scene! The Oil Tasters were playing. Plasticland. The Femmes released their first and second albums; I saw the Bodeans on their third night out. Numb Jitters. Those X-Cleavers. Couch Flambeau. Boy Dirt Car, of course. The R&B Cadets with Paul Cebar and Robyn Pluer. The Squares MOVED here because of the scene.

Architecture school is a grind, designed so. Long hours at drafting tables, vicious critiques of work by sadistic professors (good ones, too, but you remember the bastardos). But the commitment required is fierce. Little time for a social life, let alone a preoccupation like starting a band. I would have; no doubts. I was already helping some of the local guys doing load outs and setups. But One year, the financial aid folks let me down and I was short of cash. I needed money to stay in school so I sold my guitar to Tim Ungrodt for tuition. He promised to paint it lime green, the bastard. I stayed in school and got my Master's.

But you know, it's always nagged at me. I've got no regrets; I love the work I do and have had a positive demonstrative and satisfying impact on the City. But the what-might-have-beens get to me sometimes. Especially when I pick up my guitar now (I now have an acoustic and the sweet Special Edition Telecaster my wife bought me for Christmas one year) I'm still no good; but if I had devoted the time to playing rather than school...

I know, I know. "Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are 'It might have been'". Eat me, Vonnegut. But once a year, I get to kind of immerse myself in an alternate universe where my path led to stages rather than building sites. In immersing myself into Summerfest, I can swipe a bit - just a tiny bit- of the buzz that I felt back in those heady days of the Eighties when anything could happen.

Just for a little while.


[cross posted at teh Summerfest Blog]