I had been living in Old Town, Albuquerque where I met my future wife. On January 28, 1973, after a whirlwind romance, hotter than a pepper sprout, Jaye and I were married in Roosevelt Park.
A month later we discovered that Jayebird was pregnant – we were excited.
Jayebird at our wedding.
But in my mind, I wondered what the hell had happened. Had I gone completely berserk? One day I was a happy-go-lucky young man without a care in the world. Then suddenly I was relegated to the real world – the brutal world of responsibility, a word with which I was unfamiliar. I was going to be a father! (Jaye had married a fixer-upper, and she had her work cut out for her.)
I rationalized that everything happens for a reason. But sometimes the reason is you’re stupid and make bad decisions.
The situation required me to man up. So, I began daydreaming of my mistress that I had abandoned back in Dallas. A few months later we moved to Dollars, Taxes and soon found a rental duplex on Belmont Avenue near Lakewood. Now I began flirting seriously with my mistress, and her name is Music – or more accurately, the music business.
King Tut… “A red hot boogie band from Dallas!”… Austin Radio
I was auditioning and meeting all kinds of working musicians, but no gigs. Then finally Doug Verver again came to my rescue. He had another house gig! The place was called the Casbah, located somewhere on McKinney Avenue, near Fitzhugh.
The place was a good-sized, red-carpet-joint with a spacious dance floor. The band, King Tut, went through a variety of players, but the ensemble that I remember with fondness was Doug on rhythm guitar and vocals, Oak Cliff lead guitarist/vocalist, Russ Stonesifer, Oak Cliff Bassist, Hal Cheatum, South Dallas Larry Brown on Hammond C3, and little old me on drums. This particular configuration was a damn tight unit.
The gig was four and then five nights a week, five sets a night… like a music factory, a hardhat area governed by OSHA! It was grueling, but we had a lot of fun. Doug sang pop like the Doobie Brothers, Grand Funk Railroad, etc. Russ covered ZZ Top, Stones, Blues, etc. And Larry, a proud black man, the elder of the group, sang Al Green and Motown to a tee. (He warbled so many Al Green tunes that we numbered them!) He was quite an entertainer and a gentleman.
We played Eli’s, North Lamar in Austin. Larry and I roomed together. One morning I woke up having to pee like a racehorse, but I could hear Larry in the shower. I had to go so badly that I thought Larry wouldn’t mind if I snuck into the bathroom. (I hoped he wouldn’t mind.) On the way out I gasped in horror. His big beautiful afro was hanging on a hook! That thing scared the hell out of me. We didn’t know he was bald and I never mentioned it. It was our little secret.
Around this time, I started playing Sunday nights at the King’s Lounge on deepest, darkest Industrial Boulevard. Hiding in the shadow of the downtown skyline, the place was a seedy, dive bar/psycho ward full of nimrods. (There should have been a police substation across the street!) The kind of joint that if you approached the burley doorman, he’d look you over and snarl: “You got a gun on you?” You’d reply, “No, sir!” And then he’d say, “Well here, take mine, you might need it.”
At last call, if all the pool cues were not broken, then it was considered a slow night. It was like playing the background music for a kick boxing event. Some nights it was hard to differentiate fighting from dancing. Of course, the carpet was red… that way you didn’t notice the blood stains.
I actually did this “tour of duty” for the longest time; and without receiving combat pay. But, believe it or not, most of the patrons liked us – and protected us. (But occasionally they turned on us.)
On Sunday, October 21, 1973, our son, Tait, was born! The King’s Band had gotten a sub for me: I was in the delivery room helping Jayebird remember what we had been taught at Lamaze classes. I was a father now.
Baby Tait
As a working musician, I plied my craft. Not by choice, but by necessity. In all, I had spent about a year rocking the Casbah. Players from other bands had stopped by to listen and perhaps sit-in. I met a lot of people in the biz. We had great crowds, made good money, plus tips . . . and nobody died (that I know of). But a change was in the air.
The Country Truckers
I was somehow cast with a Country trio called the Country Truckers. (I enjoyed calling it the ‘Mother Truckers’, but the other guys found it annoying. So I persisted.) I was hired, and then was informed that the gig was in Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweepin’ up your shorts. Yikes!
Confident and charismatic, Joe Degelia – the leader – was quite the musician. He played a mean guitar and sang like a bird (of prey). On Rhodes piano, keyboard-bass and vocals was talented Royce Reed. They both knew all the old Country ditties and took it quite seriously. This was my first Country band and I was apprehensive. But soon found myself enjoying the music and my new friends. Who’d a thunk?
DC at Lake Murray, 1974.
Ardmore, OK is 110 miles north of Big D. We traveled in a Dodge van swerving in and out of traffic, chatting and listening to music the whole way. I found these guys to be intelligent, articulate and most important, likeable. And when we’d cross the border, it was like entering a strange country called Wackistan. One had to learn the language and customs of the friendly Wackistanis, otherwise known as Okies.
The club was outside of town and was private. One had to be a member (including the band). I’ve forgotten the name of the place but I do remember the pop song “Rock the Boat” by the Hues Corporation playing frequently on the jukebox… on every break.
Supposedly by Okie law, members were required to bring their own bottle of booze and hand it over to the bartenders. Then a bar maid would affix a label with the owner’s name on it. So, when you bought a drink, you paid for set-ups (Coke, tonic, soda and ice, etc.) and mixed with your own booze! Technically you were paying just for the set-ups but to foreigners like us, the whole thing was insane. Beer was the logical choice. And, there were other ridiculous customs. Every week my waitress tried to explain it all to me, but I hadn’t mastered the language well enough to comprehend what the hell she was talking about.
We played Fridays and Saturdays. Surprise – there were no rooms! We camped at Lake Murray State Park near the shore. We spent a great deal of time listening to Country music. I really got into Joe’s and Royce’s selections… especially Merle Haggard. I soon appreciated his singing, his soulful lyrics and his tight band. Of course we played a lot of Merle. Stuff like “Working Man Blues,”
But I really loved “I’d Never Told on You” from the album It’s Not Love (But It’s Not Bad). Do yourself a favor and listen to this this song…
Nobody knew you were hurting me
As long as you were mine, no one else could see
But you left me, then you left him, and he told the things you do
But if you’d love me, I’d never told on you
I was loyal to the pain that you put me through
Even the one who took you never knew
After spending restless nights trying to sleep in the van, I’d get up in a sweat. The harsh mid-morning sun had turned the sealed van into a Dutch oven. We would clean-up and drive to Ardmore to our greasy spoon “breakfast nook.” The food and service were good, but we learned never to sit at the tables under the electric bug catchers. The big bugs flew into the devices where they were fried to death. And some of them dropped right down into your eggs-over-easy. (Excellent protein I hear.)
One evening at the bar I ran into an acquaintance I knew from Dallas, Wild Bill Randolph. Bill was a crazy musician who occasionally sat-in with the bands. He was likeable and he liked me. Bill told me that his granny had a big house in the woods and invited me to spend the night out there, (Hey, it was better than the van!) We stayed up most of the night telling tall tales and sentimental stories – just the three of us – Bill, myself and Jim Beam. Later Wild Bill Randolph became the lead singer for the Southern Rock band Point Blank.
At one point we played at the Elks’ Lodge in Denison, Texas. (I felt like a black man at a Klan rally.) After the Mother Truckers played a crazy outdoor show in Durant, OK, things started going south. Joe and I got a little out of control that night. He actually ended up in a jail cell.
Music itself is spiritual. It’s the business of music that can be so mind-boggling. (Excessive partying is an entirely different can of worms.) The good thing is that working musicians are “free agents” that can be traded or find a more lucrative team to play with. Other times you don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground.
One thing for sure, “you got to know when to hold ‘em, and know when to fold ‘em.”
And like Norm Peterson once said: “It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I’m wearing Milk-Bone underwear…”