Music is an integral part of my life.  My childhood (see essay) was filled with it.  In high school I sang in musicals and contests.  When I went to college, I entered a music program at Buena Vista College (now University), studying vocal and piano performance under the legendary R.D. Pfaltzgraff.  To do that, I signed on with a southern-fried rock band, and quickly discovered I enjoyed Annie Wilson a whole lot more than Verdi, much to the disgust of my voice professor who proclaimed "that noise" would ruin my voice.

     The band was called Rosy (before my tenure), then later Green River Band, and we played interesting venues, to say the least.  The first six months worked for free drinks and pass the hat.  We moved up to weekend gigs in "better" dumps that still gave us free booze, but paid us enough to cover gas and equipment upgrades.  We even did high school proms from time to time--no alcohol, but good bucks.  Eventually we acquired a booking agent.  We traveled the road in a rusted green 1958 GMC pickup, the back packed full of instruments and sound systems, and the cab packed with the five of us.

     We'd hit town about 7 pm, grab fast food then hit the bar to set-up.  Larry on lead guitar, Shane on rhythm guitar and lead vocals, Clyde on bass (yes, CLYDE (played electric bass) by Waylon Jennings was on the charts at the time), Scooter on drums, and me on keyboards & misc. and vocals.  Bob and Roger ran our lights and sound.  Five sets, with 10 minute breaks between, for the grand total of $650 a weekend.  (Hey, this was 1979-1981, so it's not as bad as it sounds.)  But we didn't do it for the money; just the fun, the glory and the beer--and in the case of the aforementioned guys, the girls. 
 

     While it's said there's nothing as electric as the frozen time on stage, it's equally true that there's no harder crash than the moment after the lights go out.  The glow fades to dingy shadows as the audience slugs back the last of its beer and wanders toward the door.  Then you take a deep breath, ignore the churning in your gut--blaming it on too many drinks--and tear down the illusion.  You sleep in the truck if you're lucky enough to have more than a one night stand, or nap as you can will taking turns driving straight through the night to the next town, the next gig, and start the cycle all over again.  Is it worth it?

Hell yes.

     So where did the magic go?  We grew up, I guess.  Our manager disappeared with most of the money, and what he didn't take a band member did to hire a lawyer in an effort to stay out of jail for Grand Theft Auto and Mann Act involving a small-town sheriff's daughter.  Larry and Clyde (with the help of their respective wives) started families, Scooter took a daytime job and moved on to a better band, I got married, and Shane died.  Nothing stays the same.

     But I wouldn't have missed it for the world.  Now, while others write morning pages, I play them, and slip into the flow to make music with words.

Chess is the story of two men, The American (the reigning world champion at the opening) and The Russian (his victorious challenger who later defects.  It's a classic circular theme; the upstart becoming everything he dispised in the man he displaced.  Great stuff!  To read the plot synopsis and history of Chess, click on the playbill to reach the unofficial Chess website.

Listen to Real Audo clips of Chess at CDNow

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