Geezer Rock

Kenton Claus

Kenton played drums with the band for the first time since his shoulder surgery.
"It feels great to play without pain!" he said.
But he did have a cold. And he had to leave at 7:15.
We had the band gift exchange, too, which ate into playing time. Kenton's delight in giving and receiving presents is such that his office looks like Santa's workshop this time of year, it's so full of wrapped gifts for clients and friends.
Kenton gave me a guitar strap that's exactly the same as the one Warren Haynes of Gov't Mule uses. It's hand made from black leather, padded and sports the Mule logo. He bought three months ago. It kills Kenton to sit on a gift that long.
Nick gave me a vintage vinyl copy of ZZ Top's Greatest Hits - the first one that was released in the 70s. I gave Nick a collection of great blues harmonica performances on CD. Nick also gave me a pair of black Jimi Hendrix underwear with "Purple Haze" in 60s script across the ass.
Nick also gave Kenton a pair of red boxers style underwear emblazoned with little dogs. Kenton really went berserk when he saw that Nick had purchased the XL size. This is a pair of underwear the size of a schooner sail. Kenton is vain about his looks. If you really want to drive Kenton nuts, ask him what brand of dye he uses to keep his hair brown at age 55. He naturally hasn't gone gray, which makes him look 10 years younger. He's highly insulted that someone might think he dyes his hair or uses Grecian formula.
Anyway, Kenton announced that he would exchange the underwear immediately.
"Why in the world would you buy me extra large?" he kept asking.
This could be a case of "gift revenge." Last year, Kenton gave Nick a new pillow for Christmas. I couldn't imagine giving someone a pillow. It's just too intimate, even though, as Kenton pointed out, "it was a really cool pillow." Kenton told me that Nick's pillows were old, stained and totally falling apart.
"He's too cheap to buy himself a new one," Kenton said.
Anyway, the whole gift exchange, which took place at a giant part at Nick's house, was kind of embarrassing.
In other medical news, I think Nick may have "pump head." This is doctor slang for cognitive impairment some patients experience after cardiac bypass surgery. Something about being on the heart lung machine causes brain problems.
Nick has always been forgetful. He can never remember the lyrics, even to songs he's written. He often forgets critical equipment. I'd say that Nick is a burn-out, except he's ever done any drugs stronger than Benadryl. Since his emergency by-pass last winter, I've tole him that he's getting worse.
"It can only be 'pump head,' in my opinion," I told Nick last summer.
Last night, Nick showed missing the harmonica he needs to play in the key of G. Most of our songs are in the key of G, so this slip-up decimated the play list for the night. When Nick is not playing harmonica, he plays the cowbell and the tambourine. So of course he forgot those too. In the best "the show must go on" tradition, Nick played his cow bell parts on an empty O'Doul's bottle.
Nick used to play bongos, too, but has Kenton reminded him last night, "you're been banned from bongo duty." Kenton took over bongo responsibilities, using a pair of rack-mounted bongos he added to his already enormous kit. I noticed last night that he's added a second snare drum, too.
So Kenton and Nick exchanged gifts and "I love you man" bear hugs, then immediately started yelling at each other. Nick's forgetfulness driver Kenton, who described himself as OCD, into fits of righteous anal anger. They also started arguing about the song list, although the Holiday spirit prevented their usual exchange, which goes like this
Nick: You're a fuck!
Kenton: I'm a fuck? Why am I a fuck?
Nick: Because you're a fuck, you fuck!
I find all this highly entertaining and believe we should add fake fights to our stage show. I have tried to sell Kenton on this idea.
"They wouldn't even have to be fake, since you guys fight all the time anyway. We could send you to wrestling school, so you could learn how to beat each other with folding chairs but not get hurt! We could buy fake blood! What a stage act!"
"Absolutely not," Kenton replied.
Nick arrived for practice announcing that he'd been suffering from the "poop and pukes" for the last several days.
"I was wondering if any of the other junior campers in the band had suffering similar symptoms, maybe some who used my microphone" he asked me.
Nick is germ phobic. He is certain that microphone are a vector for disease. When someone else uses his microphone, he coats it with hand sanitizer. When he gets sick, Nick tracks down the source of the infection with the zeal of a CDC official tracing a bird flu outbreak.
"It wasn't me," I said. "I had a cold last week."
When Kenton arrived, they hugged.
"How are you KDOG?" Nick asked.
"I have a cold," Kenton said.
"Get away from me," Nick replied.

Elbow Room

"They're going to do my elbow next, instead of my knee," Kenton told me. He lifted up his arm to show me his lumpy elbow. It looks like somebody has been hitting it with a hammer. "It's killing me. I can't sleep. I'm not taking any pain meds."
Kenton said the doctor gave him another cortisone shot, but that the time for palliative measures is over.
"It's the same problem as my shoulder," Kenton said.
The doctor described Kenton as "having the shoulder of a 90 year old."
We were in Kenton's office. Kenton stripped off his shirt and sweater so I could see for myself. I'm glad he didn't have prostate surgery. He'd have me probing his rectal canal with a flash light. His right shoulder had three dime-sized bruises, garnished with black thread and medical tape.
"See. They had to make three holes to clean it out."
He didn't have a torn rotator cuff. But the joint socket was lined with spiky bone spurs that tore into the tendons. The doctor drilled the rough spots out.
"It feels great now," said Kenton, waving his arm around. I'd never seen him move his right arm above his head before. At least not without wincing.
The surgeon told Kenton no drumming for at least two weeks. The elbow repair will mean another three weeks of down time.
I'd feel sorry for us, except that I know pro musicians who've got it worse.
Tommy, my brother in law, had to stop playing guitar for a month after developing tendonitis in his left index finger. He blames over-zealous classical guitar practice. I have a new hypothesis: he tweaked the tendon in his finger joint by carrying plastic grocery bags. Carrying a bunch of those things hooked over your fingers really puts pressure on aging finger joints. I thought I'd injured myself the same way a few weeks ago.
Tommy has been playing rock and roll for more than 40 years without hurting himself. And, suddenly, he crippled himself playing classical guitar? The mechanics of the style are differnet, sure, but I'm adding plastic grocery bags to my list of things to use with caution.
Not playing for weeks was a disaster for a guitarist. Tommy did actually play a few gigs using just the middle, ring and pinky fingers on his left hand - an impressive bit of musical acrobatics.
None of these even comes close to the diaster recently experienced by Tommy's long-time musical buddy: the guitarist and songwriter Roger Clark. Roger nearly sliced his left hand in half with a table saw while remodling his home in Mexico. Home alone with his twins, Roger had to do his own emergency first aid so he didn't bleed to death. Then, he had to catch a flight to Mexico City to receive treatment. That had to be the longest plane flight in history, sitting there cradeling your throbbing, bloody hand with two or three fingers hanging off of it, wondering if you're going to have to find a new line of work. I hope they gave him free peanuts. The doctors saved his fingers. No one can say if he'll ever regain sensation or mobility. Roger's story is the kind of thing that makes musicians wake of screaming at night, frantically wiggling their fingers to make sure that it really was just a nightmare.
Fifteen years ago, I sliced my left index finger down to the bone with a chef's knife while slicing an onion. I could see the slimy white surface. I couldn't play without pain for a month. Since then, I've been as careful as a brain surgeon any time I use a knife.
The physical strip-mining operation of aging is bad enough. There's no sense in willfull self destruction.
The tendency is to think that rock musicians are most at risk for liver damage or herpes. But a lot of pros suffer career-threating injuries just from playing. Both Max Weinberg, the E-Street Band drummer, and guitarist Leo Kottke had their hads freeze into claws from poor technique. They got back into shape by relearning playing mechanics and establishing religious warm-up exercises.
Years of head-banging with Metallica damaged Jason Newstead's back and neck. A whole generation of hot shot rockers nearly crippled themselves simply by playing with their guitars slug too low. It looks cool, but doing it every night for weeks leaves you with back, neck and carpal tunnel pain.
Treating musician injuries is a growing orthopedic specialty. Most sites devoted to the subject recommend the usual preventative meausures: diet, rest, exercise, warming up, drinking lots of water and using good technique. In other words: everything Keith Richards does not stand for. How does he do it? Kenton is the closest thing to a health nut I know, yet his body is falling apart. He takes fistfuls of vitamins. He starts most days by drinking a wheat-grass concoction that looks like baby diarrhea. He eats balanced meals - especially soup. He goes to the Vietnamese soup place to often that they named a dish after him: The KDOG Bowl. It's a giant vat of noodle soup with extra chicken and vegetables. They've got in in the billing system. When you order it, your receipt has KDOG's name on it. There is so much vitamin-crammed dark green plant material it's like eating a boiled tree. Afterwards, your pee comes out yellow and smells like cabbage.
A life time of drumming and adult league sports are breaking him down physically. Right when we've finally learned all of the songs, too.

Estimate?

The Long-Suffering Mrs. Chance greeted me this morning by asking, "So...do you have any plans to get a hair cut anytime soon?"
I have been letting my hair grow out from the military buzz cut I'd maintained for several years. The shaved look worked okay. Then my face got fat. I already have a huge head. The fat face and short hair started to make me look deformed. I'd see pictures of my self and wonder if some smartass at the on hour place had used Photo Shop to paste a giant joke head on my torso.
Longer hair creates the optical illusion that I have a normal sized skull. Plus I still look old with all the white hair. Old and deranged. Since I've based my "stage look" on dumb "dad" clothes, this still fits. I see bikers, aging hippies and homeless guys with long hair and think, "Long hair when your 50 or over makes you look like Santa Claus."
The Long-Suffering Mrs. Chance does not think that my new shaggy look says "old and deranged," "aging rock star" or even "jolly St. Nick."
"You look like some kind of baby bird," she said.
Mrs. Chance makes no claims for being a creative writer, but that's a vivid image. I Googled baby bird pictures this morning. Most of the baby birds had big heads covered by down fuzz sticking out at funny angles. That is precisely how I looked this morning. So much for feeling rebellious.
When I was a teeanged rock and roller, I fought many battles with my dad over hair length. I came back from the barber shop one day and daid said, "What'd ja do? Get an estimate?" That's a pretty good line too. He swears he doesn't remember saying anything so witty, but he was always rapping out pithy advice. Like this, when I wouldn't shut up in the middle of some argument: "You're broadcasting when you need to be receiving."

Surgically Repaired

The surgeon fixed Kenton's busted rotator cuff Thursday morning. I don't know how long he'll be unable to drum. At least two weeks.
I took him a get well present Thursday night: a DVD history of Stax-Volt records. I found Kenton snoring in bed with an ice pack on his neck and his shoulder supported by a stuffed rabbit. For once, he looked every bit of his age. I associate Kenton with vitality and non-stop activity. It was odd to see him flat on his back. Melissa told me to wake him up for dinner. He couldn't read the DVD box without his glasses, so I had to tell him what it was.
Kenton wiggled his fingers for me. He said his neck and shoulder already felt better. Whatever was torn in his rotator cuff created shooting electrical pains and numbness up his neck and down his arm. I guess it was pressing on a main nerve.
"That's why I've been dropping my drumsticks so much," he told me.
Monday night, I noticed that Kenton had dropped drumsticks in the middle of songs several times.
Teddy Roosevelt once gave a long speech while oozing blood from a gunshot wound in his chest after an assasination attempt. Kenton displays a similar indifference to physical pain. He once did an entire show at the Stoney End with a migraine. His eyeballs were popping out of his head, he was covered with sweat and his playing was incredibly sloppy. But he refused to cut a single song from the show and even did his noisy 10 minute drum solo during "Crossroads." I didn't know what was wrong until we were breaking down the gear after the show. Kenton never complained. I've never had a migraine. But I understand that if you are so afflicted, the last thing you might want to do is play drums in a three hour rock and roll show during a heat wave.
The doctors were also supposed to repair Kenton's bad knee on Thursday. They postoned this surgery. Kenton has too much business travel coming up. His knee can't take it. So we can look forward to Kenton being out of action for another two a three weeks in 2008.
The rest of the band will continue to rehearse this month with my 16-year-old son, Brett, on the drums. The main thing is to keep going, somehow.