Geezer Rock

Kenton In For Repairs!

Exploding Intestines!
We postponed rehearsal on Monday. Kenton is recovering from hernia surgery. It's his second operation this year. (The first was on his shoulder.) He's due for elbow surgery during 2008. Arthritis, old sports injuries, migraines - Kenton is experiencing more mechanical problems that a GM vehicle. Even after his shoulder repair, he's still having pinched nerve problems that make his hands go numb and cause him to drop drumsticks in mid-song. In the words of Junior Kimbrough, Kenton "done got old."
Kenton's hernia basically involves his small intestine exploding out of his belly button. People say that there is nothing disgusting or shameful about the human body. These people are young liberals. Don't believe them! When they get old, they will know the truth: are God given bodies are just big hunks of raw meat filled with slimy organs and bacteria. Your colon contains more bacteria than there are people on earth! And as you approach your "expiration date," your body will start to behave just like raw chicken that is starting to get a little "off." You will start to break down. Also, there will be a smell. I emerged from the bathroom the this morning trailing a haze of methane and sulfur smells that caused me to think that I am starting to "go bad." Kenton said the hernia repair hurts worse than the shoulder surgery. He played the drums Sunday morning at St. John's, which nearly killed him. We're scheduled to rehearse Thursday night. I hope he makes it.
Death Is Not Santa Claus
I turned 50 on March 18. To celebrate, I attended a friend's funeral. My friend, housekeeper and bon vivant Jeff died of lymphoma. He wasn't feeling too good around New Year's. Two months later, he was dead at 38. Fast growing tumors seeded themselves throughout his body, including his brain. That cancerous mass pushed his left eyeball out of its socket. When I saw him, I swear the first thing I thought of was the googly eyes on the Sesame Street Muppets. Then his eyeball filled with blood and turned black. Jeff endured other Job-like indignities, including the installation of two colostomies. This event raised spiritual questions, among them: God made everything, but He certainly has a lot of quality control problems. Federal regulators should look into this. Maybe Congress could hold hearings.
SENATOR: Since you are God and are incapable of lying, we're going to skip the swearing on The Bible and get right into the questioning.
GOD: Thank you.
SENATOR: Please state your name for the record.
GOD: God.
SENATOR: You are the supreme being.
GOD: That is correct.
SENATOR: This would make you incapable of error.
GOD: Yes.
SENATOR: You have previously stated that you created everything in the heavens and Earth, including the beasts of the field and everything that swims in the sea.
GOD: In six days, yes.
SENATOR: You also created man and then woman in your image?
GOD: Correct.
SENATOR: If you created man and are incapable of error, perhaps you can explain to the committee why my small intestine is exploding out of my belly button.
About a month later, my grandmother died two weeks before her 95th birthday. I just got back from the funeral. This event was a celebration and a family reunion as we recalled a life well-lived. She was ready to go. Not long before her death she told me, "One of these days I'm going to get sick of you people and go see Harold" (her husband of 60 years, who died in 1995). This was in contrast to Jeff's funeral, where I watched a video tribute of his life and cried with my mouth full of pie.
Rock Bands: The Guy Support Group
After my grandmother died, I received three cards of condolence. Two of them were from guys in the band - Kenton and Nick. Kenton never forgets these small gestures - flowers, cards, notes, presents. For my 50th birthday, he gave me a shirt that belonged to his grandfather, who drove beer trucks. It has a big patch that says "Hamm's" on the back. It's at least 50 years old. When I opened it, I told Kenton, "I am not worthy." I had to quit drinking, but when I feel down or stressed, I put on my Hamm's shirt and sing the famous jingle for this great brand:
From the land of sky blue waters
From the land of pines tall
Comes the beer refreshing
Hamm's the bee refreshing
You want to make sure you wife is not in the house when you're doing this kind of thing.

Honkin' With Bobo

Monday nights rehearsal was notable for two reasons.
1.) Kenton absolutely killed on "Bad Little Doggie." Best version ever. (I have watched Geezer cover bands doing "Bad Little Doggie" on YouTube, etc. None of the drummers even try to duplicate Matt Apts tricky groove, which Kenton does really well. It's a tough part.)
2.) I found out why Nick missed rehearsal the previous Monday. It's a great story.
Since turning 50 and experiencing the miracle of emergency open heart bypass surgery, Nick has devoted himself to road trips and weekend adventures with his friend, Bobo.
And why not? Nick's son is grown. He's got a low-stress job in the City Sewer Department. He's romantically unattached, owing to the fact that he approaches women as if they were Improvised Explosive Devices.
Nick and Bobo barnstormed Santa Cruz and Big Sur last weekend.
The weekend's highlight: Bobo stripped down and jumped into the pool at Hearst Castle right in the middle of a guided tour. This is highly illegal. Bobo subjected himself to arrest. The fine for jumping into the pool at Hearst Castle is $2,600. Nick said the security people were all for arresting Bobo.
"I talked them out of it," Nick said. "I said, 'Look. This guy has issues. Why not just let him get back on the bus and go.' And they did!"
Nick told that Bobo's next goal is to "swim with the otters at the Monterey Bay Aquarium."
"Oh my God," said Dru. "They WILL arrest him for that. Those things are an endangered an protected species."
"Yeah," I said. "Bobo is endangered, but he's not federally protected."
Bobo's nickname evolved from his original alias, "Burn Out." I guess they used the acronym "BO," then went with Bobo.
Bobo is the official KDOG photographer. He'll position us for a band photo, aim and compose carefully and then turn off the camera. "I got it," he'll say as the lens cap snaps shut and the lens retracts back into the body.
I think there's a song in the adventures of Bobo.

What And Quit Show Business? Pt. 3

From Rancid To Swabbies on Friday May 6.
Last night, the nice lady across the street said of our noisy Monday night rehearsals, "Your band is starting to sound really good. We enjoy listening to it. Are you playing anywhere?"
I told her were were scheduled to play at Swabbies on Friday, May 6, from 7 to 10 pm. Then she asked us if we were available to play a house party she's hosting on in May, but we already have a gig booked - a private party. We're in demand! Now I know how The Beatles felt when Ed Sullivan called.
The neighbors have not complained about the band at all, or even mentioned it casually. ("Our tomatoes are really coming in good, except for the ones that exploded during that guitar solo the other night, of course.")
"Anyway," the neighbor lady said, "it's really sounding good. I mean, when you first started..."
"It was pretty rancid," I said, reading her thoughts.
"Well, rancid, I don't know about that," she said. "But there has been a progression."
I Should Hit You, Drummer!
Despite the way I portray myself and Kenton in these pages, we're actually decent human beings who have never put metal in a microwave or started a nuclear war. We fight a lot in the context of the band, but these beefs never spill over into our personal relationship outside the band, which remains cordial, as in "It would be most cordial of you to stop choking me now."
Without a doubt, Some Kind of Monster is the best movie ever made about the subject of band fights. It's even better than the audio tape of The Troggs arguing as they attempt to record a follow-up to their hit single "Wild Thing." This tape, which must be the source that inspired This is Spinal Tap, features the immortal line, "I should hit you, drummer."
My one-line review for Some Kind of Monster is, "It's just like pre-school, except with rich guys and electric guitars." Relationships between the members of Metallica are so bad they have to bring in a psychologist/performance coach to help them resolve their issues! We should definitely do this! Except the guy charges $40,000 a month! Do you know how many drums you can buy with a budget of $40,000 a month? Several!
The best scene: drummer Lars Ulrich screams "Fuck!" directly into the face of James Hetfield. Their faces are so close together that Hetfield can smell the breakfast burrito Ulrich consumed two days earlier.
Some Kind of Monster teaches an important lesson: band fights are even more important to rock and roll success than bulge-outlining tight pants. Conflict means progress. Just like in marriage. Except in bands, the post-fight make-up sex isn't as good, most because everyone is exhausted from carrying the drums around.
Learning "Bad Little Doggie" got us to stretch ourselves while squeezing the pus out of the giant swelling carbuncle of unspoken tensions. ("Squeezing The Pus Out of The Giant Swelling Carbuncle of Unspoken Tensions" would be a great title for a self-help best seller, to be followed by "Never Wear White Pants to a Farting Contest And Other Life Lessons.") It was a necessary phase we had to pass through, such as adolescence or death. (The difference between adolescence and death is that death does not require the purchase of pimple medicine.)
It was a learning experience. I hate learning experiences. Learning experiences are the root canal of life. You never learn anything good about yourself. You never discover hidden talents or capacities slumbering inside of yourself, such as the ability to solve word problems or dunk a basketball. You only learn that you're a bitter, angry, tiny, resentful, negative, self-absorbed creep - a condition psychologists now call "Major Butt Hole Disorder," or MBHD.
Kenton and I both experienced MBHD before, during and after the Melissa Surprise 40th Birthday Party Gig as the carbuncle of unspoken tensions swelled to roughly the size of a mini-van. This story will have to wait, since I have rambled on too long. I know have to do my regular job, which is writing advertising. Yes - I write stuff that's even dumber than this Blog.

What And Quit Show Business? Part 2

Last Night: Rock Minus One
We had another in a series of good rehearsals last night. Nick didn't make it. He's in Santa Cruz. He just decided not to return on Monday. It was Caesar Chavez Day here in California. Nick works for the city sewer department. City workers got the day off. Angry tax payers, however, continued to flush bodily wastes into our great city's pipelines.
Nick is The Dude in real life. The Dude, of course, is the character played by Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski. Nick doesn't smoke weed or drink White Russians, yet he approaches all life decisions with The Dude's stoner ethos. Nick doesn't wear a watch. He rarely answers the phone. And if he's not feeling it, he just doesn't play. When he was in The Bittermen Blues Band, he once left the club right in the middle of a show. Another time, the band members realized mid-song that the harmonica had dropped out. They found Nick hiding behind an amp.
Drew, Kenton and I rocked it up anyway. We learned a new song, "Walking The Dog." The band's name is KDOG, so we're trying to add more dog-influenced material. I'm lobbying for AC/DC's "Givin' The Dog a Bone." We also rehearsed Gov't Mule's "Bad Little Doggie," which is Kenton's all-time favorite song. It's even the on-hold song at his advertising agency.
We still haven't got "Bad Little Doggie" down. This fact no longer driving me crazy. But two months ago, I was ready to kill Kenton and quit the band over this song.
Bad Little KDOGGIE!
I didn't want to learn "Bad Little Doggie." Kenton begged me to learn "Bad Little Doggie" for at least two years. My objections were based on the fact that "Bad Little Doggie" is filled with actual notes that have to be played in the right order. We can sort of fake our way through most of our songs, most of which contain anywhere from one to three chords. If somebody forgets the beginning, the end or even entire parts of the middle, it's hard to notice that anything is wrong. Nick sometimes plays entire songs in the wrong key. We frequently forget the words and simply ad-lib entire new passages and plot lines. Any audience members who are paying attention are befuddled when songs they thought they knew by heart suddenly sprout new verses and choruses. ("I had now idea 'La Grange' was about government farm subsidies. I guess that's the mark of a classic - the more you listen, the more you discover.")
"Bad Little Doggie" is filled with different sections, abrupt rhythmic shifts, key center changes, tricky riffs, accents, and drum parts that have to be played with machine-like precision or the song falls apart. Plus, the guitar solo filled me with dread, since I'd have to at least pay homage to Warren Haynes' great licks on the original recording.
We had one advantage: Dru liked the song and could sing it as well as Warren Haynes.
"Bad Little Doggie" definitely rocks, but it rides on a funny, off-kilter drum groove that is impossible to dance to - another strike against it.
"C'mon, Kenton," I'd say. "That song is going to clear the dance floor. You're not thinking about the audience. You're just thinking about what you want to play."
Last fall, I gave in, as all must when confronting the glacier like power of Kenton's will. I created a one-song iPOD playlist that repeated "Bad Little Doggie" to infinity. I listened to this song non-stop for a month, slowly working out the riffs and parts. I counted all the bars and made a guitar chart.
"You'd been have your parts down in this song when we start rehearsing it," I'd tell Kenton
"Oh, I've got it down," he'd say. "I've listen to this song more than anyone. I've been playing along with it for five years."
I already knew what would happen: Kenton would show up at rehearsal and have no idea what was going on with the song.
The prediction came true.
He didn't know where the open drum fill came in. He played busy fills when we was supposed to be quiet. Each new section seemed to catch him off guard. It was like he was hearing the song for the first time. I'd go totally berserk at each rehearsal, screaming "you're wasting everyone's time. Rehearsal is not the place to learn your part of the song! You're supposed to show up knowing it.! Why the fuck am I standing here teaching you your own fucking favorite song?"
Kenton would yell at Nick for some minor fluff, then turn around the blow his part so badly, we'd have to start over.
After one extremely tense rehearsal in November, I told Nick: "You know, I knew this was going to happen. So why am I so damn mad and out of control?"
I could've drawn up a drum chart for Kenton. I could've made time to listen to the song with him and work out the parts. I didn't. My thinking was, "He's the guy who needs to make a chart and listen to the song. He's the guy with the $35,000 drum set and the personal road crew who brags about being a pro drummer since he was four! It's time for him to back that shit up!"
Kenton took me to a Gov't Mule show at the Fillmore at San Francisco in November. With his typical generosity, he paid for the tickets and drove.
We had a great time. But Kenton felt compelled to rip on the drummer for the opening act. "He's mediocre," Kenton observed. Kenton worships Gov't Mule's drummer, Matt Abts. All other drummers are deemed unworthy in comparison to Matt.
Kenton is always policing other drummers. "Eh, this not guy's showing me anything," he'll say.
"Yeah, all this guy can do is know when the songs start and stop, playing steady grooves and rock like a champion," I'll shoot back, the veins bulging out of my forehead like tree trunks.
Kenton's antics are infuriating, but they're innocent. He's a good friend. He's not mean or dark or angry. That's my department.
I enjoyed rubbing Kenton's face in "Bad Little Doggie" a little too much. This didn't improve our performance of the song. All it did was screw up my attitude and make rehearsal extremely tense. Nick and Dru stood around looking uncomfortable, like little kids when mommy and daddy are fighting. ("Mommy still loves daddy, but if daddy doesn't start refilling the ice trays, mommy is going to find a brand new daddy to come live with us. Won't that be fun?")
On the plus side, these outbursts did distract from the fact that I wasn't playing "Bad Little Doggie" too well, either.
Example: for two months I have been faking my way through the guitar break, even at shows. I was trying to learn the basics. Two days ago, I sat down with the recording yet again to get the guitar break down note for note. I was startled to realize that the guitar break is actually in a totally different key. How could I miss a tiny detail like that? The song is in E. I'd been playing a guitar solo in E. Drew played the bass part in E. I started to transcribe Warren's licks. As soon as I got the first phrase down, I played it a few times and thought, "Hey - this doesn't sound very good over an E pedal tone in the bass." At last night's rehearsal, I finally understood that the key center of the song shifts to F sharp minor for the solo. This little detail escaped me! Like Kenton, I'd listened to "Bad Little Doggie" a million times with really hearing much of it.
This is called "eating humble pie." My serving of humble pie came with humble ice cream. It doesn't taste particularly good, probably because it's low fat.
Even with this new knowledge, we're still mangling "Bad Little Doggie." The good news is that parts of it sounded really good. And I'm not particularly upset about the bad parts. Not any more.
I know understand that "Bad Little Doggie" is hard song with lots of what musicologists refer to as "notes." (Notes are those little golf-club shaped marks you see in your church hymnal on Sunday. You're supposed to "sing" these notes, as opposed to standing there thinking about how many hot women actually go to Church.) Many of these "notes" are extremely close together in "Bad Little Doggie," possibly due to a printing error. That's just the way it is.
I didn't blow up once last night. Why? Because I have finally realized that being in a bad rock band still beats playing golf, watching TV and also watching golf on TV.
It took a long time to achieve this fragile peace. Stay tuned for more of my infantile emotional displays as I relate the story of KDOG's gig at the Momo Lounge in honor of Melissa's surprise 40th birthday party! Thrill as we damage the hearing of party goers and sell up to one official KDOG t-shirt! Feel a sense of relief as sage advice from Philip the Swiss/German sound engineer turns things around just as all seems lost!

What And Quit Show Business?

There's No Business Like Show Business
My brother-in-law Tommy Dunbar, a life long professional guitar slinger, invokes a mantra any time he feels like giving up the rock and roll life for a day job: "What - And Quit Show Business?"
Tommy mutters this to himself after driving five hours two and from some horrible wedding gig and four hours playing the gig. Often the gig will involve extended versions of the hit song "Love Shack." He earns $250 before gas and parking. Now that gas costs as much as ink jet toner or liquified platinum, the economics of the music profession are too depressing to contemplate. And - he doesn't qualify for food stamps! (Now that he's past 50, Tommy is eligible to affix himself to the engorged teat of our nation's many "senior discount" programs.)
Another career low occurred when he had to write and perform a corporate anthem for a Taco Bell convention. With lyrical input from the mission statement jockeys at Taco Bell management, he was able to produce the worst song in history. I have heard it. Tommy hasn't lost his sense of humor. And he has no sense of shame. He gleefully tells this story himself. A serious artists might kill himself after an incident like this. Tommy's attitude remains the same: "What - And Quit Show Business?"
I Almost Quit The Band! True Story!
In January, Kenton organized a KDOG gig in honor of his fiancee's surprise 40th birthday party. The events leading up to this gig - and the gig itself - nearly caused my brain to explode.
The previous sentence is a cop out. It should read, "My conflicts with Kenton nearly caused my brain to explode."
And I nearly quit.
Then I thought, "What - and quit show business?" I realized life in a band with Kenton would still be far more interesting than life as a "civilian."
That was the right call. The band emerged from all this stress rocking stronger and sounding better than ever before.
The First Step is Admitting Someone Else Has A Problem.
I put off blogging about it. My version of the story stars me as I completely rip Kenton a new asshole - an asshole so large, you could easily store all 20 of Kenton's drum sets in it and still have room left over for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
I didn't want to do that and publish the results.
I knew I'd come off looking just as bad as the target of my wrath - too serious, mean, petty and self-absorbed.
The danger of blogging is that you end up pointing the dirty end of the stick at everybody else while justifying your own dumb actions. Like many people, I have a life long habit of blaming external factors for my own stinking messes. I want to fix the other person instead of fixing my own response to the situation. It's so much easier! And it's way more fun!
So I didn't write anything to two or three months.
Looking back, I'm right about everything. The trouble is, being right is way overrated. (Ask the Bush administration.) You can be right and still destroy yourself and those around you. It's like being a fanatical suicide bomber. Plus, being right is not the same thing as solving the problem.
Cain and Abel Form a Rock Band.
Kenton and I often refer to each other as "brother." Kenton started this. He picked it up from the original Allman Brothers Band. They always referred to each other as "Brother Duane," "Brother Dickey," etc.
People think this is nice. As in, "What a wonderful thing, to be as close as brothers. You two must really get along great." This is the sentiment of someone who has never had a brother or any kind of sibling.
I have previously tried to explain the personal relationships between band members in terms in terms of the male dominance hierarchy in chimpanzee societies. The behavior of chimps jockeying to be the Alpha Male explains a great deal about rock music - especially the behavior of drummers and the advent of the 15-minute drum solo. ("Look at me girls! I am beating these things really hard because of my superior genetic material! Don't blow the guitar player! He's a wimp!")
But of course, the best explanation for band conflict is sibling rivalry. Forming a band allows you to relive the hell of your family life. You name it, you'll experience it - from inability to communicate to alcoholism to sibling rivalry. Divorce and harrowing custody battles are also possibilities when the band breaks up and you have to decide to gets to keep the PA.
Nothing makes the point like a wholesome Bible story.
Remember Cain and Abel? They were the sons of Adam and Eve. They are the only two brothers on the entire planet. They're very tense all the time because there was a 100 percent shortage of available babes. Cain kills Abel. Cain was jealous because God preferred Abel. Amazingly, Cain tries to weasel out of the murder charge. When God asks where Abel is, Cain tries to fake Him out by replying, "Am I my brother's keeper?" Oh, right. Like The Supreme All Seeing Creator isn't going to notice a 25 percent reduction in the Earth's population.
This is a really important story because A) it's the first example of what conservative Christians now call "family values" and B) it provided basis for the Smothers Brothers comedy act. ("Mom always liked you best.")
My big battle with Kenton start over finding favor with God. It began over our decision to play the Gov't Mule song, "Bad Little Doggie."

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."

Light Show

During rehearsal a couple of weeks ago, I noticed that the lights were flashing on and off at my home office. Also, the alarm system started beeping and displaying warning messages.
My home office is old. A farmer built the main part of the building more than 100 years ago. Nothing reflects modern building codes. The doors and stairs seem to be tailored for hobbits or maybe The Keebler Elves. I guess people were smaller 100 years ago. Most of the wiring is not grounded. We plug all the equipment into the one grounded line so we don't kill ourselves.
That is how I wanted to go: electrocuted and charred, chemically fused to my guitar by intense heat. Maybe we'll get a break on the creamtion bill since I'm technically charcoal.
We soon discovered the problem. The lights flashed on and off in time with Kenton's drum hits. The beats shook the walls and the ancient, rotting wiring. I had to disarm the alarm system after every song.
That's loud drumming.
A week later, I received a concerned letter from ADT Alarm Systems. They had noted "intermittent power outages" at my location. They wanted me to check the batteries or something. I didn't even know my system had batteries. I threw the letter out.
That's loud drumming.
We've practiced twice since then. The lights don't flash any more. He's lost some power. Kenton says his shoulder is killing him. It's full of ground up bone chips or something. He's having surgery next week. Kenton claims he'll be back drumming in 11 days. You don't hear people measing time in terms of "eleven" much: "I'm going to the store. I'll be back in eleven minutes."
Kenton says it took him eleven days to recover from his last shoulder surgery. He was younger then. I think he won't be back until after New Year's. I know other old guys who've had shoulder surgery. They can't sleep lying down for a week because of the throbbing pain.
©2007 Dean Chance. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

The Stoney End

On September 21st, we played the big room at the Stoney Inn - for the last time. They sold the bar the following Monday. So ends an era for KDOG and Sacramento.
The owners' decision to hold rap and hip hop shows scared away the Stoney Inn's loyal rock and blues fans. When the police pressured the bar to stop the hip hop shows, which attracted too many gang-bangers, there were no more regulars.
This was painfully apparent at our show. Only a handful of people turned up to drink on a Friday night. The rest of the crowd came to see our band. I say crowd, but I doubt the 10 or so people meet the dictionary definition. Thank God our loyal femal fans - all friends of Kenton's first wife - came. They drink and dance and cheer. There's just not enough of them. They left at the start of the third set. We played the last five songs of the night to three or four people: Kenton's fiancee and Drew's wife, Cliff Lynch and his daughter. (Cliff is serving as Kenton's drum tech. It's sort of what working for Jennifer Lopez or Leona Helmsley must be like.) Later, Kenton said that "we shouldn't have even played that third set. I felt just terrible."
Growing older does make the third set a grueling chore. I'd spent the first two sets doing flying leaps from the stage onto the dance floor. The shock of landing my weight plus the weight of my guitar on the concrete pad floor made my knees swell up. By the end of the night, I could hardly move my legs. I also thought I felt my internal organs jarring loose from their moorings.
At the end of the night, Drew's back was killing him from standing for so long. "I'm too old for this," he moaned as he stretched out his throbbing spine.
"What are you, like 35?" I said. "I'm almost fifty."
"Fuck you."
I wasn't worried by this threat. He was in too much pain to fuck anything and besides, his wife was sitting right there.
Kenton and I finished the evening by having one of our huge fights. The pattern is always the same. Nick fucks up things during the show. He plays in the wrong key. Or he forgets the words to songs he himself wrote. Actual rock stars have this problem all the time. Kenton gets pissed at Nick and lets it ruin his mood. Then I get pissed at Kenton because he's fucking up constantly, so what's he doing jumping on Nick? I also fuck up a lot, but I'm not making a big deal out of other people's mistakes. That is, until Kenton decides to scream at Nick.
"Could you believe Nick tonight?" Kenton asked me as he packed up his drums.
"What about you!" I yelled. "You were fucking shit up all night long!"
"Dean, calm down," Kenton said.
"You telling me to calm down? That's a laugh. That's like Al Sharpton calling Jesse Jackson a media whore!"
And so on.
It's the same fight we always have. I blame myself. I have to change my reaction to these situation, but I just can't seem to do it.
Kenton and I had lunch the following Tuesday to talk about lowering the stress level.
"You're right," Kenton said. "I wasn't on it. I just felt terrible. I was an awful mood. I need to concentrate on playin' my drums."
I told Kenton that, for some reason, Nick's mistakes don't bother me at all. He contrives to make it all charming.
"But I hold you to a higher standard. Myself, too. I mean, I'm still clamming way too much. And you're the guy who brags that he's been playing drums since he was four. You're the guy with his name on the banner behind us. You're the guy with the $35,000 drum set."
Harsh, if true.
The main problem is that all this stress takes the fun out of it for everybody. And no one in the audience has ever come up to me and said, "Boy, Kenton really blew the fills on 'All Right Now,' didn't he? And by the way, you really screwed up the guitar solo." The average person at a party or in a bar just doesn't care or know.
Sometimes, I think Nick really likes to stir the turd. He admits to pushing Kenton's button just to he can watch the resulting explosions. Kenton, in turn, falls into the trap every time.
When they were in The Bittermen Blues band together, Kenton tried to rein Nick in by typing up a list of things Nick was forbidden to to.
"Oh, yeah, there was a list," Nick said. "I was no allowed to wear shorts with tennis shoes and white tube socks. I couldn't send out band e-mails without running them through Kentonn first. I was not allowed to stand in front of Kenton during gigs."
I asked Kenton about The List.
"It was the only way to keep Nick under control," he explained.
When Kenton's fiancee overheard us taking about the list, she immediately chastised Kenton.
"You had a list?" she carped. Then she turned to me. "How to you live with this man?"
The question is, how could we ever live without Kenton?
Modesty, patience and politeness may be wonderful virtues at church coffee hour, but they are crippling impediments in a rock and roll situation. Kenton is a rock star. The rest of the world just doesn't know it yet.
I can't imagine having this much fun without Kenton in my life. It's virtually impossible to stay mad at him for more than five minutes. Without Kenton's drive, there would be no rock band. I'd still be limited to playing at church on every Sunday. Kenton's presence in the church band livens up the proceedings in a distcinctly non Lutheran way. Plus, Kenton knows what the word friend means.
Kenton does what he does because it's his nature. I've never seen him do anything about of pure meanness. Me, I'm another story. I'm just plain mean sometimes, even cruel. i working on this, as you'll see soon.
When Kenton forced Tommy and I to work late recording a jingle for one of his advertising clients, he gave Tommy an apple pie from the best bakery in town. (He was already paying me a fortune on a bunch of other project. Besides, I got a piece of the pie!) I'd casually mentioned to Kenton months ago that Tommy loved pie of any kind. Kenton, who delights in giving and receiving presents, filed this information away for later use.
When one of Kenton many friends complains about Kenton's antics, they always finish the the same sentence: "You gotta love K-Dog." It's true. You do. Even Nick says this - and Nick is the person who draws the most fire from K-Dog.
We're rehearsing tonight at 6 p.m.
I can't wait.
A final note: Kenton has an friend from high school who's a full-patch member of the local Hell's Angels chapter. Kenton told me the Angels might show up at the Stoney Inn. I certainly hoped they would, since bikers are the best possible rock and roll audience. When I met with Kenton the next week, he explained why The Angels passed on the gig.
"They don't like to leave their bikes out front because some asshole always vandalizes them," he said. He shrugged. "I guess if even The Hell's Angels don't want to go to a bar, it's doomed."
I don't like leaving my shitty Plymouth Voyager on Del Paso Boulevard. If I had a customzed $30,000 Harley, I wouldn't park it out in front of the Stoney Inn even if I was a member of an infamous motorcyle gang.
Now, we have no gigs lined up. Kenton will not let this situation last long.
©2007 Edward Dean Chance. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.