In the interest of expanding my horizons, I’ve started to take violin lessons. I’ve only had one so far, so I’m really really bad. In fact, it’s probably safe to say I have very little musical talent. However, that hasn’t stopped me from pursuing a short career as a part-time rock-n-roller.

It all started long ago, when I was a junior in high school. I got a bass guitar for Christmas. It was second-hand, of course. In fact, it used to belong to our school’s principal, Mr. P., Harley-Davidson owner and lead guitarist for Lambert and the Leaping Lizards.

I wanted the bass because my best friend J. had an electric six-string. After I got my bass, we would sit around weekends and try to play songs by our favorite bands: Kiss, Iron Maiden, Creedence Clearwater Revival. Before long, we hooked up with another guitar player and a drummer, and our first garage band was born.

That band didn’t go very far. We played only one show, as an opening act for a real band, at a party for a motorcycle gang. I remember avoiding the row of parked Harleys, fearing a domino-style disaster should I come too close.

By my sophomore year of college, I had hit the big time. I was gigging steadily with a band called Ultraviolet. Besides myself and J., who played lead guitar and sang, there was B., a handyman and church organist in his 30’s, on drums, and another guitarist/singer, T., an aging southpaw who played a right-handed guitar upside-down.

Our song list was loaded with classic rock favorites, from bands like Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, and the Jimi Hendrix Experience, with a dash of current hard rock numbers from Guns ‘n’ Roses and the Black Crowes. We weren’t above throwing in a long 12-bar blues improv number, either.

Of course, since we were out in the boondocks of Louisiana, we had a limited choice of venues. Most of them were seedy honky-tonks with names like the Coon Ridge Saloon or the Wolf’s Den—smoke filled shacks with barely enough room for the pool table and the juke box, much less our amplifiers.

In these kinds of places, with $3 cover charges, we never made much money. I remember one slow night, the other band members wound up owing money, after the owner deducted their bar tabs from their pay—just like in The Blues Brothers. Another time, a waitress helped herself to half the door money and ducked out before the last set. All told, considering equipment costs and gas money, I doubt I ever broke even.

Now here I am, many years later, and I hardly ever even pick up my bass. I haven’t practiced in ages; all my “chops” are gone. But maybe someday I can go back to my true calling. I still have time to re-grow that mullet.

Posted in uncategorized on April 9th, 2004 by Thibodeaux | RSS 2.0 |