1979 - An Empty Room

The echos, the smells, the expectant feeling in the air that something... something is going to happen.

1979 – An Empty Room

I love an empty room.

The rooms, in this case, are sports arenas, bars, theatres, churches, symphony halls, stadiums and sports fields. Early in my adult/teen life I became intimately associated with good-sized empty rooms or venues that would soon be filled with people. I remember trying to serenade a young lady over the public address system in an empty church as we were preparing for a presentation by our youth group. The pure tones and the echo of those pure tones off walls and sound folds that have been located specifically to carry sound through a room full of soft bodies… the soft bodies that tend to soak up this sound and mute those pure tones into a pleasant cacophony of harmonic tones and overtones that compliment each other and blend into what we generally call music or, sometimes, speech. It was those pure tones I fell in love with.

Having parents that were entertainers, be it musicians, dancers or taking a turn at public speaking, I visited quite a few rooms that would have been restricted if patrons had been present. The smell of an empty bar or the room where the Moose Club Saturday night dance would be held offered sights, smells and sounds that are not particularly seen or appreciated by the general public. Someone has to prepare these venues for the event and I was fortunate to be one of those assisting in the set-up from early years.

My first exposure to a truly big room awaiting a full audience was in 1966 when dad was a Division Manager for Confection Cabinet, which supplied popcorn, sodas, & candies for theatres and sporting events. His Chicago area manager had been out with a death-in-the-family so dad was tasked with preparing the Cheetah Club for the weekend’s festivities. The space, being much larger than the, then, current clientele could fill, was partitioned with curtains, false walls and “Do Not Enter” signs to limit the size so when the club was open and operating it would appear to be packed full. As it was a Saturday and I had asked if I could go, dad had let me come along. I wandered around the sets and false-fronts that partitioned the active part of the club with the remainder of this large room. Before taking a turn as one of 3 or 4 “Cheetah Clubs” in the US, this location had previously, and would eventually return to, it’s longtime venue as the Aragon Ballroom. The Aragon had been built in 1926, near the end of prohibition, and was known to be “the place to go” for big-name acts. It maintained its reputation for the next 30-years as the place where the upper crust went for music, dance and champagne. Holding over 1,800 patrons, and placed near the “L” it was easy to access. Over the years the neighborhood had become Chicago’s version of “skid-row’ and, following the 50’s, only the young sub-culture of the middle 60’s was able to bring it back to a halfway desirable neighborhood. Piper’s Alley, the Chicago hippie hangout was not far away and, although a walk down these neighborhoods streets could still be a bit of an adventure, it now included more foot traffic that assured a small raise in the safety of those forced to walk these streets. Early the next year the band I was not yet with would be invited to play the Cheetah as opening act for a hot new group called Buffalo Springfield and the second group a small unknown 4-piece band (keyboard, drums, bass and guitar) called Chicago Transit Authority. In short order both of these groups would hit high levels of success that consistently eluded me throughout my musical career. Buffalo Springfield would have several hits before members moved on to other successful groups like Poco, Loggins & Messina and Crosby, Stills and Nash. Chicago Transit Authority would shortly add a horn section to the group which would give them a unique sound and, with the name shortened to Chicago, would carry on to multi-generational success.

When open for business the room was low lit to focus attention on one of the 3 stages but, during the day-time, it was entirely different and all work-stations were clearly exposed under the white working-lights. A bar separated the general seating/dance area from the entry area of the club and a large section, called The Lounge, outside the dance hall where patrons less desirable of an intimate encounter with the current on-stage act could sit and party with each other and still communicate with more than hand-gestures which, due to the volume, was about the only means of communication inside the hall. Comfy couches surrounded small tables here and inside the dance area where they were placed liberally in accessible areas around the parameter of the dance floor as well as packing the short balcony 3-tables deep. A third level of balcony was blocked off from access by a simple curtain that hid this stairway as well as most of the backstage area. This higher balcony completely unlit and hidden by the shadows of the main club area was a perfect vantage to invisibly watch the action below. As I was still too young to participate, this was where I spent my evening watching sweaty dancers and hard-working bands do their “thing” under my watchful eye. We returned home, with me sound asleep, sometime after midnight but I’m sure I dreamt the night away reliving my evening and the adventure of being backstage at a big “adult” event.

Setting up San Diego’s Convention Center (not the current one) for a concert with George Benson was a thrill as this was the room in which I had seen my first big-name concert: Jethro Tull. Within the same year I would also enjoy The James Gang as well as Blood and Sweat and Tears in this venue. I was well familiar with the room when it was full of people but setting up equipment on a stage where I had seen many of my favorite performers was a thrill in itself. Working this large room, and knowing I was going to have major influence on the event was stunning for a young man finding himself performing the kind of work (anything in entertainment) to which I had long aspired. There was the echo in the air that seemed to speak of its readiness for the oncoming crowd. Although chairs were only halfway setup I stood on the stage and took it all in from the same elevated vantage point that the entertainers that evening would enjoy. Although I maintained a professional appearance, inside I reveled in the size and ambiance of this marvelous space.

The oldies show that Concert Sounds worked in Bakersfield, outside LA, reminded me a lot of the Cheetah ballroom in its size but the room was open and vast with little in decoration. In Bakersfield the room was actually almost twice the size but the sounds, the smells, the very feel of the air spoke of the impending event and the vast crowd that would be arriving within a very few hours. Here we would be doing sound for The Imperials, The Penguins, Paul & Paula, Rosie and The Originals as well as several other less-remembered acts that were backed up by a bunch of studio musicians from LA that would be the House-Band for the evening. This house-band was fronted by Paul Shaffer (of Dave Letterman keyboard fame) who played drums for this session. The headliner was Flash Cadillac and the Continental Kids who performed their hit, the theme song from the TV show Happy Days, as well as several standard oldies as a gang of surly 50’s era tuffs, looking like they just walked off the set of the, then, future movie “Grease.” Although similar to another “clean-cut” group of the time Sha Na Na, they clearly displayed the difference when Flash strode on stage with a leather jacket and an Arthur Fonzirelli attitude. Spraying his mouth full of water (gulped from a Schlitz beer can) into the crowd he gave ‘em all the upraised arm crossed with the opposite hand cutting the elbow in a Milwaukee style “AAY, UP YOURS!” All of that was still to come later that evening as I drank in the feeling of expectation that almost vibrated in its nervous wait for the upcoming evening.

Then there were all of the bars… bars have a unique smell and sound completely different when the lights are on and the patrons are still preparing for their evening out. Usually the overhead fans, that desperately attempted to keep the air breathable when full of people, are on and blowing a unique scent throughout the room. In most bars the ceiling is fairly low when compared to a large musical venue and the sounds and echoes off the walls reflect this smaller, intimate and yet somewhat more active feeling then in a concert venue. The echo in the air is unique in itself but the smell of old beer, too many packed bodies, old cigarettes, spilled mixed drinks and shots of whisky is always present. It is simply more obvious when the fans can be actually felt as they blow out stagnant air from inaccessible corners and from under tables that will get absolutely no air when the club or bar is open. There always seems to be a corner where someone had been sick in the recent past and the weekly/monthly carpet crew or floor polishers had not yet arrived for they’re periodic clean up. All of this mixes together in smells and sound that are well representative of the evening to come without revealing at all exactly what that evening might be.

Setting up equipment in a large outside venue, whether AAA baseball field or Qualcomm Stadium, is distinctly different from an indoor event. Outside, I often feel I’m being watched. After all, in a huge outdoor stadium there are thousands of seats and dozens of entryways. In a large stadium there are personal boxes for high rollers and stadium office windows that overlook the playing field. At an inside venue the sense is completely different. There may be several people there with you but, more than likely, you can see every one of them and, because you can see them working, no one appears to paying any attention to a single individual. No invisible watchers, no critical owners, no hidden union rep looking for a reason to fine the contracting company. There is an echo, regardless of the size of the room, when the room is designed for sound and an audience. The solitude of an empty room speaks to me in a quiet, but strong voice.

A stadium is a substantially bigger room with no roof in the case of Qualcom Field, known when I worked this event, as Jack Murphy Stadium. As we were mostly busy working, laying foundation supports for towers, which would hold huge sets of speakers and lights, I didn’t have any time to look around until most of our equipment was trucked in and lifted into place. Running speaker and microphone cords, re-aligning the aim of the speakers, and monitors, hooking up the sound board and running extension cords took up most of the morning and early afternoon so I was unable to just take it all in until we completed assembly and were ready for sound checks. At that point, as I had little to do except to re-locate mics when required or requested, I was able to look out across the vast field and appreciate the size of the “room” we were about to fill with sound. Standing on the 50-yard line and surveying the 60,000 seats, all facing in my direction was a feeling not to be repeated.

Of course, following most events, an army of workers descends upon the room to empty it back to its former self. Seats are folded and stored away, bleachers are folded back into their storage places and any sound or lighting equipment is packed up and ready to be loaded onto the truck. The stage is clear and the only thing left is the debris left over from the crowd and an echo of what has been…

…And the impending echo of what will be.

1989 - When My Reputation Preceeded Me

When I got married in '81 the kids were 11 & 13. In my attempts to impress them with my adventurous life they learned a lot about me. By the time their mom & I married I guess there were really few secrets which, on some occasions, became painfully obvious.

1989 – When My Reputation Preceded Me

The Fortune Cookie read “You are liked for your good nature.” I observed this was not a fortune. “Have you noticed?” I continued, “Fortune Cookies don’t really give you a fortune? They offer advice like ‘Be cautious in your finances’ or an observation like ‘You are liked for your good nature’ but these aren’t fortunes. ‘You will inherit money’ or ‘Your children will accidentally burn your house down’ now these are fortunes.”

“I was told that you have to add your own circumstance to the end of a fortune cookie.” Terri said, “I was told to always say ‘In Bed’ after all fortune cookie messages…like ‘You are liked for your good nature…in bed.’”

“I’ve never heard that before!” I said. “Hey! It works for almost everything! Be cautious in your finances…in bed. You will inherit money…in bed. Your children will burn your house down…in bed.”

“You have superior judgment…in bed.” Said Ken. “It works!”

“Your friends find you fascinating…in bed!” Said my wife.

“You find pleasure in work and play…in bed!” Said Terri.

We sat talking and joking in our favorite Chinese Restaurant having just treated our son, my step-son, to a pre-wedding meal. In 2-days Ken and Terri would be married and, as their schedule was so full with events and planning in their last frantic phase, this would be our only chance to take them out for a casual supper together before the wedding.

Eventually they would start a family from which I would get 3-brand-new grandchildren, Alan, Jamie and Ryan. They are all brilliant children with obvious unlimited potential. But, for now, Ken and Terri were still a young couple with their future unlimited.

“Did you know Fortune Cookies were invented in San Francisco?” I asked showing off my great command of useless trivia, “They were intended to be eaten before the meal as a form of entertainment while waiting in line for a table.” I looked up at each of them with a big smile on my face. Conversation stopped. They all looked back silently with no expression whatsoever then, spontaneously, the conversation continued as though I had never spoken. I was sure they rehearsed moments like this.

Terri mentioned she was relieved to be out at a quiet supper as the previous night had been her bachelorette party. She revealed she had gone out with several of her girlfriends and partied one of her last “free” nights away. With that Ken revealed his Bachelor Party was this very evening by, “Well, I guess I’d better get going. You guys can sit and talk awhile but I’ve got to get going. A bunch of the guys are waiting for me for my bachelor party.” He turned to Terri, “Don’t wait up.”

“Whoa!” I said, “Bachelor Party? I didn’t know tonight was your Bachelor Party! Why didn’t you let me know?”

“I didn’t think you’d be interested! Of course you’re welcome to come along!”

“I’d love to,” I said, “but I need a little more warning before I go out to party nowadays…I just can’t party like I used to!”

“Larry,” Ken said, and paused. At that moment conversation stopped. They were all awaiting Ken’s next words. He turned towards me, looked me in the eye and shook his head, “believe me…NONE of us can party like you used to.”

1974 - Discrimination

Often we react to a statement or a gesture that is simply misinterpreted. Our own experiences tend to make each of us sensitive to different insults and slights. Sometimes the insult is intentional... sometimes... not.

1974 – Discrimination

Mary was beautiful. She was easily one of the most physically beautiful women with whom I have been involved. Mary was thin in the right places and not thin in the other right places. She was tall… or, at least, tall to me. At 5’7” she was 2-inches taller than me and, although it was the era of platforms on men (high shoes – high in heel & toe), it was also an era of platforms on women so, although hers weren’t usually as high as mine, when we were out together she was still slightly taller and far more stately than me. She had an imperious attitude that I found endearing because it meant that she wasn’t about to take any crap from anyone. I have often seen this as strength in some women and, although it can be taken too far, she rarely did. She had a good grasp of righteous indignation and used it to reach the ends she desired… particularly at work, where we met.

She was dark… no… dark is too subtitle… her skin was the color of a ripe olive without a single blemish that gave it a sheen that fairly glowed in the light of the practice room… with it’s black light on the wall coupled with 2 red light bulbs in the overhead. Skin so smooth & blemish-free that stroking her bare arm or bare back was reminiscent of smooth silk. She wore an Afro that was 18” around and which I discovered was a wig at an unfortunate moment (enough about that.) She was a lovely, proud Afro-American with a child, a home and a family that consisted of parents, a brother and an ex. An absolutely fascinating woman with opinions similar in many ways to my own and yet, sometimes, very different if not in conclusion then different in the experiences with which her life path had delivered those opinions. She was definitely a child of the “Black-Experience.” In the year we knew each other, 1973, race and racial problems were a part of daily news and we found many chances to discuss these issues in great detail.

Socially we were actually quite different. During this era the separation was illustrated by the gap between different styles of music. The difference was obvious to me particularly; as a musician I was intimately involved in my own kind of music. When I spent time with Mary we listened to The Chi-Li’s, Temptations, Marvin Gaye and Curtis Mayfield, among others. When I was with buddies or practicing with the band it was all Styx, Uriah Heep, Zeppelin and Jethro Tull, among other heavy-metal groups or Crosby, Stills & Nash, Manassas or Simon & Garfunkle for our harmony-fix. When we partied it was heavy metal all the way. At the two parties I attended with Mary and her friends it was mellow, harmonic and gentle soul music. A vast difference in the party mood but the bonding among friends was identical. Taking a friend to the first party I attended with Mary and her circle of close friends I found my friend to be paranoid and unable to relax… we left early. He didn’t accompany me to the next party and I had a great time although there was initial discomfort finding myself completely surrounded by a culture that was foreign to my experiences. After the first drink and joint as well as a little conversation I relaxed completely and had a great time making several new friends who, truthfully, I never saw again… but I had a great time. This wasn’t the experience of Mary’s brother when he attended one of our parties.

Mary and her brother were invited to our party and like me he arrived with a friend. He & his friend, Charles, were definitely uncomfortable with the number of white people who were all loud and raucous. In a few minutes I found them sitting on the couch, as close to the wall and as far into the corner they could get. I sat and tried to talk to them for a while but they were unresponsive and obviously quite uncomfortable. An hour into the party someone, in passing, said, “Oh, boy. What a party!” Unfortunately Mary’s brother, in the loudness of the party, misunderstood what was said and accused Ron of calling him “Boy.” Ron became insulted and, not being one of my more accepting friends, began a short shouting match which was a result of both the misunderstanding and the extremely loud music. Within 2 minutes Mary, her brother and his friend left despite my protests. When I called her later she didn’t answer.

Monday, at work, I saw Mary and explained the misunderstanding. She, although initially insulted for her brother, soon understood and forgave my friends and me for what was not said. She explained how uncomfortable they had been anyway as the music and mood of the party was so different from the parties they were more used to. To those used to much mellower music, our brand of party sounds were, to her, violent and assaulting to her senses. Mary admitted she, and sometimes her brother, were told they were being too sensitive but she explained why that was such a likely scenario. She explained that when she was a little girl she became very close to her great-grandmother. Great-grandma was very old and, indeed, old enough that HER grandmother & grandfather had been slaves in the south. It hit very close to home when great-grandma explained how her grandmother spent most of her life without her husband who, soon after she became pregnant, was, quite literally, sold down the river to a different owner. She never saw her husband again, never fell out-of-love and never stopped missing him. Her pain was so apparent and Mary was so close to her grandmother that she felt she could feel the pain of separation clearly and still held some resentment over the history she knew so intimately both factually and emotionally. She admitted that she sometimes over-reacted but also said it would be difficult for anyone else that had not had this experience to understand the loss, the pain and the resentment that carried through the generations. The seriousness of this story was plain on her face and I never questioned again why she seemed sensitive. She was right… I could never understand how this was an important part of her psyche. Being a longhair and putting up with “Is that there a boy or a girl?” for the last year, I could barely understand the discrimination she lived with every day. Even that bit of understanding was, comparatively, very minor. Although I understood why she would be sensitive to racial slights I continued to wonder why she so quickly assumed that people with whom she’d had no interaction were being racist when only making innocent comments that definitely were not intended to be racial. I really had no problem with her being sensitive when insulted but it bothered me why she would simply assume that any innocent comment had racial overtones… after all I didn’t jump to this kind of conclusion with no reason…did I? No!

Or so I thought…

A year later I was living in San Diego. A few months after my move my car broke down in Mission Valley. It was operating so badly I was compelled to leave it parked by the side of the road. It took a couple of days to get paid so the next Saturday it still sat where it had been left. Eventually I had been paid and now had a bag of new wheel bearings and bearing grease. I had finagled a ride from a friend to within a block of my car. As I walked down the block I could see my car a block-up parked in front of a new car dealer, which as usual, included a wide driveway at the entrance to the lot. As I reached the point where this driveway cut into the curb I stopped and looked both ways, alert for any vehicle that may be approaching. Seeing no one in sight I proceeded across the drive. When I was about halfway across a big Cadillac sped around the corner and came to a skidding stop in front of the driveway. He laid on his horn and started cursing at me out of his open window calling my forbearers and me all kinds of obscene names and making comments about my rudeness at crossing when he would want to enter. I hurried across just marking the insults up to the typical abuse received by any longhair… then I paused in my thoughts… “Wait a minute! I had just gotten a haircut the previous day! I look normal!” I had shorn my locks as looking for a new job as long hair was not yet generally accepted on males… and I wanted a new job.

It was a shock when then that I came to a new realization. My misperception was clear, as was the actual reason for his rudeness: “Sometimes what appears to be discrimination simply isn’t.”

Sometimes the broadcaster of foul language and insults upon my being was not the act of a racist or sexist or an anti-longhair. Sometimes it is simply the behavior of what is generally known as an asshole. He wasn’t racist. He wasn’t sexist. He didn’t even care about the length of my hair, the color of my skin or my sex. He was simply an asshole!

Anyone who is barely conscience will notice the world is full of ‘em, most of them stink and nothing can be done to change their essential personality. In order not to lose myself in anger over the occasional asshole, which would affect me negatively and the asshole not at all, that day I had to come to the conclusion that most times when faced with undeserved criticism or verbal abuse my best course of action was to realize this was just another asshole and there was nothing I could do to change that. My best course of action was to…

…get over it.