When performing I have always kinda been "outside my body" in some state of modified shock. The kind that allows you to perform your duties while being some kind of observer of your own event. I can adlib, jam or play or speak as directed, or as required, at the moment but I, still, remain somewhere outside my body. Having dealt with my stage fright at an early age (ask my brother Steve about Chickery-Chick) I learned to use this reaction to enable continued performance during times of stress. Not everyone had this early experience. Not everyone can continue to perform while in this state. Not everyone...1971 – Stage Fright On The Fantail
We practiced with the amplifiers strapped to the walls of the helicopter hanger. The sea was fairly calm but, as always, the ship continued to rock from side to side. We were “The Ships’ Rock Band” as the Captain called us. Not long before we had managed to “accidentally” leave an official Navy publication, the All-Hands Magazine, open on the Captain’s at-sea chair. As planned, he leafed through noting the main article we had left open about a carriers’ rock band and how great they were for both morale as well as the ships reputation when they played ships-parties ashore. He soon came up with the “original” idea that since we had a rock band aboard we, too, needed to support the band that practiced and played at sea in the Helo-hanger. Upon inquiry he found out we really needed a drum kit and volunteered to supply this for us. We had our sponsor. All was going along as planned.
When we hit port in Olongapo in the Philippines we headed out to the music store. I had been dating one of the clerks who, despite a Nursing Masters in medicine, continued to work for minimum wage behind the counter of this little store. We shopped the stores contents until we decided upon a black-pearlized kit with a good sized bass-drum, 2 tom-toms and 3 cymbals besides the snare and high-hat. We all prepared to wrestle this load back to the ship as I made a date for later that afternoon. “I’ll be off at 5:00,” Maria said.
I was to find out later that a large percentage of the Filipino population was educated with advanced degrees although I was also told that a MA was equivalent to a BA in the states. I am not certain about that evaluation but she was very intelligent and worldly aware although, like most of the Filipinos that I met, she considered the Philippine Islands, all together, as the 8th continent. No amount of argument or any display of maps could change her mind about this.
After packing the kit onboard and setting it up for practice I headed for town leaving a happy drummer getting familiar with his new toys. Maria was almost done wrapping up and awaiting her replacement for the evening shift. “Would you like an ice cream?” She asked. Upon my reply to the affirmative she sent me next-door with instructions to buy the flavor labeled Sampaguita. The scent was heavenly so I choose the same flavor. The heady aroma greeted my nose as I unwrapped the paper covering. It exploded in my mouth as a delightful flavor and scent that was completely new to me and, yet, somehow familiar. Maria told me this was the National Flower of the Phillipines and was related to the Jasmine flower. The heavenly taste melted slowly as I enjoyed every drop. We sat facing each other when I heard a series of little pops. Thinking it was fireworks I turned and started for the door. “Stop!” shouted Maria. I turned back toward her and saw she was crouching behind the glass display case and trying to get as far into the corner as possible. My brow furrowed as I wondered why she appeared so frightened. Right then 3 men ran across the parking lot across the street firing handguns over their shoulders. They ran out of sight but were immediately followed by members of the street police that guarded the entrance to every bar and most businesses. One of them paused and took careful sighting down the barrel of the rifle he carried. His fellow officers ran past him ignoring the fact that one of their members was firing live ammo past heir running backs. He fired twice and launched into a run without looking for the results from his rifle fire. Suddenly it was quiet for two beats of my heart then, as though nothing had happened, music blared and people began walking down the sidewalk on their way to whatever errand they had been on when they were temporarily distracted. I stood up surprised to find myself behind the counter with Maria and somehow stretched over her in what I assume was a protective position although I didn’t recall doing this on purpose. I helped her to her feet. “Huks!” She said and looked disgusted. I was later to find out these were revolutionary communist rebels that had been holed-up in the mountains since World War II brought this conflict to the Philippines. They were refreshed every so often with native villagers that resented having civilization forced upon them or the odd politically active city folk who simply didn’t like the current government. As Maria’s relief showed up immediately after this incident we proceeded to dinner & dancing until it was time to part. After a long goodbye I put her in a taxi and headed back to the ship. We were due to head back to sea the following day so I wouldn’t see Maria for an unknown amount of time.
At sea we practiced daily and, during this at-sea period added a band member in Tony. Let me pause and tell you about Tony: Tony was musically gifted in that he seemed to know every group, all members, what group(s) they had been in previously and where members went if the band had broken up. Tony could almost always identify any song on the first note. Rumor was Tony had worked for Bill Graham before joining the Navy and had worked with several groups including the Band, Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead. He had worked at Woodstock and, when fences and gates were being broken down by crowd pressure, jumped up above the entrance and removed the poster from its place over the gate. I still have this poster as well as others Tony left thumb tacked to our apartment wall. All of these belonged to Tony so I’ve held on to them awaiting an opportunity to return them… like that’s going to happen.
Tony had a bigger passion for music than anyone I had known previously, including my Uncle Johnny who influenced me, professionally, probably more than any other person excepting, perhaps, Tony. He had no musical background or training but certainly deserved, as much as anyone I ever known, to be on stage where he could share this love for music with an audience. After buying the new drum kit for our regular drummer we had some extra percussion instruments, namely: Timbales. Timbales consist of 2-tom-toms, a wood block and a cowbell. Tony decided he wanted to learn this instrument. We all thought this was a great idea and we all pitched in to help Tony learn this instrument. The addition gave us a great sound with a full compliment of rhythm instruments including a drummer, a congas player and, now, timbales added to the fullness of the sound. As we played songs by various groups, including groups like Black Sabbath, Santana and Chicago, all of whom used different instruments than we had in our group. We found the added percussion filled in to the point that a horn section, keyboards or an additional guitarist were not missed at all.
We rehearsed with Tony over the next few weeks until he was fairly good at throwing accents and embellishments into our music where it was needed. He had a good ear for the feeling of the tunes and seemed to know when to follow a jam and when to follow the number exactly as rehearsed. Finally, as we cruised off Viet Nam, it was time for a barbeque on the fantail where there was room for the 55-gallon drum cookers and a few tables to hold other offerings. We had been asked to play music for the party and all of the equipment was moved from the helicopter-hanger to the aft-end of the helicopter-deck. A crystal-clear blue sky reflected the turquoise ocean. A clean smell of salt-water scented the warm slightly-humid air. As we were about a mile off-shore with the kaleidoscope of jungle greens in the background, the fresh scent of tropical flora drifted in the breeze with an occasional treat of tropical flowers or the fresh smell of jungle mulch. As the water was like glass there was no need to tie the amps and speakers down this day. After tuning-up and a few individual solo’s (ostensibly still tuning-up) we prepared to launch into Santana’s Evil Ways which started with the drums, congas and timbales performing a short drum-roll together and launching into the musicality after the 4 beats that made up one short bar. The roll sounded a bit empty which became clearer as Bill started his first lead. It became obvious something was missing. Bill and I turned as one towards Tony.
Tony stood stock still staring at the small audience absolutely frozen in place.
His mouth hung open and his hands were perched 6-inches over the drum-heads. “Tony!” Bill said, “Tony!” Bill kept playing rhythm guitar and I followed along with the required bass-lines until I noticed Tony legs were beginning to shake. What started out as a small tremor was getting more obvious as I stepped toward him, still playing. Suddenly I threw my bass over my shoulder, counting on the strap to secure it to my back, and lurched out towards Tony as his right leg collapsed and he toppled towards the floor. Bill and I caught Tony between us as the music came to an abrupt stop. Bill, with guitar still hanging in front of him held with his left hand still wrapped around the neck, held Tony up on the left side with his right hand while I used both arms to hold his right side while we steered him into the hanger bay where a couple of chairs stood waiting. As Tony sank into one of the chairs his eyes were no longer able to see any of the crowd milling about one deck below us. A few shouts for music drifted into our ears but we temporarily ignored their pleas.
I tapped Tony’s shoulder a couple of times but he was completely unresponsive sitting immobile staring ahead, drum sticks still clenched tightly in his hands. I stooped in front of him and looked into his glazed eyes. I reached up and gently shook his shoulder. “Tony!! Tony!! Are you ok?” I asked. Tony’s eyes focused on my face as his face twisted into a grimace and he bent forward, elbows on knees and his face hidden by his hands. After a moment his shoulders began to pulse as he sobbed, tearless, into his hands.
“I… I… I don’t know what happened… I couldn’t do it… I couldn’t move… I didn’t know what to do… I… I’m so sorry… I just…” His words tapered off into silence. He sat sobbing into his hands slowly gaining control of himself.
The rear hatch to the hanger opened and Mr. Weaver entered. “Everthang okay?” He asked in his distinct Oklahoma accent.
Bill rose to his feet. “We better get started or we’ll have a crowd here in a few minutes. That’s the last thing we need.” He glanced at Tony as he said the last. Tony appeared to be recovering so we left his side launching back into Evil Ways before we reached the microphones and still out of sight to those below. A cheer went up and we performed the number as rehearsed without the benefit of Tony’s contribution. When we finished the song I glanced back to where Tony had sat. He was no longer in attendance. We finished our set and took a few minutes break. As the other guys went for the food I went to find Tony where he sat alone in his birthing department staring into the distance.
He looked at me as I approached. “I don’t know what happened, Lar. I was already to go but when I looked out at everyone’s face I just froze. I couldn’t move… I wanted to I just couldn’t.”
“It’s ok, Tony. I know how you feel. Every time I step on stage I’m on automatic in some strange state of shock where I can still perform and hold conversations but feel completely outside my body the entire time. If I hadn’t been doing this for so long I might wind up exactly the same.” I slapped his shoulder, “You’ll get over it. Give it time.”
Tony smiled a shy smile, “I just don’t know what happened.” His frown returned, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s ok, Tony. Let’s go get something to eat.”
“No,” Tony replied, “I think I’ll stay right here for a while.” He paused and searched my face, “Do you really think I can get over this?” Hope was in his eyes.
“Of course. It just depends upon how much you want it. You’ll be okay.” I was confident his love of the music was enough to eventually get him over this temporary setback. “I’m off to get some of that food… are you sure you don’t want to come along… can I bring you anything?” He shook his head to the negative and I headed back to the fantail for sustenance.
Tony eventually became our informal manager in a market (on board a USS warship) that didn’t require any management. It kept our good friend close and enabled him to continue his involvement with the band. Unfortunately, in our time together in the Navy, Tony was unable to overcome his stage fright and a new timbale player was found. Coincidently his name was Tony.
We proceeded to play many gigs both in port and at sea but I always wished for my good friend Tony’s more active participation.
For Tony… I still wish that.
