This fellow seems to be contemplating the fleeting nature of summer. He was very good about the camera, though. He never moved once.
Descent into Hades, Part I I began playing music professionally when I was 14. Leigh began playing about six years later and we had our own band through 1980 when we stopped because I had taken a new job and needed to spend time with it and our kids. If you are a musician or know one, you know that you don’t just stop playing. The music is in you, coursing through your blood with its unstoppable melody, dancing to the beat of your heart, floating through vast spaces in your mind. Leigh and I talked about it and I called Hal, our former drummer. “We’re thinking of starting up the band again.” “That’s funny. I was just thinking it would be fun to play again,” he said. We put an ad in the paper for a rhythm guitarist. A few nights later, Dale appeared at our door, a lean, six-foot , dark-haired farmer whose square-jawed good looks were offset by a mouthful of bad teeth. This ex-marine seemed to be afraid of nothing except toothbrushes and dentists. But he was a good rhythm player and had a decent voice. Hal was a short, quiet guy who just loved to play drums and drink beer. Dale was a devil-may-care guy in his 40s who loved music and women. The order varied depending on his mood and needs. He had a wife but we never met her. One night while we took a break, I noticed an opossum on our back deck. ‘Possums are nocturnal, slow moving and have a mouthful of teeth like a shark. I’ve never seen one play dead but I have seen them snarl. “You don’t want him up here, do you?” Dale asked. I shook my head. We stepped out on the deck. Dale reached down, grabbed the ‘possum by its leathery, muscular tail and with a strong underarm pitch tossed the hapless thing over the deck which was about 10 feet above the lawn. “Jesus! What are you doing? The ‘possum sailed through the air, legs outstretched. It was a hard landing but, sure enough, he came down feet first. He lay stunned for a moment, then got up and scuttled into the trees. It was my first experience in the art of ‘possum pitching. Years later, I’d have a chance to pitch one myself. Anyway, after a couple months of rehearsing, we were ready find listeners. “The problem is, we don’t have a place to play,” I said after rehearsal one night. “We’re new. We have to find some venues and get the word out about us.” Dale thought a minute and nodded exhaling a long stream of smoke from his cigarette. “I know just the place,” he announced. “It ain’t much to look at and it’s a little small but it’s a good place to git started.” He stood up and laid his guitar down. “Lemme make a phone call.” He went to the phone, dialed and asked for John. “Yeah John, this is Dale . . . Dale Stet . . .I’m a guitar player. Used to be with The Country Four. . . yeah . . .yeah! That’s me. Well, I’m with a new band now, damned good sound. We’re lookin’ fer a place t’ play.” There was a long pause. “How much can you pay?” Another pause. “Can’t do any better than that, huh?” He looked at us and winked. “Okay. Yeah, we’ll take it.” He hung up and returned to the group. “He says he can git us in next month. Pays a hundred bucks. It ain’t much, I know but it’ll give us a place to cut our teeth until we git some better gigs.” The rest of us nodded. “Where is this place?” I asked. Dale took a drag on his smoke. “Down on the east side of Elmira ,” he said, looking away. “Ain’t the best part of town but it ain’t bad.” He took another drag. “No, it ain’t bad.” “What’s the name of the place?” Leigh asked. “The Erie House.” Had I known what the place was and what was about to happen, I would have set the keyboards aside and quit before we started. Next week: Strange Night Life In The Erie House
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