I was 15 years old and had just moved to California to live with my mother. While browsing musician ads in the local classified paper, The Recycler, I came across an ad from a drummer and decided to give them a call. The drummer’s name was Paul, and he stated in an apologetic tone, “I’m only 17, I hope that’s not a problem.” (I later found out he was 15, and had been lying about his age, just in case the musicians who called didn’t take him seriously.) We met up at Paul’s house, along with a bass player, and jammed for the first time. Everything went well, and we had worked on several songs during the initial jam session. This showed promise of something great in the works. However, there was another discovery made this day. April.
April was Paul’s cousin, who happened to live with Paul and his parents. She was 18 years old, tall and thin with long, blonde hair. Upon first meeting April, I quickly placed her a few leagues above myself, and decided that hitting on her would be a silly and futile exercise. However, with Paul’s skillful message delivery (note passing) tactics, I soon discovered that April was quite unaware of just how far she was out of my league, and that she had a similar interest in me. Upon this discovery, I took April out in Paul’s backyard, where we sat and talked for some time. By the end of our backyard conversation, we were boyfriend and girlfriend. This is how it works when you’re 15. It’s like a hasty (and often short lived) business deal.
The band went through changes quickly. We added a second guitarist, Bobby, who was 23. Paul and I were both 15, so we looked to this wise old man as a veteran of the trade. We also added a bass player named “K.C.”, who was probably around the same age as the other guitarist. He had KC lights on top of his truck, but I’m not sure if he had named himself after his lamps. The guitarist was the kind of guy you’d expect to see surfing, so it was no surprise when he decided to quit after a few practices. I guessed that he probably had some gnarly waves to catch.
April was always with us, whatever we were doing and wherever we were doing it. At band practice, at “The Scream” (a local all ages rock club), pool parties, at the local hot dog and chili fries stand, etc. Then again, even when there was no band business, I was still over at Paul’s, spending time with April. I even offered up my high school class ring to April, as many 15 year olds did with their girlfriends. It was the teenage non-committal equivalent of an engagement ring. Handing over your class ring to your girlfriend was like saying “’til next week do us part”.
Our band decided, somehow, on using the name “Whiskey Sour”. I had no idea what a whiskey sour was, but it sounded cool. I think that name may have actually been suggested by the much older, wiser, 23 year old guitarist. But I can’t be certain.
April and Paul were hip to the local bands in Southern California, which I was not. One night, we all went to The Scream, the all ages rock club that I mentioned earlier. We were going to see a band that Paul and April spoke highly of, called Little Sister. The opening band was called Gary X and The Fortune Hunters. They were a heavy rock band that I was in immediate approval of. I remember the singer (Gary X, presumably) introducing the guitar player as “Scorchin’, Torchin’, Johnny Fortune”. Then came the headliner, Little Sister. They were a bit quieter than the opener, but had a horn section. I don’t recall liking them as much, which was to the dismay of April and Paul.
Meanwhile, Whiskey Sour was going through practice spots like they were going out of style. We started out by practicing in Paul’s house, then moved over to someone’s garage. I think it belonged to a friend of Paul’s family. It was blistering hot in the garage. No air conditioning, no fans, and it was probably at least 90 degrees each day we were there. One day in the practice cauldron, we had another bass player over, since the normal guy couldn’t make it for whatever reason. I guess we must not have been that impressed with the new guy, since we switched practice spaces again the next day, and nobody ever told him.
The third practice spot was a notch above the ez-bake garage, but it was also required that we pay for it. It was in an industrial building that had been partitioned off into several practice rooms, which were available for monthly or hourly rental. We paid hourly, since we didn’t have enough money to put up an entire month’s rent at once. We’d all chip in to buy a few hours of time, drag all of our equipment into whichever room was available for us that day, and then spend our time flip flopping between diligently practicing and diligently putzing around. I kind of liked the putzing around time, since it usually involved April sitting in my lap.
One evening at our new practice spot, a couple of us were roaming the hallways when we happened across an incredibly discovery. There it was. A couch. Just sitting there, all by itself. It had been apparently discarded by another band who no longer needed its wondrous comfort and pee stains. (Seriously, we had no idea what had been done to this couch before we found it. Also, I cannot guarantee that there were no pee stains.) So, we went back to our practice room, grabbed everyone and embarked on our mission to return the marvelous bounty to our room. The spoils of war! Or rock and roll. One of those, anyway. A few of us grabbed ends of the couch while the leftovers just chuckled along with us as we ran as quickly as possible down the hallways and around the corners with a couch in our hands. If I recall correctly, April was along for the heist, but wasn’t subject to having to carry the prize. We were laughing about how we had just invented Grand Theft Couch, and that this incident would someday become a chapter in a book about our music careers. Hmm.
During this time period, we added a couple of new band members. They were a guitarist and a singer, whom were friends, and apparently were a package deal. If one joined the band, so did the other. This was fine, as they were both good. Paul had booked us a show at a club called The Green Door. I’m not sure if the place was named after the classic family film “Behind the Green Door”, but I’d like to think that it was. With the addition of the new members, we were just about ready for our first gig.
A couple of days before the gig at The Green Door, I found that my mother’s husband was purportedly unaware that I was supposed to be living with them on a permanent basis. He was having no part of my mother’s children living with him… or her. I don’t understand how this decision was left to him, and not to my mother. But it was.
I had planned on beginning school in California in just a few weeks. Now I was being told that not only was this not going to happen, but that I was being pulled away from my new home, my band, our first gig at a bar named after a porn film, and April.
I had no intention of letting my life be pirated in this manner. I wanted to find a place where I could stay in the area so that I didn’t have to leave everything that comprised my new, great life in California. But at the age of 15, this wasn’t really a choice. Unless I was to run away and live on the streets.
I walked away from the house as far as I could, hoping that I wouldn’t be found. A few miles away, I found a pay phone. I used it to call Paul’s house. I explained to Paul what was going on. After breaking the news that I wouldn’t be there to play our first show, or any other, I asked to speak to April. I explained to her what was happening. I told her that I didn’t want to leave her, but I was given no choice.
That was the last time I ever spoke to April.
Yesterday (Thursday), I had the great opportunity to be in a movie called “Freaky Deaky”, with Christian Slater. The film is set in 1974, which called for a lot of period specific visuals. I was in two scenes, playing a grip in a fake film crew. In other words, we were a fake film crew filming a fake film within the real film. It’s being directed by Charles Mathau (Walter’s son). They made me wear some weird polyester clothing, along with a heavy suede jacket, in the blazing sun. They also made me shave. Now I look weird. Ah well, it’ll grow back.
