EXCERPTS, from: C.I.A. Brat. . . . . .
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Excerpts from the book:
While assigned to the US diplomatic Corps in Copenhagen, the first-ever
defection by a MIG fighter pilot took place. The Soviet pilot
decided, correctly, that if he went full throttle in a bee line for a
landing strip in Denmark, he could break free from his USSR
controllers. This was at the beginning of the Cold War and during
the Korean War, when Soviet and US jet fighters were skirmishing
daily. You can imagine what a great prize it was for the US and
Europeans to get their hands on a fully functional MIG fighter plane,
plus a pilot who was glad to divulge all he knew. Dad was the
first American at the landing site and he escorted the pilot from the
field. From that moment on, Soviet military planes were not
allowed to fly solo. If a plane diverted from flight plan, the
other pilot was required to shoot it down.
Less than ten years earlier, dad had been
actively assisting the ‘Danish underground’ during WWII. One
successful assignment was to assist underground Danes in blowing up a
commandeered corner restaurant used exclusively by Nazi brass for
meetings. Right after the war, dad received a ‘White Cross’
decoration for heroism in a ceremony hosted by the King of
Denmark. So, when stationed in Copenhagen a few years later, he
and his newlywed wife essentially had a ‘Key to the City.' There
were parties and balls nearly every night. Champagne flowed like
water. Cigarettes were considered chic, as movie stars were
always seen with them. Little me, as an embryo and fetus, had no
choice in the matter. I was along for the ride. The bit of
life-giving placenta between the mother’s and baby’s body doesn’t
discern between nutrition and drugs. It all gets passed along to
the baby swimming in amniotic fluid. In sum, I was tipsy from day
1.
Age 6, near Paris, France:
I went with my older brother Ron, to visit one
of his friends. The friend had a child’s chemistry set, which
included small samples of many chemicals. The friend put a little
bit of yellowish powder on a wooden match, then lit the match, blew it
out, and put it under my nose. “Here, sniff this.” I did,
and the burning sensation of sulfur caused me to cry immediately.
It felt like a hot poker had been rammed up my nostril. As the
tears poured down, the two bigger boys were consumed by hilarity,
completely racked with laughter. I stomped out, filled with pain,
embarrassment and anger.
While walking home alone, I picked up a stout
stick and hurled it as hard as I could, as a way of venting
anger. I watched the stick fly like a boomerang across a grassy
area, and then ‘smack!’ It squarely hit the side of a delivery
truck, 70 feet from me. Screech, went the brakes. Out
popped two big men. One yelled at me, shaking his fist, while
they both walked quickly and menacingly toward me. I stood.
“What the hell are you doing?!”, yelled the
bigger guy, in French. ”Do you want to buy me a new van? I should
punch you, but you’re just a puny little kid.”
“Je ne comprendre pas,” I lied, while
scowling, still immersed in my anger from the chemistry experiment.
“Why do you not understand?” he asked in
French.
“I’m American”
The big guy’s demeanor changed at that
moment. His scowl morphed into a grin. Then he smirked at his
friend; “Americain. Ha, That explains why he didn’t run.”
He then stood in front of me, bent down and firmly patted my small
shoulders, and said in French; “You Americain won the war for
France. You didn’t have to, but you came all the way across the
sea, and fought like devils to free France.” While strolling
away, he kept saying ‘merci’ and then turned to his buddy and said,
“That’s why the kid is so brave. He’s American, and he hit a
moving van with a stick. I’d like to see you do that from that
far away.”
Age 8, Bethesda Maryland:
Early on, there was an incident where I was walking along a field with
my elder brother and one of his friends. All of a sudden, the
friend shouts out, “The Sharkeys!” I hadn’t heard about the
Sharkeys before that moment, but I would hear about them in ensuing
years. The Sharkeys were three brothers who liked to get in
fights, which they usually won. To this day, I don’t know if they
were any relation to Jack Sharkey, a famous boxer of their father's
era. The first word to follow “The Sharkeys,” ....was the word
“run!” We three ran down a hill into a wooded area. I took
one look behind and saw the boys chasing me were considerably bigger,
so I hightailed it down a side path. I don’t know what ensued
with the two boys I was with versus the three Sharkey brothers, but I
don’t think there was any fighting, otherwise I would have heard of it
later.
When I came out of the woods onto a road, I
was disoriented. I then sensed uphill was the way to go, so up I
went, heart still pounding. Upon cresting the hill, I came upon a
group of five men sitting in a line on the curb. They were
construction workers, and were taking their lunch break. One
colored fellow (yes, at that time, we used the word ‘colored’ not
‘black’) probably close to twenty years, was making some great sounds
with something on his mouth. It was a harmonica, and he was
playing some of the sweetest sounding notes I had ever had the pleasure
to hear. I stood mesmerized in front of him for I don’t know how
many minutes. He played with both hands, bending notes and every
few phrases would gain eye contact and offer me a nice smile. My
introduction to blues harp.
Bethesda, age 9:
Speaking of TV dinners, there was a big drama
one night. Dad wasn’t home, and mom was again fuming about
something, but no one remembers what. Probably related to bruised
ego. I had pissed her off so much - she came at me, oven mitt in
hand, carrying a TV dinner she had just taken out of the oven, holding
it aloft like the waitress from hell. She was striding towards
me, a wicked snarl on her face, with full intent on slapping the piping
hot TV dinner on my face and body.
It should be mentioned: the upstairs of our
house was wall-to-wall white shag carpet. Anyone reading this
will know shag carpet, particularly white color, is the most ridiculous
thing to have in a home with three young boys.
So there she was, ready to permanently scald
my epidermis. My back is against a wall, so I instinctively put a
foot out in front of me. Raging woman carrying hot tray aloft
walks into foot, woman is stopped, tray continues in a downward arc,
plops face down on floor. A once-white patch of shag carpet is
now impregnated with salisbury steak swathed in tomato sauce.
What a waste of a TV dinner.
Mom shrieks as if her teeth are being pulled
out by pliers. I dart out the door as quick as a mouse. Ah,
freedom of the outdoors, with sweet warm night air, subtle whiff of
cherry blossoms. But wait. Big brother is yelling at
me. In an instant I realize he is taking it upon himself to be
mom’s avenger. I run. He runs. He is older and bigger
than me, so he’s faster. He tackles me on the hill of a
neighbor’s house. I’m on my back and he’s got his heavy knees on
my shoulders. He’s about to pummel my face with his fists.
We get eye contact. I grin. He grins. In a moment,
we’re both rolling on the grass, laughing. Within a span of seven
minutes, I had alternately dodged being scalded by one family member
and being pummeled by another. Yet another typical evening at the
Albertsen’s.
Guinea, Africa, age 13:
Conakry was where I had my first driving lesson. With my mom
alongside, in the Peugeot 403 stick-shift, we rolled along some of the
dusty downtown streets. As with nearly all cities, there were
slums. Row upon disheveled row of tarpaper and stick shacks, each
about as big as a gas station restroom, were spread out over large
areas. In front of one, sat a distinctly Chinese-looking man;
fat, blotched-skin, with several black African wives seated around him.
We drove past a newly-built stadium with
massive cyrillic letters around its entry, and I asked mom, “is that
Russian?” She mentioned how the USSR had indeed built the
football stadium as a gift to the Guineans. The Americans had
also built things to give to the Guineans, such as; dams, roads,
bridges. This was during the thick of the Cold War.
Guinea’s headman, Seke Toure, had not committed allegiance to either
side, so both the Americans and the Soviets were vying for his
favor. It seemed clear: the Soviets were playing a better
game. It’s easier to wow the populace by building a sports
stadium, than by paving a road.
My first day learning to drive: while
grappling with the clutch and the stick shirt of the old French car, my
mom and I were approaching a small intersection. A woman was
crossing the road. Not just any woman, but a stately well-coiffed
African woman dressed beautifully, using a folded umbrella as a walking
stick. She saw me approaching. Our eyes met. The car
was going slow and I was frantically trying to figure out how to stop
the darn thing. For prior minutes minutes, mom had been grilling
me on which pedals to use at which times. The strolling woman
stopped in the middle of my lane, her curvy body was edge on, head
turned sideways to afford me a steely gaze. It was if she was
saying, “Ok white boy, what are you going to do, drive in to me?
I dare you.” At the last second, I found the brake pedal, and
wound up stopping with an inch between the front bumper and her
majestic leg.
England, age 13
The teachers at Aldenham were more engaging than the teachers I had in
prior years in the US school system. They were jazzed about the
subjects they were teaching and therefore the students were thinking
and learning more than they would with ho-hum American teachers.
One instructor in particular stood out: Mister Stevenson personified a
raven. Not only because he dressed in a long black olde-style
smock, as the other teachers did, but also because of his raven-like
mannerisms.
His classroom had an elevated narrow walkway,
about two feet high, projecting nearly 4 feet from the front wall, and
running the gamut along the front of the room, just below the
blackboard. It was his stage. Along it, he would stroll
menacingly, from one end to the other. He was bent over like a
walking bird of prey and, more often than not, would be facing
sideways. Large flecks of dandruff were always settled on upper
parts of the black smock, directly below his receding hair, combed
straight back. His face was ruddy red stretched over a skull, and
his mind was nineteenth century genius. If you've seen a bust of
either Dante or Tycho Brahe, you get the idea.
He had wide ranging voice tones which more
often dwelled in the higher registers. To call his voice rasping
and borderline sinister, would be close to the mark. He was like
an alternately intense and wicked uncle who might haunt your house at
night when your parents were away. Often, when making a point
while writing something in chicken scratch letters on the blackboard,
he would add emphases by slamming the point of the chalk so hard, bits
would splay out like a mini explosion. His favorite places to
smack the chalk into the blackboard were underlining a particular word
or phrase, or simply stab a direct hit on a full stop at the end of a
sentence.
He, like the Irish Sargent, had a strange
fixation on me, the only American. He would watch me
unnervingly. If I wasn’t taking written notes feverishly, he
might take a piece of chalk and throw it me - hard. He
would have never made it as a major league baseball pitcher. He
had the speed and intensity, but his accuracy was lacking. Or
perhaps it was because I was quick at dodging. The main
difference between Mr. Stevenson and the mean Irishman, was Stevenson
had a modicum of the 'milk of human kindness' and a twinkle in his eye,
even when throwing chalk or an eraser at me.
Italian Riviera, age 14:
One perfect Mediterranean day, we walked down
the hundreds of steep stairs to the jetty. All the boys and
girls, lying around on towels, were older than us. Vanity was
thick, as every big boy had skimpy brief bathing trunks made of less
cloth than a cocktail napkin. As for the girls, each looked like
a well-oiled model. Bikinis were the style and these were the
days before kids were brought up on fast food and subsequently
ballooned out like their mama had mated with the Goodyear blimp.
Girls’ bikinis were so skimpy, nothing was left to the
imagination. All of a sudden, a young Italian man’s voice split
the serenity; “Why you no a-look at me?” His no-nonsense loud
words blared forth at the Swedish blond lounging alongside him.
She blushed and said, “What?"
Again he blasted the words at her pretty head,
“Why you no a-look at me. I am a-right a-here, next-a to you.”
She turned redder. He continued; “You a-look out to the
sea. You a-look at da sailboat. You a-look at all de oder men
a-here, but you no a-look at me. Why you no a-wanna look at
a-me?” For all I know, the girl could have been a young Agnetha
from Abba.
She got up, grabbed her towel, and
split. He remained inclined with a serious countenance. He
waved one hand at everyone watching, as if to say, ‘Can you understand
why she no a-look at a-me?’
That summer, at 14, I had never had a real
kiss. All that was about to change in a few racing
heartbeats. A bunch of us youngsters were casually hanging out
one night in the basement of a large hotel. There were a few old
mattresses on the floor, no bed frames, and each mattress had a few
kids sitting, smoking tobacco, talking, laughing. I was playing
guitar. I didn’t particularly notice the pretty girl sitting next
to me. All of a sudden, the power went out. Complete
darkness. I stopped playing guitar. A moment later, there
was a mouth on my mouth, and a warm tongue wiggling inside. It
was such a surprise, I didn’t even know what was happening in the first
moment. Then the lights came back on, and I could see the cute
Italian girl with the lovely mouth.
Rome, Italy, age 15:
One of our most fun concerts was a rare
occasion when the ladies from an all-girls international boarding
school were invited to a dance as NDI. A week earlier I had
broken a bone in my right wrist playing American football. A
plaster cast hobbled my right arm from above the elbow, to half-way
covering fingers. Even so, I wouldn’t have missed playing the
event even if half my head was blown off. For our first song, we
picked Spencer Davis Group's (the inspiration for the name we chose for
our group) first big hit, 'Keep On Running.' It has a solo bass
line as the lead-in introduction. I was playing a Paul McCartney
style bass guitar shaped like a violin, and my cast was rubbing on its
edge, with flakes of white plaster snowing down.
Just before starting the opening song, most
boys and girls had gravitated to a side room, perhaps because there
were pool tables there. However, when those punchy bass notes
started playing, kids came streaming out of the side room like a flood
gate had been lifted. A mass of youngsters moving in once
direction for several minutes. The Morgan Davies Band had made
its debut.
Majorca, Mediterranean beach resort, 1967:
The parties at that pad were houte-couture
mixed with flower power. Speaking of Flower Power: that defined
his younger brother Cedric. The first time I met Ced, he was at
Derek’s ice cream sandwich booth. He was alternating between
eating ice cream and smoking a doobie, one in each hand. He
offered me a toke, right there in the middle of the day, with tourists
all over. He was wearing an unbuttoned brown buckskin jacket with
his hairy chest showing, but his most distinguishing feature was the
hair on his head. Long, partially brushed, dirty golden - he had
to be the coolest hippie for miles around. Oh, and the Harley
Davidson.
Ron was particularly impressed with Cedric who
had that quality, so particular to the coolest hippies: the ‘gift of
gab.’ Ced was witty all the time, but it was particularly evident
when everyone around him was too drunk and stoned to function, how
Cedric would have his funny observations going full throttle.
Somehow, Ron had gotten hold of a sheepskin
jacket. It wasn’t just sheep’s wool, it was the actual hide of a
sheep with the wool still on it. It was worn with the hide
against skin, and off-white wool showing, and came down nearly to his
sandals. When Ron and Ced were standing together, down by the
boardwalk on a hot summer’s evening, it was a sight to behold.
Neither wore more than a swimsuit under their jackets. Ron with
his dirty blond jacket and long black hair, Ced with his brown buckskin
jacket, with 8 inch tassels and his nearly dreadlock blond curls
cascading over his shoulders. Both had their jackets open, baring
hairy chests. If you wanted to know where the hippest (or
hippiest) party was on any given night, follow those two guys.
One fine day, us four guys in the band called
the 'New Things,' went to a hotel called Formentor. It’s the same
name used for one of the smaller Balearic islands, but this hotel was
on Majorca. It was white, large, and majestic. It was
designed to be accessed only by pleasure boats, but we got there by
driving along a terrible back country road which was probably only used
by construction crews when building the place. When we got there,
we went through the giant lobby and came out on the hotel’s rear
terrace. It was as big as a baseball diamond, all tiled and
landscaped, with fountains, gazebos, alcoves, sculptures, and flowering
trees. The view of the Mediterranean was magical, particularly
with the host’s super yacht moored nearby. In the center of the
courtyard was a giant circular table with a gaggle of glitterati
types. At its head was a white haired man, impeccably clad in a
dashing white suit. The hotel valets tried to usher us boys out,
saying in hushed tones, “This is a private party. You must leave now.”
When the host saw we were being asked to
leave, he called out magnanimously; “No, it’s alright. Everyone
is welcome here. Let these young men come and join us at this
table.” We felt like instant nobility. We found out a bit
later, the host was #2 shipping magnate of the world. #1, at that
time, was Ari Onassis, who had made headlines by marrying John F.
Kennedy’s widow, Jackie. Not only did we partake in a feast fit
for princes, but I alone was invited onto the super-yacht boat by the
host’s daughter.
She was a couple of years older than me and
looked like a cross between a princess and a super-model. We spun
records for at least an hour, until I heard my buddies calling out for
me over the water from the hotel terrace; “Hey Kim. What’s
up? It’s getting dark and we gotta go. We gotta drive that
god-forsaken road back to do a gig tonight. Kim, come on!”
The lady and I had been drinking white wine
and spinning 45‘s from her ample collection. She took my hand and
asked me to stay, even saying she could get me a job as a
deckhand. Our eyes met and for a suspended moment, I considered
staying on board. How things might have been different if I had
sailed away on the ship, hand in hand with a latter-day princess.
Then again, I might have got tossed overboard, or drop-kicked off the
ship at the next port of call.
Christmas in Denmark, age 16: Every night in
Copenhagen, was a night out on the town. I always ventured out
solo. Once I wandered down by the docks after dark. If I
had asked anyone beforehand, I’m sure they would have cautioned against
going there. I was just following my fancy. I saw a lively
bar, and strolled in. I was barely four steps inside, when a
pretty lady, early twenties, grabbed me and started to dance. It
wasn’t rock and roll or jitterbug dancing which I was accustomed to,
but instead was a spirited, one arm on the waist, olde style
dancing. We each had an arm out, clasping hands – while facing
one another, nearly touching. It’s a timeless style, and, if you
ask me, the most joyful type of dancing. We were filled to the
brim with good cheer. After a few dances, she asked if I’d like
to go upstairs with her. I said “sure.” She followed up
with, “you know you’re going to have to pay?” I then realized she
was prostitute, but I was too unsure of the ways of the world to deal
with it. She smiled and pulled away. At that moment, I was
called over to a nearby table, “hey boy, come here.”
It was a long heavy wooden table with about
eight stout men lining each side. At its head sat the
eldest. The old salt was calling me over with a big grin showing
half his teeth missing. He pulled up a stool so I could sit close
by him. He couldn’t stop grinning at me and making pronouncements
to all who were listening. But it was all in Danish, so I didn't
understand the words. However, the good cheer was palpable.
When I told him I was American and couldn’t speak Danish, he grinned
even more. Now he had his arm around my shoulders in a camaraderie
way. It became a bit clearer why he liked me so much, when the
fellow on my other side explained how: all the men sitting at the table
had asked the pretty girl to dance, and she said ‘no thanks’ to each in
turn. Yet, she lit up to me, the instant I walked in the
door. She must like 'em young.
One of the seamen suggested I bargain a low
rate for her, maybe get her for free, because she liked me. The
old salt chimed in with something like; “No no. The lad is barely
16. Give him time to enjoy life, before he gets all hobnobbed
with women.” Several free beers later, I extradited my way to the
street, and merrily stumbled back to Ebba and Hagbaard’s place.
Madrid, Spain, age 16:
Night clubs in Madrid, as with every other
European city I visited, didn’t seem to have any age
restrictions. Such limitations are more of an American
proclivity. As such, I was able to play electric guitar in clubs,
both as a sit-in guest musician and with my own combo. One
stand-out night, I was with a pick-up band in a smoky club. There
was a small crowd. I chose to play the opening song, an up-tempo
blues instrumental called ‘The Stumble’ in the key of E - which I’d
lifted from the Bluesbreakers' album. It so happened I played the
song while facing the drummer, so my back was to the audience.
When the song finished, I heard a hardy amount of applause, so I turned
around and was happy to see the club had filled up while we were
playing the tune. Not only were the folks smiling appreciatively,
but the British group called The End were right up front by the
bandstand. They also beamed me on. The End was the band
with Terry Taylor as its very able lead guitarist. It was Terry
who broke the heart of one of his groupies, who happened to be Julie,
weeks before Julie and I met.
A month later, I bought a lovely natural blond
maple Fender Stratocaster from Terry. When handing over the '64 guitar
he said with a kind grin; “That Julie is a handful, isn’t she?” I
didn’t know what to say in response, so just grinned back. It
would become clear, over ensuing years, how right he was in the brief
assertion. Actually, ‘a handful’ was a gross understatement.
Washington D.C., 1968:
One day, dad asked his two eldest sons to do
him a favor. Ron and I were assigned the task of meeting two men
and showing them around Washington D.C. The men happened to be
the top brass of Ghana's Police and its Secret Services,
respectively. It was their first visit to the U.S. and they
wanted to get acquainted with the capital city of the strongest country
on the planet. We had loosely planned to drive around the most
scenic parts of downtown, taking in things like the National Monument,
The Jefferson and Lincoln Memorials, and any of several other
impressive sights in the Nation's Capital.
We picked the visitors up at their
hotel. They were dressed in drab black business suits complete
with ties and cuff links. We were dressed in tie-dyed shirts and
bell bottoms. Our wheels were a convertible VW bug, spray-painted
day-glo pink, so sloppily applied, the white underlay was
visible. Ron was driving, and his sense of direction is akin to a
kite with a broken tether. Additionally, there were some streets
blocked by burning piles of broken wooden furniture.
“Why is that?” we wondered. We didn't
have a functioning radio in the car, so we didn't know, less than an
hour earlier, Martin Luther King had been shot dead in Memphis
Tennessee.
Word had spread fast to cities across
America. Wherever dense populations of black folks resided, there
were riots. The fact that the shooter was a white man certainly
exacerbated the anger, frustration, and sense of loss, radiating around
those regions. The four of us were in the hippie car; a pair of
disheveled white guys in front, and a pair of dignified black men in
back. We must have presented an odd scene to onlookers.
We slowly drove by long blocks where smoke was
coming out of shops and locals were grabbing all sorts of valuables to
take to their homes. TVs were popular, followed by bulk food, and
we saw at least one air conditioner still in its packing box. We
saw several guys menacingly wielding baseball bats, staring at our car
as it drove by. They were usually standing alongside small
burning piles of trash. They might have thought we were press
corps, but either way, without the black fellows in back, Ron and I
would have been plum candidates for head bashings. There was
palpable anger in the streets, and we were in a convertible the size of
a fridge.
Back in Washington DC area, I got well
acquainted with Walter. He was unique in several ways.
Starting with his attire: he wore a black leather jacket with shoulder
loops. Through one loop would dangle a length of chain about two
feet long. It must have been only for looks, because he was never
seen handling the chain for any purpose. He also had a matching
engineer's cap with a plastic visor, and usually sunglasses. He
could be seen with shades on at night, or even in a dark room, similar
to then-hipster Lou Reed.
He fancied himself as a song-writer. I
would good-naturedly chuckle when I'd hear him say, for example, after
a particularly lively party the night before, “Hey, did you like those
songs I wrote last night?”
I'd say, “Sure, I liked the songs you
did, but how can you say you 'wrote' them? You didn't write
anything down. We didn't even record them. They were all
spontaneous. They're like leaves in the wind.”
I'd make a note to myself to arrange to bring
a tape recorder to subsequent parties. I would be the first to
admit that Walter's 'songs' were borderline genius. His style was
like early Bob Dylan with end-on-end sentences meandering on for a
minute. If the lyrics had been written, they'd have had hardly
any punctuation - just sentences going on for pages. There were
some rhymes, but no rhyming schemes. As for themes: they were a
mish-mash of politics, trends, and a dollop of Cheech and Chong type
humor with no holds barred.
Walter and I performed at dozens of
parties. Most of the folks within earshot would get drawn to us,
and stand around listening intently. I would usually be sitting,
and he standing. I would have an acoustic guitar, sometimes
slightly amped, and he would perform with or without a mic, depending
on what was available.
Walter took the limelight. I didn't mind
doing accompaniment. I would start a rhythmic simple chord
progression and he would layer on his spontaneous end-on-end
lyrics. He performed in the spirit of Lenny Bruce in the sense
that Lenny liked to tell stories, and didn't mind pushing peoples'
buttons - no verbal boundaries.
More than a few times, Walter would be
performing to a group of onlookers, and the words pouring forth would
be offensive to one group or another. It was akin to a ripple
effect. I would look at the audience, and if Walter had some
lines going which would offend gay women, then some of the women folk
would be visibly offended. If the next lines went on a rant about
blacks, Jews, Christians, or Muslims - then each sub-group in
attendance would, in turn, get visibly affected. The reactions
weren't so much of anger, but more of getting their offended buttons
pushed. Walter was an equal opportunity offender. He also
had an engaging smile, not unlike Sonny Bono of Sonny and Cher, who
Walter physically resembled.
Bethesda, Maryland 1968: Mom didn’t like doing
housework so, like many other suburban women of that era, would hire
cleaning ladies. In those days, we called them ‘maids.’
Pretty much all the women who hired out for that sort of work, were
black and from downtown Washington D.C. Of the dozens she hired,
I don’t think any one woman showed up twice, and here’s why: She
would harass each one mercilessly. Actually, ‘harass’ is too
lightweight a word. During the final half hour of the working
day, mom would actively harangue each poor lady who ventured to
cleaning our house for a few bucks.
Many a time, I would come home from school,
and mom would be shouting at a maid. It was vicious, though it
never came to blows, as far as I know. The maid would cower with
a mix of embarrassment, fear, anger and resentment. It was clear
the maid just wanted her payment and to never see the ungrateful, and
vindictive white woman again.
Wahington D.C., 1968:
I did heroin less than a half dozen times.
The first time was when I went to a downtown music show with my buddy
Paul Holder. Every Thursday evening, we would go to a little
stone church in Washington DC to hear real blues. I wish we’d
brought a recording device, because each performer was great.
One Thursday, Elizabeth Cotton did a
set. She was a soft-spoken saintly woman with wispy white hair as
befits someone in her 90's. She showcased her timeless hit
‘Freight Train.’ Before and since that special night, it's been a
song I often play. Though she had written it when a young girl,
the song alludes to death.
'Freight train, freight train, going so fast / freight train, freight
train going so fast. Please don't tell what train I'm on / and you
won't know where I've gone.'
'When I'm gone please bury me deep / way down on ol' Chestnut street /
so I can hear that old 89 / as she goes rolling by.'
'When I'm dead and in my grave / no more good times will I crave /
Place a stone at my head and my feet / and tell them all that I've gone
to sleep.'
That simple song, to me, is like a breath of
fresh air. In most societies, people are taught to fear death, as
if it's such an awful thing. Cotton's reference to death is as
light-minded as the concept of a train rumbling by town, a few blocks
distant.
There were other iconic blues performers at
those Thursday night sessions. There was no stage, just a space
in front of the folding metal chairs. Gatemouth Brown had a great
way of telling stories with his deep-toned voice, to introduce each
song. We felt like we could be sitting with him on a front porch
of a rural cabin in Alabama or Mississippi, or wherever he was
from.
After the concert that night, two young black
guys took Paul and I aside and asked if we’d like to “try some
H.” We said, “sure,” and ponied up a few bucks. With some
able assistance from them, we ‘hit up’ alongside the exterior of the
old rock-walled church.
More Washington D.C, '68:
I’m directed where to drive, and wind up
parking in front of a
small apartment building. Bill gives clear instructions: “I’m
going up to the 2nd floor. You wait here, fifteen minutes.
After fifteen minutes, you two (pointing at the others) go on up to the
2nd floor. You knock on the door. The moment it opens, you
power your way in with the rifles and rob us all. When you’re
there, you don’t know me. You treat me as shitty as you treat the
others in there, but keep it quiet, we don't want to freak out the
neighbors. Don't shoot, and don't hurt anybody. You get
whatever money you can quickly, then leave. Go straight down to
the car and split back to the Cairo without me.” Pause. “You got
that? Don't hurt anybody, just scare 'em. I'll meet you an
hour later at the Cairo. Don't spend any money before we meet
there. You got that?”
Bill goes on up to the apartment by himself,
as if he just happened to be stopping by for a casual visit. I
stay in the car's driver's seat with the two big guys filling up the
back. All of us are stoned on heroin, so we don’t feel a need to
be chatty. Plus, we have little handle on the passage of
time. I look at the rifles each guy has, and a modicum of
reasonableness creeps into my addled brain. After waiting about
seven minutes, I break the silence, “It’s been a long time. I’m
going up to see what’s up.”
The two guys look at each other, and decide to
join me, even though I didn’t want them to tag along. I walk up
to the 2nd floor, and knock on the door. An attractive and
visibly stoned hippie lady answers. I ask if Bill is there, even
though I could see him clearly sitting on the floor facing the
door. Bill gives me a look which says, “oh shit, you’ve blown the
operation.” Just as quickly, he adapts and gives me a fake smile
of greeting. A second later the hippie girl looks beyond me and
sees in the partial darkness of the stairwell: the two big black guys
kneeling down, each on one knee. Each has a rifle, but not
pointed at anyone. Her expression instantly changes to concern as
she calls to her boyfriend in a low tone, “Rick, there is something
going on outside in the hall.”
As if on cue, Bill gets up, strolls toward me
by the door, and says curtly to his hosts, “Thanks for your
hospitality. I gotta go now. Bye.” The four of us go
down, and back to the car. As we pull out, I glance up at the
apartment, and see two spooked but assuredly relieved long-haired folks
looking down at us in the convertible.
I took the three junkies back to the Cairo
Hotel, and then split to go home. I found out later that Bill
almost got the bejeezus beaten out of him by the two bad boys with the
rifles. The reason was simple: Bill had taken along an
amateur, me, on a mission and I had screwed it up. I contributed
to them missing out on getting money that night. Good thing I
wasn't there when they were browbeating Bill because I would have been
an added punching bag for unloading their anger.
Madrid, Spain, '69
....while on a public bus in Madrid. I
was traveling solo, the
bus wasn't crowded, just a few elder women along the other side of the
aisle from me. I was mildly meditating, as I often did. It
was a type of pleasant meditation where cascading waves of bright
yellowish-white light appear at several-second intervals. While
in that state, I chanced to have a three-second eye contact with one of
the women across the aisle. She immediately crossed herself in
the Catholic manner, and exclaimed, “Dios Mios!”
She went to rattling out loud in Spanish about
seeing a saint, all the while trying to regain eye contact with
me. Within a moment, the other women were trying also. I
humored them by allowing split second eye contact, but that took away
some of my highness.
To get drawn into another person's
consciousness, even if only for a half second, can be sobering.
The average older person has pain, suffering, worries and fears zinging
around in their minds. When a person is pleasantly stoned, he
won't
want to tune in to all that stuff. Really enlightened beings can
probably deal well enough with that. In other words, they can
gain eye contact without getting brought down by that person's worldly
consciousness. I wasn't that far developed. As I stepped
off the bus, I looked up to see the five or six women looking at me
pleadingly, while crossing themselves. I hadn't done any drugs
for weeks prior, not even alcohol.
Each summer, Washington D.C. hosts a festival
to commemorate the good ol' USA. Each annual event features an
individual state. One year, the showcased state was
Mississippi. The festival takes place along one of the long
rectangular 'reflecting pools' which stretch most of the distance
between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. If you
had been at the southern end of that pool on a particular afternoon in
the mid-60's, you would have been among the crowd which heard Martin
Luther King give his famous
'I Have A Dream' speech.
The reason the Mississippi festival is
mentioned herein is because at one of the booths, there were two old
black fellows. Their names are forgotten, but the music they were
playing was endearing. It was as close to field-hand call and
response singing as I had ever heard live.
It was a minimally small booth, big enough to
park a golf cart in. At the time, I was the only one standing
there listening, but it was enthralling. They had one guitar
between them, and were singing songs which might have hailed from when
slaves first worked the cotton fields in the southeastern states.
Heck, some of the songs may have even been derived from earlier times
when their ancestors were still in west Africa. One of the songs
which stood out had the line, “Little bitty baby, dressed in swaddlin'
clothes. Little baby Jesus, thought you'd like to know.”
At a Washington D.C. inner city all-black high school, as part of a
student exchange program:
That afternoon there was a rally in the school's
gym. The whole school must have been there, over 1,000
students. I never knew the proper term, whether it's, 'Pep
Alley', 'Pepper Alley', or 'Pep Rally.' I think it's the latter,
in the sense that 'it rallies the pep' or, to put another way,
motivates students for an upcoming sporting event. Either way, it
was rousing. After everyone got seated, the house lights dimmed
and a group started drumming. It wasn't a consortium of various
types of percussion, like you might hear at a white suburban pep
rally. No siree. These were several bass drums and tom
toms, and the pulsating beat couldn't have sounded more African than if
we were in a village hut, preparing to raid another village along the
Congo River.
The drumming was coming from the back of the
hall, and the lights stayed low. A few moments after,
cheerleaders came bounding down the aisle in single file, decked out in
purple and white, with their pom-poms thrusting provocatively. If
you could harness the energy of just one of those young women, you
could power a locomotive up a hill. The entire body of students
went nuts, myself included. There are few things in life more
motivating than pulsing low tone drums. When combined with
sweating, gyrating amber-skin girls, watch out.
(later that evening, at a private party held in a dark room. I was the
only white person there):
The girl I picked was petite, perfumed, and
had lovely soft kinky hair - an all-around dreamboat
package. Slow dancing was the only way to go. We were
grinding so well, I thought I'd ….(fill in the blanks). At the
end of the second LP, the lights came on. She looked up, and the
immediate surprise on her face indicated she didn't know she had been
coupled with a white guy. She quickly looked over at her friends
and shrugged the same awkward message to them, and then sauntered away
in their direction.
Back in Madrid, 1970, staying clandestinely at my girlfriend's room in
her parents' house:
Her parents already knew to never enter the
room, though once there was a breach of that rule. For some odd
reason, her step-dad, a redneck army sergeant, came home in the middle
of the day. Julie was out shopping and I was in her room
alone. The step-dad had no idea I was there. He was so out
of touch with his step-daughter, he didn't even know she had a
boyfriend. He knocked on the door and called her name - no
answer. As he
was pushing the door open, I quickly hid behind her dresser which was
against a window that had see-through curtains, which I tossed over my
head, with see
through curtains over my head and upper torso. The step-dad crept
in, went straight to her dresser and, less than two feet from me,
opened the top drawer. One by one, he lifted out her panties and
sniffed each one. If he had nodded his head forward, he would
have
bumped my chest, that's how physically close we were. I could
clearly see him through the gauzy curtains, but thankfully he didn't
think to look up and see me standing there. That evening, I told
Julie and naturally she was livid. It cemented her hate for him.
Washington D.C., 1970:
A fat black musician friend named Leprechaun
took a room downstairs. One afternoon, he brought back a new guy he'd
just met. Leprechaun was gay, and his new friend was a small
rough-looking Latino guy who had just got out of prison that
morning. It so happened I had adopted a kitty, so to save money
had opted to make some kitty chow by boiling beans. The beans
were put in two mason jars, tops sealed and placed in an upper kitchen
cabinet. That night about 3 am, there were several loud blasts
from downstairs – followed by some voices calling out, and another
crash several seconds later. After a couple minutes I arrived
downstairs to see what the commotion was about. I brought a golf
iron.
Leprechaun was standing there in his shorts,
looking like a walrus without tusks. He was nearly crying.
There was a big mess in the kitchen. One of the bean-filled mason
jars had exploded. That immediately caused the jar next to it to
explode, which concurrently blew open the wooden cabinet door, which
slammed against the wood wall. The door then slammed back against its
frame for added effect. The Latino guy thought it was a double
barreled shotgun blast, and proceeded to dive out the first floor
window, punching a hole in the screen. Leprechaun was calling out
to him, while the kid ran down the road in his underwear. Easy
come, easy go.
Virginia, 1971:
Jim called me with a one-off job
proposal. I knew he was gay and he knew I was straight, so I
wanted to make it clear to him I wasn't going to play a part in any of
his warped fantasies. He said he was offered a gig for doing
sound for a big concert. The venue was William and Mary College
in northern Virginia, and the headliner bands were Deep Purple and
Fleetwood Mac. Those familiar with those bands know they both had
hits in the 1960's. Deep Purple had a stronger track record at
the time, as it would be several years hence before Fleetwood Mac (FM)
added two American singers and became superstars with their 'Rumours'
album – one of the 10 highest selling albums of all time.
The request to do sound was such short notice,
there wasn't time to gather and train a crew. Instead, Jim and I
loaded the equipment and drove through Georgetown. From each side
window of the truck we propositioned hippies on the sidewalk, as we
cruised slowly by. We told them, “ten dollars to join, and an
additional ten dollars when we bring you back in two days.”
Several guys in their mid-teens took up the offer. Now we had a
small crew but none but Jim and I had a clue about sound systems for
concerts. Neither I, nor any of the young guys were familiar with
Jim's equipment and none of us had done sound with him before.
We arrived the night before the concert day
and stayed at a Holiday Inn. The next day we started setting
up. Lunch time came and went with no food, so around 2 pm I told
Jim I was going out to get some sandwiches to-go for the crew.
Jim reluctantly gave me a few bucks for that. The concert was
slated to start at 7 pm, so we did a sound check at 5 pm. There
were about twelve microphones which today would sound silly, as an
average concert just a few years later might have twenty to thirty
mics.
It was a big hall. Besides the main
speaker cabinets which were 'Voice of the Theater' brand, there were
four monitor speakers facing the musicians. Again, today's
concerts probably have ten or more monitors. Yet, the equipment
Jim provided was adequate. The problem was the arrangement of the
microphones, particularly as they plugged into the 'sound board' or
'mixing board.' The two opening bands did well, and all went
smoothly. It was when Fleetwood Mac came on that problems showed
their shaggy heads.
I was Jim's main assistant positioned on
stage. My job was to liaison between what needed to be tweaked
onstage with what Jim was doing at the mixing board. Jim had set
up his mixer earlier in the proper place, about 60 feet out from and
facing the middle of the stage. Just as FM was about to start
their first song, a long haired British man in his forties came over to
Jim and declared, “I'm Fleetwood Mac's manager, and I always run the
board when they're playing.”
It wasn't a request, it was a statement.
Immediately, the Brit positioned his ample bulk in front of the mixing
board and started tweaking the knobs. Trouble was, he didn't have
a clue about which knobs were associated with which microphones.
I saw and heard immediately there was a major problem brewing, so I
jumped off the stage and jogged over to the commotion. Jim was
trying to assert himself, but he was no match for the coked-up British
man who was full of himself. Jim had sweat beading up on his face
and dripping off the tip of his nose. I realized the only way I
could get the British bulldog's paws off the board was to physically
push him aside and probably add a few punches to his face and
body. I chose to jog back to the stage, but the Brit wasn't
looking at me, or paying me any mind.
By this time, Fleetwood had started their
first song. The levels of the mics were swinging wildly up and
down. The reason was: the coked-out Brit manager thought the
microphones were plugged in perfectly left to right on the mixing
board. They were closely arranged like that, but not
precisely. So the Brit was running the volume levels up and down,
trying to determine which knob on the board corresponded to which
microphone. That's ok if you're doing sound at a basement party
with perhaps four channels, but it doesn't cut the mustard to do it in
a large amphitheater with thousands of people, while a top notch band
is starting their live set.
While on stage, I could see up-close how the
band members were getting frustrated. Not only were the main speakers
going up and down in volume, but similar was happening with the
monitors. The bass drum pedal would start booming, then go down.
Then the lead singer's voice would get very loud, then go down
low. All sorts of screwy levels were being heard. After the
first song, pretty Christine McVie, FM's singer/keyboardist stopped
playing and declared to the capacity crowd, “this sound system
sucks. We can't play anymore.” Then she turned and walked
off-stage. The other band members followed sheepishly.
I went backstage and saw the Deep Purple guys
sitting in a row, smoking tobacco or weed. I had a long sleeved
T-Shirt with the letters MC prominently showing. The letters
stood for a college I attended, Montgomery College, but to anyone
around the stage it looked like it stood for 'master of
ceremonies.' My adrenaline was going. I told the Purple
guys I was doing sound and that we would get things fixed. They looked
at me with stoned eyes and mumbled a few lines like, “It can't be
fixed, man.” The audience naturally felt shorted. Someone
started a fire in a restroom waste can. Another attendee poked
holes with a pencil in the thin black paper of the 16 inch
speakers. It was a sad ride back to the D.C. area.
Washington D.C. 1971:
Another night was quite different, but a
thrill in its own right. We were gigging in a small club that
tried to be a cabaret. It was our first night gigging there, and
not many folks were in attendance. However, there were two big
black sailors at a small table, directly in front of the stage.
SJB played a few songs which went over well. When we started an
old James Brown song called 'I don't mind,' it was like electricity
went through the sailors. They immediately jumped up and asked if
they could accompany the song. I was singing lead and said,
“sure.” They positioned themselves at the second stand-up mic and
proceeded to provide a seamless vocal accompaniment along with
synchronized mirrored body motions one would expect from guys singing
back-up to a James Brown song.
rural Blacksburg, Virginia, 1972:
Once, while hiking alone in the woods, I
spotted a young deer curled up sitting on the ground. It was a
cold morning, and the deer was completely covered in frost, except for
its black eye which was clearly watching me. It froze in place,
thinking I hadn't noticed because she was behind a bush, blended in
with the leaf litter. But the bush was spindly, and the deer was,
to me, more beautiful than a pile of cut diamonds. I was just a
few feet away and didn't want to startle it by getting any
closer. I kept walking and the deer probably thought how lucky it
was to evade detection.
Another close encounter, this time with a
skunk: I was walking with my friend's dog, again along a forest
trail, when all of a sudden the dog stopped on the path and pointed at
a bush. He wasn't on a tether. Being taller, I could see
over the bush and clearly saw the biggest skunk known to man or beast –
about the size of a 9 month bear cub. It was reared up on its
hind legs, ready to spray. The two animals were no more than a
meter apart with just that little bush between them. I
immediately reached over, and firmly grabbed the dog by the loose skin
at the scruff of its neck and then brusquely coerced it on down the
path with me. If I had tarried another second, the dog would
likely have lunged at the skunk and would have suffered the worst of
the encounter.
1972: When back in DC, I went to see the guys who had put a
popular blues band together called the Nighthawks. They were
suburban white guys, and their lead singer was Mark Weiner. I
went to where they practiced, and showed them a country blues song I'd
written called, 'Eli Whitney and his Cotton Gin.' My band, the
Saints Jam Band was already performing it, but I thought since the
Nighthawks were strictly blues-oriented, they would like it also.
They did, and included it in their repertoire.
A week later, they phoned to ask me to go see
them at a popular club in Georgetown. When they saw me enter,
they called me up to sing the song with them backing me up. I
thought I'd be standing on the right side of the stage, so I put an
earplug in my left ear because the drums would be on my left, and an
earplug would dampen the intense clanging of the cymbals.
Additionally, all the band's amps would be on the left. When I
climbed on stage, they shuffled me over to the left of the stage.
In all the excitement, I didn't think to
switch the earplug to my right ear. We cranked out the song, and
a bazillion decibels zapped my right eardrum, while my left ear was
plugged. I felt imbalanced but didn't realize the earplug was a
factor until stepping down from the stage. Even so, the set was a
hit with the capacity crowd. I had an offer to join the
Nighthawks but declined because the Saints Jam Band was still
happening. All that happened around the time a boyish Bill
Clinton was wooing a cute young Georgetown University student named
Hillary in the vicinity. Perhaps they were there dancing that
night.
with a Congolese drummer, 1972:
The next day, I was sitting with the alpha
African guy, Pauli, and he told me a little story about how he had
visited Larry's rural Virginia homestead a few days earlier.
Larry brought Pauli to a secluded meadow and they saw some wild deer in
the distance. Pauli asked if he could eat a deer if he caught
one. Larry said, “you mean if you shot one with a bow and arrow
or with a rifle.” Pauli said, “no, if I catch one with my
hands.” Larry laughed and said, “sure,” thinking his friend could
never catch a deer and take it down.
Pauli had a plan. He got hold of a
couple quart containers of Morton's Salt and put the salt on the ground
by a tree near where Larry and he had seen the deer the day
before. Pauli hid in a bush, an arm's length from the salt.
I don't know how long he waited but he claimed he was actually able to
lunge out, grab a deer by the leg, wrestle it down and kill it.
Soon after, he butchered it, and stretched its hide on a wood
frame.
While Pauli was telling me this story, I was
aghast. He expected commendation, but I was leaning to
condemnation. Via the influence of Jethro Kloss's book, I had
recently become a vegetarian. Plus, from the time I first read
Doctor Doolittle as a little kid, I had always harbored a love of wild
animals.
The African could tell I wasn't pleased with
his story. Offering me some dried meat didn't soften my
outlook. We were sitting by a large picture window. Outside
was a majestic old oak tree. In plain sight was a squirrel.
I said to Pauli, “You come to my country, you go out and kill a
beautiful wild animal. You want some meat? I'll go and buy
you some meat at the supermarket. No good, man. Is nothing
safe? Is that squirrel not safe, with you in my country?”
At that point, he dissolved to laughter so intense I thought he might
have a hernia. He fell on the floor, doubled up in laughter for
at least a full minute. I must admit, I laughed also.
There are a slew of other cool stories in the e-book. Go ahead
and order it for $9 (.pdf) via email. The full version, with pics, will
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