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first_bass_magazine
Starting Member
29 Posts |
 Posted - 08/11/2008 : 4:15:34 PM
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Below starts the thread about July 4th 1986 and Other Truths, and how it came to be:
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Edited by - first_bass_magazine on 08/16/2008 2:01:06 PM |
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first_bass_magazine
Starting Member
29 Posts |
Posted - 08/11/2008 : 6:43:47 PM
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The following is dedicated to the memory of all the friends I have met only once. For they have remained nearly the biggest impact and inspiration of my life. - Thank You
They who remain; I look forward to meeting again. Those who have gone, I look forward to meeting again.
TITLE
Why I Do Not Celebrate Independence Day
JULY 4 1986
by Ronn Jones II & Drens Remitrom
CHAPTER 1. Road To Truth
Part One: a)The beginning of the end. b)Held for Chapter 5.
Part Two: a)Contrapuntal Mechanisms for Disfigured Bass
b)Prelude and Feud in D Min-Cha
Pending::
b)Passage Though Palmyra c)Mr. Moon & Blue Traffic Lights.
Part Three: a) Walking Up The Wind; b) Rebel Yenta.
CHAPTER 2. A Tale Of Two Basses
Part One: A Tree In Carnation
Part Two: On The Corner
Intermezzo
CHAPTER 3. Ennis Bridge
CHAPTER 4. The Cycle of 7s
Forward:
This story is true and based on accounts of events which bridged and connected pathways by the only power of reason. Having placed my life on the road, a destination I now recognize to be the clarity of enlightenment by way of the truth, makes it clear to me there is reason for being, and answers to eternity.
"Jaybird, seek to understand and accept love, that we are all connected; but, only through the understanding of the Absolute Truth." That truth can be found in the most numerously printed, longest published book ever to be translated throughout the world.
Charles Dickens, who I do not have any reason to believe directly connected to the famous bass player, Bill Dickens, based the story of "Scrooge" around the ways of mankind and how even the little things make a difference in the lives of all who touch and are touched by the words and deeds of others. The brotherhood of humanity can be a tap on the shoulder, a slap in the face, or something more reassuring. Do you remember the movie, "It's A Wonderful Life"? Clarence, an Angel is assigned to the mortal man George Bailey, the main character. Clarence's deed at the request of Bailey, takes George out of existence by his own wish, and the quaint white picket fence town of Bedford Falls is transformed before his eyes into a city of lawlessness. Why? Because he wasn't there to make a difference early on, or at all.
I will not wait for a day of independence imposed by war and government. War does not make peace. Freedom does not require bondage to create a limit by contrast. Freedom is not the way of mankind and cannot be obtained though an earthly course alone. To isolate days for a specific meaning or memory, or celebrate good will only for a holiday is meaningless to me. I want to take every breath of my life as if I was exhaling a note to the glory of Jah!
This story centers around one day in the life of a man who like many, has come to be misunderstood. To confine the story to a vivid description of a one day event in the life of that individual alone would be a disservice lacking purpose. The accounts are not arbitrarily pieced together in free association, nor are they chronological. This author has done what he could to put time and events in reasonable perspective. Think about that... time, I mean. Everything happens as it does for many reasons. You are a reason, and so is every contact you make from now on, and every association you have ever made. In time there is reason.
This moment moves on. It is always THIS moment.
FORWARD
Chapter 1.
ROAD TO THE TRUTH
Part One: The beginning of the end.
by Ronn Jones II
I had forgotten everything that really seemed to matter. I no longer listened to music, and had lost sight of my instruments. Whatever my function within the theme of things, and anything which may have been considered to be my part in the world orchestra, was no longer in development. The song was over and I never played a note. From the time when I was eleven I wanted a music store so I could lock myself in and play all the instruments. By the time I got my wish I realized that if I locked the doors and did that with my time, bill collectors would have the sheriff come in and take all the instruments away. There is never enough time to do what you love.
By the time I ran the business down I had no money, a wallet full of credit cards, and lots of Basses. I also had and those 50s and 60s Gibson guitars and 50s Gretsch six strings that nobody wanted. I could lock the doors ahead of the game. The meaning and drive had all gone out the music. The mission accomplished with all that sustained be grown apart behind me. It was all because of a dream--an actual dream I followed which somehow connected to me by music. It was amplified by the inspiration of two strangers who gave me bass guitars. Not just any bass guitars, and not just any strangers as I would later find. The purpose of the dream was fulfilled by many. What I had always thought was my purpose was only the passion and love of making music. Unfortunately, what people love and most desire can be in some cases a deserted island. Socially, being an instrument with an instrument often has certain rules and social requirements which can be over-complex and prohibitive from an artistic spectrum. It is impossible to play music underground, and when you reach a state of oneness, when the music and all parts of your being function in synncronicity with your instruments, the isolation is contrary to its function, and an isolated being cannot contain it for long. So, I was given another dream and this time it was not about humans singing from the other side of the world. It was a wolf and eagle singing from another side of the sky. I followed the new dream.
BASS-MINT (r) Copyright 2008 in trust for NPO TBA |
Edited by - first_bass_magazine on 08/27/2008 12:45:36 AM |
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first_bass_magazine
Starting Member
29 Posts |
Posted - 08/16/2008 : 1:49:45 PM
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Chapter 1:
Part Two: a) Contrapuntal Mechanisms for Disfigured Bass
SECTION TWO
The only bass I had played years earlier, was on a borrowed guitar with two broken strings for a few weeks when I was ten. Then, on my old clarinet mouthpiece which I put onto my cousin’s school trombone; papering up the outer part of the receiver to form a gasket; to play “bowed bass parts“.
As a toddler say two and a half or the summer before the clrinet, I really didn’t talk much or pay attention to much more than cartoons anyway. But my musical carrier actually ended at three and a half years old. When I snook (past of sneak?)my uncle’s clarinet off the stand, and started playing cartoon music. It was the one where the mouse rides it out in a sewer. What I thought was a bass drum out odd time was my aunt beating up the stairs. It was a blinding shock to be woken out of paradise by such a slapping voice. I was frozen and unable to breath. My sensitive mind was traumatized by the disciplinary effect. I did not drop the clarinet. I put it back on the stand.
I could really play that Eb baby clarinet and I had all the keys down, man. I had it screaming like a dancing electric razor and the meeses in the sewer riding out on a matchbox... piggys dacnin' round a pot...
I wasn't going to take it apart. I only wanted to play it. If I didn’t start memorizing where tools were kept and start taking things apart at age three like our new TV, radio, wind-up clock after all my toys proved insignificant, they’d-a thought something wrong. If it didn’t have what I needed to keep me occupied I’d throw a tantrum. Even when I tried to talk they didn't understand me. So, I would sit and listen to records memorized by color and type-shapes and operate the player. I can look back in my mind and read them now: Ebb; ATCO; Roulette; RCA; MGM; Sun; and all that rock and roll. So by 4 or 5 I no longer needed the baby tranquilizers dissolved into spoons of sugar - just give me the unlimited access to the record player. The cartoons I liked were musical and the black and white ones usually made the biggest impression. They had the jazz. I came from semi-dysfunctional older siblings and kind parents who spoiled them. Both parents worked 18 hours a day so I was packed off to live with my aunt and uncle during the Summers. He had all the clarinets but I wasn’t allowed to play. I could only watch sometimes when the door wasn‘t closed or he thought he‘s show me. He did repairs and I was allowed to watch. Then came the time I had to start school. I relate that in retrospect to the Simon & Garfunkle song “The Sounds of Silence” never speaking or making eye contact and waiting for the teacher to put on the record player, so we could make music with cups and have cookies and milk. Not exactly peaches and cream and at least another ten to “Peaches and Regalia”.
Time marches on. I had long hair now and then, from when the Beatles came out in 64, and liked the way it felt so I tried to keep it. I wanted to be Ringo on the garbage cans and lids. I was introduced to Mod in 1966 by an unlikely source, my 51 year old mom bought me "back to school" bell bottoms, a Nahru jacket and paisley shirts with puffy sleeves and big collars. I guess she may have been bracing for another haircut strike and wanted to legitimize the mop. Or that she wanted to make me happy after pop's fall which dramatically effected our lives and granted me the newer Beatle look, ironically after that Summer; I had gotten a short crew-cut. I mean, Bucky the cab driver who used to drive certain kids to school had mid back long hair since 1960 and probably way before that. He was American Indian and my mother’s father also had red skin, and he too was a wise and quiet man, but from Sicily. That‘s what the son does… makes you wise, and well, red.
I was into the hair, the clothes, the music, dreams of older Hippie girls, and the excitement of new and exciting places but that's where it stopped. School always passed me along and it was not an interesting social climate. Anything I wanted to learn was madempossible by my inability to do simple math, spell, writer even read something to a common understanding everything merged in confusion. So Hendrix in my seventh Grade was love, or was just confusion.
I found my first vocational training on the way to another town by bus. I was on the way to World Imports at the big mall. They had lots of cool posters and black lights and all that stuff. I wanted a Jimmy Hendrix poster. When afoot on Main Street, just around the corner from the bus depot a new store was being made ready for a Grand Opening. I got a preview. I even got the poster. They named the store by casting ballots in a hat and accidentally pulled out the inspection ticket with the size. 6-7/8 -- perfect name for a "head shop".
The owners of 6-7/8 Boutique liked me and sort of adopted me as the store mascot. I was accepted among their circles and traveled their circuits to concerts and parties. The Fillmore East, Electric Circus, Greenwich Village, Central Park, and Eddie Brigati, of The Young Rascal’s, who conducted a Yoga Class someplace in Garfield NJ near railroad tracks. Which, I recall close to the Led Zeppelin Era. My age difference and demeanor protected me; kept me from being allowed to participate with the owners of 6-7/8 in certain recreational activities. Yoga was encouraged. I was naturally lysergic and pretended to 'know' the tune "Are You Experienced". I was kind of like Tommy without a pinball machine when the short circuiting would somehow just kick in. My friends were protecting and guiding me away from the temptations of the day by taking me into their fold. At the same time I had discovered an excuse or cover-up for my being “out of it”. It was a lie I could not live with and come to believe. That I was to blame and tell people about substances to excuse myself for being mentally retarded. Something you learn to believe in fear and denial. I could instead fit in as being "spaced out" I finally fit in and did not feel so strange being in public. I blended well into the fabric of the 60’s.
Then one day, one of the owners of 6-7/8 brought in his 1962 Precision Bass and said here Arlo, you look like a bass player, here, this is the only way to get high. I did not understand the significance of a bass guitar being the only means to play high notes. But I accepted as a rush went through my body as I placed it in my hands. Whenever the store was slow I would play and did so until my fingers opened up. I took it home and used it for almost about two years, I would play along to the radio and records. I was fine unless somebody was watching or listening. I was invited to play with some friends of the owners and some of their customers who had bands that played in bars, but wasn't comfortable around people. To me playing music in front of strangers was like walking outside in your underwear. I used to have nightmares about being stranded in my underwear.
I loved that Precision bass but the day came when I had to give it back. My mom kicked in and worked overtime to buy me a new bass guitar. I was referred by a Mr Bob L. from 6-7/8th and others to go to Muscara Music at the original location in Bellville. Mr. “Happy” Bill’s memory as well as the original owners remain revered among their customers for fairness and kindness to their patrons. I add this simply to attest to the credit given them by others over the years.
Although I really wanted both or either a Fender Precision or Jazz bass both my body size and my mom’s budget left me between an Ampeg, Ampex, or Hagstrom. I took the Hagstrom and the amp that I wanted, the Ampeg was supplanted by a Kustom 200 with 3 - 15” CTS.
The days arrived when into 6-7/8ths came a crew of shenanigans “The Woo” (Guitar); “Stymie” (Drums); “The Rat” (auxiliary and 2nd Drummer); “ Schneckles” Rhythm Guitar; “Bennie Ben-Wa” Organ & Keys; “Nipple-Nose” Lead Vocals; “Dead-Man” Road Manager; and “Lips” self-proclaimed guru, Adonis, Poser and Tormenter. I would have been better off playing at the bars with the older guys but this was more comfortable. I could slowly get into playing with other people and not be thrust into the spotlight in my underwear.
My odd brain chemistry restricted and greatly limited my ability to partake in the vices of the day. Cigarettes, inhaling tobacco, was a source of confusion and mood swings--I hated the addiction. If I knew then what I would learn years later I would have quit then and stayed smoke free. After quitting for years here and there it finally took a very special chain of events to make me permanently smoke free.
It wasn't always easy dodging peer pressure. My band members knew better than to light up anything besides a cigarette in a car with closed windows while I was there. Even the second hand smoke would cause me great fear and could effect my motor functions. It wasn't long before their pot smoking turned into secret meetings with hard stuff and many of the nicknames of that neighboring town changed to reflect what would eventually kill more than one half of all of them. I separated myself long before that. Their name calling was disdain for my separation and I recognized that it was the envey of my freedom. They were like crabs in a bucket, but I stayed on the other side of the river where their words could not reach me.
Like the last words in the film (not the Zeppelin song) 'Moby Dick' "And I lived to tell thee..." I survived and only because I never tried. Use it one and you're hooked. To some their nicknames were their epitaph; "Needles" "Junky" "Puss" "Scag" if I ever was seen visiting the so called uncool, whimps, and nerds in their town I would sometimes hear. "Hey Arlo, you faggot whimp..." "...yea, look at the nut...hey where you goin odd ball" "...he's going to Bellvue to join the other nuts!" I didn't understand what the hurt I felt was until I matured. I wasn't feeling bad for me. I was feeling bad for them.
So, due to substance abuse unbeknownst to my naive trusting way ended up that it was on and off again consisting of just “Woo” and “Stymie” who would often fall asleep, or “nod”. First it was lies and denial that they were messing with the stuff, then partial admission, to promises to quit. It became an on and off band going nowhere. “The Woo’s” story a tragic one. At 15 he was on the level of Shuggy Otis and John McLauglin with a touch of Zappa Modalities; and I only stuck it out to see him revive. There came a point where I had to give up on them too, and followed the call of WRVR playing bass along to the radio with Trane, Miles and whatever they played. But the key component was the day they spoke about people who played on levels of greatness. The terminology applied to a budding Jaco was regarding a name either not mentioned or not recalled. “A bass player” who played “No Bass” which was the ultimate compliment. “Arlo, there is only one bass player better than you, this guy I heard play with “No Guitar Player” Stymie added “…Yea he pulled the frets out of his bass with a butter knife and coated the fingerboard with epoxy and he gets “no Sound” it was a buzz word about this guy. It was the talk on the street.
A few days later I went upstairs and took a butter knife from the kitchen and lifted the frets from my Hagstrom and raised the action week by week until it was an inch from the 12th fret line. Never bothering to find out who he was or hear what he was doing. I wanted to do my own thing.
CHAPTER 1. Road To Truth
Part Two: b)Prelude and Fued in D Min-Cha
next week
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BASS-MINT 2008. Copyright in trust for NPO TBA
by First Bass
All Rights Reserved |
Edited by - first_bass_magazine on 09/04/2008 6:06:15 PM |
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first_bass_magazine
Starting Member
29 Posts |
Posted - 08/27/2008 : 12:41:47 AM
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Why I Do Not Celebrate Independence Day
JULY 4 1986
Chapter 1:
Part Two: a) Contrapuntal Mechanisms for Disfigured Bass
I was left with a showcase full of memories for sale. Lakota, Dahkotah and Ojibway bead and leatherwork; Dineh (Navajo) jewelry; all from great faces and great places. The little room "on the corner" of "the little house I used to live in" at an intersection where canoes were once banked and Wampum was traded, is again transformed into an Indian Trading post 400 years in the now of 1996. For awhile it became a woodwind repair shop and was transformed into a bustling music store.
Now back to that telephone call. It was 1996. I was standing behind the counter when the phone rang. This was the same number that was the fax number for the BASS-MINT and Bass Players Hall of Fame as well as First Bass Magazine. Who would try calling a fax, right? I answered "hello" believing it would be a customer for arts and crafts. The voice on the other end of the phone was a happy and confident one, full of Joy: "Hello Friend! Are you still doing anything with the bass?"
The caller’s question stopped me as if I had time to reflect back upon it. Over time I would. What did I do with the bass anyway? Thinking back, the era I first recall the most practical, was when I found my first vocational training on the way to another town by bus. I was on the way to World Imports. They had lots of cool posters and black lights and all that stuff. I wanted a Jimmy Hendrix poster. When afoot on Main Street, just around the corner from the bus depot a new store was being made ready for a Grand Opening. I got a preview. I even got the poster.
I have to wonder what Jaco Pastorius was doing during his early years and if anybody remembers the details. I am sure Jaco would have remembered way back to his infancy. I have a feeling he did. There is a book that somebody wrote about the life of Jaco Pastorius that I will one day buy and read. But before I do that I will wait for a new book about his early years.
I am in the midst of writing this chapter leading to the event of one day in the life of Jaco. I have to stop myself and read all this over and especially what’s ahead of this paragraph. I must because the only way to explain the impact of what Jaco Pastorius’ gift meant for and did for me, and what it meant and re-enforced when I finally got to meet him explains the ripple effect which has collaterally effect more events then I would care to mention. I understand this because as a toddler before I could even think in English I picked up a stone and my thoughts told me that if I moved it, things would change. While it did alter my thought patterns, the position of my body, and the direction of the ants around it, this was just a small part of how time and matter are adjusted by cause and effect. This is a very primitive conceptual observation and the basis of movement for the most simple of life forms to the most complex. But every once in awhile a person comes along who seems to be able to propel the masses, and the individual. Sometimes in full view and by great and obvious feats. Sometimes, by small acts or manipulating a complex array of seemingly insignificant events. O.K. enough of the Psycho Babble.
George Benson giving me his Bass VI set the stage for all things bass for me, thereby effecting countless people and companies who were effected by my path. It’s no big thing. We are all effect by everyone else. I am thankful for being an unseen and positive catalyst. Pastorius is another story. I was not expecting the Jaco factor in 1986. I can only speculate that he knew the secrets of cause, contemplated effect and kept many secrets. He appeared in all phases amazed by the reaction to his actions as it was a natural part of his living drive. Jaco could pick up a stone and cause a tremor. Jaco Pastorius life and deeds impacted many a life in a continuum.
Why would Jaco give me his first bass the way he did? I find it difficult believing that it was simply to have it kept in the museum I was building for basses, or that he found out certain intimate details of my life and desires for a bass like that. Or just wanted to help some other kid who had a hand, wrist, and finger injury. He knew that in time the truth would unfold itself and I think he wanted to be around and watch it come full circle. I am sure he had many such projects. Jaco, the “Ambassador of Good Will”. A genius isn’t any less genius when psychosis sets in. The higher functions remain, distorted or not, and in some cases the comprehension of certain concepts, and even abilities to some degree, are enhanced. One of Jaco’s secrets was that he did know me, as he conveyed in the bestow of his anonymous bass. Jaco always had alternate reasons for everything he did. Even for shattering his Bass of Doom and then leaving it unattended. Proving and disproving that statement are equally perplexing and therefore out of phase.
Jaco’s fame was never an issue to me, personally. I am not impressed by people of fame for the sake of fame. Nor do I allow it to gauge or influence my preferences for music and the arts or the individual. It was his timing and the way he did whatever he did; that said in the broad sense of the statement. Jaco was in a certain way like Frank Zappa; multi-dimensional Integral can be separated totally as to function.
I really don’t want to turn this into a bio, and especially not a bio about me, but I feel it is important to set a time-line and give a true background about me so people do not come away believing that a Magic Bass caused an ordinary schoolboy to do things which drove the bass industry, because he was given a bass by Jaco Pastorius. While the concept is there, the truth is that I am far from ordinary. Not necessarily in a good way either; we all have our idiosyncrasies. Jaco first effected my life when I had returned from a road trip to rejoin my band. I was fifteen years old and left for the road with an older friend who was dodging the draft. We went to Canada, West then down to Boulder Colorado where we split up. He went to his brother’s house in Arizona and I somehow ended up in North Tonawanda New York where I met a young Billy Sheehan who had not yet learned to tap. I do not recall the name of the club but I could draw a floor plan. In the 60s and 70s nobody carded when you entered with older people.
I was introduced to the bass guitar before the trip to Canada by way of a Hippie Store or Head Shop. The year was 1968. They called it 6-7/8 Boutique. I Sort of fit right in, but not because it happened to be my hat size. I was wearing my sister's boyfriend's US Marine jacket and my hair flowed halfway down the back. I had dyed my sneakers purple, and I had penned hand drawn atomic art on my jeans. The owner was from Ridgefield NJ and I would learn he was aqainted with Tim Bogert of Vanilla Fudge from his High School days as “Timmy” great bass player before the Fudge was even cocoa. I would later affirm this almost 17 years forth when I met Tim at a NAMM Show. (NAMM- National Association of Musical Merchants) their trade show.
There was always music playing in the 6-7/8 Boutique. Even before WNEW FM - when it was a NYC metro commercial free radio station at 102.7 and played hours of uninterrupted music inluding new releases of album sides. Way before Warner purchased all the labels under Atlantic Records. I let him know that I was into Beatles, Who, Fudge and Ten Years After. I listened to R&B and Motown more frequently and long before Beatles but James Jamerson’s accomplishments for me were still nameless, though I used to sing the bass line along with “Bernadette” and other tunes. Names are the one thing I have trouble with. Names as well as song titles. However I could not help to recall the sounds of the Yardbirds, Graham Bond, Canned Heat, Bloodwyn Pig, Fleetwood Mac, The Who, Jethro Tull, Small Faces, Ten Years After, The Kinks, and well everything they played into the anechoic bins of Landlubber and SeaFarrer jeans, and into the spaces between the Navy Peacoats and Afghan Goat Coats, and Wallace Berry Shirts. Thus, allowing the bass to push clear from the balcony down to the floor below. “Arlo! Turn that music down!” That was my nickname then. Somebody please include what Jaco was doing then in their book if they haven‘t already.
BASS-MINT (r) Copyright 2008 in trust for NPO TBA
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Edited by - first_bass_magazine on 08/28/2008 10:08:13 PM |
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first_bass_magazine
Starting Member
29 Posts |
Posted - 08/27/2008 : 12:42:41 AM
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Chapter 1:
Part Two: a) Contrapunctal Mechanisms for Disfigured Bass
SECTION TWO
The only bass I had played years earlier, was on a borrowed guitar for a few weeks when I was ten. Then, on my old clarinet mouthpiece that I put onto my cousin’s school trombone to play “bowed bass parts“. But my musical carrier actually ended at three and a half years old. When I snuck my uncle’s clarinet off the stand and started playing cartoon music. My sensitive mind was traumatized by the disciplinary effect. I really didn’t talk much or pay attention to much more than cartoons. If I didn’t start memorizing where tools were kept and start taking things apart at age three like our new TV, radio, wind-up clock after all my toys proved insignificant, they’d-a thought something wrong. If it didn’t have what I needed to keep me occupied I’d throw a tantrum. I would sit and listen to records memorized by color and type-shapes and operate the player. So by 4 or 5 I no longer needed the baby tranquilizers dissolved into spoons of sugar - just give me the unlimited access to the record player. The cartoons I liked were musical and the black and white ones usually made the biggest impression. They had the jazz. I came from semi-dysfunctional older siblings and kind parents who spoiled them. Both parents worked 18 hours a day so I was packed off to live with my aunt and uncle during the Summers. He had all the clarinets but I wasn’t allowed to play. I could only watch sometimes when the door wasn‘t closed or he thought he‘s show me. He did repairs and I was allowed to watch. Then came the time I had to start school. I relate that in retrospect to the Simon & Garfunkle song “The Sounds of Silence” never speaking or making eye contact and waiting for the teacher to put on the record player, so we could make music with cups and have cookies and milk. Not exactly peaches and cream and at least another ten to “Peaches and Regalia”.
Time marches on. I had long hair now and then, from when the Beatles came out in 64, and liked the way it felt so I tried to keep it. I wanted to be Ringo on the garbage cans and lids. I had been into Mod in 1966 because my 51 year old mom bought me "back to school" bell bottoms, a Naru jacket and paisley shirts with puffy sleeves and big collars. I guess she may have been bracing for another haircut strike and wanted to legitimize the mop. Or that she wanted to make me happy after the fall which dramatically effected our lives and grant me the newer Beatle look. I mean, Bucky the cab driver who used to drive certain kids to school had mid back long hair since 1960 and probably way before that. He was American Indian and my mother’s father also had red skin, and he too was a wise and quiet man, but from Sicily. That‘s what the son does… makes you wise, and well, red.
I was into the hair, the clothes, the music, dreams of older Hippie girls, and the excitement of new and exciting places but that's where it stopped. The owners of 6-7/8 Boutique liked me and sort of adopted me as the store mascot. I was accepted among their circles and traveled their circuits to concerts and parties. The Fillmore East, Electric Circus, Greenwich Village, Central Park, and Eddie Brigati, of The Young Rascal’s, who conducted a Yoga Class someplace in Garfield NJ near railroad tracks. Which, I recall close to the Led Zeppelin Era. My age difference and demeanor protected me; kept me from being allowed to participate with the owners of 6-7/8 in certain recreational activities. Yoga was encouraged. I was naturally lysergic and pretended to 'know' the tune "Are You Experienced". I was kind of like Tommy without a pinball machine when the short circuiting would somehow just kick in. My friends were protecting and guiding me away from the temptations of the day by taking me into their fold. At the same time I had discovered an excuse or cover-up for my being “out of it”. It was a lie I could not live with and come to believe. That I was to blame and tell people about substances to excuse myself for being mentally retarded. Something you learn to believe in fear and denial. I could instead fit in as being "spaced out" I finally fit in and did not feel so strange being in public. I blended well into the fabric of the 60’s.
Then one day, one of the owners of 6-7/8 brought in his 1962 Precision Bass and said here Arlo, you look like a bass player, here, this is the only way to get high. I did not understand the significance of a bass guitar being the only means to play high notes. But I accepted as a rush went through my body as I placed it in my hands. Whenever the store was slow I would play and did so until my fingers opened up. I took it home and used it for almost about two years, I would play along to the radio and records. I was fine unless somebody was watching or listening. I was invited to play with some friends of the owners and some of their customers who had bands that played in bars, but wasn't comfortable around people. To me playing music in front of strangers was like walking outside in your underwear. I used to have nightmares about being stranded in my underwear.
I loved that Precision bass but the day came when I had to give it back. My mom kicked in and worked overtime to buy me a new bass guitar. I was referred by a Mr Bob L. from 6-7/8th and others to go to Muscara Music at the original location in Bellville. Mr. “Happy” Bill’s memory as well as the original owners remain revered among their customers for fairness and kindness to their patrons. I add this simply to attest to the credit given them by others over the years.
Although I really wanted both or either a Fender Precision or Jazz bass both my body size and my mom’s budget left me between an Ampeg, Ampex, or Hagstrom. I took the Hagstrom and the amp that I wanted, the Ampeg was supplanted by a Kustom 200 with 3 - 15” CTS.
The days arrived when into 6-7/8ths came a crew of shenanigans “The Woo” (Guitar); “Stymie” (Drums); “The Rat” (auxiliary and 2nd Drummer); “ Schneckles” Rhythm Guitar; “Bennie Ben-Wa” Organ & Keys; “Nipple-Nose” Lead Vocals; “Dead-Man” Road Manager; and “Lips” self-proclaimed guru, Adonis, Poser and Tormenter. I would have been better off playing at the bars with the older guys but this was more comfortable. I could slowly get into playing with other people and not be thrust into the spotlight in my underwear.
My odd brain chemistry restricted and greatly limited my ability to partake in the vices of the day. Cigarettes, inhaling tobacco, was a source of confusion and mood swings--I hated the addiction. If I knew then what I would learn years later I would have quit then and stayed smoke free. After quitting for years here and there it finally took a very special chain of events to make me permanently smoke free.
It wasn't always easy dodging peer pressure. My band members knew better than to light up anything besides a cigarette in a car with closed windows while I was there. Even the second hand smoke would cause me great fear and could effect my motor functions. It wasn't long before their pot smoking turned into secret meetings with hard stuff and many of the nicknames of that neighboring town changed to reflect what would eventually kill more than one half of all of them. I separated myself long before that. Their name calling was disdain for my separation and I recognized that it was the envey of my freedom. They were like crabs in a bucket, but I stayed on the other side of the river where their words could not reach me.
Like the last words in the film (not the Zeppelin song) 'Moby Dick' "And I lived to tell thee..." I survived and only because I never tried. Use it one and you're hooked. To some their nicknames were their epitaph; "Needles" "Junky" "Puss" "Scag" if I ever was seen visiting the so called uncool, whimps, and nerds in their town I would sometimes hear. "Hey Arlo, you faggot whimp..." "...yea, look at the nut...hey where you goin odd ball" "...he's going to Bellvue to join the other nuts!" I didn't understand what the hurt I felt was until I matured. I wasn't feeling bad for me. I was feeling bad for them.
So, due to substance abuse unbeknownst to my naive trusting way it ended up that it was on and off again consisting of just “Woo” and “Stymie” who would often fall asleep, or “nod”. First it was lies and denial that they were messing with the stuff, then partial admission, to promises to quit. It became an on and off band going nowhere. “The Woo’s” story a tragic one. At 15 he was on the level of Shuggy Otis and John McLauglin with a touch of Zappa Modalities; and I only stuck it out to see him revive. There came a point where I had to give up on them too, and followed the call of WRVR playing bass along to the radio with Trane, Miles and whatever they played. But the key component was the day they spoke about people who played on levels of greatness. The terminology applied to a budding Jaco was regarding a name either not mentioned or not recalled. “A bass player” who played “No Bass” which was the ultimate compliment. “Arlo, there is only one bass player better than you, this guy I heard play with “No Guitar Player” Stymie added “…Yea he pulled the frets out of his bass with a butter knife and coated the fingerboard with epoxy and he gets “no Sound” it was a buzz word about this guy. It was the talk on the street.
A few days later I went upstairs and took a butter knife from the kitchen and lifted the frets from my Hagstrom and raised the action week by week until it was an inch from the 12th fret line. Never bothering to find out who he was or hear what he was doing. I wanted to do my own thing.
CHAPTER 1. Road To Truth
Part Two: b)Prelude and Fued in D Min-Cha
next week
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BASS-MINT 2008. Copyright in trust for NPO TBA
by First Bass
All Rights Reserved |
Edited by - first_bass_magazine on 08/30/2008 7:09:32 PM |
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first_bass_magazine
Starting Member
29 Posts |
Posted - 08/30/2008 : 6:53:21 PM
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CHAPTER 1. Road To Truth
Part Two: b)Prelude and Fued in "D Min Cha Cha"
(dimentia non-troppo)
It was only in 2008 that I spoke to a person who knew Jaco Pastorius very well, and probably better than most people. The individual shall remain nameless. Like me. It really started to open up a world of understanding. The pieces where there but I needed to pick them up and find the missing parts of the story.
One of the missing parts was a Fender Jazz Bass. In around 1973 I was playing the converted fretless Hagstrom all day every day but because the action was so high and there were no frets I was limited. The lack of being able to do polyphonic or four handed bass on my instrument as I called it was taking its toll in frustration.
That compounded with rigorous play and long days of fasting threw me off the bass and into an altered state of mind. The fasting created a euphoria and seemed to open up new channels of musical thought and enabled me to play longer and faster. What I was really doing was starving my brain and muscles and feeding off of my internal organs. I lost 20 pounds. I suspect some of the foods and supplements at the health food store further triggered a synaptic mal-function. After I got out of the hospital I got a 1973 or 74 Fender Jazz bass with frets. We had called everywhere to see if we could get a Fender Precision with a Jazz neck but it would take more than a year and it was not a sure bet we could get one from a Fender Dealer -- so said one dealer. It was a 1973 I think, a left over. Fender Jazz with a Walnut finish and a Maple Neck. I got talked into it. Supposedly the maple neck would attenuate the harmonics and percussives for tapping and doing hammer-ons and pull-offs. It was bright. The neck was unstable to temperature, humidity and tension, so I got used to tuning and changing the tunings while playing. I was trying to figure some way that the tuning could be more reliable. My pitch was not always perfect because my focus was not assured. The effects of nicotine from my smoking habit effected my ability to focus and that meant hearing too. The obsession with changing the tunings would later relate to reading about John Coltrane's fascination with the Harp and my observation of harp mechanisms in 1981. In 1982 I started experimenting with a three position cam-operated tuning device for Fender Basses based on the harp's mechanism. I used clarinet keys, brass shim, and the machines from my old 73. I suppose I still had dreams of playing bass. So I went from re-building reeds and brass to also fixing guitars, but it was that Fender Bass VI that made it happen. Can't forget that. I still wondered what it would have been like to have a Precision with a Jazz neck.
I finally got to fully hear Jaco's music here and there when his first recordings were played on Jazz radio. The first record I bought was Weather Report "Heavy Weather" I went wild over it. A few years earlier I recalled I lowered the action on my fretless Hagstrom and got to try that buwoaw sound. But it wasn't my thing. I had my dreams set on an upright bass. But Jaco's sound, the attack and expression was a marvel of admiration. His composition for bass function in all aspects inspirational. It was such a fresh and natural alternative to bass function and it sounded like he was conducting. However, in much the same way I would hear Stanley Clarke, Jaco's playing was way too good to listen too much of. I would not dare play along or try to learn any tunes. I needed to find my own voice. For then and ever I felt that voice was the saxophone. The soprano sax became my main instrument but my hands reached a level of non-cooperation with my ears. Eventually the motion returned but I could not feel the keys under most of my right hand. At first, getting the fingers to respond was like bench pressing my body weight. My right thumb remained dead. I remember one afterneen when I went outside the door that did me in a couple years earlier; there was this Dominican kid that used to hang out across the street. Before the accidents he and his friends used to play baseball in the vacant lot, often while we were having band practice. I put together a number we would do to get their attention that started out like something akin to a heavy metal polka at the OK Corral as an intro to a latin rock & roll La Bamba to open up into Frank Zappa's "Mudshark". The home run mark was hitting my house. The basement window overlooked home plate.
Anyway he was on his bicycle on the other side of the street, and when he saw me, he looked down at the ground concurrent to my seeing a baseball right in the path of my feet at the bottom of the stairs. I bent down to pick it up and he took off. He may have thought I was going to pick it up and throw it at him (not to him). I had been a changed person after the accident. I would'nt let the kids play ball and got into fights and arguments with people. After barely being able to pick up the ball I seemed to remember some movie about somebody squeezing a ball for excercise. The ball became a constant companion and helped me move into a softball. After awhile I could somwhat hold the soprano without a neckstrap and I was starting to get low motes more dependantly. Thank's kid.
I tried to not focus on the bass as an instrument I was familiar with, no matter what music I heard. But even when I did listen, that which was theirs was strictly theirs, and it was so powerful that I didn't want to take in too much; people like Clarke, Jaco, Ray Drummand, Ron Carter, would sort of pierce my concentration. That's what I loved about Mingus. Mingus was special, I couldn't help but dig in, and wear out his records until I actually cut the grooves deeper into the vinyl of Changes One and Two, and I could hear my own Saxophone in the background. Like Zappa's Hot Rats -- way too deep to bottom out.
I did listen to Jaco in the mid eighties, yet kept about five of the seven seven cassettes unopened and un-played. The radio was the place and WBGO 88.3 (formerly where WRVR was king) was it, still is it, and even more so, BGO.
It is more from what Jaco had placed with the Kid at the BASS-MINT in 85 in the form of a bass and a special connection meeting him on July 4 1986 that I had become loyal to his memory. Yet despite what I wrote in the previous paragraph his music was a very deep impact to me. What I mean, as a sax player I could enjoy daily overdoses of Trane, Parker, Gordon, Shorter, and the like. However, as a bass player, electrically speaking, it's not only frustrating to understand what Pastorius & Clarke are doing, it is to me realistic to know there is no other way to do it. They have to.
Speaking with one of Jaco's close friends in depth after 21 years of only occasional personal reflection, never reading any articles, was for me the best way to learn and look at a re-starting point. What I heard about Mr. Pastorius sent chills though me. I did know this man, and very well from certain perspectives. And then, I found a web site http://www.jacopastorius.com and learned a great deal more within the threads. That's where this story started coming together, I felt that I finally had to come out and tell the story. For every vintage instrument there is a story. They are the record keepers. Seldom are those records known to their human counterparts. I think we are fortunate with this one, Kid.
Playing a musical instrument can be like anywhere from meeting to marrying your dream girl and not learning to appreciate her. One might neglect and put off daily care and attention and even separate. Only to find years later when 'things' may not work as well, you are sorry and it is much more work to pick up any pieces. If you love your instrument you should never let a knock out punch keep you down. You get right back on the bike. I tried telling the Kid that before he smashed his Jazz Bass in 1975 or 6. He threw it down the basement stairs then ran down after it and busted it in a thousand pieces. Then he did in the Hagstrom Bass. Then, his classical guitar. It surely didn't help his dexterity and it must have challenge to physics to getb the inertia to do the swing and stomp. I was literally out of my ming, and out of control as an out of body onlooker.
It took all this time to put the pieces together to learn why Jaco gave The Kid what I believe any bass player would prize to his age of old, his First Bass. I wished I had my old 62 P-Bass until I saw that Jaco bass. Not only did he give him the bass but he customized it for him, just like the bass he always wanted both before and after the accidents with his hands. Jazz neck and precision body with frets. Now the cat's out of the bag. Who is "The Kid" ? -- it's a big secret. Being that Kid now, is worse than being the kid then, stranded in front of his pop's grocery store in his diaper not knowing which way to walk or how to take a step. So, let's not point any fingers. We don't know who he is. We all go though the diaper stage. Why, you could be that kid, and maybe you want to keep it a secret. I will keep your secret, Kid. It's up to you to tell the story.
The Kid was two and a half when he had his first beer. He could not speak but he had ears and eyes like a video camera. I guess like most kids, you could fill in the definitions later, but he did understand in his own way. See, what I'm trying to say is that some people can't or should not drink alcohol. It was never a problem for me, or like an addiction, or for the Kid, but it was his curse. Beer tastes good, wine tastes good, but if you can't monitor and control it, it's trouble that can lead to death.
The Kid was the first to go in about 1975 because for him losing the dexterity to play bass with all ten fingers and even switch hit was like a road to the grave. For Jaco it was his life.
For the Kid it was his hands. The loss of control for one night in his early 20s led him to believe he could punch through the window of his locked door and open it then pull it out. Except, that small pane of glass retained long blades of glass chards pointing inward and lodged in the frame. One of the three glass knives that cut his hand when he withdrew it entered his wrist, lodged between two wrist-bones but not before exiting through the palm of his hand, then breaking in half inside with several smaller parts within the wound. He severed several veins the main artery countless nerves, and his life was forever changed. He wasn't even an alcoholic but his judgment and emotional being was impaired from about 3 or 4 beers on an empty stomach.
Before that night the Kid was possibly the only ambidextrous bass player that could play piano or multi-parts on bass using all ten fingers. He didn't do it for show but out of lack of band-mates, and a learning difference. A BIG learning difference maybe from child vaccinations...who knows. Worse, by the time of the second accident, which was due to the loss of vital nerves and movement of the right hand;the left was cut while using an electric hedge-cutter, the blade bounced off the hedge and minced the left index, cutting the bone just under the back of the nail. He could only use the ring and pinky finger of his right and the second, third and fourth of his left. He couldn't even play lefty bass anymore and right-handed was ruined too. The late Dr Paul Megibow a genius and Orthopedic Surgeon of Fort Lee NJ saved that fingertip in a 4 hour operation by reconstructing what was essentially a ground meatball hanging off the end of his finger using magnification and nearly a hundred stitches, a pin and splint. The skin separately assembled and stitched over the internal reassembled graft and remaining original subcutaneous flesh. It took more than seven years to be able to put reasonable pressure on the surface. More than 10 to press down a string even with the tip. The flat would take another 3 or 4 years to use with reasonable comfort. The thumb and first finger of the right hand never regained feeling. Occasionally strange odor would find that a cigarette had burned between the first and second finger for the first few years. One scar marked a second and third degree burn from a cigarette.
"After the Summer of 1975 I really didn't want to hear electric bass. Listening to somebody play bass was like being at a gourmet banquet with your jaw wired shut. So for three years I wired my jawbone to a soprano and tenor sax." -the Kid
The kid did start playing again in 1985 - on Jaco's bass. He was lucky for the sax and the movie "Rocky" which stopped him smoking (until 1982) When the Kid saw Jaco in that sad shape on July fourth of 86, his whole world started coming apart. It was Jaco's bass that was given to him a year and a half earlier that brought him back hope and a new life with the bass and hopes to play again. How could anyone not love a person who gives selflessly in attempted secrecy something so precious and above anything material?
I read somewhere that there was nothing tragic about the life of Jaco Pastorius. His death was tragic. Who is to say for certain that it was not only music, but humanity that could have benefited should Jaco have lived on and pulled himself back up? I never believed that evil was behind people wasting their lives with drugs and alcohol until I learned that mental or chemical imbalances can be hepled corrected, and that medicine comes in many forms and disguises. A Navajo man once told me "Your doctors are like our medicine people... could be good, could be bad." Think about it: If you were the devil wouldn't drugs and alcohol be one temptation you would use to get people to stop the good they may do? And, who is more vulnerable? Perscription drugs, even from doctors could be even more deadly, but surely in combination there lies certain death in radiant pain and suffering. It was Satan who eneterd the body and mind of that bouncer who murdered my friend. My prayers are with that bouncer who killed jaco and I hope he comes to know the truth. That, he killed Jaco Pastorious in a rage of evil and that evil was aware and so was his host when he continually pounded him. For what? One has to wonder that Jaco would have pulled himself up becoming more great and became a voice against drugs and alcohol abuse. And he would have lived.
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BASS-MINT 2008. Copyright in trust for NPO TBA
by First Bass
All Rights Reserved
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Edited by - first_bass_magazine on 09/02/2008 07:55:17 AM |
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EddieG
Senior Member
United Kingdom
690 Posts |
Posted - 09/05/2008 : 3:57:59 PM
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I class myself as a reasonably intelligent guy, and I'm really sorry, but I'm afraid that these posts are going right over my head. They fly off at so many different tangents that its nigh on impossible to get back on track, and it's coming over like just a stream of consciousness. Consequently I'm struggling to figure out whether this is anything to do with Jaco, or your own life story we're reading here.
"My ears are sweaty!" - Johnny Pastorius |
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first_bass_magazine
Starting Member
29 Posts |
Posted - 09/05/2008 : 6:26:43 PM
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Before I sat down to do the editing of posts that were made public on the internet from May and the remainder of 2008, there were some comments introjected into the posts by members of the Jaco forum. I am sure all active members of the forum very intelligent people. There remain many more who never post and simply lurk. Some of them among the most well known musicians as well as bass players that have been mentioned. But, how can I know this?
A few of the vocal members had directed posts to me or indirectly of me, or my friend from Sweden (I have had a few friends from Sweden over the years. I may have even eaten spagetti in my Volvo once.)
I understood all aspects of thought behind each post as well as the off-forum background emails. But, how could I know this? When a child is born blind God has arranged ways for him to see. Jaco Pastorius was not blinded by his so-called bipolar disorder, if that is what he had. The symptoms were there true. What I saw on July 4th 1986 was a man communicating from another side of his mind, but the Jaco who everyone knew was still there observing. He could have come back at any time. But, how could I know this? I do because Jaco was "High Funtioning" in the "Spectrum". People within that spectrum often recognize each other on certain levels.
And so, on that Jaco Forum those who were curious as to what the focus of the pre-edited public version was, were rightfully confused. Chaos has a definiative order. Admittedly, the chronology was disjunct to say the least. It would have to be. It's the way we often talk or write. Most are lucky to be able to do that. I am sorry, but I believe that Jaco may have been one of us. Albert was. The long build up which surrounded what was essentially a chain of events, and reflections of a personal nature, must have been hard to follow. But then so are most of your more interesting jazz solos. To some people music makes more sense than verbal communication and is a way to begin to verbalize. I know someone who does not speak. Why, he does not even say "it's ten minutes to Wapner" but he listens to classical music. His brain are like thoughts being shuffled like a deck of cards. If he could play an instrument and have enough focus to play solitare he would be a Mozart. Too bad that he is so high on the spectrum with such a messy wiring job in the electrical room. Now could you imagine his resident electrician taking up alcohol and cocain as a self-medication? He would be far beyond bipolar.
Everything has its reason, and in this whole of work a relation to Jaco Pastorius. Most people would just read or pass, but in the case where questions arise I could not answer. It is better not to answer directly because no mind, nor the understanding of any mind, within their uttering thoughts, are complete without their supporting counterparts. I was basically thinking in typographic form and experimenting to correct the English and usage along the way and assemble the first few chapters--in what wass to be the story of a bass. And, it is. If a bass had a stream of consiousness it would ramble as in my posts. The level of understanding can be deep. There are many things being said with each passing glance.
It is a story of the bass and where it has been. Where it was before me I can only reflect upon and speculate. Every mind and every memory if different. I cannot tell Jaco's story because it is only he can read the memory of this bass from before the Spring of 1985.
In trying to find the commonality of human spirit and the bass, in relation to all things; I had hoped to lift the instrument I loved most, and therefore myself, out of the basement. I did it silently and not without the help of others. I did it in my way and I am only taking credit for those who were like me. Then, in my day, we were the kids in the basement. Most could never learn to write. We were among the disfigured and adult students, hidden from the rest of the school population near the boiler room. It is much different now. Even then, others like us but a bit better wired, were mixed into the rest of the "normal" school population, for the most part unrecognized, and even getting passing grades. Need I say more? I have to stand and set the record straight to prove that we could learn and even teach while doing so, even though not in the normal or usual way. We are of a broader spectrum than the visible rainbow. Jaco was a band of colours in our arc. He was one of us.
I was an innovator, and inventor, and a wanna be writer who got ripped off. That is the biggest compliment I could be paid--getting ripped off. The theft of my intellectual property is testament to the smallness of the many who are required to steal and aid and abet by participating actors in that theft. That so many were needed to collaberate and unknowingly participate is testament to all us little people. And I accept the credit for those who have differences like mine, and only for them. Because some of us have more than reasonable intelligence. You just have to read between the lines and understand we are different. It could be a learning experience.
This is the story of a bass that Jaco once owned. Like every bass or every instrument that has been owned by any player, the instrument has something attatched to it. The story of how it came into being, where it was, where it is now, and where it is going is a key signature of mixed sharps and flats. In this case, there is only one owner (caretaker actually) who can tell the story of the instrument. I have broken the silence and after 21 years when it was first publiushed into obscurity. I wish there had remained the previous owner to tell his story, but he is gone. Yet he is not the wole story because everyone is a part of it.
After all, what is the recognition of others if not for the relevence we hold out and inward toward those individuals?
They exist only in our memory like the story of any bass or the words they may have spoken.
The bass players hall of fame was to be a place to house this and other instruments for visitors to attach their story. A place where you could not only see but play bass guitars owned by the likes of those who are only famous by some connection which placed them at the hub of a particular wheel, of a particular vehicle. But, it was also to be a sobering view that no one is better than another and fame is no different than obscurity. That was the premise even before Jaco's bass was delievered, and before he went from fame to misfortune. Ironically, Jaco seemed to personify the meaning of fame. It is fleeting and it balances into obscurity where only the nameless stars remain. Music is of the heavens. Let us not forget that stream of consciousness, or at least try and find a fringe whereby we may pull ourselves up and see the lights of the sounds we pull into our realm.
There may be some posts on that jacopastorius.com site that remain which cry out for a "new book" about the life of Jaco Pastorius to add to the first one published. When those writings are compiled and by whome ever, they will be added to all basses where they relate directly and indirectly. I too am sorry that Jaco cannot write the memiores of his basses. To yours and any other basses which may be in the same frame of musical expression and memory, they often speak to those memories.
Because... Basses can not only talk. They can think, and remember.
I was the caretaker of this bass from 1985 till the day it will be handed to the curator of a museum which can be organized by some organiztion with the integrity and the love that the Kid had for the bass. If just a handful of people can read into what I am trying to get across than it's enough.
Somewhere out human view there may be those who know and will write their story to add to the previous and past owners, or caretakers of this instrument. Because it is what it is.
The Bass Players Hall of Fame was a museum somewhere just getting started. "Oh, that bass. It's in a museum somewhere."
I care very deeply about the instrument and some people can see that. It may be because I can no longer play, or that I am too old to try. The basses of fame, doom, and invention/innovation, this bass and the legend of it like all the other basses that were and some that did line the stone cabinets of the bass players hall of fame are preserved for the young. Maybe it could do some good there.
I cannot share the music in my head or play the bass I once did, that I would have loved to share, but I want you to know, that I also wish I could write the way most people do. It was music that helped me learn how to write and become who I am. I am glad for that and thankful to Jaco for giving me, the Kid that bass.
Because it is to all the Kids of the world this bass belongs.
When you see what has become of music and what is being pushed for music, and entertainment you have to wonder that along with all the buget cuts to our schools and special programs, where is the good of music?
Music is from the primary energy source of creation utilizing several groupings of bandwidths in the form of a medium for us to enjoy and grow on.
I wanted to ask a kid from the UK to take the time to read this a few more times. I wanted to make a connection because there is more to this story than what it appears to be...
I have to take a break and go get some smoked salmon... I'll be back.
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BASS-MINT 2008. Copyright in trust for NPO TBA
by First Bass
All Rights Reserved
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Edited by - first_bass_magazine on 09/07/2008 11:50:06 AM |
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rsears
Senior Member
1808 Posts |
Posted - 09/05/2008 : 7:51:01 PM
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| So Jaco gave you the bass? Wow that's cool. Which one was it? |
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first_bass_magazine
Starting Member
29 Posts |
Posted - 09/10/2008 : 12:07:51 AM
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---------------------------reply------------------------------
I'm really not at that part of the story yet. I will get to it but it acually has been explained in previous posts.
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Prelude to a Passage Through Palmira
I hope to be forgiven for any appearances of self-indulgence and conceit but in my experience memory is always available and when not readily at hand, there is a method of reconstruction. To great detail I might add. However, memories can be contaminated, bridged, or overlapped, so it is best for me to flow over many subjects and periods because unfortunately that’s how my mind works on all levels. Working on other periods had triggered the recall of a at least two perhaps three conversations in 1985, two which may have been Jaco. And in fact one of the calls definitely was. And I believe the second was a follow up of “Hi remember me we talked about the bass” The recall thanks in part to a question “Jaco gave you the bass… which one” which oddly enough “THE BASS” was the operative at just the right point. Jaco had a unique sounding voice and a equally unique expression and way of wording which a u-tube interview and other recorded video over my computer matched the sound of his voice over the telephone in 1985 or as early as late 1984. It troubles me that I don’t take notes and never made conscious note of the exact or approximate dates. To me details are important but tend to be lazy.
For the purposes of recalling the phone conversations I am going to exercise my memory and go back to a time 14 or 15 years before 1984/85 where memories were strong but I will attempt to recall details that have been dormant. The bridge is relative to the bass guitar and was the first time I met Billy Sheehan. And forgive me Billy, it was I, not Billy Gibbons (guitar) who you first saw tap and hammer on the bass guitar. Which is why I asked you the question on the interview. I believe it was the Summer of 1971. |
Edited by - first_bass_magazine on 09/13/2008 9:30:37 PM |
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