Free Bird

 

I was 11 the first time I heard Free Bird.

It was the AM radio version with no solo on the end as I had yet to discover the wonderland known as FM radio and our local rock station WKDF-FM. I remember dad would listen to FM radio sometimes at night "because you could listen in stereo," I had no idea what that even meant.

He would listen to grown-up music on the big stereo receiver, which was a mystery to Paulie and me. We figured out the turntable and how to play records, mainly the Beatles, but listening to the radio was still my treasured little battery-powered AM radio. I had my own little earbuds, too! They were these flesh-colored buttons eerily similar to today's earbuds.

It was on this little radio that I first heard Alice Cooper's School's Out, and the sound of those electric guitars cranked through Marshall Amps stole my heart and set me on the life trajectory I still navigate.

It was amid this Alice fervor that I may have first heard Free Bird.

All I wanted was my own record player and my own copy of the School's Out album, but until that happened, I was stuck with the little radio. The Free Bird single caught my ear with Gary's sublime slide guitar and Ronnie's soulful, heartfelt vocals and lyrics. It became one of my favorite songs, even though I was unaware of the epic ending. That part always faded as a big-mouthed DJ would chime in or another song faded in without hinting at the magic solo Allen Collins recorded one night in 1973.

It wasn’t until well after I got my own record player and Alice Cooper album for Christmas that I heard the glorious complete masterpiece Free Bird on the FM radio one summer night in 1974.

Dad finally relented and showed me how to dial in WDKF-FM on the living room's big stereo and how to use his big-ass killer headphones to get the whole stereo experience. A cool DJ named Moby would come on at 7pm and play all the good shit. He was so laid back, unlike the loud, announcer-voice dudes on the AM stations. He was like the cool uncle who would let you smoke weed, give you a Playboy, and tell ya not to tell your mom.

Moby played the full version, of course.

I was listening along, going, "Oh yeah, I like this song," I think it reminded me of one of my first girlfriends or something, and then the part came where it would fade out on the AM stations, but it did not fade out... No, it did not fucking fade out... IT DID NOT FADE OUT AT ALL, GODDAMNIT!

How was this happening? Why was this kept from me?

Those fucking loud-mouthed, happy-ass, deep-voiced, AM radio assholes!

They had been holding out on me!

This was pure smokin' guitar badassery! It was not just a little solo in the middle of the song; this solo was almost ANOTHER SONG! This was the best song ever written! (This was shortly before I discovered Deep Purple.) I had never heard anything like it before.

God, I loved that solo. It wasn’t until much later in life that I learned it was all Allen Collins... I thought it was everybody...like six guys or something. I knew nothing about the band, but that was about to change!

Lynyrd Skynyrd Pronounced became the second album I ever owned. 

I held that solo in reverence for so long that I never even attempted to learn it note for note. Oh sure, I borrowed parts and certain licks here and there like every other aspiring guitar kid, but learning the whole thing seemed like a mountain that I could never climb.

I bought every album they made. Even though I would become obsessed with Deep Purple, Kiss, and Rainbow, Skynyrd was always in hard rotation. 

When One More From The Road came out, I was in heaven.

There were many pantomime concerts in the front room to that record. Having the crowd noise in there, I could fully immerse myself in the fantasy of playing these killer songs for thousands of people on a big stage. I even had a cut-out Explorer guitar cut from a piece of plywood scarfed from a scrap pile from houses being built in our young subdivision. Nothing was more fun than smoking a big joint after school, blasting Free Bird live, and pretending to be Allen.

One of my biggest regrets is not seeing that version of the band live. I remember seeing a flyer for Skynyrd at my first concert at Nashville Municipal Auditorium, KISS Destroyer Tour. Being only 13 at the time, it had almost taken an act of God to get mom to let Paulie and me go to the KISS show, and I knew how many mowed yards it took to buy a ticket, so I thought, "I'll catch Skynyrd the next time they come here."

There would be no next time.

Coincidentally, I listened to WKDF one afternoon, and Moby came on the air, which was weird because it wasn’t nighttime. 

He announced the news of the plane crash, obviously emotional and crying, not having the whole story yet but confirming Ronnie and Steve's deaths.

I sat there crying along with Moby. I couldn’t believe it.

Not long after that, I got my copy of Street Survivors. I loved that record so much. I had just begun my journey of playing a real guitar since getting a guitar and amp for Christmas 1976, and I remember jamming along with that record a lot.

Over the years, Free Bird became a running joke among bands and musicians primarily due to the absolutely horrible cover versions you would hear in bars, clubs, and music stores. I always knew it was no joke, and I always loved listening to the original and live versions and all of their killer songs.

They had songs, man! 

Not only that, those motherfuckers burned on guitars. 

Whether it was just Gary and Allen or them with Ed or Steve, the ensemble guitar parts they would come up with were sheer genius. Their execution was devastating. Nobody could touch them.

God help any band that had to follow them back in the day.

I was very sad when Allen passed away... he was one of my heroes and one of my biggest influences... He and Gary both, really.

I was happy to see the band carry on with Johnny later. I went to see them many times in the 90s.

Through my job at Underground Sound, I met and hung with them on many occasions during that era. It got to be a running joke when they saw me backstage at Starwood or somewhere, "Well shit, there he is again! Want a beer, Mikey?" LOL! Those guys were so awesome... and they loved their crew. It was like a big traveling family.

I loved Gary. He was always super cool to me and always talked to me just like any other bro.

I'm so glad Gary got my buddy Damon Johnson in the band this past year. He is the perfect guy to play those parts with the reverence, humility, and talent he possesses. Gary wanted the band to go on. I hope they keep Skynyrd going as long as people want to pay to see them. What a testament to their legacy and the body of work they created. Those songs will live forever.

Gary was supposed to be here at Blackbird doing overdubs the week he passed. I was looking forward to popping in to say hey.

Godspeed, Gary, you were the best. Tell the boys we love and miss them!

 

Just Like Evel

I was a sensitive kid. I always felt like I wasn’t good enough... or that it was lame to be me. 

I heard a saying later in life that summed it up perfectly. I judged my insides by other people's outsides. It always seemed the other kids had it going on more than I did. When I was a kid in the suburbs of Nashville, sports seemed to be the thing by which coolness was measured. This was way before any thought of being a musician entered the picture. Although I would become a decent baseball player later, I was not very good at any particular sport and I always felt inferior in that arena.

Enter the bicycle.

One of the best things about growing up in Edge-O-Lake was all the bike trails. Riding bikes was the shit man. Paulie and I, our friends Rob and Steve, and a few others were always out riding the trails and causing trouble. There were some serious trails around the lake. There were big hills, jumps, and makeshift bicycle motocross tracks we made ourselves. There were no X games back then.

I became really good on a bicycle. Eventually, I became obsessed with jumping bikes. I saw Evel Knievel for the first time on the Wide World of Sports when I was nine and I was hooked! I collected motorcycle magazines and cut out his pictures and plastered the wall in my room. Dad took me to see the Evel Knievel movie starring George Hamilton in the theatre and seeing the crash at Caesar's Palace in slow motion solidified his superhuman persona. How could any normal person live through that? I loved Evel and he was definitely my first hero. I knew all of his jumps and read anything about him that ever came out. I never missed a jump on TV and Paulie and I even attended the live closed-circuit broadcast at Nashville Municipal Auditorium when he jumped the Snake River Canyon in the rocket cycle.

I had the toy Evel motorcycle with the rip cord and little ramps, but the fun with toys wore off quickly, and I soon began emulating my hero in real life. There were a couple of local boys who were a few years older than me that also jumped bikes. Johnny Swack and Tuck Henderson were superstars among the grade schoolers around Edge-O-Lake. Tuck even had some stories written about him in the Tennessean newspaper and had a little career jumping bikes back then.

There was always construction going on around the neighborhood. Paulie and I were always raiding scrap wood piles for our forts with our friends. This time we went on a raid to build a ramp. I think I was ten years old when I built my first real Evel-inspired ramp. We went for the gusto right off the bat with two 4’x8’ pieces of plywood connected and reinforced with 2’x4’s on the bottom. I then nailed together a conglomeration of mismatched scrap wood underneath that would have made M.C. Escher proud. By the time it was done it rose about five and a half feet off the ground. It had a sweet sloping curve upward that later proved to be perfect for launching my skinny ass skyward like a wheeled tetradactyl.

I did a few somewhat daring jumps on the dirt mounds and trails but this beast that stood before me was a whole new deal. We built it at the end of the cul-de-sac between our house and Tatum our grumpy next-door neighbor’s house. It would be a straight shot down our street, Clearwater Drive, up and over the front yard, then land somewhere between the houses and roll on into the backyard.

My heart was pounding as I rolled up the ramp and stopped at the top. (Just Like Evel.) I already did a couple of practice runs where I got up to full speed and then veered off at the last second. (Just like Evel.) It was just me, Paulie, and a few other kids. I think Mikee and Davey from across the creek and maybe Jamie and his buddy David Lambert were there. I don’t think they thought I would really do it. This ramp was huge! This whole operation had come together quickly and I knew we would be shut down soon. I’m sure the neighbors had already called Mom. By this time we were kind of known as the little hellions at the end of the street. If there had been neighborhood associations back then the Simmons boys would have been the hot topic of discussion at many a meeting. I had already gotten the “Michael Andrew Simmons! What are you doing? You had better have all of that crap put up before your dad gets home!” from Mom. She didn't know it was a ramp.

My little green Schwinn rattled and shook as I backed down the ramp. It was a girl's bike I heavily modified for jumping and riding wheelies. Any little shithead that wanted to laugh at me because I had a girl's bike was quickly silenced when I would circle them riding a wheelie, like a rodeo rider circling a calf, never putting it down until I chose to. That bike was a piece of shit but it was my piece of shit and I knew every nut and bolt on that thing.

I pedaled up a wheelie to the top of our street and the cross street. I could see my path straight to the ramp. My heart was really pounding now! I didn't say fuck yet, but I thought the equivalent of "Fuck it... I'm going!" I pushed off... I flew down that street. Time slowed down as I hit the ramp and heard the sound of the tires changing from asphalt to wood. I had to be going at least thirty miles per hour. Suddenly it was quiet. The ramp literally flung the bike and me into the air. I went very high and was going to go very far. I felt totally weightless... I was flying! What an amazing rush! I looked to my left, I was as high as the gutters on the house and was coming down in a wide arc. The bike was starting to cross up on me, fading backward as I descended. I had to lean into it and hope it didn’t come all the way backward. Luckily I didn't lose control and I brought it straight. I must have jumped sixty feet and I came down hard in the sideyard. BAM! The forks on the little green bike bent forward like pipe cleaners. I felt my body compress like an accordion and my teeth crunched together. Miraculously, I did not go down! I rolled all the way into the backyard and came to a stop, breathing heavily, heart pounding.

Paulie came bounding towards me. He shouted “Mannnn! You went really high Mike! DID YOU SEE HOW FAR YOU WENT, MAN? That has to be a world record!” My small audience was cheering, laughing, and jumping up and down as it began to rain lightly.

My little bike was toast. Not only had the forks bent forward, but the frame had broken in the center and the pedals were bent downward. I didn’t care, I had just defied death! I was a daredevil!

Just. Like. Evel. 

(I wonder if Evel’s mom came out and made him tear his ramps down after he defied death.)

There were times after that I did other “big” jumps. There was even a time that I tried to jump the creek when a huge crowd showed up. I didn't make it. Luckily the only injury was my 10-year-old ego.

I will never forget the exhilaration I felt that first time. That one was the best. It didn’t matter who was there or if it was a record or not. I knew Evel would have been proud.

I was a born adrenaline junkie and that would be a key component in my path to Metal.

Evel and bike jumping were most definitely Metal.

Magic Christmas '76 (Dad to the rescue!)

I can't imagine being the father of a KISS freak was the same as having a kid on the honor roll or kicking ass in team sports. To my credit, I'd perfected the application of Gene Simmons make-up, blood spitting, fire breathing, and nobody could pantomime "Detroit Rock City" better than Mike Simmons. Can you see the dads bragging about their sons around the water cooler at work?

"Yeah, my boy Billy ran sixty-six yards for a touchdown last night."

"Well, my Jimmy just won the city spelling bee for the third year in a row!"

"Well, my son Mike climbed on top of his aunt's house last Friday. He spits blood while the elementary school bus drops off the kids, scares the shit out of them too!"

Doesn't quite fly, does it?

I love my dad. I can't imagine what some of our neighbors and his parents must have been telling him back in the day.

"This is what happens when those boys aren't in church, David!"

"Dave, I believe you have a good candidate for military school there."

"You know Dave, these are future Satanist's and serial killers' traits."

After a year of loud squeaky guitars blasting from behind my closed door and visitors to our house being greeted with blood-drenched Gene Simmons posters in our hallway (not to mention our marathon pantomime Kiss shows)... Dad came up with a plan.

We got our music gene through mom's side of the family from Paw Paw, but dad loved music, and he still does. 

I remember one time I was in the living room rocking out to "KISS Alive," I think it was a particular squeaky passage where Ace was playing his unaccompanied solo. Dad came in and said: "Mike... MIKE!" I didn't hear him the first time.

"Can you turn that down for a second? I want to play something for you."

"Okay, dad, sure," I said curiously. 

Dad had an Eagles album in his hands. He carefully took the record out of the inner sleeve, ensuring he held it with the tips of his fingers on the side of the vinyl so he didn't touch the grooves. I always touched the grooves.

"I know you are not really into the Eagles, Mike, but I want you to hear this one guitar solo."

He carefully moved the needle with the hydraulic control and slowly lowered it to the desired track. I always just grabbed it and banged it down.

Suddenly the song "Already Gone" filled the living room. It was LOUD too! I had to give him credit for that.

It came to the solo section, and Don Felder (I had no clue who he was at the time) played a fucking killer solo with sweet false harmonics and the whole deal. Dad was totally into it, and after the solo, he lifted the needle and said: "See? Isn't that just great?" It was almost a plea.

I was like: "Yeah, it's okay." My eyes didn't move from the fold-out of "KISS Alive." I was so consumed by KISS with their image and mystique, I don't think I was able to hear any other music then.

Paulie was playing snare drum in the school band that year, and I'd been begging for a real bass for a while because I wanted to be the next Gene Simmons. Dad had been firm about "no bass." I think he knew the KISS thing was a phase and that I loved Ritchie Blackmore. Dad loved the guitar, so maybe that is why he would say: "If, and I do mean if, I bought you a real instrument, it would be a guitar, not a bass."

My next obsession became this shitty guitar on display at the local Zayre department store. I have no idea what brand it was. I'd never been to a music store before so I had no clue what the difference was between a good instrument and a FPOS. (Fucking. Piece. Of. Shit.) 

I knew that KISS played Gibson guitars and Pearl drums, but I also knew that Gene used isopropyl alcohol to breathe fire and raw egg in his blood-spitting concoction, so what?

The obsession with the FPOS guitar at Zayre wasn't as bad as my previous obsession with Alice Cooper and getting my own stereo. I think it was because I didn't believe I would get it.

This was different... Guitars were expensive... 

This was big.

Still, every time we went to Zayre, at least a couple of times a month, I would go straight to electronics and stare at the FPOS. It's as if the mysteries of the universe were held prisoner on the display rack by small steel cables with little combination locks. I fucking lusted after that thing. God forbid some kid would be able to pick up this fine instrument and play it. In reality, that was pure marketing genius because one pull on the neck of that thing, and I'm sure all the mystery would be gone.

So it was with no expectation that we went into the Christmas season of 1976. I don't even remember what I was hoping for, if anything. I had a crush on a girl then, so I could have been in that "young love zombie" mode. I started to get acne a little bit then so maybe I was too busy staring in the mirror with horror poking at my face to realize it was Christmas Eve.

I woke up at about 3:00 am Christmas morning. I walked groggily into the living room, hoping to raid my stocking for candy and maybe check out what kind of cool toys 'Santa' had left for Jamie before I returned to bed. 

As I walked into the living room, I noticed the lights from the tree reflecting on a mysterious chrome and metal oasis at the back of the room. I squinted my eyes to focus and could make out the round form of a bass drum within. Wow! Paulie got a drum kit!

I looked to the left as my eyes adjusted to the dim light.

There it was propped up on something, its case open, lying snug in its plush velvet.

The lights from the tree reflected off the dark polished finish and shiny hardware. 

This was not the FPOS from Zayre. This was a Les Paul!

What? I got a guitar?

I GOT A GUITAR!

Suddenly I was excited, and my mind was flooded with different thoughts.

I don't know how to play. So what!

I GOT A FUCKING GUITAR!

How do you tune a guitar?

PAULIE GOT A DRUM KIT!

My heart pounded as I inspected the beautiful instrument. It was an Electra Les Paul copy, but that made no difference to me; this was a fucking quality instrument, I could tell.

I was afraid to take it out of the case. What was it leaning against? It was a Yamaha amplifier.

I GOT AN AMP!

Holy shit! I wasn't expecting a guitar, and now I was looking at a guitar and an amp. I didn't know anything about amps, so that Yamaha was as good as a stack of Marshalls to me.

There was a small black box the size of a box of Pop-Tarts on top of the amp. I pulled the lid off of it, and inside was a small die-cast metal device with four knobs on it and the words MXR Flanger etched on it.

I GOT AN MXR FLANGER!

Wait, what the fuck is a Flanger? I had no idea. Oh well...

I GOT A GUITAR!

Holy fucking shit.

I had to go wake Paulie up right this fucking second. This was better than bicycles, this was better than baseball, this was better than Richard Pryor, this was better than Playboys, this was better than weed, this was even better than KISS!

I shook Paulie's shoulder as I whispered in his ear intensely: "Paul, wake up! Paul! Igotaguitarandyougotadrumkit! Paul, hey! Igotaguitarandyougotadrumkit!”

He opened his eyes. "What?"

"Come on!" I whispered. "You just have to see this!"

He did not understand what I said, but he got up and followed me into the living room. My little brother gazed at this rock-n-roll winter wonderland with amazement. The wide eyes and open mouth expression under his crazy bedhead hair was probably a carbon copy of what mine was a few minutes earlier.

"Whoaaaaa!" We gave each other a big hug. We both wanted to start bashing away at total volume, but that could not happen at 3:05 am. The cacophony that would follow later that day would more than make up for it. For now, we were content to just soak it all in.

We were on our way, man.

I came to find out later that dad really did his homework. He talked to some family friends in the music business and got advice on the instruments. He went to various music stores and bought from the best in town at the time. He purchased quality instruments. That is so important! I wonder how many potential musicians never get past the first few weeks because they are started out on cheap, uninspiring pieces of shit that won't stay in tune and sound like ass.

Dad did it right, man. The Electra Les Paul was an excellent instrument, and I wish I still had it! The same goes for the Yamaha amp and Paulie's Slingerland drum kit. Quality down the line and those instruments served us well in those formative years. 

Real instruments also served another purpose. It was time to put down the cut-out plywood guitars and white clown make-up and learn how to play.

Dad got plenty of big hugs and kisses on the cheek that day. I know he was getting a kick out of it too. He never even opened his socks that morning.

He rescued us just in time too. The days of KISS being the menacing rock-n-roll force they had been until then were almost over. The KISS toys, lunch boxes, and "I Was Made For Loving You" days were just over the horizon. Ritchie Blackmore had been waiting patiently in the lonely pile of vinyl that had not been touched in a year or two. We were about to get reacquainted. 

I am forever grateful for the Magic Christmas of '76. 

Our Dad came through for us with the best gift a father could give sons like us...

The tools to rock. We love you so much for this Dad.....forever.

I can't imagine any other life.

There was no turning back.

1967 - Edge O Lake

1967 - Edge O Lake

One of my earliest childhood memories is going with Dad and his friend Bill Pierce to look at the site where the Corps of Engineers was finishing work on the J. Percy Priest dam. I was five years old and riding around with Dad, and Bill was one of my favorite things in the world. We drove into a restricted area on a road that was closed. The Corps demolished a bridge over the Stones River on the side of the dam that would soon be flooded. Bill was very agitated because he was driving and shouted, "Dave! If we get stopped, I'm gonna get thrown in jail!"

"Oh, Bill, calm down! Nobody is going to throw you in jail! I'll talk to them if we get stopped," Dad said.

"Yeah. Huh! I'm sure you will!"

Dad didn't believe in restricted areas, so there was always an adventure right around the corner. We pulled up to a small berm made of dirt and gravel across the road where the bridge used to be. 

We all got out of Bill's truck.

"Dammit, Dave! I ain't going over there! Are you crazy?"

"Bill, you're a big pussy." My dad said, smiling. I giggled and put my hand over my mouth. For some reason, that word was amusing, and I wasn't sure if it was bad.

My dad looked down at me. "You wanna see it, Mikey?"

"Mmmmm ... okay," I answered nervously.

I really didn't want to see it. I was scared shitless.

My sense of wonder has always had a slight edge over my sense of fear, and my dad was fearless, so it must have rubbed off on me. I followed him over the berm. My five-year-old breath was taken away when I came down the other side.

"Wowwww! Don't go too close, Daddy!" Of course, he stepped right out to the edge. His tall slim silhouette was shadowed against the overcast sky.

The small section of the road ended in a rip of asphalt and dropped off a cliff. Hundreds of feet below, I could see a dump truck driving along a small service road at the bottom of the 'lake' side of the dam. It looked like a matchbox truck. The dam towered out of the river valley in an explosion of concrete and metal, invading the virgin countryside. It was massive. The river had been rerouted; maybe the channel was so small compared to the enormity of the dam and the panorama before me that I didn't notice. It was a huge hole. I could see a four or five-square-mile area from my vantage point. Much of it had been torn and reshaped by bulldozers and land movers. The green of the trees was only visible outside the boundary of the future lake. To a five-year-old, it looked like a man-made Grand Canyon with a few gutted houses and barns at the bottom of the valley that would soon be submerged forever. They were tiny from where we stood.

"What's going to happen to the houses?" I asked worriedly. 

"They are going to be flooded, Mikey." He made a sweeping motion with his arm. "This whole area is going to be a great big lake!"

"Wowww!" I said again, with wonder. "What about the people?" I asked with innocent concern.

"They all had to leave. The state bought all of their farms and houses, and they have been relocated."

I had no idea what relocation meant; I was just worried that someone would be left behind and wake up one morning about to drown.

"Gosh. I sure hope they don't forget somebody!"

I will never forget the sense of wonder I felt that day. Over the years, as I grew up around that lake, I would flash back to that day.

Edge-O-Lake subdivision was a new development in and around the Percy Priest Lake area about twenty miles southeast of downtown Nashville. There were woods, creeks, and a brand-new lake with recreation centers and campgrounds just a mile from where we would live. It was an excellent place for a couple in their mid-twenties to raise three boys.

I started first grade at Hill Elementary, close to downtown Nashville, where we had lived since I was born. We moved in the late fall, so I came to my new school, Lakeview Elementary, with the class in progress. I was the new kid. I was already a sensitive little tike, which worsened matters. I hated the change, and for some reason, I was terrified. Mom had to walk with me to school for a few days. I would cry all the way there when I got there and at night when I realized I would have to get up in the morning and return to this new hell. It was all very dramatic.

After a week, I settled down, made friends, and got used to my new surroundings. My little brother Paulie was four, so he had it made! He got to stay home with Mom all day. My other brother Jamie was not even a year old then, so he didn't feel like a brother yet. He was still "the baby," a fact we would not let him forget for many years.

Paulie and I were tight. We were always together and were always up to something. He and I shared a room and slept in the same bed until I was seven or eight. We lived in a three-bedroom white brick ranch-style house at the end of a cul-de-sac. We had a huge backyard that went back about fifty yards and tapered into a "V." Two creeks met there among a thicket of small trees. 

We built many forts in that thicket over the years. There were epic battles, major excavations, and secret fires, and later on, we had a very special fortress that doubled as our own "nekid girl" art gallery. (Thanks to stolen Playboys!)

I can't tell you how often we would sneak crawfish or frogs into the house. I bet Mom was thrilled that we lived at the convergence of two creeks.

On the other side of the creek to the left was a wooded area covering about fifty acres. Known as "The Woods," (I know, very original, huh?) This would be an area of many future adventures. All but the outer bank of "The Woods" was off-limits for now. A red butt was the price paid for testing this boundary.

I remember always being surrounded by music as a child. From when I was a baby until I was six, we lived on and around the Scarritt College campus in Nashville between Music Row and the Vanderbilt area. Jack Bates, aka Paw Paw (mom's dad,) had an office in the basement under the dining hall. He was the head of the maintenance department for the campus.

Paw Paw and my grandmother Bille had a house right on campus. Paulie and I were always over at Paw Paw's house. Mom and Dad rented an upstairs apartment in another house just around the corner. Dad was in college, and Mom stayed with us and worked some. Dad also did a stint as a night watchman at Scarritt while in school. I remember him coming around to "check" on us at night sometimes, and he would start making out with Mom in a joking way. I always got a big kick out of that. Seeing Dad showing his affection and hearing Mom giggle and laugh made me happy, and we were happy kids anyway.

Another of my first memories is laying on Paw Paw's belly in a recliner in his house while he played his clarinet. Paw Paw was also the leader of one of the most popular bands in town then. The Jack Bates Orchestra was the band for your country club dance or concert in the park during the fifties and sixties. They were a Glenn Miller-type band with seven to ten members depending on the gig. He ran four or five groups, and Mom sang with them from time to time. I grew up on Music Row, literally surrounded by music. When the guys would rehearse at Paw Paw's house, I was told I would wander around among the musicians with a big smile. 

Music made me happy.

We saw my grandparents on my dad's side all the time too. It was a very different vibe. They were very religious and ultra-conservative. My grandma Pearlie was a classic Southern church lady. She was the kindest person I ever knew, and I loved her very much. Her husband, James Simmons, also a "Paw Paw," was a taciturn and solemn man. He loved us but was totally old school regarding showing affection, meaning he didn't. The only music I ever experienced with my grandparents on my dad's side was the choir accompanied by an organ at Waverly Place Methodist church or the Lawrence Welk show after Sunday dinner. (Definitely #notmetal)

Mom and Dad, Dave and Judi Simmons, were fucking awesome parents. They were kicking ass with three boys and were not even twenty-five yet! Dad scored a management-level engineering job at Dupont after he graduated college, and Mom stayed home with us boys for a few years after Jamie was born.

There was always music around our house. Mom sang and played piano. Dad loved the Beatles, Bob Dylan, James Taylor, and other great music from the Sixties. I vividly remember first hearing the "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" album. I'd never heard anything like this before! All I knew was: "Wow! This is so good."

This music made me feel things I had never felt. Something inside me clicked when I heard that one/four/five chord progression in the title song for the first time. Paulie and I did our first-ever pantomime rock show in the living room for Mom and Dad. We were going crazy, dancing around, and screaming with laughter. They loved it! This was way better than that crap they played at kindergarten. 

Mom and Dad were leaders of the Methodist youth groups at our church in the late Sixties and early Seventies. One of the best things about this was meeting an older teenager named Alan Fisher. Alan's dad was my dad's boss at Dupont. Dad kind of took Alan under his wing after he had gotten in some trouble for weed or something. All I knew was that Alan was cool. He had long hair, and he was into rock-n-roll. He was always kind to me too. I usually felt invisible around other teenagers, but Alan always talked and listened to me. I knew little, but soon he would bring some albums for my dad to check out that would change my life.

US Festival - 1983 (Part Two)

Metal Day - Part 2

Sleeping in the Manalishi, in a sleeping bag, after partying down most of the night, does not really qualify as sleeping, especially when the biggest Heavy Metal Party in the world is going on all around you. I can assure you, the majority of people there that night were not as concerned with keeping themselves fresh for the next day's activities as I was. Our resolve weakened, we didn't get all coked out or anything, but we did throw back a good few, as the Skull would have said.

We came through the gates kind of late, although it was still respectable considering our hangovers. Quiet Riot had just taken the stage, so I was kind of looking over toward the huge stage as we walked into the massive crowd of Metal Heads. 

"Jesus Christ, look at all of these motherfuckers, Mikey!" Paulie said, with wide-eyed wonder.

We gave each other a high five. Doug was still coming through the gate and was held up over something. Paulie and I just stood there and soaked it in. 

There were a lot of people there already, and it was early. It was nothing compared to what it was going to be, either. There were lines of traffic for miles, and people were just now flooding the gates, full force. Fuck man, this was going to be bigger than anybody thought, there were already over 150,000 Metalheads in here!

The production was the most massive thing I had ever seen. You have to remember, this was long before all of the shit we have these days. This was the first time I had ever seen large video screens at a show. There was one over the stage, flown at least fifty feet above the deck, and there were two larger ones, flanking each side of the hundred-yard stretch of rainbow adorned, rigging. The wall of PA behind those scrims gave the Great Wall of China a run for its money. There were also towers of speakers set out strategically across the sloping hill, so the sound would carry evenly over the large area. It actually sounded, great.

I wondered how Quiet Riot got on this bill. This was before they had broken big time with 'Cum On Feel The Noise.' We had all heard of them because they were Randy Rhoads' old band, but that was it. Kevin Dubrow wasn't my kind of singer, and Carlos was no Randy, so we listened with a minimum of interest and just settled in for the experience. I do remember when they played 'Metal Health,' that was a cool song. I think I looked over at Paulie, took a swig off a hot beer, it was already fucking hot at 10:30 in the morning and said: "That's a cool song."

He said, “Yeah, it’ll be,” short for it'll be ahite which was short for Paulie was not impressed.

We could not tell that it was Rudy Sarzo on bass, that probably would have gotten my attention more.

Next up was Motley Crue. Again, not really my cup of tea, but they gave a respectable performance. 'Shout at The Devil' had not been released yet, but they were gaining momentum in the Metal world due to their image, relentless touring, and savvy business management. They actually played some tunes off 'Shout,' and they were good, a major improvement over the stuff on the first record. They were also decked in the new 'Shout' costumes, which was a stark Metal slap in the face this early in the morning, sun shining bright. The leather, spikes, and makeup work better at night.

I would say, Motley, overall, was one of the best Metal performances I had ever seen before noon on a Sunday in the California hills. 

It was kind of surreal seeing them all vampired out and standing out in the sun sweating. Nobody burst into flames though, bummer.

Next up, was Ozzy. This was one of the reasons I was here.

For the last year, all of us Metal guitar players had a huge Randy Rhoads-sized hole in our hearts. We were all wondering who the new guy was going to be, and when we would hear him. Well, this was it! Nothing like making your debut at a small no-pressure gig, filling the shoes of one of the most beloved guitarists of our time, who had died tragically only a year earlier. I didn't envy him. 

(That's bullshit, I was jealous as fuck!)
As soon as the announcer said: "OZZY OZZZZZZZBOURNNNNNE!" 

The crowd, which had swelled to over 300,000, proceeded to go fucking nuts! Everybody was getting loose by now, the joints were passing around, along with the beer and whiskey, chicks were jumping up on dudes, flying their bikini tops, life was good.
As soon as Jake E. Lee played the first chords of 'Over The Mountain,' I knew he was the shit. We were pretty far back, but the big screens and the massive sound system told the story. Dude had skills.
I wanted him to be good. Brad Gillis was a great fill-in for the band while they finished the brutal last leg of the 'Diary of a Madman' tour, but as good as he was, he just didn't do it for me. When Jake played the solos in 'Mountain' and 'Mr. Crowley,' I joined the thousands around me, cheering him on because we knew we had a new contender. Decked out in red, with hair flying in the breeze, and kamikaze regalia, Jake and the Ozzy band set the tone for the rest of the day.
I looked over at Paulie and Doug: "They are kicking ass man!"
Tommy Aldridge was on drums, Bob Daisley on bass, and Don Airey on keys. Ozzy's voice sounded good, and even though he had cut most of his hair off, he looked good too. It looked like he was going to make it out of the darkness and the aftermath of Randy's death. Hell yeah.

Next up was Triumph. We had seen them once at the Tennessee Theatre, a couple of years earlier, and they smoked our ass! Triumph was one of the most underrated bands of the time, and they were the most underrated band of the day as well. They came out, and laid waste from the first note. 

The place was really packed out by this time, it was mid-afternoon and everybody was getting wild in the festive atmosphere. There was a sea of Metal Heads, feeling the vibe of victory, and reveling in our glorious day of Metal. 

I have never seen so many people in one place in my life! I knew we were kicking ass all over New Wave day, but I had no idea by how much. It didn't really matter anyway, it was just nice to know that those pussies were being owned.

(We hated them and they hated us back then, LOL. Now we are all old and know how dumb we were.)

Triumph raised the bar and set the tone for the rest of the day and night. 

'Lay It On The Line,' 'Fight The Good Fight,' and 'Magic Power,' were among the highlights, and they executed them flawlessly. Those dudes always had their shit together with the stage gear, sound, sound men, and tech shit. 

They sounded, amazing. By the time they finished their set, the crowd was in a frenzy. Paulie, Doug, and I were right in there with them.

Riding high on the wings of the 'Screaming For Vengeance' album and tour, here came...
Judas. Fucking. Priest.
I could probably type nothing else and you guys would get it. 

If Triumph raised the bar, Priest took the bar, melted it down, re-forged it, then made an album cover out of it.

Those dudes had their shit down so tight. They were the Metal Masters.

The best Metal bands don't spend too much time messing around, making you wait for the good shit, they get right to it.

That was Judas Priest.

Their show was one hundred percent, total kick-ass, guitar blazing, all killer, no filler, Metal.

Halford was amazing, as always. 

It's hard to hold a regular-sized crowd in the palm of your hand for a whole show, but Halford did it with a whole zip code! 

Scorpions came on right as the sun was setting and cool, hazy dusk enveloped the crowd. It had been one hot mother fucker of an afternoon, the coolness of the desert breeze gently blowing made everything just that much more killer. Paulie and Doug were messing around with some chicks we had made friends with, I think Doug even hooked up with one of them in the Porto John - Pretty hardcore if you ask me.
I had this thing I was known for back in the day. It was called the 'Disappearing Mikey.' I could be hanging out in any social situation where some drugs or alcohol was involved, I would reach a certain threshold of highness, and then I was just ready to get the fuck out. I didn't necessarily want to leave altogether or run for my life, no, just do something different by myself. I just had to go.
I mumbled something to Doug about going upfront and I would be right back, then I was gone.
I started to weave my way down towards the stage. I had at least 100 yards to cover to get close enough for my taste. I wanted to see Scorpions up close, at that time I had never seen them in concert. I loved their 'Tokyo Tapes' double live album, it was one of my go-to albums when I was really developing my chops as I grew out of being a strict rhythm player into playing lead. I loved Uli Roth, and even though he was replaced by Mathias Jabs a couple of years prior to this, Scorpions were one of my favorite bands.
The closer I got to the massive stage, the more resistance I encountered. Festival 'seating' at an event like this was similar to war. You staked your claim and then you held your territory like a fucking soldier. Nobody was allowed in your space goddamnit! I think I got pushed and cussed a little bit, but I just kept moving. I finally made it really close to the front amid this sea of people just as Scorpions took the stage.
Standing as one tiny ant, among hundreds of thousands of ants, I looked around and the hugeness of the event really sank in. While the Scorpions played 'Blackout,' their first song, I turned around and looked behind me. All I saw were people, as far as the eye could see, people off into infinity.
"Holy fucking shit." I said and the guy next to me responded: "This is unbelievable!" He then handed me a joint. I thought he was talking about the event, but I was about to find out that he was talking about the weed. It had a sharp taste. It was laced with something; I knew because I had smoked laced weed before. I didn't know what it was, but it was something.
I was so close to the stage now that I had to look up at a sixty-degree angle to see that band, but I could see them really well. They were playing their asses off and the crowd was going wild. It was cool seeing Mathias play the talkbox part on the 'Zoo' and to see his huge face behind him on the screens. Like I said, the screens were a whole new thing and they just added to the massiveness of the show. Badass.
Towards the end of the Scorpions set, whatever was in that joint started to kick in. I looked around again and it felt as if the crowd was closing in on me. It was in a sense, more people were trying to pack in closer to the front, and I had seen more than a few people being hauled over the rail by security because they were passing out from the push of the crowd.
That's it, I had got to get the fuck out of there now.
Like a good soldier who knows he's losing the battle, or he is just too fucking high, I retreated.

I tried to find Paulie and Doug, but it was even packed way back where we had been sitting earlier in the day. I was never going to find them anyway, everything was starting to spin and come at me like the Woodstock movie on fast forward. I found a little place on a rise very far back where the crowd finally thinned out a bit. I could see the huge video screen light up as they began a cool interview of the Van Halen boys backstage before they took the stage. It was funny, I started laughing to myself a little ... goddamn, I was so fucking high!
Van Halen took the stage to a monstrous roar. 300,000 Metal-heads strong! I rose to my feet, it felt like slow motion but the adrenaline was beginning to pump when suddenly...
BAM! There's my hero!
There stands Eddie Van Halen, one man in a spotlight among hundreds of thousands in the dark, tapping away the intro to "Romeo Delight," one of my top five favorite VH songs!

"HELL YEEEEEAAAHHHH!" I shouted at the top of my lungs.
As Van Halen got into their set, finally, I started to come down a little. David Lee Roth was pissing people off in the little area where I was standing, apparently, they didn't like his between-song raps, they really did not go over as well in this setting as they would have in an arena. The people way up front were probably really loud and crazy, but back here the sight of Dave just standing there holding his arms wide, soaking in the adulation for five minutes, did get kind of old.
This was probably the fourth or fifth time I had seen Van Halen; Eddie and Alex always kicked ass and that night was no exception. Dave's antics got a little tiresome at times but I loved him anyway. They were the only band in the world who could have headlined this show and they fucking owned the stage.
The best part of the show was when Eddie and Alex went off on a jam together for about ten minutes. They were jamming on what would later become "Girl Gone Bad," but none of us knew that at the time. They were so fucking badass.
That needed to be me and Paulie up there goddamnit!
That was never going to happen in the situation we were in at the moment. No matter how much we practiced with the band we were currently jamming with, it wasn't going to go anywhere. We were really just wasting time, valuable time. The time for Metal was now! This day proved it! Paulie and I needed to do something and do it now. We had talked about it ever since Skully had called telling us about Easlo. We had been through so much to get out here though, the thought of going back was hard to get with.
The scene before me was absolutely surreal. I was standing on a hill in the California desert; skinny, twenty-year-old budding Metal guitarist, watching my hero among 300,000 fans .... and it hit me:
"We've gotta go back."

I didn't know how, or when we would go back, but we were going to have to go back and see what we could do playing all original Metal with a BAFM singer, even if it was in Nashville and not LA.
Van Halen were winding down.
"Fuck it, I'm outta here," I mumbled under my breath.

I remembered Jamie was coming out to visit in a few weeks. He called a while back and said he had started learning the bass. I'll never forget that call.

“I know you guys wanted me to learn keyboards, but fuck that, I wanna play bass.”

Dude. Brothers. Just like Van Halen, only three.

I had to find Paulie and tell him about my idea.
I was still pretty high and I kind of stumbled my way through the gates, down the hill, across the lake on a bridge, and into the parking lot. "Happy Trails" rang off in the background as I approached the Green Manalishi, only to find the doors locked of course.
"Man... I gotta lay down, fuck."

I was about to have a quarter of a million crazy metal heads up my ass in this parking lot and I needed to chill.... Like now.

So, I did what anyone would do, I crawled under the van to rest my eyes.

It seemed like a good idea at the time,

US Festival - 1983 (Part One)

Metal Day - Part One

As I came to, I felt something poking the small of my back. 

Was it a stick? A Wire? 

It was something - Fuck. I heard people yelling and screaming, laughing and saying stuff like:
"That was so gnarly man!"

"I'm so fucked up, dude!"

"That was the best fucking show I have ever seen in my life!"

It was dark - I was very disoriented.

I went to sit up and... BAM! Head to metal - not the good kind.

"Fuck!" I shouted as I saw stars. 

I laid my head back down hard and as I did I felt gravel dig into the back of my head. 

"Owwwwwuuuhhh! SHIT!"

Where the hell was I? 

I turned my head sideways and I could see people's feet kicking up gravel in the moonlight as they passed. Also, there were chicken bones everywhere. What the fuck? I remembered eating a bunch of chicken Doug's mom sent with us. We threw them under the van when we were done.

 There were lots of people, and they were pumped. The whole place was buzzing with talk and laughter, rebel yells, chicks screaming, and a mixture of metal music blaring from hundreds of car stereos. I heard car doors slamming, ignitions turning, and then a familiar voice, amongst the din.

"Damn, I thought for sure he would be here, Dougie."

That was Paulie. Good sign.

"Me too man, fuck. The last time I saw him, it was right before the Scorpions were about to go on. I was waiting to take a piss in one of those nasty Porto pissers, and he said he was going up front by himself. I was like 'No, dude! Wait' but he was gone!"

Paulie started to unlock the door of the Manalishi, while they were talking. I was under the van.

I was under ... the van?

Now it all started to come back to me.

"HEY! WAIT! Paulie! Paulie, don't start this van, motherfucker! Paulie!"

I scrambled out from under there as fast as I could.

*****

I walked out of the massive crowd of 375,000 people on Metal Day at the US Festival, the day New Wave died, as Van Halen sang 'Happy Trails,' a cappella. 

Oh my God, what a day! 

By that time, I was so high, I am surprised I was still walking. I was fine, up until about halfway through Van Halen's set. There was something in a joint I smoked with some good people down front, I knew it because I tasted it when I was taking a hit. I had to get the fuck out of there.
I had fought my way down close to the front before the Scorpions took the stage a couple of hours earlier. Standing in the middle of an ocean of people at a heavy metal concert is a one-of-a-kind experience. If you have never tried it, I highly recommend it, everybody should jump in the pile at least once in their life. Making your way up front at a packed concert is not easy, it's an art. It takes balls and determination, and it helps if you love the band.

This was different though, this was history. I did not know the magnitude of it at the time, but there was a sense that I was in the middle of something very special, some kind of cosmic shift. You may be thinking to yourself, it was just the chemically enhanced weed I had smoked in the middle of a sweaty mass of people, like a scene out of "Apocalypse Now," but I am telling you, this was history.

This was my Woodstock.

Paulie and I had been jamming in Camarillo with Doug and some other dudes for about a month. We had been contemplating going back home to Nashville, but for now, we would surf in the morning, go to work at the solar factory, and then go practice with the band until 11pm or so. I don't even remember how we found out about the US Festival, but as soon as we found out who the bands were going to be on Metal Day, we bought our tickets.
Memorial Day weekend 1983, San Bernardino, California, Sunday, May 29. 

After the New Wave day on Saturday, attended by less than 100,000 nice people, over 350,000 Metal Heads descended on Glen Helen Regional Park to watch...
Quiet Riot
Motley Crue
Triumph
Ozzy Osbourne (First show with Jake E. Lee)
Judas Preist
Scorpions
Annnnnnnnnd...
VANNNN HALENNNNNN!

Eddie and the boys were reportedly being paid $1.5 million, the highest amount ever paid for one performance at the time. Even though Randy Rhoads had stolen my Metal heart, before it was broken the day he died, Eddie was always the man. By this time, I had seen Van Halen at least once on every tour they had ever done. They were our band. They were my band. Ozzy, Triumph, Preist, and the Scorps were the cream of the Metal crop, Quiet Riot and the Crue were interesting young upstarts. This promised to be the best concert I had ever experienced and my hopes were as high as I would be. It didn't hurt that I was going with my badass brother in our badass new, old van, The Green Manalishi.
The plan was: Drive down Saturday afternoon and camp in the parking lot, get a little shit-faced, just a little, then wake up early the next morning, and hit the hill.
The sun was low in the California sky as we came down a long grade of interstate into the valley where the event was being held. A mystical haze permeated the dark blue, pink, and purple sky on that late Saturday afternoon, in San Bernardino. I looked over at Paulie and smiled as the panorama unfolded before our eyes. 

It was fucking MEGA! 

There were a couple of lakes around the site, and a sea of humanity sloping up a huge hill, opposite the biggest stage I had ever seen in my life. 

New Wave day was in full swing, and this was the most people I had ever seen at a concert. 

Little did I know the size of the crowd would triple in less than 24 hours.
"Dude!" 
"I know man."
What else could be said? Nothing. Nothing else could be said.
"Where the fuck are we going to park?" Doug said, chewing on a fried chicken leg his mom had packed, jarring us from our mystical, Metal moment. I guess, something else could be said.
Looking over to our left, we saw our campground for the evening: A huge parking area turned into party central. The parking pass came with the tickets, so we were golden. Paulie whipped the Manalishi into a spot next to some dudes on lawn chairs, drinking beer from a huge cooler. They were blasting "Piece of Mind," the new Iron Maiden on their portable stereo.
Oh yeah, this was going to be our kind of hang.
It's hard to describe the hugeness and awesomeness of the scene. We were parked among at least 10,000 other cars, trucks, vans, and campers with their various Metal loving owners, and this was just in our particular section. There was weed for days, and enough alcohol to float a battleship. There was some other stuff going around too, but I did not want to get too gnarly, there was the fucking show of all shows going on tomorrow, and it started early. 

I did not want to be Larry Cole! Larry was a guy that used to hang out, and we would see him at shows at Municipal Auditorium. He would be the dude raising total hell outside when we were standing in line, you knew he was totally fucked up on God knows what.
"Heeeeeelllll Yeah Mikey! We gonna ROOOOCCCKKK DUDE!!! Wooooo Hoooooooooo!!!!"
He would go on and on, fucking with people, yelling at girls: 

"PARRRRRRTAY BABY!"
We would get to our seats if we were sitting, he would be a few rows down doing the same shit for the whole hour before showtime while everyone waited for the lights to go down. It never failed, about three songs into the first band I would look over and there was Larry, head hanging sideways, or cocked back like he was trying to catch raindrops, with his mouth wide open, totally passed out in his seat. If we were at Starwood Amphitheater or Hermitage Landing, he was out cold on the grass.

So, even though we were in the world's largest party, parking lot, campground, on the night before the biggest Metal show in history, we paced ourselves.
Paulie and I were serious about our drinking, as I'm sure you have seen, but we were more serious about our Metal. We didn't know it at the time, but we were on the verge of a cosmic shift, a turning of the tide, a changing of the strings of life, new drum heads, on the drums of destiny.....

"So this means we only drink beer dudes, no mixing it up. We just smoke weed ok? No fucking blow, or acid, or mushrooms, or any of that shit, got it? If we get with any chicks or anything, we meet back here at 9am and go in together. Tomorrow is going to be too fucking gnarly to waste it!"

We had no idea.

The Magic Gibson J45 - 1978

The relationship between a guitar and a player can be an extraordinary thing, sometimes even magical. I'm sure other musicians feel this as well. You can pick up two instruments made at the same time by the same craftsman, and one will resonate with you on a deep level, while with the other, you may feel no special connection at all. 

Then, there are those instruments that have that elemental connection and have a deeply personal, even spiritual connection. It has been my experience that those instruments are truly....magic. 

Anyone who knew me in the 70s and 80s also knew my Gibson J-45 guitar. It was literally a part of me, always with me, and was my best friend. All my friends knew the guitar, but nobody knew it’s story.

My mom started working as a secretary for Tom T. Hall in the mid-seventies, and she quickly became his business manager. Not only did we get to hang out with Tom, one of the greatest country songwriters of all time, but mom and dad became close with Tom's younger brother, Hillman, and his wife, Lea.

This was around the time my dad's drinking was really getting bad. He had gone off to treatment once already, but he was still drinking. They didn't call it treatment back then; I think they called it a midlife crisis, or nervous breakdown. Hillman tried to stop drinking a few times by then as well, but that didn't stop him and dad from getting together and getting hammered, figuring out all the problems of the world, one Jack and Coke at a time.

Hillman was a singer-songwriter, like his famous brother. Tom loved his writing and supported him all the way, from what I could tell. I am sure Tom had something to do with Hillman getting a record deal and putting out an album. Hillman never had any hits as an artist, though, and he lost his contract after the first record failed to chart, leaving him depressed and even more down on himself. I don't think it helped that Hillman lived in the shadow of a giant, like Tom. Also, he probably had a better singing voice than Tom; there was just no chance of measuring up to Tom's success. He would come over and drink with dad a lot and bitch about how nobody understood him.

He took a liking to me for some reason.

I used to go to work with mom sometimes and hang out at Tom's Toybox Recording Studio, which was on the second floor of the building where her office was. I will never forget the first time I got to watch a recording session go down. I knew right then and there that I was in my element. I didn't know how or why, but I knew that I belonged there. 

Hillman did handyman work around the studio, like painting, repairs to the building, and mowing the grass. He was always really cool to me and would talk to me about music and guitar playing. We struck up a conversation one afternoon while he sat, sweating, on the rock wall outside of the studio. He had a Budweiser can in one hand and a Winston in the other. I had been upstairs watching a rock band track songs with Chuck, the house engineer, Hillman had been mowing.

"What's going on up there, Mikey?" he asked, half interested.

"The guitar player can't get his guitar in tune. All the other guys are bitching at him, telling him he shouldn't have changed his strings or something. They just keep doing the same part over and over, and Chuck says he's out of tune. He's still trying to tune that damn thing."

Hillman chuckled and whispered under his breath, "Fuckin' greenhorns." 

He tossed the cigarette into the gravel drive. He looked at me and said, "You'll be doing that stuff one day, Mikey. I can tell. Every time I come over to your house, you are playing that damn guitar. You are getting good, man. You've got it, son."

"Thanks, Hillman. Nobody ever told me that before." I really appreciated the compliment, especially coming from him. He could play.

I stood there and talked to him for a few minutes. I fucking loved the guy because he never treated me like a kid. I could tell he was listening to me when I talked instead of zoning out like other adults. We spoke about a Stephen King novel I was reading at the time, The Stand; he also read it. We talked about books from time to time. He caught me reading a few times when he was over at the house. I think it surprised him that I was a reader because I was eaten up with long hair and rock-n-roll.

Once he said, "I'm glad you read books, Mike, maybe it'll balance out what's happening to your brain when you listen to that goddamned KISS."

He hated KISS. I didn't care, 'Love Gun' had just come out; Gene was losing his draw on me... I was returning to Deep Purple, my first love, anyway.

He's sitting there, on the wall, then out of the blue, Hillman says... 

"What do you think happens when we die, Mikey?" 

I looked at him, wide-eyed. I wondered why he would be asking a fifteen-year-old kid this question. He handed me a Coke out of the cooler, and he grabbed a beer.

"Well," I said tentatively as I cracked the top and heard the hiss of air from the can, "I really don't think we go to Heaven or Hell if that's what you mean."

I felt safe to speak freely with him; if I had said that shit to my grandma, she would have lost her mind.

"I think we probably go back to wherever we were before we got here, which is nowhere," I said.

"Goddamn, son!" he exclaimed. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen," I replied.

"Well, I think you're onto something. Damn it, boy, I'm thirty-six, and I'm just now figuring this shit out."

He paused, his demeanor changed.

"You wanna know why that fucks me up?" He asked.

"Why, Hillman?" I could see he was a little upset.

"Because I lost my wife and my little boy about nine years ago. Everybody's been telling me I will see them again, that we will meet in the afterlife, all of that bullshit. I want to believe it, Mikey, I really do, but there is this feeling I get when I'm lying in bed at night, a feeling of being so alone that I just can't stand it. Lea can be lying right there next to me, but I still feel alone."

Lea was his wife then. I didn't know he was married before; I also never knew he had a son or that he lost them both.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Ahhh, your mama would kill me if I told you all that shit."

"No," I said with gentle concern. I really wanted to know, and I could tell he wanted to talk about it. 

"I won't tell her," I said, locking eyes with him.

"I'll never know for sure what happened. I was drunk, of course, really drunk. I was out somewhere when I should have been home." He was tearing up now. He lit another cigarette and looked at me with a pained expression.

"I was too fucking drunk when I got there; I didn't even realize what was going on, at first. Then, I realized it was my house. Somebody had called the fire department, but it was too late by the time they got there. They..." he paused,  

"Were gone...Electrical fire. It didn't burn all the way, but they died in their sleep from smoke inhalation, best they could tell. Goddamn Mike, when reality hit me, I wanted to die, too."

He paused. He had stopped crying and was now talking with his head down, cigarette smoke wafting up through his sweaty hair.

"I want to see them again, Mikey. I want to tell them how much I love them and how much I miss them ... how sorry I am," He choked on, sorry.

"But, I know, I will never see them again," he whispered.

I looked at him, and I didn't know what to say. I had nothing. 

Fuck, I wouldn't know what to say now. Would you?

I wasn't about to say anything like people at church would say. That shit had always weirded me the fuck out anyway, and I always knew it was bullshit, even as a kid. It was just people spewing shit that they didn't have a clue about to avoid the depth of the incredible loss and pain, applying some cheap cliche to something so real that words are not adequate.

That shit always came across as fake to me; it still does.

No. This man was hurting, and for whatever reason, he trusted me enough to talk about it. There was no answer, and there was nothing else to be said. I didn't judge him either. It was evident that he had been his own judge and jury for years. The only thing I felt at that moment was love for him.

I went over, sat with him on the wall, and gave him a hug.

I started tearing up some too, I felt so bad for him.

We sat together, in silence, for a few minutes, and then he fished out another beer.

"Thanks for listening, Mikey." He said, "You are a good kid, man."

He smiled and said, "I gotta get back to it." He stood up, looked at the lawnmower, then turned to me, "I'll probably see y'all this weekend. Make sure you are around; I've got something I want to show you."

"Okay, Hillman, I'll be around for sure," I said. 

He fired up the lawnmower in a cloud of oil smoke, and I went back up to see if the greenhorn had his guitar in tune yet.

******

It was Saturday; I was in my room, practicing on the Electra Les Paul. There was a part in Child in Time off Deep Purple Made In Japan that I had picked up on. My lead playing was coming along, and I had discovered the magic of the 'pull off.' There was a knock on my door.

"Not now!" I shouted, slightly irritated. I thought it was Jamie, looking for Sesame, our Siamese cat.

He loved that cat.

"Mikey! It's me, Hillman." 

"Oh shit, come in, Hillman!"

Hillman walked into my poster-covered room, carrying an acoustic guitar. It looked like a Gibson, but I couldn't tell for sure because there was no logo on the headstock. 

"Hey, here's what I wanted to show you. Put that thing down for a second, and try this out." 

I put my guitar in the case and grabbed the acoustic; it immediately felt good in my hands. I strummed a G. It sounded beautiful too, so rich and full sounding, almost like a piano.

"Wow! This thing feels great," I said, as I plunked out a few more chords and a couple of blues licks. The action was very low and comfortable; the neck was thin and flatter than any other acoustic I had played. The few acoustic guitars I had played were super shitty affairs, with the strings a mile off the frets and a neck like a banana. The finish on this one was strange though, I could tell it was not a factory paint job. This guitar had some miles on it for sure, but the finish seemed like it was done by somebody at home. Not that it was terrible, but it was far from the perfect lines and consistency you see on a guitar from the factory, even after years of use.

I didn't give a shit; it felt so good. It was easy to play for an acoustic.

"Is this a Gibson?" I asked. "It looks like a Gibson headstock, but there is no logo."

"Yep. It's a 1962, J-45." Hillman replied. "I sanded a layer of charred wood off the neck, top, and some of the back. It wasn't burned too awful bad, maybe not even as bad as my shitty paint job!" 

He laughed and said, "I always meant to go down to Gibson and get another logo from Cam and put it back on the stock, but I never got around to it." He smiled. "It looks good on you."

It took me a second, then it hit me. This guitar was in the fire at his old house.

I stopped playing and just looked at it. I looked at him; he kind of nodded, so we really didn't have to say anything else.

"I wrote a lot of good songs on that thing Mikey, I think there are a few left in her. I want you to have it; I can't play it anymore." 

He said the last part quietly.

"No way!" I said, "I can't take your guitar, Hillman."

"The hell you can't, I already gave it to you!" I could tell he meant it.

"Are you sure?" I still couldn't believe it. He ignored me and said...

"I don't have the case for it, you know, you may have to get one. Hell, it's beat to shit anyway; you could probably drop it off the roof and not hurt it!"

We both laughed. I would find out how true that was over the next twenty years.

Whenever I saw him after that, he would always ask about my playing, and tell me to, "Tell your mama you ain't giving me that damn guitar back."

I am so glad because that guitar opened up my playing so much. I was writing songs left and right, and It made me play better. I still play some of those riffs to this day. The J45 became my constant companion.

Some years passed, and Hillman stopped drinking, so he didn't come around as much. According to mom, he was attending AA meetings; I had no clue what that was then. He was close with mom; I know he confided in her. There were a few times I would hear her on the phone talking to Jacque or Lea about Hillman. She was worried about him, said he was depressed, and struggled to stay sober. 

He had apparently sent her some letter in the mail and then come over, begging her to give it back. Whatever was in that letter really upset my mom.

I heard her telling Jacque that he had started drinking again.

I came home one rainy afternoon, ready to smoke some weed, and go jam with the boys, later. 

Mom was on the couch, crying.

"Mom, what's wrong?" I asked. She was so upset.

"Oh, Michael," she said between sobs, "It's Hillman. He committed suicide."

"What?"

I heard her though, I just did not want to believe it.

No.

After Mom had calmed down some, she told me as much as she could. He had done it with a shotgun. The letter he sent mom had been a suicide note. He didn't follow through with it that time and came over, begging her to give it back and not tell anyone - he said he 'was okay now.' Of course, she did tell Jacque and Tom, but I don't know what they did or if anything could have been done. He had been struggling with his demons for a long time, she told me. I found out, much later, she never really knew the details of the death of his first wife and their son.

I knew.

I went to my room and picked up the guitar that he probably would have given his son someday, in a perfect world, but there is no such thing.

I played, and I cried.