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.