Family
I had Sunday totally off and just rested the entire day cause Monday was coming and the beginning of two weeks at the casinos in Tunica. Yessir, the things we do to make the rent. My dad and step-mom were in town yesterday though to see my niece's newborn baby, Olivia Rose, and hangin with all of them was great. I need to spend more time with my family.
Whirlwind Weekend
Crazy times. I've got this pinched nerve thing still going on, yet I'm working my butt off doing a ton of gigs and there's no sign things are gonna slow down. It's good to be working, but I'm a little nervous. This weekend was totally nuts. After my massage on Wednesday, I came home, iced down my neck and shoulders for several hours and hopped into bed pretty early. Next day, same thing...totally chillin, then the phone rings and my friend on the other end is offering me a gig that starts at 7pm. Shit. Man, I need the bread, but I wanna stay home and continue chillin/healing cause I'm leaving town in the early morn with the Champs. Screw it, I'll do it. I got up, threw my suit on and went to work. Senior's dance. Had a total blast with a cat named Vernon Yarborough and his trio. Good stuff. Friday morning I got up, drove over the Al's place, picked him up then headed over to Joe's. He was running late, so we didn't get out of town till nearly 10am for New Orleans. Rolled-in around 4:30, picked up my GMC Jimmy that's been down there for a month getting repaired, headed to WWOZ for the Champs 5pm interview with Vin Chary's jazz show, then over to Scott Borne's (program director) for some killer jambalaya with he and his beautiful gal, Robin. Made it to dba around 9ish, set-up and started our first set at 10:20. Wrists were a little sore and I was doing okay, but was super stoked to see some fellow beat makers come into the club. My good friend Eric Bolivar (Anders Osborne) showed up, as did Al's buddy and my new friend Chad Gilmore (Marc Broussard's drummer), who are both fantastic players and eager to join the already cookin set we had going. Thanks fellas. The 30 min rest was appreciated and you both kicked some serious ass. It's funny, but when Chad got up to play, I didn't realize that he's a lefty and he turned the kit completely around, which was really hilarious, but watching him play was amazing. Such a nice feel and Eric, too. Two baddasses!Afterward, we packed up, people went home (or to another bar, which in NOLA is more the norm) and the Champs headed back over to Scott and Robin's for the evening. I however, was on my way to play a music festival in Rhode Island with Bonerama and needed a shower in the worst way, which is tough to do quietly at 4am in a house where people are sleeping. Knowing myself and how much I love to sleep, I figured that if I were to try and catch an hour or two before going to the airport would prove to be a bad idea, I bit the bullet and hi-tailed it over to Louis Armstrong International for my 7:30am plane. It was only 5. Ugh. Sitting around waiting, tired and sore as hell. I'm thinking to myself, how in the hell am I going to pull off an hour set with one of the hottest New Orleans funk bands with this pain in my wrists? No idea, but I'm hoping Lady Luck is on my side.Fast forward to Providence...I've already been on two flights and rode in a van for 38 miles to this shindig, Rhythm & Roots Festival all without any sleep. I'm exhausted but the show must go on and it did. What a great time. Steve Riley was killin, as was Marcia Ball and her terrific band. Her drummer Damien Llanes, is from Austin and I used to go see him play at the Continental Club with Barfield. Great player. The next morning we all met in the lobby at 6:30 and headed over the airport for the early flight out to Charlotte, then on to NOLA. When we landed at noon, I said goodbye to the fellas, thanked them for an amazing 24 hrs, got in my newly repaired car and headed home. 6-hr drive back, dropped into bed like a sack of potatoes. The sleep was so good and although my hands and wrists were sore I felt elated that I'd hung in there and made it through.
OUCH!
So, my good friend John C. loaned me this gorgeous GT road bike a couple of weeks ago cause I was going on about how I needed to get back into shape and bike riding is great exercise. Here I am spinning around midtown like I'm Lance Armstrong or something, going from sitting in front of my computer for hours on end, to full-on 20-30 minute jaunts without any warm-up and WHAM-O! Pinched a dang nerve in the back of my neck and can't even play a frickin press roll. Tendonitis. What a pisser. Luckily, I found a lady named Myra who does some amazing physio and says she can get me back to 100% in just a few visits. Wish me luck. I've got 24 gigs this month!
Down Time
In my spare time, I work for Memphis Drum Shop, recording video/demos of many of their products that are sold online at memphisdrumshop.com and mycymbal.com. It's fun, challenging and oftentimes very rewarding. Many folks have discovered my playing through these videos and that's a good thing. If you're in Memphis, you gotta go see 'em.[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RfX0fKjrxNc]
Sixteenth's, Mother Fucker!
Once, when I was a kid, eighteen to be exact, I received a great gift, the chance to play drums behind one of the masters of the blues, BB King. I knew it was a rare event and one that I would most likely never get the chance to repeat, so when the opportunity presented itself, I jumped. Every year in Memphis they have the W.C. Handy Blues Awards Show, or the Handy’s, now referred to as the BMA’s (Blues Music Awards) which in the blues world is like the Grammy’s, and in 1986 BB King was the host and presenter. Held at the Cook Convention Center, it was a raging success, with hundreds in attendance that night to see and hear BB and enjoy the many performances from various blues artists from all over the world. That year Stevie Ray Vaughn was red hot and received numerous awards–Best Album, Best Song, Best Production–he got ‘em all and in Memphis, his music was all over the radio. Also receiving many that year were Memphis’ own Ruby Wilson and Don McMinn, who were two local heroes. Don, in fact, had taught me a great deal about the business and had somewhat taken me under his wing knocking the chip off my shoulder and setting me on a more humble path. He was an inspiration.As a member of the Blues Foundation, I was starting to become a regular face at shows and events, but for some reason wasn’t able to attend the Handy’s that night. Maybe Dad wasn’t able to afford me a ticket, I can’t remember, but there was still a chance to catch the King of the Blues in action, if I hurried. It had become a tradition that after the awards show, a jam session would take place at the New Daisy Theater on Beale Street and every year, it would attract many famous faces, including the host of that years show. On that particular evening, a rumor started floating around that BB himself was going to participate in the jam session and everyone wanted to be there, especially me. I had only recently become aware of his music and was instantly a fan and having not been able to attend the awards, I quickly made my way down to the Daisy. The session started gearing up at about eight o’clock and many different folks took the stage, one right after the other. Don McMinn, The Fieldstones, Jessie Mae Hemphill, Danny Hawks and Ruby Wilson all performed great sets for the excited crowd, who sat patiently awaiting the arrival of Mr. King. I got there early and plotted myself right up to the side to get a good view and at precisely twelve-thirty, the crowd roared with applause, as BB stepped into the smoky room and took the stage. But something wasn’t right with his drummer and I could tell right away. He was nodding off behind the kit and as BB would try to sing and play, the beat would slow down and disappear. I stood nearby, watching in disbelief as BB would look over his shoulder at the man, drunk with whiskey, who would suddenly wake back up and start playing again.It was hard to watch, but then I had an idea. As the music rolled on, I stepped up to the backside of the stage and got the attention of the monitor engineer, James, who happened to know me and asked him to go and tell the drummer that there was someone in the audience who was the house drummer for the Daisy and that I was pretty good. He didn’t want to do it, but I wouldn’t back down and so he went up there and did it. Getting his attention, he whispered into the drummer’s ear and looking over at me, he nodded his drunken head in agreement. I got very excited, but when BB counted off the next number, the drummer started playing and I thought that he wasn’t going to let me up, but then he looked over at me again and motioned for me to come up. Unbeknownst to BB, I jumped on stage and sneaked up behind the kit and the drummer, standing up, handed me the sticks and walked away. I sat down and immediately laid into the groove with the bassist and we were off and running. After several bars went by, BB turned around and looked with amazement at the skinny young White kid on the drums and a big smile came over his face. I nearly peed my pants. I played three songs with him that night and when we were finished, I went up to my new hero and thanked him for fulfilling a dream. To my great surprise,“Young man” BB called to me?“Yes, sir” I said?“Listen, I’ve been having a lot of problems with my drummer lately and I’d like to get your phone number, just in case I ever need someone” he said.“Wow, sure thing” I yelled!Looking around, there was a brown paper bag sitting on the drum riser. I grabbed it and ripped a big piece off and asked my friend James for a pen, jotted down the information and handed it to BB.“Thank you very much. You sound good and maybe one day I’ll call you” he added.I went home elated.
***
Exactly one year later, while working as a clerk in the tape department at Poplar Tunes record shop, I received a phone call from a man named Reuben Fairfax, known to everyone as, Ruebaix, asking for me by name.“This is a combination of my first and last names, R U E B A I X” he said, in a very astute tone. “It’s pronounced, Roo-Bay.”“Cool” I said. “What can I do for you, sir?”“Well, George. I am the bassist for Mr. Albert King. I’m sure you’re aware of him and that he lives here at the Peabody Hotel in Memphis?” asked Ruebaix.“Sure, I guess so” I said.“You and I played together several weeks back at one of the Blues Foundation events, with Mr. Danny Hawks. Do you remember that? He asked.“Yeah, I think so” I said.“Well, Albert is looking for a new drummer and thought that you would like to come down and audition for the band”“Wow, really?”“Yes, absolutely. How does tomorrow afternoon look for you?”“Well, fine, I guess. I need to talk with my boss, but I’m sure I can be there.”“Great. The audition will take place at the Peabody Alley at approximately three in the afternoon. We will see you there and thank you.”I got the gig.
***
“Sixteenth’s, mother fucker!”This was the phrase he yelled at me, onstage, over the microphone, nearly every single night of the three and a half weeks that we shared the bandstand together, in front of countless patrons of the Peabody Alley. Dressed in tuxedos, fine suits and evening gowns, the audience in the nightclub adjacent to the “South’s grand hotel” would stare in amazement at the towering six-foot-four, two hundred seventy pound figure of Albert King, shouting out the blues in songs like, Born Under A Bad Sign and Cross-cut Saw, while tearing into the neck of his signature Gibson Flying “V” electric guitar. With beads of sweat on his brow, the charcoal skin on his face wrinkled and tense with the aggression and bitterness of someone who, in his mind, had been over-shadowed by younger, more flashy bluesmen like Jimi Hendrix and Stevie Ray Vaughn, the “Godfather of the Blues” would turn his head slightly in my direction, stomp his feet on the stage floor and scream at the top of his lungs.“Goddamn, punk-rock ass, mother fucker. SIXTEENTH’S” he’d shout!For those of you not familiar with what that means, please allow me…a sixteenth note, in musical notation, is a note having the time value of a sixteenth of a whole note. On a musical staff, it is usually written as four notes played closely together and oftentimes quite fast. In Albert’s music, many of the grooves written for his songs required sixteenth notes to be played on the hi-hat or ride cymbal, which takes a certain amount of dexterity and limberness to be able to pull off, but at nineteen years old, my lazy ass hadn’t quite practiced enough to play continuous sixteenth notes. Instead, as I began to tire from playing the sixteenths, I would sometimes resort to quarter notes or eighth notes, which gave the music a completely different feel altogether and this would send my boss into a shouting frenzy, at which point, all bets were off. He called me every name in the book, with his favorite one being, "mother fucker".
“Boy, Albert was cursing you last night, man” said my new friend and band mate, Hubbie. “He really don’t like you! You better stay away from ‘im tonight.”Archie Turner-Mitchell, aka Hubbie, was the keyboardist for Albert’s band then and one hell of a sweet person. He told me years later that the nickname Hubbie had been given to him by a woman who used to baby-sit him. Apparently, the woman’s husband, whom she referred to as Hubbie, was a playboy and used to run around on her, but when he left for good, she began calling little Archie by the same name and it stuck. Great musician, too and one of the only people in the band who actually spoke to me as if I were one of the boys. I was a little too dumb and naïve to know who he was at the time, but his step-father, the great Willie Mitchell, had taken Hubbie in as a child and raised him as one of his own. Hubbie took to the piano very fast and having Willie Mitchell as his teacher and mentor, he learned to play in that laid-back fashion that has become so familiar in music made in Memphis. When he got older, Willie began using him in his famous Royal recording studio, where Hubbie was to eventually become a member of the Hi rhythm section, a serious group of Black musicians who played on countless recordings produced by Mitchell. I was not only sharing the stage with a blues music legend and icon, but playing with a member of the Mitchell family as well.“What did he say” I asked.“Well, he called you a few bad names, then a few more and then started on how you don’t know shit” Hubbie said, laughing.I held my head down, feeling terrible, but not knowing what to do.“You better get your passport together cause we’re going to Europe in a few weeks” he said.“What, really” I asked?“Yeah, man. Gonna back up Ron Wood from the Rollin’ Stones!” Hubbie added. “He loves Albert, man and wants to bring the whole band over to Paris to play with him for two weeks. What a break, huh?”“Yeah, that sounds great!” I said, excited. “I just got back from France last year. Went over there with the gospel choir from Overton, so I’ve already got a passport!”“Good for you, George. I’m sure Albert will give us all of the details real soon”
***
The next week, we all flew up to Cincinnati in Albert’s personal leer jet and opened for BB King at the Taft Auditorium. After the show, as the entire band was packing up the trailer to head home, BB came out to say hello to Albert and as the two of them were talking, I was called over to meet Mr. King.“BB, this is my new drummuh,” said Albert.Smiling, I took his hand and BB looked at me and said, “I remember you. I’ve still got your phone number.”Validation from King's.
***
We then flew down to Ft. Myers, Florida to play a crawfish festival, where Carl Perkins and Waylon Jennings were the headliners and afterward in the van, Albert said the only two nice words he ever spoke to me.“DRUMMUH” which was the name he called me.“Yes sir, Mr. King” I aksed meekly?“Good jawb, son.”“Thank you, Mr. King.”About a week later, back in Memphis, my mother called to say that she wanted to meet Albert and asked if it was alright that she bring her husband Andy and her two children, Richard and Amber, down to the Peabody for an introduction.“Sure Mom, I’ll see what I can do” I told her on the phone.“Thank you, baby. I just love his music and it would be so great to meet him in person. I’m so proud of you” said Mom.That night, at around six o’clock, I called up to Albert’s room and gave him the message that my mother was coming over to the hotel and asked would he like to meet her in the lobby.“Of course, I’d be happy to meet your mother” he said.I was shocked and when she got there, family in-tow, Albert came right down to meet them.“Mr. Albert King, please meet my mother, Rosa” I said.Taking her hand, kissing it, he said, it is very nice to meet you. Then he met my step-father, my half-brother and half-sister and gave all of them a warm and very uncharacteristic smile. I was completely floored.“Thank you baby, that was so nice, but we have to go” Mom said, tears flowing down her face.“It’s okay Mom. Thanks for coming down.”“Goodbye Mr. King” they all said.“Bye-bye folks” Albert said, smiling. His normal scowl completely washed away.Putting his arm around me, he then started walking me back to the club. We walked quietly for a minute, through the Peabody lobby, then…“You know you’re not going to Europe with us, don’t you” he asked?“No, sir. I didn’t know that”“Well, you’re not. And as a matter of fact, this is your last night.”“Yes, sir.”An hour later, blazing through another intense set, my last one with him, I’m distracted by a White man with long black hair who’s been sitting at the side of the stage, staring at me all night with a strange look on his face. Smiling, Ruebaix looks over at me and asks,“You know who that mother fucker is over there, don’t you?”“No. Who is it?”“That’s your mother fuckin’ repleacement!”
***
Them Dang'd Old Pines
There are reasons why I don’t like cutting the grass, trimming the hedges, raking leaves or doing any kind of yard work for that matter, and they’ve got little to do with laziness. Although, I much prefer sitting on the couch next to a warm gal, watching reruns of La Femme Nikita, eating ramen noodles, with saltines and drinking iced tea to just about any other activity. No, the truth is, cutting the grass gives me nightmares and takes my mind back to a time when completing that one chore meant I would be allowed to eat dinner, or go hang out with my buddies, or come inside the house and relax with the rest of the family, maybe sit in front of the tube and watch a great old movie. Not finishing, meant something entirely different and boy, did she love to yell at me. Jane would tear into me if that yard wasn’t just the way she wanted it. She was something else, Jane. My step mom. Dad loved her though and her word was bond. Do what she says or else.It all started back in the spring of 1981, when we (me, Dad, Jane, my three sisters Laura, Dawne and Audra, our three cats and three dogs) moved from the tiny little house on Southlawn street, which we had completely outgrown, to our new address on Cottonwood Cove, in what was then known as Parkway Village. Dad, ever the true scavenger, found a repo in the paper for about thirty-five grand, which in those days was a helluva bargain, and he paid cash for it with no questions asked. A canary yellow, four bedroom, California-style home, with a huge backyard, which included eighteen full-grown Pine trees that I would soon become extremely familiar with and that would bring my thirteen year old body, no end of heartache, frustration and anguish. It’s a miracle that I am living to tell this story today, as there was a time when I literally thought that I was going to die in that yard, right alongside those nasty, needle-shedding, good-for-nothing, sap-filled Pines, either by my own hand or more likely, Jane's. I remember the day we arrived to our new home and Dad took me into the backyard to show me how beautiful it was. It sure was the biggest yard I’d ever seen, nearly half an acre all fenced-in and them trees lining the entire thing.“Son…” Dad said.“This is your domain.”“Yes, sir” I replied.“Have a good look around. There are Pine needles everywhere, the whole yard is thick with ’em. If you come over here, you’ll notice that in this corner of the fence, there’s quite a large pile of these needles that will need to picked up and put into garbage bags and put out on the curb at the front of the house. You understand?”“Yes, sir” I replied.“Now, seeing as how no ones been back here for quite some time to clean up this mess, these things have accumulated and it’s probably gonna take you a while to get to the bottom of this pile, so take your time. But just get it done cause Jane wants it looking good back here, as soon as possible or you and me are never gonna hear the end of it. You understand?”“Yes, sir.”“Good man. Now, let’s go look at the rest of the house.”And that was it.He never offered to help. It was my job and I knew it had to be done. But what I didn’t know was that he wasn’t going to be the one to put the screws to me if the job wasn’t finished in a timely fashion. No. He left the entire thing up to his lovely second wife, my nemesis and personal tormentor, Jane, or as I was so fond of calling her, Jane the Pain. I even wrote a tune about her with the same name, which became the source of a pretty heated discussion and much laughter but that's another story. Just as soon as one of those damned old trees decided to drop a few thousand needles, Jane would yell my name, "Geeeeeeooooorrrrrrgiiiieee!" And as quick as I could move, my sorry ass was out the door with a rake and a bag, picking them up before they could stick to the ground. If I wanted to eat supper, it had to get done, no matter what. I remember she kept me out there one time, long after the Sun went down and I couldn't see a damn thing. I'd already mowed the lawn real low and had been raking up needles all day long, but more were falling faster than I could work and she was fired up cause now you could clearly see them on the ground."You're gonna be out here all night if that's what it takes!" she said.But I'd had enough and decided I wasn't gonna be bullied by an insane person any longer and put my rake down and climbed up into the closest Pine and just sat there, out of reach. She was fuming mad, but Dad and my sisters, sitting by the window inside were laughing their butts off at the scene that had suddenly unfolded. Jane was a little woman, maybe 4' 10", give or take and I was at least a foot taller and climbed way up in that tree, so that she couldn't get to me at all. I didn't move and she stood out there for a little while yelling at me to come down. All this went on for maybe an hour or so, till she got so frustrated that she completely wore herself out and had to retreat into the house, locking herself in her bedroom. I felt victorious, like Muhammad Ali using the rope-a-dope technique on Joe Frazier. I came down soon after, Dad let me in and I was allowed to eat my supper. I still had to get back out there the following day, but she never chased me around again. Although he and Jane stayed married for only a couple more years after that, as a family we spent close to nine years in that house and I don't ever remember a time when there weren't any needles on the ground. I was forever raking those things up. Jesus, I fucking hate Pine trees.
***
Upcoming Shows
September22, Playhouse On The Square (Midtown Memphis) w the City Champs24th, Alley Jams (Downtown Memphis) w the City Champs
A Night To Remember
Several years ago, I had the honor of being invited to participate in a gig with some heavyweights, playing soul music at Preservation Hall Jazz Club in New Orleans. It was called Fog Fest, a celebration put together by Dan Prothero of Fog City Records for their 10-year anniversary and featured JJ Grey from MOFRO, Robert Walter, Papa Mali and myself. The evening paid tribute to Southern songwriters like, Allen Toussaint & Dan Penn, with each of the featured artists contributing songs from their own personal catalog, as well. It was so much fun. We played two shows that night, both were sold-out and there was a three-camera film/sound crew that documented the entire night. Here's a video...[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgbrviX4WRg]
The Great Roland Janes
This afternoon, my buddy Joe Restivo and I met Roland Janes, the great rock-a-billy guitarist and famed recording engineer, right here at Sam Phillips' recording studio on Madison Avenue. What a treat. This guy was a house session guitarist at Sun and played with Jerry Lee Lewis on two of his biggest hits, ("Great Balls of Fire" & "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On"). He was sitting at the front desk when we walked in the door. "Hi fellas. What can I do for you?" We were stunned. After the introductions, he asked us to have a seat and we just talked to him for a while. He let us take a walk through those amazing, historic rooms that are still in operation and can be yours for the low low price of just $65. per hour. Wow. All analog, no ProTools, nothing digital, just the real deal Holyfield. We saw numerous vintage tube gear, Neumann mics hanging (uncovered) on stands, killer old Hammond organ, tube amps everywhere, the vibe was incredible and I got goose bumps right away. I can't believe that place isn't packed on a daily basis with rock stars. I guess it used to be, but not anymore and today was just a glimpse into a world that is truly fading fast. Growing up here, I had only a vague knowledge of the music this town has produced and even now I'm still learning new things, but what a place. For all of it's faults, intricacies, racism and tremendous poverty, Memphis is still one hell of a city and I'm proud to be from here.
Just Be
Mantras. Do you have one? Do you say it? Does it work?Through the years, I've used them and sometimes they work, while depending on the circumstances, other times they are only words. I have had serious battles with depression on occasion and when it's been really bad, I'll say to myself, Everything is gonna be alright and it seems to help, at least a little. Or, I'll think about someone I know who is much worse off than me and the thought immediately pops into my head, Stop complaining...You've got it pretty good (and) At least you're not..., then I fill in the blank. It helps most of the time.Many years ago, when I had had enough of Memphis and the music scene here, I decided to head West to San Diego in search of greener pastures. I was 23. Two days on a Greyhound bus and there I was in sunny So Cal. Life seemed pretty sweet, but after a few weeks, I started to get a little homesick and began to question my decision. My former drum teacher back in Memphis called one day to see how I was doing and after telling him how bad I missed home, my family, friends, gigs were in short supply, finances were dwindling, etc., he reminded me of why I'd decided to make the move in the first place, that it was the right thing to do and suggested I try using a daily mantra to lift me out of the funk. I had never used one before, but was more than willing to give it a shot and began saying, I want to be a great musician. I even wrote it down on a piece of paper and put it on the front page of my planner, which I opened every morning to see what my day was looking like. There it was. I want to be great musician. The words however simple, smacked me in the face and I repeated them to myself, over and over again, till I was sick of saying them. A few weeks went by and before long, I started getting good jobs with great bands and my confidence grew. Maybe the mantra was working, or maybe it helped to change my attitude that life was a pile of shit and I was a terrible drummer. Whatever it was, I was starting to feel pretty good about myself.Then I met a woman and for a short time, everything changed. She was beautiful. A cross between Audrey Hepburn and Winona Ryder. Jesus, I fell in love pretty quick. I felt like I had arrived at some magical place and was never going to have to live the life of a struggling artist again. I'd found my true love and together we were going to rule the world. But I was wrong. What I mistook for happiness was actually a false sense of self and I became lost. Always a people pleaser, her beliefs became my beliefs. Her friends became mine. My friends, for the most part, disappeared. She was working on a Masters in public health and I felt like I needed to step up. Even though we'd met in a bar and she liked the fact that I was chasing my dream, I decided I needed to go back to school and get my degree. Once I was out of the scene, gigs ended and band leaders no longer called. Out of sight, out of mind. Many folks thought that I'd moved out of town and were surprised when they learned I hadn't. I strayed from the path, stopped practicing the drums, or looking for new work, was no longer saying my mantra every day and things got dark. After only two semesters, I gave up college and to support us, I took jobs in restaurants, record stores, coffee shops and hotels and played only on the rare occasion. I felt very sad inside. We were together three years, married for a few months, then divorced soon after. An ex-boyfriend suddenly came back into the picture and she made her decision. It was over between us. More darkness crept in, and soon, a deep depression. No mantras or uplifting words could pull me up out of the murk that I'd descended into and for nearly a year, I sulked.A phone call one day got me involved in a recording session with a group of musicians that (to this day) will go down in the chapters of my life as some of the greatest I've ever had the pleasure of playing with. They called themselves, the cat Mary and once we played together the first time, all three of us knew immediately that we'd stumbled onto something very special. They loved my drumming, complimented me on the fact that I actually cared about making a song groove and that was a big change from a lot of the negative groups that I'd been with before. For me, it was the kick in the pants I needed so badly. We got a record deal, I moved to Los Angeles and things began to get better. I even brought back the mantra, but this time with a slight variation...I am a great drummer, which felt so much better to say and I started to believe in myself again. Together we made two records, toured around the country and spent the better part of three years making a go of it. A time I will never forget. It's been a while since we've seen one another, but we still keep in touch and the lessons I learned with those cats, taught me to just be who and what I am and that everything else will fall into place.