Gimme a Popsicle Stick and I'll Make You a Record

The Old Man turns his thoughts to high school around this time of year.  I suppose it's the football-falling leaves-early darkness syndrome that tends to move me full-bore into nostalgia mode despite my best resistance.  It seems that some of my most enjoyable times occurred during the period from September through Christmas. That concept may be rationalization, but "that's my story and I'm sticking with it".

 One of the memories that sustain my reverie is that of the band.  We were called The Sportsters. Arthur, Johnny, David, Ralph and I banged our way around Bedford and surrounding towns from 1958 through 1961, or thereabouts,  playing at several "joints", some college fraternity parties, and on a couple of American Bandstand-style dance shows on local television.  Heady stuff when you're 18.

A recent exchange about that day and time opened one of my mental safe-deposit boxes, and the memories played leap-frog to the front burner.  Like puppies fighting for attention, they came at me.

Considering the cost of concerts these days, we were cavemen.  There was one road house just outside of town called the B & H Drive-in.  We had a regular booking there each Saturday night for a while.  As I recall,  with our percentage of the gate, we would each normally earn about $10.00 for a 4-hour "gig".  We'd "whomp & bomp" and "shoo-bop" our hearts out, and feel like we were rich when counting-up time came at the end of the evening.  Once in a while, things would get lively with a knifing or a simple fist-fight, but as the saying goes, "the band played on".

We played some frat parties at the University of Virginia.  They generally ended with us playing to just a few people while the majority of the crowd seemed to have been stricken with some sort of sleeping sickness, usually preceded by a bout with nausea.  The money was good, though.  Paid up-front and netting us around $30.00 each, we were in tall cotton.

We had one "roadie".  His name was Tucker and he just loved to go around with us for the fun of it.  He would help us set up our one amplifier, my meager set of drums, and the two microphones.  I look at equipment in today's entertainment world in total wonderment.  A DJ at a wedding in Slugo, Va. has 3 times the equipment that we had.

As in any enterprise, the character mix was eclectic.  Arthur was a good Elvis-style singer, Johnny was a gifted and creative guitarist, our saxophonist, David, was the most musically talented one, I managed to stay on the beat most of the time, and then there was Ralph.  Ralph is the guy playing the stand-up bass in the photo.  Ralph had a bit more electronic knowledge than musical ability, but he managed to bang that old bass with abandon.  Sometimes he was actually on key.  On occasion, our one amp would develop a problem.  Ralph would tear into it, and amid a shower of sparks and much popping and cracking, manage to solder (he carried a soldering iron, "just in case") some connection somewhere in the innards and the show would go on.  Ever the handyman, once when the neck of his base was broken in a minor car accident on the way to an out-of-town engagement, Ralph rounded up a few popsicle sticks and some scotch tape and made the repair.  He slapped that bass until closing time.

Johnny is gone now, David has made a professional career in the music business, Arthur and I made our career in other areas, and Ralph disappeared into the mists of history.  But sometimes, late at night, I can still hear a few "whomp-de-bomps", the magic of autumn paves over the rough spots in life, and the old drum riffs with their heavy back-beat carry me away.