“Jam Session”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-20)

Music.

For many, the appeal of live or recorded melodies can be strong. Such tones may spur the pulse to quicken, or the chest to swell with pride. Perhaps, cause a head to bow in reflection. Or inspire a gaze toward the horizon with hope. Those who have no connection to song are rare, indeed. Yet for most, real knowledge of the theory involved, of the skills required, may be lacking.

But for those born of the Baby Boom, Rock & Roll became part of our identity.

People in my generation took this habit as a natural fact of life. Developing styles and habits that reflected our heroes with mirror-like perfection. Even those who never touched a guitar or piano, or any tuneful instrument, had this inclination. To emulate Keith Richards, Jimmy Page or Jimi Hendrix. To mime the moves of Daltrey, Jagger, Plant, Joplin, Sly Stone or Tina Turner. To windmill like Pete Townshend. To thrash and jump like Iggy Pop. To ride a starship groove like George Clinton and Funkadelic.

Everyone in my high school wanted to get on the ride.

Genuine participation in the craft could be difficult, however. Getting ‘plugged in’ more directly than mere affectation. For this writer, growing up in a family literally wedded to music made the leap easier to achieve. Our roots were in Folk, Country, and Blues. The sorts of expressive, vocal arts that sprang from working-class people, after their daily chores were done. But not everyone had such an upbringing. For them, a real connection could be hard to attain. Harder still to keep. Yet so precious among our group.

Everything about us shouted that style. The sounds, the looks, the habits. From Joe Namath to Peter Fonda to Charo or Raquel Welch, to Peter Frampton.

Many from my generation simply carried those affectations into forward, into normalcy. But some sought the help of a teacher. A mystic with the ability to translate their enlightenment into everyday language. Someone willing to offer secrets and revelations to the commoners.

In my own journey, that person was a Cornell University graduate named Paul Race.

He was, by appearance, simply an overweight hippie. Dressed in thrift-store apparel with no particular theme. Sweaty and loud. Typically holding vinyl LPs under one arm. Or a guitar scored from a yard sale. Our first meeting was at the studio of Channel 13, a cable-access provider in Ithaca, New York. Soon, I would find that his personal image hid a greater self. Like the famed Tardis of Doctor Who tucking away greater dimensions inside, than out in public view. Paul had numerous formal degrees, yet remained a lifelong student. A classic scholar, always learning. And, to those lucky enough to survive in his orbit, teaching what he had discovered.

In 1979, I was happy enough to sit at his home with friends, drinking alcohol and listening to records. He had more of everything than I ever imagined. More albums, more books, more magazines, more instruments, more odd furnishings, beer signs, collector’s trinkets, cast-off bits of outdated technology, and hardware. Anything that got near enough seemed to have been captured by his gravity.

We would listen for hours. To recorded tunes and to his stories of yonder days as a local malcontent and performer. In bands like ‘The Savoys’ or ‘Oliver Court Delivery’ or ‘The Embarrassing Pinworms.’ Then, his spirit would rise. A guitar, or two, would appear. Perhaps an electric piano, galvanized tub, empty bottle, piece of tin roofing, a washboard, or a set of bongos. Most certainly, a microphone plugged into one of his vintage amplifiers. Then, he would start a tape recorder to archive the event. And our star-trip would begin.

Friends tried to follow his motions, like an audience repeating lines from ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show.’ But for myself, it was a chance to peek behind the curtain. To catch clues and tips from a real veteran of local renown. Each movement of his fingers over the fretboard, each intonation and strum and break and palm-mute made me sit upright with a student’s attention. I was in awe of his ability.

And also of his real Fender guitar.

Paul had the casual style of a jam-band performer. With the informal ability to coach his pupils, gently. He was approachable and non-critical. Offering suggestions when needed. Or grunts and groans when the groove took a dissonant turn. His stream of notes remained constant. But his eyebrows might raise or his head might tilt to indicate the mood we had created. He liked to play familiar treatments of song standards, while his friend Pat Kelly improvised lyrics. ‘The Migrant’ had lived illegally in Latin America and was reputed to be a reprobate and thief. Their collaborations could be clever, often with themes of blue-collar life, substance abuse, or failed relationships. These off-the-cuff experiments had me struggling to keep pace. As a teenager, I had less of a word-pool from which to draw energy. But my skills were sharpened by hours of practice, and many cases of Utica Club or Piels beer.

This haze of tobacco, weed, incense, candles, sweat, animal feculence, hard liquor and the electric heat of vacuum tubes, was potent stuff. Most from the group simply left with a sense of belonging. Of having gained a bit of ‘cool.’ Yet I would exit pondering riffs that were beyond my limited ability. Juggling poetry while remembering the chord progressions. Each idea a blooming blossom in my head. Sprouting from the fertile soil tilled by my mentor’s Telecaster.

Eventually, I would rewrite his off-color standards into more serious anthems. Compositions for the future.

Once, he tried a version of the Rolling Stones classic ‘Silver Train.’ We began with a literal interpretation of this track, a respectful rendering of the Blues artifact. But then as he vamped on the chords, things went off the rails. He added rebellious runs and flourishes. I wandered vocally at the microphone:

“Silver train is a comin’

Think I’m gonna get on now

Oh yeahh, oh yeah

Silver train is a comin’

Think I’m gonna get onboard

Oh yeahh

Detach from the system

Said oh yeahh!

Many times in your life

You will feel pain

But you gotta step it up

You gotta keep it goin’ on

Yeah

She did not know

She did not know my nammmmmme!

I tried to talk to her somehow

But ain’t nobody tellin’ me now

Yes after the work had been accomplished

Yes indeed, child

She did not know

She did not know my name...”

Paul’s wife, Mollie, slapped her bongos. Our cohort Manic McManus hovered over his organ keyboard. Bette Burke, who was working on a PhD at Cornell, shook a pair of maracas. The Migrant howled and cackled. Household pets barked and meowed and chirped. I captured the din om my own Panasonic cassette recorder.

Decades later, these compelling companions were mostly deceased or disappeared. The magnetic tapes had become stale over time. Warbling and crackling. Less inspired and more surreal in the light of present-day scrutiny. Yet the yield of such nights remained. I learned much at the feet of my six-string master.

About music. About wordsmithing. Most of all, about life.

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