Spring, 1973 - suburban Cleveland, Ohio. The first rock band I was in practiced at our drummer's house because his drums won't fit through the door: their rhythm was nontransferable. I had learned my guitarmanship from books and folk guitar lessons. At 14, I didn't really have a clue.

We actually played from sheet music - Cream's "Sunshine of Your Love" was our first victim. You don't act like DeNiro because you have his script, and you don't play like Cream because you have the sheet music: the "how" counts as much as the "what."

Fortunately for the dozens that our band was to eventually entertain, a good samaritan found us and took pity. He was a red haired, gnome-like individual who was somebody's older brother and a real "professional musician" on hiatus from the rigors of the road.

With a magical wave of the hand, this benefactor initiated us into the world of 1-4-5 blues progressions and barre chords. Most importantly, he taught us to play what we heard, not what we read.

His knowledge seemed boundless, his patience less so. His recurring refrain was, "No, no, no. You're doing it the hard way. Let me show you." His voice was edged with irritation but supported with benevolence.

Our guru disappeared for weeks at a time, then materialized unannounced at critical moments to dispense his rocking revelations. We resented our dependency upon him, but we were always glad to see the maestro. After a particularly contentious session, the wandering wiseman didn't reappear for several weeks, which then stretched into months.

Finally, seeking guidance and alternate fingerings for C#7 chords, we pursued our Yoda's vapory trail. The trail very sadly led to the graveyard as our benefactor had not survived an afternoon on the road with a bottle of grain alcohol. Talk about doing things the hard way.

(Halloween, 1974)

Players have come and gone - one lineup was good enough to play some high school dances and to win a battle of the bands. The band would have been even better if certain individuals hadn't chosen to pickle themselves off of this mortal coil, but that's all ethyl under the bridge.

The band now had a totally cool place to play. Someone's mother knew someone who ran the local art center and the basement was our "rehearsal space."

The subterranean bomb shelter ambiance was patently unappealing to adult tastes, but afforded a palace of pleasure to teenage would-be rock 'n' roll stars and guests. It also lent an air of gravity to our undertaking, but equally impotantly, the pit was a place to party with impunity. How many high school kids had their own adult-free, but adult-sanctioned bona fide party room? Damn few (and it's probably a good thing).