The Tune Up

Duane was my first guitar student here in Albany Park. He'll always have a special place in my heart. He came to me with a charming personality, quick wit and a willingness to learn about music. I had no choice but to love him.

That being said, I've wanted to murder him at least once a week since our initial meeting.

One night he called me and asked about the fingering of an A minor 9 chord I had written out for him. He said that he had been practicing and he was going to surprise me next time we got together. That sounded fine to me. He kept talking and I wasn't really sure he was getting at. He was talking about paying me for two or three lessons or something like that. When the conversation felt like it was coming to a natural end I just said, "all right, I'll see you Wednesday." Then Duane said, "I guess I'm not making myself clear, I need to borrow $10 and I will pay you back on Wednesday when we have my lesson. I told him that I would love to loan him the money, but I just couldn't right now. He understood.

The next lesson was Wednesday at 6 pm. I called and got no answer. I went over to his apartment only to see a Mexican guy grilling some chicken out on his balcony. I yelled up to him and asked if Duane was there. The guy went and got him and he buzzed me in. They were getting ready to eat. Duane said he couldn't afford a lesson right now. After having me tune his guitar, answer some questions and demonstrate a few techniques, he pretty much had one anyway.

The following Wednesday, I didn't hear from him. I tried to find him to no avail. A girl I've seen with him told me he was helping a friend move.

A week later, I was walking down Lawrence avenue and there was a well dressed man off in the distance. When he got close, I saw that it was Duane. He was coming from his 16 year old nephew's funeral. All he said was "yeah, they shot him." I told him I was leaving town for a few days. He thought I was leaving for good. He was shaking my hand and wouldn't let go. I told him I would be back soon. I was happy to have run into him.

This past Sunday, he called and said that he needed to go to the far south side to pick up $200. He just needed to borrow $10 to get there. I told him I would loan him my CTA pass. He never came to get it. A few days later, I saw him walking down the street and he asked if I could tune his guitar. I told him that I would meet him in 10 minutes. When I went down to meet him, No Duane. I went again in another 10 minutes. No Duane. Then, I went one last time and he was not there. Frustrating.

Today, he called and asked if I would tune his guitar. I said I would be down in 15 minutes. He showed up this time with his little sunburst guitar. He handed it to me and I saw that the neck had come loose from the body. The strings were about an inch from the neck. I told him I could repair it by putting a drywall screw through the heel of the neck into the block inside the body.

I told him I would have it by tomorrow. He asked if he could borrow one of my guitars. I told him it would be like loaning him my toothbrush.

I called Joe who told me exactly what to do. It took 15 minutes. I tuned it up and called Duane. His wife answered. I asked her to tell him to meet me outside.

As he was walking toward me, I did some of my best Delta Blues. He smiled ear to ear. I handed it to him and told him it sounded better than it did before. He began to laugh uncontrollably. He was so happy and he played his A minor 9 chord. It sounded good. He gave me a big hug and squeezed real tight. His ear touched my cheek and it was really cold.

He said he'd be all set with money in a few days and he would see me next Wednesday. Sounds like a plan.

Big Mike

Big Mike ate baked beans out of the can so he didn't have to get any dishes dirty. I watched him eat a pear once and he ate all of it including the core and seeds. He loved peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches and would eat an onion like an apple. Big Mike cherished two magazines that featured nude celebrities. He wouldn't even let me look through them. He once set my tri-pod up in a corner like it was a decoration. Big Mike was the first person I ever knew that used pick up lines at a bar. His lines were, "just think of me as an object" and "hey, would you like to touch me?" Big Mike would talk to girls for hours and when he got nowhere, he said he was "laying ground work." Some of these girls were average to ugly. When questioned about that, he claimed to be working on his rap. Big Mike was proud to have been in the Marines.

He kept Milk Bones in his van to give to the dogs that guarded the premises where he worked. He was loved by women everywhere he went. Big Mike had a very deep and loud voice. He had a fantastic sense of humor and smiled constantly. Big Mike was ten years older and I idolized him. Big Mike lost his way one day and I will miss him forever.

In the photo from left to right: Big Mike Ruff, Dan Shea and Don Dowe. Photo by Doug Dowe.

Hi Ho Silver Lining

A friend of mine is no fan of my idol worship. I can't change who I am. A musician changes my perspective on music or just generally blows me away, I'm bowing down. I always have.

April 2009 was easily the worst month of my life. My partner of over six years changed the locks on the doors (sounds like a song, right?) and that was it.

April 16th in particular was difficult. I received an e-mail from her that was nothing short of excruciating. I'll spare you the details. It was same day that Jeff Beck would play the Park West. Quite the intimate venue compared to all the other places I had seen him. Tim and I met Linda there.

We sat close enough to see everything nicely. It was great. Jeff played unbelievable guitar, the band was good and the volume was just right. Not too loud. He even played "Over The Rainbow" as an encore.

After the show, we went outside and just talked to some people in front of the Park West. Terry from The Guitar Works was there. We talked to him a little and for some reason, Tim and Linda got into a discussion with a few geeky super fan types. Linda totally missed Seeing Tal, the bass player board the tour bus. Although we weren't trying to meet anybody, we were right near the bus. Cynthia Plaster Caster walked by with a tall normal looking guy who seemed to be very tired of her talking to fans about ..........plaster casting. He just stared into space while she answered all the usual questions. Then, they walked away.

All of a sudden, things just felt weird. Something was going on. The front door of the Park West had opened and a really fat bouncer came out walking real close to a medium sized bouncer. As they walked our way, I figured out what was happening. These guys were creating a human shield for JEFF BECK! He was in between these guys. They were walking him out to the bus. Here I am 47 years old, and I felt like a teen-aged girl at a Beatles concert. I was able to get past fat boy and stood right in front of Jeff. This was literally a childhood dream. To meet the one of the main people who had inspired me to play guitar.

I said, "Jeff, I've been listening since I was 13. Thanks for all those years of inspiration. I love ya, baby!" He looked right at me and gave me a huge smile, we shook hands and he got on the bus. I thought his hands were really soft for a guy who spends more time working on hot rods than playing guitar.

Tim and Linda had missed the whole exchange. We then went to get some food at a restaurant across the street. We talked about the show the whole time.

So, in a way, one of the worst days of my life was also one of the best days of my life. I have always thought that it was too bad that she would never know this story. She would have liked it.

My Foolish Heart

Sister Joan is one of the sweetest people I've ever met. She is a retired nun. One Sunday a month, she hosts a spiritual get together in her apartment. Most attendees are older women. They talk about all kinds of things and they pray.

I happened to be there helping her install something on her computer while one of her meetings was in session. Her computer was in the kitchen, on the other side of the apartment from where the meetings took place.

When the ladies took a break and came into the kitchen for some refreshments, I was introduced to everyone as a musician and computer expert. Like I said, sister Joan is very sweet.

One of the ladies named Gladys told me that her husband had been a full time musician throughout the midwest for many years. She casually mentioned that Bill Evans had been a friend of theirs. In the early 60's, Evans had asked her husband if while he was playing in the Chicago area, he could use their piano to practice.

Gladys said that one time Bill was practicing in the living room and she needed to run some errands. She asked him if he wouldn't mind keeping an eye on her three young children. When she returned home none of the kids greeted her at the door. She went to the living room and found them sitting close together on the floor, mesmerized by the sound of Bill Evans.

The picture of that in my head is priceless.

Keep it quiet? (music of the mind)

I listened to a piano player being interviewed on NPR a few years back. He was not well known. He said that while he was in the early stages of learning his instrument that his teacher had really pushed him to memorize as many standards as possible. He had learned hundreds of tunes. Years later, when he began to explore composition, he found every idea he came up with was usually one of those memorized songs.

Jimmy Webb recounted two separate occasions where he was with well known composers and invited them to his house. They were very reluctant to go. He wondered why. The truth was that they had both been afraid that Webb would being playing music while they were there. Composers actively working on projects don't want any outside musical influence.

I have gone through periods of constant listening. I felt like that was a good thing. I have listened to music while I was sleeping. Sometimes the same song all night. Lately, I am listening mostly to sirens outside my window. That and silence. It has left my mind open to new ideas. I hope those are original.

Berimbau

In 1983, my cousin Steve and I took a trip to southern California. I had been there once before. He had never been. I was interested in working out at World and Gold's Gym. He just wanted to have a fun trip. Both of us had grown up in Royal Oak, Michigan. A suburb of Detroit. The thing that attracted me to the Los Angeles area was diversity. Where we came from, there was a real lack of culture. We had never eaten at a real Mexican restaurant. Chi-Chi's was it as far as we were concerned. Hearing anyone speak Arabic was always cause for alarm and an openly gay guy usually got a chuckle from most people. Southern California was a very open and interesting place.

On our third day there, we had been out walking around in Santa Monica. As we walked back to our room, we passed a little guy with an Afro. He was carrying an attache case and something that looked like a bow. Something you would use to shoot an arrow with. Not a fancy bow. Like a kid would make. Steve and I didn't really discuss this guy, but we had both noticed him.

About an hour later, while we were in the room talking, Steve said, "did you see that guy with the bow?, I think it's some kind of weird instrument." I had thought the same thing. He had been holding a wood stick that looked like a chopstick. Steve went on, "yeah, it looks like he hits the string with that chopstick and that's how it works". We laughed. Honestly, we just thought he was some odd character.

The next day, I was out taking a few photos by myself and I saw this guy again.

He was waiting for a bus in front of the motel where we were staying. He had his bow. I now noticed that it also had a round bowl attached to one side of it. I really wanted to know more so I walked right up to him and asked him about this "instrument" he carried.

He told me it was called a berimbau and it was from Brazil. I asked him if he would demonstrate it for me. He held it upright with the metal string facing out. He started hitting the string with the chopstick which sounded really cool. He held a small round stone in his other hand and placed it at varying locations along the string. Basically, it was a movable fret. It changed the pitch of the note.

Then, he swished the chopstick on the outside of the bowl. That too was a great sound. The bowl's main function was to act like a resonator for the string's vibration. The opening of the bowl faced his stomach. He could keep it open and let it ring loud and clear or hold it close to his stomach and deaden it.

We talked for a while. He was from Brazil. I noticed amongst a bunch of stickers on his attache case, that one of them read "Royal Oak Music Theatre".

That was really interesting. I asked him if he had been there and he said that he had been a special guest on tour with someone. Who? Pat Metheny!

He said, "my name is Nana Vasconcelos". I asked him if he had played on Pat's song, Are You Going With Me? Of course, he had. I loved that song.

As I got more into Brazilian music, I realized that Nana was nothing short of a legend. He had worked with Milton Nascimento, Egberto Gismonti and Gato Barberi just to name a few. Our "odd character" had turned out to be quite special. See what I mean when I say lack of culture?

A very non-Irish St. Patrick's Day.

After making a couple of attempts at finding a job, I felt like I deserved some of the sun that was shining onto my front porch. I got a guitar and sat down to practice. I had only been playing for a few minutes when a man and woman walking by looked up to see where the music was coming from. The man was very interested and asked what kind of guitar I was playing. We talked as his friend waited. He said he had a guitar but it needed a new high E string. I told him that I would put one on for him. He asked how much I would charge and I told him he could have the whole set for $5. I only ended up changing the one string and still gave me $5.

His guitar was from a little electronics store in the neighborhood. It was a 3/4 size sunburst model. I tuned it the best I could. The intonation was really bad. It was impossible to get it totally in tune. But he was happy. He said, "I love chords". So I played a series of chords on his guitar. His reaction to each chord was not unlike someone watching a fireworks display. I played a B minor7 and he went "oooh", A minor9 "ahhh", C major9 "hey". Finally an E minor11 and he said "aw, you're killin' me".

We talked for a while. His name was Duane. He lived three doors down. He invited me over to drink some beer on the balcony of his third floor apartment. On the way there he asked how much I would charge to give him lessons. I told him $15 for a half hour. He said that he needed a tuner and "one of them things that keeps time, a methadone". He had forgotten his keys and began ringing the doorbell a bunch of times. A woman yelled from the balcony "who's ringing that bell like that?"
Duane said, "I'm sorry sugga wugga, I forgot my keys". She buzzed us in.
This woman turned out to be his wife. He introduced us and she had this look like, who is this guy you're bringing into our apartment? He said, "Dan's my guitar teacher we're going to play out on the balcony". His wife said, "I hope you don't drive all the neighbors inside". Duane said, "are you kiddin', we're gonna bring 'em out!"

Once we settled in on the balcony with a couple of cans of Icehouse, Duane played me a few things he knew and gave me an idea of what he'd like to learn. He looked at his watch and said, "ok, the lessons start NOW". It was 6 pm. He gave me a $20 bill and I gave him his $5 back. I wrote out some nice chord progressions and showed him how to play the voicings. He was really excited. At 6:30, the sun was going down and we were done. He brought out a calender and marked down his next lesson. March 24th. He gave me a fresh Icehouse for the road.