Photo: Dallas, Texas, circa 1964.
In the beginning was the word, and the word was music!
Dallas, 1964:
I was playing drums in our recently formed combo, the Renegades. A precocious 13- year-old, I thought I was 15! (I wasn’t that cool.) Three of my neighborhood chums and I had decided to put our questionable talents to work. So, we set up in garages, living rooms, patios, and finally the Nelson’s spacious rumpus room in their new home. Dr. Nelson once informed us that all the neighbors were complaining about “the incessant racket.” We practiced a lot.
Mark Nelson played lead guitar, Billy Dever played rhythm guitar and sang, and Eddie Miles played bass. We played tunes from the Animals, the Stones, the Kinks, Sam the Sham, and the Ventures, to name a few. We were a work in progress, but the girls loved us. (I don’t know why – every guy in the band was a character out of MAD magazine!)
In a few years, we were actually passing as a real band. I remember doing some sort of outdoor gig at a campground or maybe a ranch. As far as we knew, it could have been a bunch of teenaged devil worshippers dancing in the woods. One pretty girl told me that I was “her new favorite drummer” and attacked me behind a tree. Her name was Kathy, my new girlfriend, I assumed. She claimed that her cousin played in a famous Dallas band called Southwest F.O.B.
I had been in the Lake Highlands Junior and Senior High school bands. And, for years, had studied with Mitch Peters, principal percussionist with the Dallas Symphony Orchestra. He also taught me jazz from Jim Chapin’s famous book, Advanced Techniques for the Modern Drummer. Yep, I’m schooled (but not enough to hurt me much).
One of my favorite bandmates was a quirky young man named Dale McFarland. He played percussion in the school bands but also played a mean piano. We started jamming together and played jazz and assorted pop tunes, and made some good music together for years.
But Dale was much more than a great piano man, he turned me on to all kinds of great jazz, discussed politics, and was like my demented mensch. And we kept each other in stitches. What with the crazy recorded prank calls and the running jokes, it was a hoot being around him. We could have formed a musical/comedy act and made a killing. And after all these years, Dale is still my best friend and still quirky. We’re brothers from other mothers.
Before we could drive, Dale insisted that we take buses to South Dallas and other exotic locales. Our objective? Music. Jazz, baby! The good stuff you cannot find in the white suburbs. At one point we added classmate Brad Ebeling on alto sax. We had to; we were doing Dave Brubeck.
Later Dale and I started gigging at El Chico’s Mexican Restaurant in Medallion Center. The Manager, Mario Leal loved us and let us play our peculiar jazz to a dinner crowd who would have preferred mariachi music at a more reasonable volume.
One evening Mario dropped a succinct note from a customer into our tip jar. It read: “The food was good, The music? GAVE ME INDIGESTION! And it spoiled the Mexican atmosphere.”
After that, we hired a terrific singer/guitar man, Gary Irby, to make things easier to digest. Thank goodness we weren’t fired. My drum kit was right next to the big wine rack, which, I’m sorry to say, I took advantage of.
Later Dale published Texas Jazz magazine, hosted Jazz Street on KCHU radio, played with Ray Sharp, Billy Brigg at the Freeman in Deep Ellum, salsa with Javier Gutiérrez, and played Hungary and Bosnia for NATO, and South Korea for the DOD. Dale McFarland is still playing about town and still crazy after all these years.
1967:
Out of the blue, I got a phone call from my old girlfriend, Kathy. She told me that her famous cousin was auditioning drummers for Southwest F.O.B. which had a popular song on the radio – “The Smell of Incense.”
Lo and behold, John Colley called me about auditioning for his band. It seems his drummer had been drafted and they were in a fix. (Hence, actually calling a 16-year-old novice.) A few days later, my friend Steve Otte and I drove out to John’s home in Pleasant Grove. We piled in his car and drove down to Deep Ellum to the Allstar Practice Hall, a 4 or 5 story one-time warehouse with a freight elevator. The Band had a space there along with the Five Americans and Jon & Robin, and others.
I was introduced to the band members including a nice guy named Dan. I got behind the drum set and the band surrounded me. (I felt like a little cornered rodent.) John asked if I knew ‘Fire’ by Jimi Hendrix. I did. I made it through the song and ended with a flare. I felt pretty good about it. But later, in the car, John informed me that they were going with another drummer they had tried out earlier – he was much older and road worthy. Of course, I understood and thanked him for the opportunity.
This had been my first brush with actual rock stars, and instead of treating me like the kid I was, they treated me like a little brother. I really owe a lot to them. Much later John changed his name, and he and Dan formed the famous band England Dan & John Ford Coley!
Around this time my dad, Spike, informed me that his friend Brack was in need of a drummer – yet another poor draftee. We drove down to the Hilton across Stemmons Freeway from the Dallas Apparel Mart. We strolled into the Sunset Lounge where I was introduced to the Brack Sheppard Trio. The departing drummer relinquished his sticks to me and I took over on his kit. After the set, Brack hired me on the spot.
Our first gig was a house gig at the 19th Hole Club in a non-descript Hotel at North Central and LBJ. I was welcomed into the music biz with a handshake and a gin & tonic. Unbeknownst to Spike, Brack was a world class alcoholic! But a solid piano man. My first real mentor. A sports coat and tie, and schmaltzy jazz was the order of the day But, hell, it was a real weekly gig – and it paid good money!
One thing I never understood was why Brack made me change drinks from G&T to Rum and Coke. He explained that Rum and Coke looks like a Coke, but Gin and Tonic looks like an adult beverage. I always thought that my G&T looked like 7UP on the rocks. Go figure.
Bottom line: Hence forth, music and booze were inseparable.
Months later I got wind of a rich lady who was advertising for young musicians to back up her teenaged daughter. Billy Dever and I showed up at the ‘cattle call.’ One of the other hopefuls was a guitarist/singer named Doug Verver. He was a charismatic, handsome Chicano with a beautiful Gibson 335. The proposed project fell apart, but I had met a new player – and friend – who would figure into my music career at a later date.
1968:
Spike decided to turn our two-car garage into a “recreation room” for his three crazy sons. It would be a good way to get us out of the house. You know: Out of sight, out of mind. Unfortunately, that philosophy would prove disastrous.
When completed, we painted the walls black, pinned up rock posters and put up a black light. We hooked up a stereo, built a bar, turned an old toilet into an ice chest, got a strobe light, a bumper pool table and a covered mattress to “lounge” upon. We named the place The Den of Iniquity and painted, psychedelic style, the words next to the door. To the chagrin of our parents, the place lived up to its name.
Soon we were playing music there. Dale McFarland (the only straight guy in the bunch), guitar player/singer Don Dillenger, and the craziest person I’ve ever known, Ronnie Shaw, who played flute, recorder, harmonicas, hand saw with a violin bow, and for an added touch, he blew fire! The drugs and alcohol flowed freely. My psychotic brother turned me on to acid and harder drugs. I’m sorry to say, that was the beginning of a hellish nightmare for all concerned.
I had met an amazing guitarist at a neighborhood jam named Steve Toplitz. He lived over in the Hillcrest section of Dallas. I began spending many hours with Steve and his beautiful Mosrite guitar. He really taught me a lot about music, but we never gigged. I fell head-over-heels in love with a gorgeous babe a few doors down named Dee Ann. She and I soon became inseparable and the girl was talking marriage. At that point I was questioning her sanity… and her penchant for lost boys – like me.
I traded Dee Ann for a BSA Lightning 650 and started frequenting X-rated movie houses like the old Lido Theater. It was a full moon and I had turned into a werewolf. (But I was always a very friendly, polite werewolf!)
I was thrown out of the High School band for hazing sophomores and consequently quit school in my senior year.
1969:
I was hanging out at the infamous Cellar, downtown, where the real music played; and meeting lots of ladies (and I use the term loosely). I quit the Brack Sheppard Trio and got my first tattoo with Bud Albaugh in Houston – we were both coming down from LSD and the tattoo “artist” was drunk. Back in Dallas, sessions at the Den of Iniquity became all-night, drug saturated orgies.
My psychiatrist had labeled me manic/depressive, but what did he know!
I grew my hair out and took up residence at McCree Park in Lake Highlands. I had been medicating myself and was totally out of control. And then it all came to a head. I was doing speed and psychedelics and hadn’t slept in days. I was busted and committed to 9 West: the psyche ward at Presbyterian Hospital. I languished there for six long weeks. Finally released, I rode my bike to Pennsylvania. I planned to head up to Woodstock, but I got in trouble with the law instead.
Back in Dallas, on Labor Day weekend, I attended the Texas International Pop Festival. Sadly, I was doing up hard drugs and dropping acid in the tumultuous melee. I flipped out — big time. The Hog Farm put me in a trip tent under Thorazine… and it was lights out, both literally and figuratively.
Three weeks later I joined the Army. It was either sink or swim.
DC has been a frustrated musician for over fifty years, and now has decided to become a frustrated writer. Learn more at DCDuncan.com. He’ll keep you posted.