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Dr. Boblog #7
(March - June 2009)
There Is No Dr. Bob ...
The Unsung Heroes of Rock 'n Roll
Steven Tyler of Aerosmith passed out onstage in the town I grew up in - Springfield, Illinois. In some weird, twisted way that I can't explain, I feel that somehow adds to my own rock 'n' roll credentials.
Regardless, at that point in his career - the legendary Springfield concert took place in the early '80s, I think - Tyler was certainly living up to the rock lifestyle ethos espoused in Dr. Boblog #6 of staying drunk 24/7 while still creating legitimate rock 'n' roll.
Undoubtedly, Tyler was probably a little bit more than drunk. At the time he was notoriously infamous as one-half of the "Toxic Twins" tandem with Aerosmith's brilliant guitarist, Joe Perry. Tyler's self-induced mid-performance coma, which precluded him from finishing the show, was a result of serious hard-core partying. Tyler was wasted all the time back then. In an enlightening interview from that era, Tyler confided to a journalist that he needed a cornucopia of drugs (pot, coke, acid, downers, etc.) "just to be able to sit and watch a football game on TV."
Anyway, the night he passed out in Springfield, the Aerosmith roadies had to carry him offstage. I was told that by my beloved cousin, Roger Howrey (an ex-Dr. Bob roadie, more on that in a minute). At one point in his life my cousin claimed to have actually been at the Aerosmith concert. Even though his story contained some fascinatingly realistic details, I never did believe him (exaggeration is big in our family).
Roger eventually recanted and admitted that he was simply repeating what he had heard from one of his college roommates at Eastern Illinois University who actually had been in attendance at the Aerosmith show.
It was a nice try by my cousin who, for reasons we will not delve into here, is fond of referring to himself as the Impostor.
Regardless, the Tyler story illustrates one very important fact about the rock 'n' roll world, namely, the indispensable importance of roadies in all situations.
Roadies are truly the unsung heroes of rock 'n' roll.
I personally can attest to that fact. In my thirty-year career as a journeyman bar band member, I truly and deeply appreciate anyone and everyone who has ever helped me haul equipment out of some Rocky Mountain ski town bar at 3 a.m. in the middle of a blizzard for little or no pay.
Incidentally, my cousin Roger is one of the dozens of people who have roadied for me over the years. Although his stint with Dr. Bob was a brief one, he was undoubtedly one the nicest, most generous, compassionate, and friendly associates I have ever worked with. Roger went on to become an accomplished guitarist in his own right and has been the driving force behind his own band, Velvet Elvis, originally from Dallas and now headquartered in Atlanta (www.velvetelvisband.com).
A roadie becoming a musician is a not uncommon scenario in the annals of rock 'n' roll. Ian Stewart started out hauling amps for the Rolling Stones and eventually got to be their back-up piano player.
Lynyrd Skynyrd had a similar situation. A few weeks ago "USA Today" ran the following item: Lynyrd Skynyrd Keyboardist Dies
Lynyrd Skynyrd pianist Billy Powell, who played
on such hits as Sweet Home Alabama and Free Bird,
died Wednesday at his home in Orange Park, Fla.
Powell, 56, had a history of heart problems. A roadie
at first, he became a member of the Southern rock
group in the early '70s, shortly before it released its
first album. A charted plane crash in 1977 killed three
members of the band; Powell suffered facial injuries
but survived.
Speaking of dead roadies, people often ask me, "Dr. Bob, how long have you been playing rock 'n' roll?"
To which I always respond, "I've been doing this for so long that I have two dead roadies."
I'm not kidding.
The first to go was my longtime comrade and good friend, Larry Foltz, a mainstay in the band's early years (click on "History/Barney Fife Band" to see Larry's photo). He died a few years ago in a nursing home in his hometown of Mt. Ayr, Iowa, from complications related to early Alzheimer's. A true rock 'n' roll warrior whose roots traced back to the music's golden era, ironically, Larry saw Steppenwolf's organist pass out onstage at the Iowa State Fair in Des Monies in 1968 long before Steven Tyler ever dreamed of it.
My other roadie who passed away in recent years was a wiry, high intensity dude of Mexican heritage, Gene Herrera. Herrera was the most enthusiastic, energetic, and optimistic supporter Dr. Bob ever had. No matter what befell him in life, his spirit couldn't be killed. Gene, who partied heavily, took the out-of-focus inner sleeve photo for the Dr. Bob CD "aka Jeffrey Howrey" one Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1998. The next day, after an all-night drinking binge, he went to work at his day job as a groundskeeper at a Park City condo complex. While cleaning the swimming pool he fell in and nearly drowned. Essentially pronounced dead at the scene of the accident, he was nonetheless life-flighted by helicopter to the University of Utah medical center in Salt Lake City. After two weeks in the I.C.U. he miraculously recovered although he was never really the same. He died a few months later from complications due to the incident. Incidentally, we used to call Gene the "light man" not only because he ran the band's light show but also due to fact that anytime anybody dispatched him to go buy contraband, the shipment would invariably come back "light" due to Gene's "finder's fee."
Gene's exploits, along with those of longtime Dr. Bob soundman John "Hype Jones" Gonthier are chronicled in one of the band's better known songs, "There Is No Dr. Bob," the lyrics of which are reprinted below. ("There Is No Dr. Bob" is available on the the new Dr. Bob CD "Back From the Grave.")
"There Is No Dr. Bob"
Verse I:
Gene and Hype Jones had a plan
Gonna make a living on a rock 'n' reggae band
Gene said, "Hype, I think we might
Work the sound and flash the lights"
Hype said, "Gene, my man, I see
You've got the same idea as me -
Move 'em in, tape 'em down,
So the people can move to the rock 'n' reggae sound"
Chorus:
And the heroes have all gone
James Dean died in Vietnam
Michael Phelps is smoking bongs
Paul and Peter too broke to rob
Madonna says her tits are hard
Sue me 'cause I wrote the song
There is no Dr. Bob
Verse II:
Gene worked the counter at the hardware store
Hype was the chef at the yuppie bar
Gene said "Hype, this gig is beat"
Hype said "Gene, let's hit the street
Build spotlights from coffee cans
Speaker boxes so the band can jam"
Hype said, "Gene, this gig sounds sweet
Gonna make a living on a rock 'n' reggae beat"
Verse III:
When the van breaks down, Hype fix it up
Lights fall down, Gene tapes 'em up
Girls get down, shake their butts
Hype and Gene just screw things up
When the night is done you'll hear
Them ask, "Hey dude, how many beers
You had tonight?
You all right?
Can you drive?
Don't get a D.U.I.
Suffice it to say that all of the roadies I have had the pleasure of working with throughout the years (a Dr. Bob roadie honor roll is posted at the conclusion of this blog) have been a resource of huge proportions. Let one final story illustrate:
In the late '80s, the Dr. Bob band played a gig at a now defunct rough-and-tumble Salt Lake City bar called the Dead Goat Saloon that was populated largely by rugby players and their friends. A couple of hours into the show, the band (at that point a power trio featuring myself, Dr. Bob co-founder Bets Conner - Pott on bass and vocals, and drummer Mark Sullivan) went into our regular tribute to the Who which often featured realistic, destructive mayhem and chaos reminiscent of the English band's onstage demeanor early in their career.
We were playing "Summertime Blues"/"Shakin' All Over" when I eventually found myself out on the dance floor. As often was my custom, I took my Gibson Les Paul off my shoulders and slid it twenty feet or so across the hardwood dance floor to a club patron who promptly picked it up and started playing it.
Everything was great except for the fact that I then found myself without a guitar, in the middle of the dance floor with nothing much to do. Looking around, I spied a broken down wooden chair with a leg missing stashed in the corner of the room leaning on a beat-up old cigar store wooden Indian, life size at about six feet tall. For reasons that escape me now, in the spirit of the tribute to the Who that we were in the midst of, I decided that it would be a good idea to smash the chair to bits by beating it on the wooden Indian.
I was perhaps sixty seconds into the effort when to my surprise two massive arms belonging to the Dead Goat's rugby player bouncer reached around me from behind, clamped across my chest thereby immobilizing me, picked my feet up off the ground, and promptly transported me to the club's front door where I was unceremoniously dumped on the other side of the threshold and informed by the six-foot-five-inch behemoth that I was no longer allowed inside.
I protested that all of my equipment was inside and that I need to go back to retrieve it. The door was promptly slammed in my face.
Within a few moments, before I could decide my next course of action, the same door unexpectedly opened again and the bouncer deposited at my feet my roadie for the evening - longtime Dr. Bob loyal associate John "Bish" Neuhauser - with a bloody nose and a dislocated shoulder.
Bish was screaming bloody murder and his expletive-laced tirade undoubtedly could be heard a block away. As it turned out, after the Dead Goat bouncer had removed me from the bar, Bish had come to my defense to protest and promptly been beaten up himself. Bish told me that the crowd inside had gone ballistic when the show was stopped and was in the process of demanding a Dr. Bob encore when he had been removed from the bar.
All of which was well and good I informed him, but we were still left in the quandary of how to get our music gear out of the bar in light of the fact that we had both been 86-ed from the premises.
To make matters worse, by this point two Salt Lake City police cruisers had pulled up behind us in the parking lot having been dispatched to the club on reports that a riot was going on.
Before I could begin explaining to the officers that I was in the band that had been playing inside, had been expelled from the bar, and now needed to get back inside to get my guitars and amps, almost miraculously the Dead Goat door swung open again and about twenty of the bar customers, including several women in high heels, all of whom had been having a great time and were totally bummed that the band had been forced to stop playing, started bringing out all of our equipment and harassing the rugby player doormen for being such humorless, stick-in-the-mud wussies and not understanding the true nature of the rock 'n' roll spectacle that had been unfolding inside.
It was a proud moment for me. I realized that deep inside we all have a little bit of roadie in us. It was the night that Dr.Bob was saved by the volunteer roadie army.
I will always be appreciative of everyone who ever helped us move our gear. Because ultimately, as the saying goes, truly the show must go on.
As promised, the following is an honor roll of the top Dr. Bob roadies from the past three decades (in alphabetical order):
Randy Blatnik
Brad Bubb
Larry Foltz
John "Hype Jones" Gonthier
Jim Gum
Gene Herrera
Roger Howrey
Steve Kasteler
John "Bish" Neuhauser
Jay Nicoll
Collin Reynolds
Bob Skinner
Jim Smedley
Sean "Smitty" Smith
Annie Warburton One final note:
The best all-time roadie song is "The Load Out/Stay" by Jackson Browne (despite the narrator's slightly condescending, pretentious perspective on the rock 'n' roll caste system - superstars, roadies, groupies, etc). Runner-up is Neil Young's "Tonight's the Night."
Roadies rule. If the amps don't get moved then there is no rock 'n' roll.
All hail the unsung heroes of rock 'n' roll! |
