Life At Islands Estates Ch. 24

We drove to Jax on Thursday to scope the ballroom out at the hotel. The place was glitzy, and huge. We were informed that there would be tables and seating for twenty four hundred prom-goers. The stage was big enough for an auto show, so we would have lots of room to set up. The production crew was on hand and they were already hanging lights and piling speakers to a great height on either end of the stage. I asked if The Grateful Dead had been booked around us because of the great speaker array. I was informed that some guitar playing genius from down state had been hired and the radio station was throwing big bucks around to make him comfortable.

"What's that shit all about, Dennis?" I asked.

Dennis shrugged and lied to me. I knew he was behind this but couldn't get any more out of him. Marie kept to herself, because she was in on the whole deal too, I found out later.

A nervous Oriental guy came bustling over to us and asked us what we were doing there. We explained about being part of the band and he whizzed away only to return with stunning Oriental female a few seconds later. She bubbled all over us and asked if I was the Tall Cool Guy. I reckoned I was and she asked how many would be in my party for the weekend. I had been blindsided again, Dennis played dumb, and Marie just looked disinterested.

The Oriental looker explained that they would have accommodations for my whole entourage Friday and Saturday nights but she would need to know about rooms and the menu and all that. I excused myself from Dennis and Marie and the sweet woman and I went to her office where I could get some answers. It seems the radio station was really trying to put on a show here and all the band people and everyone connected to the production were to be their guests for the weekend. I decided a meeting with the rest of the group would be essential so I sicked Dennis on them. I told Ming, what a beautiful name Ming; that I would take eight rooms for my crew and had Marie start rounding up the troops. I also asked to have a brief meeting with the radio station folks just for informational purposes.

Things happened in rapid succession. The radio station promo guy and the station manager showed up inside of fifteen minutes wanting to know what the problem was. I assured them there was no problem. I just wanted to know what the fuck was going on. I got a brief rundown on the kid and his girlfriend's mother and the flap over the prom. Then it turns out that Jeff is the disc spinner from the radio station now and this whole mess was his idea. Things were clearing for me now. Jeff always was a dreamer. He had billed me as the super star of all guitar pickers and put this whole thing together knowing that first night performances, unrehearsed, were some of the best in the world. I remembered the first night I had played with him at Brandy's in Neptune Beach. AWSOME MUSIC!

He showed up and steered me into the hotel bar and we sucked up a brew and I explained that I wanted the musicians in my studio at seven that night, make it happen, or I was out. He didn't even flinch.

"Done," he said.

"I want the stage set up by the musicians tomorrow night at six and dress rehearsal at seven-thirty," I instructed.

"Done," he said.

"Are you playing bass?" I asked.

"I got you somebody better than me," he said.

"Does anybody need transportation to Islands Estates?" I asked.

"I'll handle it," he assured me.

"Bartender, another round here," I said.

Dennis and Marie walked up. I explained the plan. They grinned, enjoying the fact that I had swung into action. It doesn't happen very often so when it does, everybody takes notice. I then informed Jeff that I wanted video of this show and that I would pay for it. Make it happen. He did. Jeff and Dennis departed to contact the musicians leaving Marie and I sitting in the lounge.

"You're getting right into this little business, ain't ya?" Marie probed.

"Might just as well make it interesting," I allowed.

"And just who in the hell is making all the fuss about the show?" A fresh female voice came rolling across the room above the rifle-shot crack of spiked heels on the granite floor, as she approached.

Marie and I looked up and there stood our old friend from The Mill Top, chubby blond Debbie. Only she wasn't quite as chubby any more and she sure looked good.

It was just like old home week on the farm. Turns out she runs the production crew putting on the show and we had carte blanche now. Life was about to get interesting.

"So, Kids," she asked, "you got any special ideas on lighting or sound?"

"Oh, I'm sure the guitar czar has some ideas, all right," Marie answered.

"Follow me," she said, spinning on her heel and heading for the door across the lounge.

We spent a half hour with Debbie exchanging our thoughts and we invited her to the rehearsal that night. She seemed pleased to be included, indicating that she would attend. We located Dennis and departed for Islands Estates.

Arriving back at the estate, we busied ourselves with preparations for the invasion of musicians. We cleared away some of our accumulated equipment and made room for the other participants. Mics were located in strategic positions around the room and we set three of the television cameras on key spots to record some video. I made sure that all the necessary recorders were loaded with fresh tape and did a complete check of the sound mixer board. Marie checked all of her keyboards and synthesizers and Dennis made a big production out of checking all of his special effects pedals and other electronics.

Being a purist at heart, it killed me to hear the beautiful sounds from an expensive guitar being all distorted and bent out of shape, by the insane effects equipment on the market. I simply play the guitar and use my hands to change the way the strings vibrate or use a spring activated reverberation unit to expand the sound, causing it to echo. I learned that listening to my hero, Les Paul.

Rita brought us a plate heaped with sandwiches and some chips to give us a little strength. It was almost six thirty in the evening already and I was eager to meet the musicians. The gate buzzer rang and Billy ushered our first arrivals around the house and showed them where to park. I was just finishing a mouthful of chips when he pushed open the door and in walked Ronny, our drummer, and a tall, fuzzy looking guy with a long, beat-up guitar case hanging from one hand and a plastic cup filled with bourbon and water in the other.

I strode across the studio and shook Ronny's hand and welcomed him. He introduced me to the bass player from Mayport, Dave Fisher. This guy was some piece of work. He stood six foot three, well over two hundred pounds, helped along immensely by the protruding beer gut, long fuzzy brown ponytail, and had a full beard. He looked like he should be reporting for duty with Z. Z. Top. He looked about my age, but the miles were evident. I reached for his hand after he put his case on the floor and he nearly brought me to my knees with his iron tight grip.

"It's a pleasure to meet the man who puts the music to the Marie Stone lyrics," Dave said.

I glanced at Marie and she shrugged.

"Meet Marie Stone," I said, nodding in her direction.

The big man ambled across the floor and took her offered hand and touched the back of it to his lips. "Charmed," he drawled. "I'm a big fan of yours."

Marie batted her eyelashes and mumbled something I could not hear. They both kind of giggled. This guy worked as fast as I do.

He and Ronny lugged their equipment into the studio and in almost no time, were ready to play music. The big bass man had a vintage Moserite bass and a huge old Fender 400PS amplifier. The guitar was unblemished but the amp had seen the wars. After a quick check with the tuning meter, he was ready for business.

"How long have you been playing Dave?" I asked.

"Got my first axe in '56. An old Harmony arch-top. Picked up the bass the following year and been working both since," he said, draining the dregs from his cup. He reached in his case and produced a flask and was about to pour himself a shot.

"Let me get you one," I offered and led him over to the bar.

"Booze and a splash," he said. "And lots of ice, thanks."

"Help yourself," I said. "So, how you know these guys?"

"Your singer, Dennis has been working with an old buddy of mine up in Tennessee," he began. "Every time I see Old Waylon, he brags about him so I drove up to Branson and checked them out. He's good, but he's nervous. You ever hear Waylon play? The notes just flow out of the guy, easy like. No effort or strain, kinda like he never works at it, just lets it happen. Know what I mean? First time I played with him was the night Buddy Holley died, in '59. We were in Moorehead, Minnestoa, at the Civic Auditorium. I've been hooked on his style ever since."

"He knows," Dennis said, from the doorway. "Wait 'til you hear this guy. Waylon wants him so bad he has nightmares."

"So you're Tall Cool?" Dave said. "I didn't know. We're gonna get along just fine, me and you."

Marie had switched on her keys and was tinkling on some of her old original stuff. Dave picked up his bass and threw the strap over his shoulder. Ronny stomped the Speed-King pedal on his bass drum and I picked up my old Fender and we fired up on Good Hearted Woman. Dennis grabbed a mic, no guitar, and we made Old Waylon proud. Dennis had learned how to do a great copy of his voice. Next we modulated into a medley of Buddy Holley tunes, with lots of long lead breaks and instrumentals. We were deeply engrossed in our music when suddenly the sound of brass horns filled the room and vocal accompaniment just seemed to drift into the mix.

I had been so preoccupied with the music, that I had missed the arrival of the others. We took a short break while we each got ourselves a fresh drink and I explained my thoughts on the song selection for Saturday night's concert. Everybody was introduced and we were ready to run through some of the songs.

"Why haven't you turned pro?" Dave asked.

"I'm a gazillionairre, I have more to keep me busy than any man should have and I just never seem to stay focused," I answered.

"You are gifted. It's a shame more people don't get to hear you," he lamented.

"Well, we'll give 'em hell Saturday night," I said.

Everybody agreed. We ran down the list of songs that Marie and I had selected. We eliminated a couple and added a couple and things went great. When we got to the part about the Elvis segment, Dave jumped up and made a few very good suggestions. Dennis would front the show, without playing his guitar until the Elvis show. When we came back from break, he would take over duties on lead guitar, and I would only sing and do the Elvis bit. We would have scarves and a remote mic so I could move around the stage. Dave produced an old cassette tape with some music on it and one of the tracks was the intro music the band played at the Elvis show in Hawaii.

He played it for us so we could all get the basic points and then he turned them loose to play it cold. Marie, Dennis and I had already rehearsed the same basic sound, so it went fantastic. I would wait in the wings for the introduction and then, as the music kicked off, I would stride in and sing C. C. Rider. Stock Elvis trademark stuff, only we'd be really good at it. We did the intro thing twice and I came in and did the song.

When the music goes right, the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I was bristling. Everybody in the room was excited. We'd been playing for over three hours, and I had to pee. We took a break. I had been so wrapped up in the music I had missed the arrival of Debbie and her son.

Upon my return from the potty, Marie, Rita, Camille, and Debbie were gathered at the bar sharing a good laugh. I approached and gave Debbie a big hug and told her I was glad she had finally made it. The three other women stood watching me as Debbie motioned for her son, who was seated on the sofa to join us. The tall youth stood up and walked over to us.

"Tall Cool, I'd like you to meet my son, Steve," Debbie said, smiling.

I took the young man's hand and my mouth dropped open as I stood there looking straight into the eyes of myself, when I was seventeen years old.