Airborne Years Ch. 01: Birth

Do you ever have that feeling that you can anticipate what's going to happen next, and there's not a darn thing that you can do about it? And it isn't pretty. In fact it's downright embarrassing! The type of embarrassment that's going to haunt you for weeks because all of your friends won't stop mentioning it to you, bringing it up at every opportunity, repeatedly laughing at you, both in mock and for real.

Well there I sat, about mid-way up the long, panoramic view of rows in the junior high auditorium, sitting with my friends at the fairly well packed practice for the upcoming music pageant.

As I think back on the event, I remember coming to the realization that puberty is a strange time in an adolescent's life. You do things that just, flat out, make no sense. Well, this was one of those times, but I wasn't the guilty party. It was Cynthia Wellington. We weren't close friends. At the age of 14, most teenagers were just getting to know the opposite sex in a social setting, and I don't think that, outside of the classroom, I had ever spent more than thirty seconds conversing with the girl.

"Miss Wellington, could you please sing the first verse for us so that we may get acquainted with the song?" requested Mr. Martin, the choir director, in his current role as pageant director.

As she stood up, she surprisingly hesitated in her response. For some uncanny reason, I could feel it coming.

"Mr. Martin, I've never sung this song before, but if Andrew Butler could sing it with me, I'm sure I'd be able to sing it just fine," responded Cynthia, her head turning and looking wistfully in my direction.

Wham! There it was, in front of close to 750 middle school students laughing hysterically in the hall. I felt the sting before she finished the word "Andrew."

Mr. Martin quickly began tapping on his podium with the short metal conducting baton. I immediately felt about 1,500 eyes scanning the auditorium, trying to locate me.

"Thank you, Miss Wellington, but I'd like to hear your voice alone, without assistance, please," Mr. Martin responded in somewhat of a condescending tone.

Now I knew that Mr. Martin had no qualms about my singing voice. After all, he had given me the part of "Bill" in this year's production of "The Singing Freshman," in which I'd sung a duet with Sue Taylor entitled "I've Been Places." It was unusual for eighth graders to receive singing parts in the annual musical, which were normally reserved for 9th graders. Sue and I had been the exception earlier in the year, so I knew Mr. Martin was comfortable with my tone and range.

"Old Mr. Martin tried to minimize my pain," I thought to myself, realizing that his quick response took me right out of the conversation. But the damage was already done, and I thought I would never hear the end of it. Immediately my buddies were roughing me up, playfully pushing on me from all directions, calling me "stud," and slapping me on the back. Whew!

I never figured out if she was really just nervous about singing solo in front of our junior high classmates, and admired my voice, or if she had other thoughts of me on her mind. Regardless, it didn't really matter much, since I was going to get ribbed about it from my buddies either way.

So the pageant came and went without further incident, and the end of the school year had arrived without fanfare. Final exams were finishing up for the year. It was the last week of school, and a few of us had gathered after lunch one day in the auditorium, including some of my good friends. Cynthia was there as well, and she had brought a few of her friends along, making it a robust group. I had gotten over the embarrassment that she had caused me earlier in the year, and it didn't really bother me that she was around. I simply didn't care one way or the other. We were all just hanging out, chatting, and talking about our plans for the summer, and beyond.

A few of us were not returning to the junior high the following year, having been accepted to various private secondary schools in the area. Despite the fact that the school I would be attending was just for young men, it was academically above average, with a rich tradition of producing fine graduates that were well prepared academically for college. Many of my friends wondered why I would want to attend an all-male school. Some of them joked and made innuendos regarding my sexual orientation. I would just laugh it off, and then joke right back at them about some peculiarity or quirk about them that I could exploit.

I'd later realize that it was a blessing not having to worry about how I looked in the eyes of the opposite sex, both in appearance and social status. I would be able to focus on my academics, and maintain my priorities. Of course, it wasn't until I was preparing to go away to college that I was given the advice from my father, who had never even graduated from high school, that "There was a time for work, and a time for play, and that knowing the difference would be crucial throughout life." I knew that for many of us our lives were heading in different directions, and that I would likely not see many of them after this week.

As we were mulling around, I walked over to the upright piano sitting against the far wall of the main area of the hall. My father loved music, and had taught himself to play the organ by ear, never having taken a lesson in his life. He had become quite proficient at it, and loved to play "Fly Me to the Moon" by Dean Martin. I was fascinated at how well he could play both keyboards, and the foot pedals, learning it all on his own.

I, on the other hand, had started taking organ lessons at the age of six. That lasted less than a year. I can remember playing with my friends outside in the neighborhood when my mother would start yelling "An-deeeeee" from the front porch, and then repeated it from the back porch, hoping I would hear her and remember that I had a music lesson every Monday at 5:30 PM. My parents felt that it was important that I have a musical influence in my life. In fact, they felt it important enough that they had a teacher come to our home to give the weekly lesson. Unfortunately I didn't see it quite the same way, and missed more than a few lessons while out playing with my friends. It wasn't that I didn't want to take the lessons, but rather I just didn't place the proper priority on them. Even at the age of six, almost seven, it was more fun playing sports, tag, or any of the other neighborhood games. We stopped the organ lessons, but almost immediately I began taking piano lessons instead. My parents were going to ensure that music was going to touch my life in some way.

So I sauntered up to the piano and slithered onto the bench, touching the keys, and quickly getting a feel for the keyboard. My lessons were with a private instructor, and as a result I was never exposed to recitals or performance shows of any type. Yet I was extremely comfortable once centered on the bench, and started playing a few folk tunes I knew from memory. I never enjoyed nor appreciated classical music, and had disliked the typical practice songs like the age old standard "Country Gardens." The last few years I had convinced my piano teacher that I was bored with my lessons and begged him to structure them to something more modern. His compromise was to re-focus his instruction utilizing show tunes, so I learned to play the scores from "The Fantasticks," "Oklahoma," "South Pacific," "The Sound of Music," and several more. Some of the kids started making their way toward me once they heard me playing.

"Play something we can sing along to," they requested, so I launched into "My Favorite Things," thinking that most everyone would know the words. So much for that logic, so I switched over to "Do-Re-Me," which seemed to suit everyone a bit better. I played a few more songs, most everyone joining in, and then it seemed that everyone had their musical fill for one afternoon, and the group was starting to break up.

Before I could push back the bench and stand up, Marco Martello walked up from the other side of the room. I knew Marco, but not well. We really hadn't been friends, per se, but mostly because we ran in different circles. He had been listening to the impromptu sing-a-long, and said he thought it was pretty cool that I could play that well.

"Thanks," I replied. "That's what eight years of piano lessons will get you." It was times like this that I was quite thankful that my parents had forced me to stick with the lessons.

Looking at me with an odd stare, he says in a rather matter of fact tone, "We should start a rock band."

Never had I thought about playing in a band. Now, with a bit of curiosity, I asked him, "Oh, what instrument do you play?"

"I don't," he responded flippantly.

I really didn't know Marco much at all, but certainly wasn't expecting that response. "You're just joking then, right?" I asked, expecting a simple nod.

But instead he looked me right in the eye, without hesitation, and said "No, I'm dead serious. I intend to learn how to play an instrument, and I want to form a band!"

I now had a variety of thoughts running through my head. First, does he really think that he can learn to play a musical instrument on the fly, well enough to play in a band? Second, I knew nothing about playing in a band. I certainly wasn't going to be able to contribute any knowledge on this topic, nor provide any guidance on how to go about it. What I also didn't know, but would soon discover, was that Marco was connected.

As it turned out, Marco's father was a music promoter who worked for the local division of a major production company that handled local concerts. He managed events for most of the local groups being brought into the metro area where we lived, and was the top promoter of the local annual Jazz Festival. Like I said, he was connected.

So within a week Marco goes out and buys a Rickenbacker Bass guitar. I was stunned. "So you're serious," I confirmed, when talking with him the following week.

"You bet your ass I am," he replied emphatically. He had begun fooling around with the 4-string beauty, trying to listen to songs and pick things up on his own. It was crude at first, but slowly he started to improve to where he could play some simple bass riffs. Before long he was banging out a few bass renditions to forty-fives which were blaring from his turntable. He was serious about learning this instrument, and I realized I'd better think long and hard about my investment if I was going to join him.

After a significant amount of debate, first with myself, and then with my father, I emptied my savings account and purchased a Farfisa portable organ and speaker. My dad thought I was nuts, but I told him that it was my money and that's what I wanted to spend it on.

Marco and I were in business... almost. We needed a guitarist who could play rhythm and lead, and a drummer. I knew two drummers from school, and around the neighborhood, and one of them was unavailable, as he was already in a band. So we asked the other one to join, and Lenny Tuttle said he was in. Randy Robbins was a pretty good guitarist, and he also accepted our invitation, and the band was complete.

We practiced at Marco's in the third floor finished attic of his parents' house. We started with some basics, but we pretty much struggled to get it together during the first few weeks. Things were just not clicking. Marco was inexperienced and just learning, although he practiced perpetually and was definitely improving. Lenny was flashy, but he struggled to keep a good steady beat. If your drummer can't drive the beat, the band will fail, and the rest of us knew it. Randy was unique, and could bang out solo riffs with little difficulty, preferring a flashy lead style to the more steady rhythm technique that we were missing. To say that we were all disappointed was a huge understatement. As we dealt with these hurdles, we knew we had some big decisions to make.

Luck was on our side. As it turned out, Ben Paynter, the other drummer I knew, informed me that his band was breaking up.

"You interested in joining us?" I asked.

"One condition," he replied. "Bobby Pratt comes too."

I had seen Bobby play before, and knew he was pretty solid on guitar. Probably more solid than Randy, although Randy was a bit faster and could really finesse the strings. I wasn't sure how Bobby and Randy would mesh, but Marco and I wanted Ben in the group, and we agreed that we needed to do whatever we could to make it work. We knew we'd be taking a chance and that Randy might not go along with it, but it was worth the risk. We let Randy know, and he didn't seem too happy with the news. We explained our logic, and he agreed that we needed to lose Lenny, and that he would do his best to accept Bobby and give it a shot.

Since Marco was the leader of the band, he gave Lenny the bad news. Lenny said that he actually suspected that we weren't happy with his performance, and were likely moving to change things up. He seemed to take the news in stride, packed up his drum set, and called his mother to pick him up in the station wagon.

We had a month left of summer vacation before heading back to school. Marco was going to be attending a different private high school than I was, and Bobby and Ben went to a different public high school. Randy attended the public school closer to where he lived.

We practiced every day for about six hours, six days a week, for the remaining four weeks of the summer. Bobby was into the rock scene more than any of us, which really helped our progress. He introduced us to a variety of artists and songs, and orchestrated the musical details for the tunes we agreed to play. We did some Stones, Deep Purple, James Gang, Uriah Heep, Santana, and GFR to start.

Once we were all back in school, we cut practices back to three hours per day twice during the week and six hours on Saturday. At the end of the month we were tired, sore, and fairly well drained. We were all still too young to drive, so while Ben and I were close enough to walk to our practices, if needed, Bobby and Randy had to always get rides from parents or older siblings. It was definitely a hassle, but we made it work. We kept practicing, and we got better. Bobby and Randy were getting along well, splitting rhythm and lead duties depending on the song. Ben brought a steady, comforting presence to the group, which was sorely needed after having endured Lenny's flamboyant tactics. Marco, Bobby, and I handled the vocals, and it all seemed to be coming together, even better than we expected.

We hadn't had a gig yet, but we were having a lot of fun and enjoying the energy that our music was generating. Word was getting out around town that we had formed the band, and interest started to pick up.

Lisa, one of my friends from the old middle school, stopped by at Marco's, wanting to attend one of our practices. Our first groupie was hatched! After that first time, she would bring her friend Sara, and they would just sit cross-legged on the floor (and no, it wasn't just past 3:30 AM), listening to us for hours on end. We added the Chicago tune "25 or 6 to 4", sans brass, just for them. We also did "Beginnings," "I'm a Man," and "Colour My World." Several of us had a hard-on for Chicago, me included. We knew that playing Chicago without brass was risky, but we didn't care.

One day Sara asked inquisitively, "So what's the name of your band?" to no one in particular. She was just throwing it out to the group as a general question. Oddly, we'd been together practicing for almost three months, and hadn't considered what to call ourselves. So we thought about trying to come up with something clever, like the Beatles had done, but nothing much made any sense to us. We bantered back and forth among the five of us for about twenty-five minutes before deciding to let it rest for a day, with the intent to gather our individual thoughts and try again the next day. Each of us said that we would think about it.

The next day we were gathered for practice at Marco's, and immediately jumped back into the discussion about inventing a name for our band. Each of us threw out a few names, but nothing immediately jumped out at us. The weather had gotten cooler outside the last few weeks, and fall jackets had become the norm. It was the early seventies, and the country was in turmoil dealing with the war in Southeast Asia. The Kent State debacle was fresh in our minds, and Walter Cronkite reminded us nightly about the casualties in Vietnam. Although we were still about three years away from being draft eligible, we were all well aware that we were creeping slowly toward the possibility of being right smack in the middle of it all, but we were young and confused about what to think and feel about everything. Peace signs were prevalent, and I had a metal one attached to a chain that I would wear around my neck from time to time. For me, it was as much about the look as it was the meaning. As I said, it was a confusing time. I also wore an old army shirt as a sort of jacket, which I had picked up from the army surplus store in town. How's that for confusion? A metal chain with a peace sign worn over the top of my army "jacket." The shirt had a name tag that read "Frederick". It wasn't until I was much older that I discovered the irony in that surname appearing on the front of the shirt (derived from German and British origins, Fred/Frid represented "peace" and Rick meaning "power").

While the discussion continued, I stood there staring at the jacket hanging from around the top of a wooden chair. Prominently displayed on the upper sleeve of the shirt was a patch with a "screaming eagle" image sewn into it. Now I know what you're thinking, but no, the thought of "The Eagles," or "Screaming Eagles" was never discussed. Wouldn't that have been interesting? The patch logo also referenced the 101st Airborne Division, an elite army unit skilled in aerial assault tactics. I immediately turned to the guys and exclaimed proudly. "I've got it!" It was then and there that the band "Airborne" was named. Everyone's face lit up, and we quickly agreed that we liked the name.

So with the Holidays fast approaching, our band finally had a name. We still didn't have any jobs, but at least we could reply quickly with our name when potential clients were inquiring. We decided to scale back our practice sessions a bit, with only one shorter weekday practice and one longer Saturday session. We wanted to stay ready for any opportunity that arose, and felt little need to add new songs to our repertoire, while fine tuning the thirty or so songs that we continued to rehearse. Overall, it had been a successful year, and we looked forward to a hot start to the one that was to follow!