MEMOIR WITH TWIN GUITAR LEADS The Life and Times of The James-Younger Band
by james michael
naccarato
Part 1 - Let There Be Music
To begin
with, let me be clear: I am not a musician. Under duress I’ll admit that as the elder son
of an accordion-playing Italian father, I did learn to play the accordion. This was hardly an instrument popular during
the ‘60’s British music invasion, perhaps because an accordion meshes with rock
n’ roll about as well as, let’s say, bagpipes. After too many recitals and too many hours of
playing “The Beer Barrel Polka”, I begged off my accordion studies to devote
all my energies to the daunting challenges of junior high school. Sadly, I never returned to music lessons of
any kind.
My
brother Rick, on the other hand, is a
musician and was playing rock ‘n’ roll with other neighborhood kids when he was
still in Little League. His first guitar
was a twenty five-dollar Kimberly, with a green sunburst design. Apparently, it was the first guitar for a lot
of musicians; the nostalgia value has it now selling for about five-hundred dollars
on eBay. Our dad bought it at Lafayette
Electronics on Albany Avenue. You
remember Lafayette? It was that ugly,
dark blue, plywood-covered building next to the Evergreen Inn. Years later when they removed all that siding,
it was revealed to be a beautiful FDR-era trolley restaurant that had once improbably
been called the “world’s largest diner”. After twenty-six years in Rhinebeck, they had
moved it to Kingston in 1964, and, for reasons that still remain baffling,
covered it in cheap blue plywood. Today,
it resides in some Wappinger’s Falls’ warehouse, after moving back across the
Hudson River in 1994.
But back
to Rick.
His early
bands often practiced at our house, and the bass and drums would rattle Mom’s
tchotchkes as she tried to watch television directly above their basement
“studio”. She was, and certainly
remains, blissfully unaware that those bass vibrations were produced by future
record producer and Fugs bass player
Scott Petito, whom Rick played with for years. That early group soon graduated
from our cellar to church halls and school proms. Rick was able to convince our gullible Mom
that he needed a better guitar and soon he appeared on stage with the chocolate
brown Fender Stratocaster that he still plays today.
We knew an
aspiring drummer named Jimmy, who was, more importantly (at least to me), my
girlfriend’s younger brother. He and
Rick began tossing around the idea of forming a band. Jimmy enlisted Bob, a car mechanic/singer he
knew, and they, in turn, recruited Kevin, a novice rhythm guitarist. It was 1979, and the original James-Younger Band had been birthed...
sort of.
I had
always supported my brother’s musical endeavors, and since they couldn't use an
accordion player, I immediately signed on as their manager. From the start I had a lot of ideas of how
this band should work. When Rick was in
the band
Storm with Scott Burnett,
Chris Costello, Frank Casciara and Wayne Bryant, they got a gig at Saugerties
High School and I decided I would do lights for this particular performance.
I had
carefully watched the light shows that accompanied bands at The Hobbit,
a weekend “coffee house” in the basement of the Fair Street Reformed Church; I
had been particularly impressed by their strobe light. Okay, it wasn’t really a strobe light. It was a piece of cardboard, with a square
hole cut out of it, spinning in front of a bright projector beam. But the high school kids dancing to “Rollin’
and Tumblin’” loved it, and I thought,
“I can do that!”
My
favorite low-tech effect was a clear glass pie plate with a mixture of
vegetable oil and food coloring projected onto a screen by an overhead
projector. Gently pressing the corners
of a piece of clear plastic swirled the colors, and I could recreate all the
wonders of psychedelia on a bed sheet hung behind the band.
Of
course, it never occurred to me to carefully check the bottom of my pie plate, so, minutes before the show, I found myself
looking at this giant pie plate’s company logo stretched out above the
drums. It was too late to change the
name of the band to Pyrex so I stuck
a piece of duct tape over the offending brand, and the show went on. It was a temporary mood killer for me, but I
have to credit that pie plate for my life-long attention to detail.
Pyrex was still out of the running as a
name, and I began to consider what this new band should be called. I knew I wanted more than just a name. I was
looking for an image: a total package of name, design and style - something
that would specifically call attention and provide an immediate identity for
the musicians. Rick’s previous bands had
names like Storm, Brothers and, no kidding, Fred’s Body. Since southern rock was becoming a strong
component of our early set lists, I wanted something that sounded tougher, more
“bad-assed”. The Outlaws was taken, but, taking a cue from the infamous Jesse
James – Cole Younger outlaw gang, I came up with the name The James-Younger Band.
That
original group played out only once, a Friday night at
Butch Guido’s Long John’s, an uptown Kingston club that routinely
packed the house with the likes of
Travelin’
Shoes and other dance bands. We were
not a particularly good fit and the people we didn’t chase out regarded us as
more of a nuisance that was keeping the juke box off. Before the sting of disappointment wore off
completely, we regrouped to see what the band could do next.
That’s
when I ran into Guy Greco.
Guy was the red-hot area guitarist, probably in
his mind, and certainly in mine. I had
seen him with the jazz-influenced Crosswinds
at Jack Mitchell’s Magoo’s on Albany
Ave, and with his band Third Avenue
at the uptown bar, The Vineyard. Greco’s band was electrifying and so was
Greco. His voice was an R&B growl
that rumbled up from somewhere north of his gut and south of Detroit. Those
distinctive vocals added a coarse conversation to even the mildest melody, yet
he still managed to adapt his sound seamlessly to each song. His high-intensity performances would often
end with Guy, precariously balanced on a wobbly bar table, playing guitar
behind his head or with his teeth. And,
make no mistake, he owned the crowd. Granted,
this was a crowd who made nightly sport of trying to find their car keys, then
their car, then their house. But still, Guy
owned them!
I first
became a fan of Guy’s at The Vineyard.
The Vineyard Bar and Restaurant was on Fair
Street, where Le Canard Enchaine is
today. The three Hewitt brothers, Mike,
Steve and Paul, fulfilled every college boy’s dream when they bought that bar,
and they soon changed the name from The
Vineyard to Hewitt’s. I had gone to Marist College with Steve, and
his bar came together just as my first marriage was coming “untogether”. That I probably spent a little too much time
there may have been a factor, but they did have great entertainment. The late George Montgomery (Remember the Daily Freeman column “Van Gogh’s Ear”?)
hung out at Hewitt’s and arranged
their “poetry nights”. A former Andy
Warhol Factory girl was a regular as was a female “punk poet” who performed
disgusting free verse that for some reason often included references to pizza.
I once
arranged for my friend Walter B. Gibson to host an evening of magic there. He
had been a professional magician, a ghost writer for Harry Houdini and the
writer for The Shadow’s pulp novels.
(“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” The Shadow and Walter Gibson
did. He wrote 282 of those novels.) But
most of all at Hewitt’s there had
been the music and electrifying performances of Guy Greco.
The James-Younger Band was holed up, looking at what to do next,
when Guy stopped in at the Kingston Plaza bookstore I was managing. We talked, got caught up, and I just happened
to mention working on a band with my brother. Guy happened to be between bands and surprised
me by saying that he might be interested. I was thrilled. This was exactly what we needed! Of course, that’s not to say I didn’t have
concerns. After all, Guy was coming from
a level of experience that our current line up couldn't match if you counted
all their hours of performing out put together. If Guy decided to join
The James-Younger Band, I
knew there would be dramatic changes. I
would not be disappointed.
A week or
so later, Guy and his friend, Mike McDonough, a vocalist and bass player,
arrived at Bob’s basement to catch one of our rehearsals. They both agreed that
the band showed promise so we arranged to move our next rehearsal from Bob’s
basement in Saugerties to Mike’s place in Kingston. That night the jam went
great! The James-Younger Band was
now Rick, Guy, Mike, Bob and Jimmy.
Those
dramatic changes that had worried me began right from the start. Guy and Mike
felt that Bob wasn’t working out. He had a decent voice, but he wasn’t
experienced enough to be consistent – not every song, not every night. Now, with lead vocals from both Guy and Mike,
we could afford to let him go. Bob was
out. Jimmy had been his friend, he had
originally brought him into the band, so we bravely elected Jimmy to deliver
the bad news.
The new
four-piece version felt right. We had two strong vocals, solid bass and drums,
and the distinctive sound of twin lead guitars.
Although much more experienced, Guy was always incredibly supportive of
Rick and his guitar playing, even changing “The Sultans of Swing” call-out line
from “Check out ‘Guitar George!’” to “Check out ‘Guitar Rick!’” (I still find
the original “George” jarring to my ear.) It was all coming together even faster than I’d
hoped.
We booked
our first gig at Guys and Dolls, which
is now The Anchor on Broadway. It was a brutal set up. The long, narrow
room, with the band playing to the opposite wall, left barely enough space for
people to squeeze between that wall and our mic stands. The sound was too loud,
unbalanced and distorted. On the plus
side, one very drunk older patron fell in love with the band. He claimed to own
a club in Coxsackie, NY, and wanted to book us.
He handed me his number. I jammed it into my pocket and promptly forgot
about it and pretty much everything else about Guys and Dolls.
We
followed that fiasco with a benefit show at Tall
Hall’s in Onteora.
One of my
high school classmates had been arrested for selling drugs. He had been turned in to the police by his former
(and if memory serves me right, future) girlfriend, and he was facing serious
jail time. Some of his friends had organized
a benefit concert at Tall Hall’s to
raise money to help pay for his defense. We were hungry to play out and made sure we
were included on the bill. The good
news: as with most multi-band events, we didn't have to bring much equipment. Guitars and drumsticks were pretty much the
extent of heavy lifting. The bad news:
we had absolutely no control of the monitor placement. As a result, the band had difficulty hearing
the sound mix, and we were all over the place - speeding up, slowing down,
riffs clashing rather than blending. In
the madness, it became clear that our drummer, who couldn't hear the rest of
the band, was having a serious problem keeping tempo. Maybe it was because he’d learned drums by
wearing headphones and playing along with records. Maybe he was intimidated by Guy (certainly
understandable), or maybe it was just nerves. Whatever it was, there was one hell of a
blow-up after the gig. It got ugly and I
was told “Jimmy has to go!”
Luckily,
I was no longer going out with his sister. (A status that would later
change...then change again...then...you get the picture.) Still, Jimmy was a friend, and he had been
there from the very beginning of the band.
But Mike and Guy were adamant. To go forward, we had to have the solid
foundation of a drummer who could keep time – even when he couldn't hear the
other musicians. It was that same,
awkward “Bob scenario” all over again.
Jimmy had bravely accepted the responsibility of letting Bob go. Now it
was to be my turn.
At the
next rehearsal, I steeled myself and called upon all my powers of compassion,
and managed a terse “Jimmy, you’re out.”
Hey, at least we didn't have a replacement yet, so I didn't have to echo
Brian Epstein’s “Pete, you’re out; Ringo’s in!” Let’s just say that Jimmy didn't take it well.
His parting shot, “Well, if I go, Rick’s going with me!” was met by a long
silence. Rick stared at his proverbial
shoes.
“Rick,
you’re leaving too, right?” A shrug. A glance at the ceiling not to make eye
contact. A slammed door and we were now a
three-piece band with no drummer.
That is
until somehow we got the name Kevin Steuding.
Now,
Kevin was what is called a “professional” musician. He was even in the Musician’s Union. I had
never met anyone who was in the union. I
always thought it was just for The Johnny Napp Orchestra, Buster Ferraro
or Ingo and the Continentals. But Kevin was a gen-u-ine, card-carrying
member; he even marched with the union band in the Memorial Day parade. And now he was to become the new drummer for The James-Younger Band.
I remembered our intoxicated fan
from Guys and Dolls, and called the
number he’d given me. Surprise! Billy really
did own The Clubhouse in Coxsackie.
I booked the band for an extended series of weekend gigs – Fridays and
Saturdays. I figured while the band was
“finding” itself we might as well get paid.
Right off
Thruway Exit 21B,
The Clubhouse was a
cavernous paneled bar which always felt like we were playing the after party at
a low rent wedding. We never made much
money, but we did get more comfortable playing together, learned new music and
worked out arrangements that played to our strengths. We were becoming a band.
My
primitive James-Younger logo design,
a six-gun and holster on a “Reward” poster, was replaced by a new one created
by my good friend and local artist, Joe Happeny. It featured a galloping, masked horseman
waving an electric guitar in place of a rifle. Very cool! With slight updates, that logo has lasted as
our graphic identity for over twenty years, and I still think it looks great.
It was
also in Coxsackie that we found our first enthusiastic fan base. They loved us.
They came night after night, week after week. They either ignored, or perhaps
couldn't tell, when we had a bad night.
They found all Guy’s jokes hysterical, all our songs exciting, all our
music dance-able. Our first groupies
discovered us, and we discovered that the back of our equipment vans could serve
another purpose. As the weeks
progressed, our fans told us over and over again that we should be playing at a
club called Brennan’s on the other
side of Coxsackie. “That’s where all the
big Albany bands, like Northern Star,
played.” So I met with the club manager,
who had heard good things about us, and we planned our move across town.
It was
just a simple story that made the front page of the Daily Freeman. Two patrons of a Greene County bar took their
argument out into the parking lot where one beat the other to death with a
baseball bat.
You
guessed it. The bar was Brennan’s,
and it happened just days before The James-Younger
Band was to play there for the first time.
Brennan’s wasn't totally empty the night
we played, but I guess all those vacant tables didn't impress the manager
enough to give us another date. With
Coxsackie played out, we dragged ourselves back to Kingston.
Next: Part 2 - Further On Down the Road
Guy
agreed. We brought in Rick Bergenson on
bass guitar and vocals, who had recently opened for Styx at the Mid-Hudson Civic Center. And we brought back Joe Martino on drums. We also added Richie Sullivan on keyboards.
It
was a terrific night for me personally as well. My date for the evening was Ruth who, I’m
proud to say, is now my lovely wife. And
also attending, as my very special guest, was my now adult son, James, visiting
from his home in California, who finally had the chance to see the band, and
his Uncle Rick, play. The James-Younger Band looked sharp and
sounded tighter than ever.
