Guitar Archeology

I hadn’t played drums since sitting in with Billy Gibbons in Mexico years ago, but the request seemed simple enough. Play a simple drum track on a song demo for a friend in Los Angeles, Michael Jaye. Mike had a Masters in Journalism from USC and we had met at producer Charlie Greene’s office in Hollywood years before. Till now, Mike had been content to be a creative wonder boy in advertising. After his exposure to Charlie’s world he decided to turn his copywriting skills to songwriting and become a rock star via his new act, Tyrants In Therapy. Always willing to help, I agreed to fly in for the session. The drum kit was entire crap. Wobbly stands, funky foot pedal, crappy snare. Mike’s songwriting partner was about eight and a half months pregnant and would play the piano and sing. Mike introduced me to the bass player, who I noticed had driven up in a new Porsche. I was preoccupied with getting the drums set up and didn’t really catch his name but he was friendly and looked competent. We’re doing one song, how hard can it be? It was hard. Really hard, and I sucked big time. I couldn’t find the groove and the time eluded me. It was the worst musical experience in my entire life. It didn’t help that I hated the song. After way too many takes with me stinking up the joint Mike called it a day and joined us in the studio. The bass player was wrapping up his cord and Mike called us together. “Buck is the Gibson guy” says Mike. “Gibson guy?” says the bass player, whose name apparently is Kenny Gradney of that hugely popular Los Angeles band, Little Feat…Little Feat! I showed my musical ass to the bass player of Little Feat! Right now on the charts with the best live album ever, “Waiting For Columbus”, part of the rhythm section with not just one, but two great drummers, Richie Hayward and Sam Clayton? I had wimped out on tape in front of that guy? This was going to cost me, (or Gibson) big time. I pinned Kenny against the wall and informed him that, in exchange for keeping his mouth shut and not telling the music world, and especially Richie Hayward, about this recording session, he could be featured in a big Gibson advertising campaign and buried in instruments. Kenny knew the guitar gods were now smiling down upon him.

I finally had a unique instrument to work with. Since John Entwistle had almost single-handedly introduced the Alembic bass to the music business, Norlin thought he would be the perfect player to evaluate the Gibson RD 77 active-electronics bass. Could we talk to him? Actually, I couldn’t wait to get him involved. It wasn’t about the free instruments. At that point in his career he had a truck full. It was more about the exposure. Gibson has a huge advertising and promotion budget. They can put your face in music stores across the world. They can put your name on an instrument that will live on way past your record contract. This wasn’t a Who deal, this was a John Entwistle deal, and as far as I was concerned, payback for all the things he’d done for me. Like every other picker on the planet, John grew up with a Gibson catalog under his pillow, and now he would be one of those faces staring out from the pages. John and I flew into Chicago and met an assembled platoon of Gibson managers and Norlin brass from New York. It was a strange meeting of cultures. Norlin’s musician-guitarist-expert on the payroll was Bruce Bolen, a Chicago Jazz guitarist looking for his first record deal. Bruce wore the plaid pants, wide lapels and ugly tie and tried to be one of the corporate guys. It was obvious that all the managers knew about the Who and the legendary tales of destruction. They were visibly surprised that Entwistle was such a soft-spoken gentleman. During John’s tour of the offices, people hung back in awe as if waiting for the pyrotechnic finale. By dinnertime John had the group eating out of the palm of his hand. They hung on every thickly English accented word. At dinner we sat next to each other at the table with half-a-dozen other corporate heavies. Toward the end of the meal, John reached out and picked up an expended wine bottle. “Do you know why they leave this little bit of wine in the bottom of the bottle?” John asked. No one knew. “Because of the sediment” he said, illuminating the bottom of the bottle with the table candle. “Oohs”, and “Aahs”. John put the bottle down and returned to his desert. The waiter walked up to the table, picked up the wine bottle and poured the dregs into John’s glass. “Anyone care for any more wine”? John turned to me, lowered his head and gave me “the look” over the top of his glasses.