In 1981 I played rhythm guitar in a band called Rhythm Ace. I was thirty-one. The other guys in the band were around the same age. Not old guys taking it up again, not young guys just starting out. Just us guys. We covered the tunes of the era— Kool “Celebrate good times come on!” & The Gang; Bob “I remember when we used to sit” Marley; Bob “Momma take this badge from me” Dylan; Evelyn “Shame!” “Champagne” King; “These are the good times!” Chic; Stevie “You are the sunshine” Wonder; Michael “She was more like a beauty queen” Jackson; Willie “On the road” Nelson. Or as Ron D , the leader of Rhythm Ace, liked to say — “We play all the styles.”
The drummer, Lex F, a lanky, freckly-faced redhead, played a solid backbeat that was easy to dance to. He worked for the Visiting Nurse Association. He was already an RN, but going to school part time to get his Masters.
The lead guitar player was a Berklee student, Japanese, Taiji M. He was part of the first wave of Asian students to discover Berklee College of Music. His girlfriend practiced the chant Nam Myoho Renge Kyo. Taiji linked an addiction to cocaine with her practice. It was the only time I ever heard the chant, the mantra, spoken as such things should be expressed, winding up like a top spinning in concentrated intonations so rapidly that the words smeared one into another in a powerful vortex of purifying sound. Like the difference between the Neil Diamond’s “I’m a Believer” and Matkosky/Sembello’s “Maniac.”
When Taiji joined the band, I tried to learn the correct pronunciation of his name. Couldn’t ever quite get it. The conversation between Ron D, in his inimitable Afro-American-centric style, and Taiji M about how to pronounce his name went something like this:
Ron D — “So what did you say your name was?”
Taiji M— “Taiji”
Ron D — “We’ll call you Taj.”
End of story.
Ron D was a Vietnam vet. He liked to say he served his military duty as a ducker.
“They shot, I ducked.” He had been stationed in Germany as well and every now and again, in the middle of packing up equipment to go to a gig he’d come out with a phrase or two in German. Never bothered to translate. No need, really. His sprechen followed by a hearty chuckle would lighten the load. In addition it was his way of letting me know there was more to him than the Kustom bass cab with the foam-stuffed Naugahyde vinyl-covered fabric that we had just muscled into the back of his Olds 88.
Ron D had four daughters, all with names that were a recombination of the sound or syllables of he and his wife’s names. I don’t remember them now, Carron, Corrone, Corenne… something like that. They ignored the band ( we rehearsed from time to time in the basement) and the band ignored them. As the daughters came and went Ron would pester them about their school work.
Me— rhythm guitar, Taiji M— lead guitar, Lex F— drums, and Ron D on bass were the core group. Ron and I sang, and Lex a song or two. It was common for a drummer in those days to be responsible for at least one lead vocal. I don’t know why. Ringo? Phil Collins? Stevie?
Back on Earth there were several other players that would sit in. One was a cousin of Ron’s. I don’t recall his name, first or last. He was visiting from Buffalo on an extended church connection. He played rhythm guitar. His rhythm chops were distinctive. He would play exactly the same part all the way through the song, but it never sounded repetitive. At the same time I found it annoying, as in, can’t you just for one verse play something else?? But I think what he was doing was essentially spiritual in nature, establishing the way of God. It was to be played properly one way and one way only. One time I asked Ron what was up with his cousin and Ron said “He’s functionally illiterate. Product of the Buffalo city schools. They don’t bother to teach you. If you’re quiet and don’t make trouble they pass you on up to the next grade. I doubt if he can even add and subtract.” Ron didn’t mean to be mean, just honest. And suddenly the way Ron constantly nagged his daughters made sense. But also it changed the way I heard Ron’s cousin’s playing. It still annoyed me but I better understood the origination of the sound and it was alright. Everyone has to make their own way in the world.
Sometimes Taiji would not show, so I got to play lead. I have no idea how any of that worked. Ron would call me for a gig and I’d show up at his house and whoever else was there was the band for the night. There was also another Ron, but he went by Ronnie H. I’ll get to him in a minute.
Lex hardly ever said a word. Sometimes he would come to the gig still in his Visiting Nurse blues. He’d set up his drums, then change into jeans and a polyester shirt with the wide collar and funky cubist-style print. One uniform to another. No matter what went down, who was late, whether we got paid or not, however far we drove into night, Lex took it all in with grace and good humor.
We were at a club called Zinny’s, somewhere in the depths of downtown Boston near City Hall. The gig was from 8:30PM to 2:15AM. Everyone showed for that one – Taiji, Ron’s cousin, Lex, me. Shortly after we set up a brother arrived who Ron introduced as our lead singer. All well and good. We go through a set, then another, and by this time we’re having to repeat a jam or two because it was a long night. There were a number of ladies in the house. Late night office workers relaxing. The band was feeling good. I decided to do the introductions, something Ron usually did, but always with more of a mumble, a chore really. Most of the time I could hardly understand what he was saying. I don’t remember exactly but I must have said “Hey, Ron, I’ll do the intros tonight!” and probably Ron nodded. When Ron nodded while we were playing it could mean anything from “I hear you” to “What did you say?”
I started, in fact I was really getting into it, talking about each member, even introducing Ron’s cousin as the “Mystery Man from Buffalo.” At that point I’m not sure anyone was really paying all that much attention— band or audience. But when I introduced the singer, Ronnie H, using of course his full last name as he had introduced himself to me, because, well, he was the singer, the talent, the star for tonight’s six set gig at a tawdry downtown city bar. He was the connection, the metaphor, the stand-in for all those personalities mentioned in my opening paragraph of this essay. I was set on giving him the full emcee treatment.
I continued with my spirited introduction, including that he was from Mattapan, and that he was with the band for one night only. But as soon as I mentioned the name Ronnie H, in particular his full name which I do know as I write this but I am not going to tell you, he turns to me and gives me a look I will never forget. A look that set me straight that I had crossed a line. As he passed me by onstage he spoke in an undertone reserved only for the naive and clueless trespasser that I, in that moment, had become.
Ronnie H said to me in a voice somewhere between a spit and a whisper “No last names.”
He then walked off the stage! Not only that, he seemed to have disappeared from the club! We did the last set without him.
Afterwards, in Ron D’s infinite wisdom, he says to me “Ronnie is facing a couple of outstanding warrants. Child support maybe? Failure to appear? I don’t know what all. Singing is his thing from way back. But right now he can’t afford the attention. Geschafft! ”
Understood too late, but understood.
HinjNoiz 