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Through the Eye of the Tiger. Jim Peterik
Читать онлайн.Название Through the Eye of the Tiger
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781940363561
Автор произведения Jim Peterik
Жанр Биографии и Мемуары
Издательство Ingram
“Well, you might as well try the tone that made this guitar famous,” one of the band members said as he positioned the toggle switch to the center position, thus engaging both pickups at the same time. He was correct. There was the bell-like ring of the famous Fender sound!
“We’ll take it,” I exclaimed, as my dad peeled out the 150 big ones from his well-worn brown wallet. They’re probably still shaking their heads to this day.
The first time I heard the new Ventures song “The 2,000 Pound Bee,” in ’63, I was mesmerized by the sound of that searing lead guitar. It was like no sound I had ever heard—kind of a cross between a buzz saw and an electric guitar. It actually did replicate the sound that the title suggested—a bumblebee on steroids!
There was a revolutionary device that created that magical sound every time a guitar was patched into it; this $100 device, which was marketed by Gibson as the “Maestro Fuzz Tone,” literally changed the face of the electric guitar by adding a snarling sound that could sustain a note until the crowd left the building.
After I heard Keith Richards use this sound on the Rolling Stones ’65 smash “Satisfaction,” I ran out to The Balkans music store and made one mine. Suddenly, I was a complete horn section. I could also mimic the creamy tones of Eric Clapton (then a member of Cream).
I loved guitars. I felt like Aunt Bea on The Andy Griffith Show. Each time Aunt Bea would buy a new hat, she would become a new woman—until it was time for another one. Each new guitar was my new hat. Every time I acquired one, whether it was new or used, mint condition or rough around the edges, I felt that surge of energy coursing through my body.
Sometimes a new guitar would set me off on a twenty-four-hour writing binge. It added spring to my step, a light in my eyes, and a dream fulfilled. “Mother, this is the last guitar I’ll ever buy, I promise, oh, please, please!” In time my collection would grow to 172 specimens, each with a unique story, and each inspirational in its own way.
Do I play them all? Yes, I do. When preparing for a session, I will scan the racks in my home for the perfect one to create the sound I hear in my head for that particular song. For screaming, raunchy sounds, perhaps I’ll grab my Charvel (the small San Dimas, California, company that Eddie Van Halen put on the map. Just listen to “Eruption” from Van Halen’s first album for a piece of sweet ear candy.).
For a funky thing, I might choose my ’56 Fender Telecaster (perhaps the Swiss Army knife of guitars for me—it can do just about anything if coaxed properly). For a dreamy, Jimi Hendrix–inspired ballad, I may choose an early ’70s vintage Stratocaster, similar to the one he used.
It’s not only the sound of these vintage instruments that makes them special, it’s also the vibe they possess and the way they speak to you, and inspire you to play. When I play my ’54 Strat, I become Buddy Holly. When I strap on my original Gibson Flying V, I channel blues great Albert King. People tell me I have GAS—“guitar acquisition syndrome”! Who am I to argue?
There’s a famous Who video in which lead guitarist Pete Townshend violently smashes a vintage Telecaster into his towering amplifier—a Marshall stack. Through the years, Townshend has demolished hundreds of these irreplaceable works of art in the name of rock ’n’ roll. Though it’s hard for me to witness or reconcile this act of destruction, I understand the desire to thrill one’s audience.
One time when I was playing with The Ides in Joplin, Missouri, I threw my own guitar high in the air (as I often did at the end of “Vehicle”). Typically, I would catch it on the last drumbeat, but this time I missed.
My beloved 1968 Les Paul Goldtop went crashing to the floor, shattering its neck. I cried as I picked up the pathetic pieces and laid them lovingly back in the case. I’ve since had it reconstructed, but I learned a hard lesson that night about respecting your axe.
Flashback to my first public performance: I signed up to appear at the Talented Teen Search at the Cermak Plaza in my hometown of Berwyn. The parking lot was crowded with teens, adults, and “golden-agers” that had come to view the spectacle. When the emcee, Leonard Koenke (why do we remember that kind of stuff!) introduced me, I plugged my Wandre into my borrowed Magnatone amp and sang for all I was worth.
“Goin’ to Kansas City, Kansas City, here I come. They got some crazy little women there, and I’m a-gonna get me one.”
When I heard my eleven-year-old tenor amplified through the public address system, I basked in the vibrations that echoed across the parking lot. After I was done, and the people applauded, a cloud of happy dust circled around me, filling my every pore. While it’s true that I did not even place in that competition, my course had still been set. I knew I had to experience that feeling again and again. That performance even put all of my neurotic worries into remission.
From that moment on I needed to perform every week or so just to keep my demons at bay. The spotlight and the applause was the elixir that stopped the momentum of needless anxiety.
My night terrors also subsided. In the middle of many nights I’d had episodes that did not feel like nightmares. They were beyond that. It felt like I was helplessly ascending through space, never to land. It was terrifying and still is when I summon that feeling. Around these years I also experienced distortions of time and space, usually in the evening, when a sound as common as the ticking of a clock would suddenly be amplified, then intensified, then speed up…and up…and up. I never took acid but from what I’ve heard, these experiences were not too different. When music and performing finally came into my life all of this thankfully vanished.
Enter The Renegades, my debut into the rock ’n’ roll sweepstakes. I was in eighth grade by that time, and determined to go up against the Beatles and the Dave Clark Five—or at least to play the Berwyn Recreation Center, make a few bucks, and (maybe) even impress the girls.
I gathered up Scott Sindelar (the enviable owner of the yellow Les Paul Special), and Eddie Skopek on drums. Eddie was the younger brother of Corrine Skopek, who was in my grade at Piper Elementary. Corrine was the one that pursued me determinedly since second grade. Of course I had no interest in her whatsoever. Our band, which I christened The Renegades (I originally wanted to call the band The Masterbeats but my dad vetoed it vehemently for reasons I didn’t understand ’til years later), was pretty terrible. Eddie could barely keep a beat. We also boasted a bass player (whose name slips my mind) who did not know the importance of tuning his instrument.
I guess we were good enough, though, because we convinced my alma mater, Morton West High School, to hire us, pro bono, of course, to perform at the big Fourth of July show at the school’s football stadium. This was big! We were terrified, yet exhilarated, when we hit that stage.
As I prepared for the count-off for our first number, “I’ve Had It,” by the Crestones, I felt as if I was standing on the top floor of Chicago’s Prudential Building without a parachute, screwing up the courage to jump. But jump, I did. And we rocked! “One, two, three, four! Blast off!”
A schoolmate of mine named Larry Millas, unbeknownst to me, was sitting in those bleachers with soon-to-be bandmate Bob Bergland. Larry was a tall kid that I had known since third grade. You couldn’t miss him because he wore pink-tinted glasses. Fully present that day, he was mentally taking notes. I always wondered why he wore those pink-tinted glasses throughout grade school. I figured it was some correctional thing. About a year ago, I finally asked, “Larry, what was up with those pink glasses?”
He said, “I just thought they looked cool.”
Larry was way ahead of the curve with those specs. But, specs or no specs, he was always kind of a cool guy, and in eighth grade, during that performance with The Renegades, he was the one scanning the stage, like a nighthawk, for signs of life. He must have been thinking, That band is terrible, but that guitar guy plays and sings really well. Bob added, “Yeah, and he knows all the chords!”
About a week after that event, I heard a knock on the door. It was Larry Millas clutching