Dobros and Nationals; Old School Heavy Metal


Looks like  I may still owe $20, so, schtum! 

DOBROS and NATIONALS; OLD SCHOOL HEAVY METAL

 
I GREW UP IN JOHNNY WINTER COUNTRY. When Johnny wasn’t tearing open the sky on a reverse-body Gibson Firebird, the pride of Beaumont, Texas was frequently seen and heard with a crazy metal guitar which sounded like a garbage can strung with barbed wire. Well, I had to have one. And I wasn’t about to let the fact that I’d never seen one (or know what one was) stop me. I ordered a shiny Dobro decorated with clouds and palm trees, sight unseen, all sales final. Thirty years later, here’s what I know now that I didn’t know then:
 
DOBRO IS MERELY A BRAND NAME,
one derived from the names of John DOpyera and his BROther, Rudy, who,in 1927, introduced a metal acoustic guitar with 3 aluminimum “Speakers”. The design was, and is, called a Tricone, and the new company was called “National”. Dobro brand actually came a bit later.
 
OLD-TIMEY COWBOYS DIDN’T PLAY ‘EM
Watch any Civil-War horse opera. Bet your spurs that the cowpokes will ride into Deadwood to the strains of a National steel guitar. Ironic, given that the Tricone, introduced in the era of the Deusenberg, was an Art-Deco technological marvel. Amps didn’t exist yet, so this was the last word in MECHANICAL amplification. Dig into a Tricone with metal fingerpicks, and you’ll unleash a roar sufficient to overpower any Martin D28 or Gibson J200.
 
OLD BLUESMEN DIDN’T PLAY ‘EM
As soon as tube amplifiers became viable, Nationals and Dobros were rendered obsolete in matters of loudness. Under the bed they went, awaiting the blues resurgence of the late 1960’s, when their greasy, back porch Delta vibe was just the ticket for suburban bluesmen.
 

IT’S NOT NECESSARILY STEEL GUITAR. EVEN IF THE GUITAR IS MADE OF STEEL.
“Steel guitar” is a technique. The squareneck guitar lays in your lap (or on a stand) and is played with a solid bar (or “steel”). 
What most of us play is “Slide”.
 
THEY’RE TOUGH TO AMPLIFY
Mic ’em. Preferably with a phantom-powered condenser mic in a solo setting.
SM57s are okay, but SIT STILL!
 
AUDIENCES LOVE THEM
RECORDING ENGINEERS LOVE THEM
CHICK SINGERS LOVE THEM
OTHER ACTS ON THE BILL LOVE THEM
It’s like showing up to the gig with a Labrador puppy.
 
CHOOSE YOURS WISELY:
LAP vs CONVENTIONAL (square/round neck)
BLUES/HAWAIIAN , vs BLUEGRASS/TRAD COUNTRY (Tricone/Biscuit with metal body, or Cone and Spider with wood body)
EASE OF PLAY/ACCESS, or MAXIMUM VOLUME/SUSTAIN (14 fret solid headstock, or 12 fret slotted).
 
 
 
That’s about all you have to think about. Except thumbpicks, fingerpicks, slide material, steel type, and microphone/ amp issues. Oh, and open tunings.  

Rickenbacker for Dummies

Rickenbacker for Dummies

 
   When 70 million Americans watched The Beatles on Ed Sullivan that night in February, 1964, a couple of things happened. For one, the foreign-sounding-yet-built-in-Southern-California “Rickenbacker” guitar metamorphosed from elegant oddity to The Guitar That Every Teenager On The Planet Wanted.(Footnote: George’s choice, a Gretsch, likewise sounded German, but wasn’t.) Oh, the Lads would play Fenders and Gibsons soon enough, but it was John Lennon’s Rickenbacker that stole the show that fateful night.
   Nearly fifty years later (Oy vey!), the Rickenbacker name still carries marquee value, never mind that the quantity of instruments they produced was comparatively small. While many vintage enthusiasts can name the year Fender put 5-way switches on Strats, and can give you a spiel on Gibson volutes, things can get a mite foggy when the subject turns to basic Ricky facts.
By focusing on just four iconic Rickenbacker guitars, a Mt. Rushmore of Jangle, much ground can be covered efficiently.

THE FRYING PAN

Properly, the “Electro Hawaiian”, is generally agreed to be the first store-bought electric guitar. It was a creature of the early 1930’s, when amplifiers were pretty worthless, but, still, there it is. A few Frying Pan bullet points:

*It’s “Horseshoe pickup” (Two horseshoe-shaped magnets surround the strings) is still regarded as the best lap steel pickup, PERIOD. No less than the great Sol Hoopii was engaged to play a Frying Pan for a skeptical patent board, whose members considered the idea far-fetched. The pickup patent was promptly issued.

*The “Fretboard” is scalloped. Knock yourself out, Yngvie.

*The string-thru-body layout, slotted 6-string headstock, 1/4″ jack, and that Horseshoe pickup make for an absolutely viable instrument. The one in the Hollywood Vintage Collection works just fine.

*The headstock logo reads “Rickenbacher”, with an “H”. Deemed too German-sounding in the later 1930’s, the anglicized spelling was adopted.

THE BAKELITE, or MODEL B

The Frying Pan’s aluminum body is said to have caused problems. Tuning? Maybe. Anyone who’s worked with cast aluminum can tell you it’s no picnic, and can show you some scars to prove it. Whatever. The first synthetic plastic , “Bakelite”, became the material of choice for some years. Strong yet brittle, like thick glass, the Model “B” Bakelite Ricky is a beloved mainstay in the world of steel guitars. They really are wonderful. Just don’t drop it.
The Vintage Collection recently restored a Model B with Doc Kauffman’s motorized “Vibrola”. Fewer than 90 of these belt-and-axle driven contraptions were ever built. To the delight of witnesses, it sounds cool as all get-out. Not something you’re likely to run across at the gig tonight, though.

John Lennon’s 325

So much has been written about this little (4/5 scale) refinished (black over honey) hollow (prototype-no holes) axe with swapped knobs and messed-up wiring, that, in the interest of brevity, the highlights of the best current analysis are presented here: The guitar America saw on the first Ed Sullivan Show (The guitar was promptly replaced) was a prototype 1958 that had extra knobs added at the factory, a Bigsby added at a Liverpool music store, was painted black, then stripped in the 1970’s, and was ultimately used at the last “Double Fantasy” sessions. Whew.
Back to 1964: The fine folks at Rickenbacker gave John a new Jetglo 325 in time for his second American gig, and also presented George with:

The Twelve-string Rickenbacker 360/12

Prototyped in 1963, perfected in time for 1964 NAMM, the 360/12 sported a compact headstock, a reverse string pairing that resulted in downstrokes hitting the bass string first, and a sound the whole world would soon know. Not only “Ticket to Ride”, etc., but The Byrds’ Bob Dylan cover actually contained the words “Jingle Jangle”.

We’ll save Ric-O-Sound for another day…

The Night Gretsch Happened



The night Gretsch happened for me was not The Beatles on Ed Sullivan (I was watching, but, at 4 years old, the subtleties of Hi-Lo ‘tron pickups eluded me); Not when I bought my first Atkins LP, even though I used to stare at the Chester and Lester album cover, dazzled by the banks of toggle switches on that white hollowbody; Not the MTV Stray Cats videos. Loved ‘em, but I’d already devoted my life to hardtail Gibsons by then.
  Doug Fieger, the Knack frontman who wrote and sang “My Sharona”, was gravely ill by 2009, and he asked for my help. I work in the vintage guitar and amp business, and my old friend was facing the business of, as the phrase has it, Putting His Affairs In Order. For some months, on Tuesday afternoons , I would leave my work in West Hollywood , and spend a couple of hours at Doug’s Woodland Hills home, attending to the details of liquidating his lifetime’s accumulation of guitars and amps. On Tuesdays, my residency at Hollywood’s Pig ‘N Whistle would force me to get a “Doug Hug”, and head back to The Strip. Weary of watching his beautiful guitars languish, unplayed, in their cases, Doug began to insist that I take a different piece each week, and play it for a small crowd that would never suspect that I was playing a REAL Rosewood Telecaster, a REAL 1961 SG, or a REAL 1952 ANYTHING.
  One night, Doug sent me off into the night with a Gretsch White Falcon. Now, I’m five foot six on a good day, so it never crossed my mind to play a 17” hollowbody. I’d never used a Bigsby in my life.
Well.
Two hours later, every guitar player in the nightclub was high-fiving me, and my life has not been the same since.
I have never known how to really talk about receiving that very guitar as a gift from Doug’s beloved sister, Beth, and her husband, Jim, in the wake of Doug’s passing. But musicians will understand the feeling of falling really, truly, madly, deeply in love with the guitar they were meant to play. I miss Doug every day, and I hope he’d be pleased.

The Blues Jam Diary of a Hollywood Texan

Howdy. This here’s my blog. This first post is something I wrote in 2009, while living in Dallas, for the Texas publication “Southwest Blues”. I now live in Los Angeles, and will be posting stories; some old, some new. Kick back, light an expensive cigar, and enjoy the ride!

The Blues Jam Diary of a Hollywood Texan

(A bit of context: The “newspaper” referred to here is Southwest Blues magazine. The names in the first paragraph are those of fellas who hosted open-mic blues jams in Dallas at the time of publication. ~SA)

You got it easy, Kid.

One need look no further than the centerfold of the newspaper you are now clutching to find enough open-mic blues jams to keep you onstage nearly every night. David Holcombe,
Big Bob Fisk, Hash Brown, Jackie Don Loe, Skeeter Harris, Perry Jones, and Gary Yeoman are among the fine musicians here in Big D who book the venue, schlep the P.A., and provide the rhythm section and backline so a citizen can just sashay in and pretend to be cool for three songs. Such easy access to stage time got me back in the game after hanging up my guns for 15 years, and I’ll be forever grateful.

So, what’s it like in Hollywood?

AND IT CAME TO PASS that I booked a two-week vay-cay in Los Angeles. As I made plans, I realized how very dependent I’ve become on playing clubs every night. I once read an interview with the great Coco Montoya in which he recalled the days when, like Ralph Kramden ‘Away-we-go’-ing with his bowling ball, he’d leave the house nightly toting a gig bag. This has become my routine, so I determined to keep my pace while in L.A. I figured a city of 8 million (and the home of T-Bone Walker and Hollywood Fats, no less) must be “Eat up” with blues jams. I hope.

A QUICK SEARCH OF THE WORLDWIDE INTERWEBS gave reason to be hopeful. Although the online postings were, in some instances, old enough to cut their own meat, many “Southland” nightclubs offered the hospitality I sought. After eliminating Acoustic Jams (No way I’m flying my Dobro), Songwriter Showcases (My originals are an abomination), and Jazz (They left those chords off my guitar),  perhaps  half a dozen according-to-Hoyle open-mic blues nights looked good. I discussed all this with Jackie Don Loe, and he urged me to document and report my findings. Herewith, then, is my diary:

DAY ONE
My Gibsons are staying home.They’re scared to fly, and what with their delicately pitched mahogany necks, it’s little wonder. But I’m covered. My brother in Pasadena has, like every 40-year-old man in America, a Strat under the bed.
   At the risk of catching an ass beating in the parking lot for saying so, I’ll make a shameful confession: I don’t like the venerated Fender Stratocaster. There. I said it. The scale length (too long for my midget wrestler fingers) the snappy-sounding combination of maple neck and single-soil pickups (my signature tone has been called “Sea of mud”), the spring-loaded whammy bar (Hey-you want vibrato, wiggle your fingers, Tough Guy), and the very fact of their ubiquity are all contrary to my taste. Plus, I play fingerstyle (no pick), and a Strat’s middle pickup snags my nails. Boy, did that last part sound fruity.
   Anyhow, the only thing more Texan than playing a Strat is shooting off one’s big yapper. So there. But, bums ain’t choosy, so I slipped a fresh set of strings into my luggage, headed for Pasadena, and a-Stratting I will go.

DAY TWO
My post on Yahoo Groups Southern California Blues Forum prompted feedback from half a dozen well-informed jammers. Some clubs hold so-called “Pro Jams”, where you send in a Youtube link. So I did, and then set out for my first “Play date” at Playa del Rey’s “Prince O’ Whales”.
On my way down to Playa del Rey (A tiny beach village next to LAX airport), I stopped for dinner with my old friend Bob Mothersbaugh, guitarist for DEVO. I pulled up to a parking meter on Beverly Drive, and a gleaming Aston Martin slid in next to me. “You better not ding my rusty Corolla, Beeyotch”, I muttered, only to see Slash pile out of the Bondmobile. Some town.
The Top-Hatted one didn’t join us for pizza, but a Who’s Who of eighties pickers did. DEVO Bob and I were joined by Doug Feiger (The Knack), Jeff Levitz(The Warlocks),  Billy Duffy(The Cult), and The Cars’ Elliot Easton, who is re-recording “My Best Friend’s Girl” for a new movie of the same name. I learned that it’s common practice for old bands to re-do meticulous imitations of their hits, so that the new version gets used on TV and film, thus evading the record companies’ taking 50% of the dough. Good. The dinner ended with the traditional guitarists’ game of “Who’s got the gnarliest Chuck Berry story”. I came in third place. Then it was off to the gig.
   If you took FWs J&J blues, cut it in half, and moved it 3 blocks from the Pacific Ocean (which isn’t a bad idea), you’d have The Prince O’ Whale’s, my first foray. The club has three sections: a bar-bar on the East, and a stage-bar on the West,with the two separated by a covered courtyard. This indoor-outdoor-indoor trick is common in SoCal architecture, where the mild weather makes it viable. Applied to a Honky Tonk, it dodges the smoking ban. Nice Touch.
Onstage, the host and chromatic harpman JT Ross fronted a hot little band. Prince O’ Whales is surrounded on all sides by beach apartments, so stage volume is an issue. Drum brushes, puny amps, and a sign reading “No Cellphone Conversations Outside(!)” set the expectations. It’s the musical equivalent of the grade school “Quietest Kid Contest”. Jammers sign a clipboard. A bit off-putting, but JT handled it in a friendly, efficient manner that made it okay. during the evening, JT went table-to-table asking folks to sign up on his email list, and chatting with jammers and civilians alike. Yes, there were civilians in the joint. I wish they all could be California Girls. That’s all I’m sayin’.
On this night and every night, The T-Bone Shuffle made an appearance. Like me, Aaron “T-Bone” Walker was a Dallas boy who spent much of his life in Los Angeles. In both cities, jammers screw up the take-off to this tune. Ba-dum BOMP, Ba-dum boodie-oom-bum, Ba-dum BOMP. THE LICK HAS THREE CHANGES, PEOPLE! The difference between getting it right -OR- clumsily repeating the “one” lick over the four and five chords…is, as Twain said in another context, the difference between lightning and a lightning bug. Oh, and someone also played “Dallas” by Johnny winter. Funny, I’ve never heard anyone in Dallas break that one out.
For my part, it was a good night, apart from a mean 60hz hum (My Gibsons never do that), and the failure of a guitar strap-the kind with the elaborate built-in safety clamps. My dorky old Straploks never did THAT. But it wouldn’t be jam night without a couple of “D’oh!” moments.

DAY THREE
I drove out to Arcadia on Historic Route 66, to a groovy, Quentin Tarantinoesque joint called First Cabin.
Me: Is there a jam here?
Bartender: Not any more. Last week was the last one we’re doing.
SO- Next stop, “The Office” in Lincoln Heights, a funky Mexican neighborhood on the Western edge of downtown Los Angeles. Here at “The Office”, the house band Sonia and the Situation (Great name) preside over the festivities. Free parking (in downtown L.A?!?), no cover, but $5 Diet coke. Oh, well. It’s mostly Spanish-speaking (I didn’t know until now that Fox News is available en espanol. Still scratching my head over that one), and with a rotating disco mirror ball over the stage, The Office is pure David Lynch. The previous night’s jam had left me with high expectations, but tonight was strictly garage band level stuff. Next.

DAY FOUR
THE VALLEY
A bit of geography. if you’ve only seen Hollywood in pictures, The Hollywood Hills (you know “The Sign”) are a ridge of mountains that form the North border of Los Angeles. Drive over those hills, and you’re in the San Fernando Valley, Mecca of Porn, land of formerly safe and affordable neighborhoods, and home to lots of creative types. Tarzana (named after you-know-who by local resident Edgar Rice Burroughs) is where I found the Club Sixty25 named after it’s Reseda Boulevard address.Now, this is exactly what I pictured an L. A. blues club would look and sound like.  Clean, safe,  pretty girls,  and a band so tight it squeaks . The drummer sounded like he could be in Steely Dan. The other three cats sang in perfect harmony, and the keyboard player can make his Korg/Ensoniq stack sound like the Tower of Power horn section. The music is just so-perfect. Almost not blues, but beyond criticism from a technical standpoint. Think Jimmy Reed Jazz. My own playing is down-home and greasy, so I always feel like a hillbilly in scenes like this – like I’m going use the wrong salad fork. On this night, the club was raising money for cancer research. 100% of tips , half the CD sales, and a buck from every drink sold went to the cause. This is the L.A. I know- so many talented and good-hearted people. Considering the weather, mountains, beaches, nightlife, and showbiz, I never understood the beating this place takes in terms of reputation.
Again with the sign up sheet,and I’m starting to hate it less. In a room full of 50 strangers, a glance at the clipboard informs me that I’m 1 of only 2 pickers signed up. It’d never fly in Big D, but it’s not all bad, I’m telling you. the frontman, Robert Heft, was the Left Coast’s answer to our Big Bob Fisk: the soul of politeness, serving drinks, and working the room like he was hosting a dinner party. To provide an exclamation point on the night, every guitarist in the room played a solo to “Roll Over Beethoven”. They passed the guitar around like , well, like something musicians pass around. And not just guitar solos; this was the only time I’ve ever seen a spoons player take a ride. Pretty good spoons player, too.
The differential in musicianship from last night could induce whiplash.

DAY FIVE 

Thirty miles east of Hollywood , beyond Burbank, beyond Eagle Rock, beyond Pasadena and Arcadia, lies Duarte’s Route 66 Roadhouse and Tavern. The real deal, Man. Packed with the kind of folks on the skinny end of the Baby Boom wedge who wear bowling shirts BECAUSE THEY JUST FINISHED BOWLING. The kind who carry spare dancing shoes into the club, and who don’t blink when I fire up a cigar. No botox or augmented anything, just a smoking jam managed for six years by Richard Trace. Richard is another Papa Bear Jammeister from the Hash Brown school. Look, I got to play “Get your Kicks (on Route 66)” while literally getting my kicks on, and in, Route 66. By this time, I was being recognized by jammers from earlier in the week. This was a good idea.

DAYS SIX AND SEVEN

L.A. doesn’t jam on Fridays or Saturdays. Period.

DAY EIGHT

Puka Bar, Long Beach. Rattan and carved idols from floor to ceiling. Hosted by long-time area drum instructor Lenny Gee, who, like Hash Brown and Big Bob Fisk, hails from the Hartford, Connecticut area. What the hell’s up with that? Lenny’s band is called the Lock Bros., though no siblings (or people named Lock, for that matter) are in evidence this Mother’s Day afternoon. This was an older, “Murph and the MagicTones” deal with only one guitar amp, but it did mark the first time I’d played onstage with my brother (Bill Allen. IMDB him.) since Bush 41, and I had the King Crab at Gladstone’s in Malibu right afterwards, so I’ll remember it fondly.

DAY NINE

Smokin’ Joe Kubek had just played Cozy’s in Sherman Oaks, and I tried to get up at Cozy’s on Jam Night, but no soap. This jam was also getting shut down, despite the SRO crowd and the news crew covering the event. Shutting it down. Like Yogi Berra said, “No one goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.” So I headed further into the Valley to a joint called The Maui Sugar Mill to play with Cadillac Zack. Small audience, but notable for the presence of Bobby “The Guy Who Wrecked America’s Sweetheart Whitney Friggin’ Houston” Brown. Hmm.

DAY TEN

This was the one. Mr. B. Jazz on Hollywood Way at Burbank Boulevard. Luthier Mike Lipe (lipeguitars.com) runs the show. Ridiculously good players, friendly as all get out, tiny audience. I admired Mike’s new guitar, so he let me play it onstage. The bass player noticed my sunburst Mexi Strat, and promptly uncased a REAL ’58 V-neck Strat, and let me play that for half an hour. Then it happened. I’m onstage, mid-solo, when in walks a grinning Coco Montoya. I got SCARED. Not his fault;he couldn’t’ve been nicer, but DAMN. He even put some dough in the tip jar at my feet while I played, a gesture I interpret to mean he wants me to teach him some licks. After getting offstage and feverishly texting some Dallas buds, I pumped Coco’s paw, and told him what an impact he’d had via that aforementioned interview. Blank stare.

DAY ELEVEN

Back to Sixty25. A guy in a concho hat and a Strat denuded of paint ala Stevie played THAT LICK. That shop-worn moth-eaten groove from “Cold Shot” Cha-kong ,cha-kong , cha-kong ,cha-ka kong. Got me thinking about SRV. This guy is up there in what amounts to a Halloween costume, imitating Stevie’s most quoted licks. One old fart offstage griping to me that Stevie was nothing but an Albert King wannabe. Another Stevie fan-FAN!- said that Stevie had “Hurt the blues as much as he helped it”. Mind you, all this was in Hollywood, not Deep Ellum. Stevie Ray Vaughan remains THE topic of argument, adulation, and conversation in the blues community nearly 20 years after his last album.


So that’s about it. Some random parting thoughts after 9 jams in 11 nights in Los Angeles…

*The beret (and its cousin, the hackie cap) is the universal headgear of middle-aged bluesers. That’s fine, but be warned: the effect is not Samuel Jackson, but Buddy Hackett.

*The 2nd-best musician I saw was Coco Montoya. Topping him was Bob Mitchell, the 95-year-old Hammond B3 Super Genius at the Silent Movie Theater next to Canter’s Deli.

*The preferred guitars and amps were exactly what you’d find in Texas. Super Reverbs for guitarists, Bassman Reissues for harp blowers dominated. And Ibanez Tube Screamer overdrive pedals EVERYWHERE. I’m not a user, but I damn sure wish that I was the patent holder.
Strats and Teles out the gazoo, a smattering of Les Pauls, not a single Gibson 335. Orange County, just South of L.A., has been Fender HQ for sixty years, so no wonder.

Nota bene

I made a living playing w/ Lou Diamond Phillips back in the early ’90’s. In the space of a year, I was fired from my own band, run over by my own ’69 T-bird, and hospitalized to get help with…ahem, well, to get some help. I moved to Dallas, got a day job, and my Gibsons hung on the wall from 1993 til 2006. Don’t know why, but one day I put up a Craigslist ad, and ended up neck-deep in Dallas’ fertile blues jam scene. I was allowed by patient jammeisters to “Grow up in public”. Hell, my jams with the Bulldogs landed me a steady paid gig. You can make literally tens of dollars if you apply yourself.Howdy. This here’s my blog. This first post is something I wrote in 2009, while living in Dallas, for the Texas publication “Southwest Blues”. I now live in Los Angeles, and will be posting stories; some old, some new. Kick back, light an expensive cigar, and enjoy the ride!

The Blues Jam Diary of a Hollywood Texan

(A bit of context: The “newspaper” referred to here is Southwest Blues magazine. The names in the first paragraph are those of fellas who hosted open-mic blues jams in Dallas at the time of publication. ~SA)

You got it easy, Kid.

One need look no further than the centerfold of the newspaper you are now clutching to find enough open-mic blues jams to keep you onstage nearly every night. David Holcombe,
Big Bob Fisk, Hash Brown, Jackie Don Loe, Skeeter Harris, Perry Jones, and Gary Yeoman are among the fine musicians here in Big D who book the venue, schlep the P.A., and provide the rhythm section and backline so a citizen can just sashay in and pretend to be cool for three songs. Such easy access to stage time got me back in the game after hanging up my guns for 15 years, and I’ll be forever grateful.

So, what’s it like in Hollywood?

AND IT CAME TO PASS that I booked a two-week vay-cay in Los Angeles. As I made plans, I realized how very dependent I’ve become on playing clubs every night. I once read an interview with the great Coco Montoya in which he recalled the days when, like Ralph Kramden ‘Away-we-go’-ing with his bowling ball, he’d leave the house nightly toting a gig bag. This has become my routine, so I determined to keep my pace while in L.A. I figured a city of 8 million (and the home of T-Bone Walker and Hollywood Fats, no less) must be “Eat up” with blues jams. I hope.

A QUICK SEARCH OF THE WORLDWIDE INTERWEBS gave reason to be hopeful. Although the online postings were, in some instances, old enough to cut their own meat, many “Southland” nightclubs offered the hospitality I sought. After eliminating Acoustic Jams (No way I’m flying my Dobro), Songwriter Showcases (My originals are an abomination), and Jazz (They left those chords off my guitar),  perhaps  half a dozen according-to-Hoyle open-mic blues nights looked good. I discussed all this with Jackie Don Loe, and he urged me to document and report my findings. Herewith, then, is my diary:

DAY ONE
My Gibsons are staying home.They’re scared to fly, and what with their delicately pitched mahogany necks, it’s little wonder. But I’m covered. My brother in Pasadena has, like every 40-year-old man in America, a Strat under the bed.
   At the risk of catching an ass beating in the parking lot for saying so, I’ll make a shameful confession: I don’t like the venerated Fender Stratocaster. There. I said it. The scale length (too long for my midget wrestler fingers) the snappy-sounding combination of maple neck and single-soil pickups (my signature tone has been called “Sea of mud”), the spring-loaded whammy bar (Hey-you want vibrato, wiggle your fingers, Tough Guy), and the very fact of their ubiquity are all contrary to my taste. Plus, I play fingerstyle (no pick), and a Strat’s middle pickup snags my nails. Boy, did that last part sound fruity.
   Anyhow, the only thing more Texan than playing a Strat is shooting off one’s big yapper. So there. But, bums ain’t choosy, so I slipped a fresh set of strings into my luggage, headed for Pasadena, and a-Stratting I will go.

DAY TWO
My post on Yahoo Groups Southern California Blues Forum prompted feedback from half a dozen well-informed jammers. Some clubs hold so-called “Pro Jams”, where you send in a Youtube link. So I did, and then set out for my first “Play date” at Playa del Rey’s “Prince O’ Whales”.
On my way down to Playa del Rey (A tiny beach village next to LAX airport), I stopped for dinner with my old friend Bob Mothersbaugh, guitarist for DEVO. I pulled up to a parking meter on Beverly Drive, and a gleaming Aston Martin slid in next to me. “You better not ding my rusty Corolla, Beeyotch”, I muttered, only to see Slash pile out of the Bondmobile. Some town.
The Top-Hatted one didn’t join us for pizza, but a Who’s Who of eighties pickers did. DEVO Bob and I were joined by Doug Feiger (The Knack), Jeff Levitz(The Warlocks),  Billy Duffy(The Cult), and The Cars’ Elliot Easton, who is re-recording “My Best Friend’s Girl” for a new movie of the same name. I learned that it’s common practice for old bands to re-do meticulous imitations of their hits, so that the new version gets used on TV and film, thus evading the record companies’ taking 50% of the dough. Good. The dinner ended with the traditional guitarists’ game of “Who’s got the gnarliest Chuck Berry story”. I came in third place. Then it was off to the gig.
   If you took FWs J&J blues, cut it in half, and moved it 3 blocks from the Pacific Ocean (which isn’t a bad idea), you’d have The Prince O’ Whale’s, my first foray. The club has three sections: a bar-bar on the East, and a stage-bar on the West,with the two separated by a covered courtyard. This indoor-outdoor-indoor trick is common in SoCal architecture, where the mild weather makes it viable. Applied to a Honky Tonk, it dodges the smoking ban. Nice Touch.
Onstage, the host and chromatic harpman JT Ross fronted a hot little band. Prince O’ Whales is surrounded on all sides by beach apartments, so stage volume is an issue. Drum brushes, puny amps, and a sign reading “No Cellphone Conversations Outside(!)” set the expectations. It’s the musical equivalent of the grade school “Quietest Kid Contest”. Jammers sign a clipboard. A bit off-putting, but JT handled it in a friendly, efficient manner that made it okay. during the evening, JT went table-to-table asking folks to sign up on his email list, and chatting with jammers and civilians alike. Yes, there were civilians in the joint. I wish they all could be California Girls. That’s all I’m sayin’.
On this night and every night, The T-Bone Shuffle made an appearance. Like me, Aaron “T-Bone” Walker was a Dallas boy who spent much of his life in Los Angeles. In both cities, jammers screw up the take-off to this tune. Ba-dum BOMP, Ba-dum boodie-oom-bum, Ba-dum BOMP. THE LICK HAS THREE CHANGES, PEOPLE! The difference between getting it right -OR- clumsily repeating the “one” lick over the four and five chords…is, as Twain said in another context, the difference between lightning and a lightning bug. Oh, and someone also played “Dallas” by Johnny winter. Funny, I’ve never heard anyone in Dallas break that one out.
For my part, it was a good night, apart from a mean 60hz hum (My Gibsons never do that), and the failure of a guitar strap-the kind with the elaborate built-in safety clamps. My dorky old Straploks never did THAT. But it wouldn’t be jam night without a couple of “D’oh!” moments.

DAY THREE
I drove out to Arcadia on Historic Route 66, to a groovy, Quentin Tarantinoesque joint called First Cabin.
Me: Is there a jam here?
Bartender: Not any more. Last week was the last one we’re doing.
SO- Next stop, “The Office” in Lincoln Heights, a funky Mexican neighborhood on the Western edge of downtown Los Angeles. Here at “The Office”, the house band Sonia and the Situation (Great name) preside over the festivities. Free parking (in downtown L.A?!?), no cover, but $5 Diet coke. Oh, well. It’s mostly Spanish-speaking (I didn’t know until now that Fox News is available en espanol. Still scratching my head over that one), and with a rotating disco mirror ball over the stage, The Office is pure David Lynch. The previous night’s jam had left me with high expectations, but tonight was strictly garage band level stuff. Next.

DAY FOUR
THE VALLEY
A bit of geography. if you’ve only seen Hollywood in pictures, The Hollywood Hills (you know “The Sign”) are a ridge of mountains that form the North border of Los Angeles. Drive over those hills, and you’re in the San Fernando Valley, Mecca of Porn, land of formerly safe and affordable neighborhoods, and home to lots of creative types. Tarzana (named after you-know-who by local resident Edgar Rice Burroughs) is where I found the Club Sixty25 named after it’s Reseda Boulevard address.Now, this is exactly what I pictured an L. A. blues club would look and sound like.  Clean, safe,  pretty girls,  and a band so tight it squeaks . The drummer sounded like he could be in Steely Dan. The other three cats sang in perfect harmony, and the keyboard player can make his Korg/Ensoniq stack sound like the Tower of Power horn section. The music is just so-perfect. Almost not blues, but beyond criticism from a technical standpoint. Think Jimmy Reed Jazz. My own playing is down-home and greasy, so I always feel like a hillbilly in scenes like this – like I’m going use the wrong salad fork. On this night, the club was raising money for cancer research. 100% of tips , half the CD sales, and a buck from every drink sold went to the cause. This is the L.A. I know- so many talented and good-hearted people. Considering the weather, mountains, beaches, nightlife, and showbiz, I never understood the beating this place takes in terms of reputation.
Again with the sign up sheet,and I’m starting to hate it less. In a room full of 50 strangers, a glance at the clipboard informs me that I’m 1 of only 2 pickers signed up. It’d never fly in Big D, but it’s not all bad, I’m telling you. the frontman, Robert Heft, was the Left Coast’s answer to our Big Bob Fisk: the soul of politeness, serving drinks, and working the room like he was hosting a dinner party. To provide an exclamation point on the night, every guitarist in the room played a solo to “Roll Over Beethoven”. They passed the guitar around like , well, like something musicians pass around. And not just guitar solos; this was the only time I’ve ever seen a spoons player take a ride. Pretty good spoons player, too.
The differential in musicianship from last night could induce whiplash.

DAY FIVE 

Thirty miles east of Hollywood , beyond Burbank, beyond Eagle Rock, beyond Pasadena and Arcadia, lies Duarte’s Route 66 Roadhouse and Tavern. The real deal, Man. Packed with the kind of folks on the skinny end of the Baby Boom wedge who wear bowling shirts BECAUSE THEY JUST FINISHED BOWLING. The kind who carry spare dancing shoes into the club, and who don’t blink when I fire up a cigar. No botox or augmented anything, just a smoking jam managed for six years by Richard Trace. Richard is another Papa Bear Jammeister from the Hash Brown school. Look, I got to play “Get your Kicks (on Route 66)” while literally getting my kicks on, and in, Route 66. By this time, I was being recognized by jammers from earlier in the week. This was a good idea.

DAYS SIX AND SEVEN

L.A. doesn’t jam on Fridays or Saturdays. Period.

DAY EIGHT

Puka Bar, Long Beach. Rattan and carved idols from floor to ceiling. Hosted by long-time area drum instructor Lenny Gee, who, like Hash Brown and Big Bob Fisk, hails from the Hartford, Connecticut area. What the hell’s up with that? Lenny’s band is called the Lock Bros., though no siblings (or people named Lock, for that matter) are in evidence this Mother’s Day afternoon. This was an older, “Murph and the MagicTones” deal with only one guitar amp, but it did mark the first time I’d played onstage with my brother (Bill Allen. IMDB him.) since Bush 41, and I had the King Crab at Gladstone’s in Malibu right afterwards, so I’ll remember it fondly.

DAY NINE

Smokin’ Joe Kubek had just played Cozy’s in Sherman Oaks, and I tried to get up at Cozy’s on Jam Night, but no soap. This jam was also getting shut down, despite the SRO crowd and the news crew covering the event. Shutting it down. Like Yogi Berra said, “No one goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.” So I headed further into the Valley to a joint called The Maui Sugar Mill to play with Cadillac Zack. Small audience, but notable for the presence of Bobby “The Guy Who Wrecked America’s Sweetheart Whitney Friggin’ Houston” Brown. Hmm.

DAY TEN

This was the one. Mr. B. Jazz on Hollywood Way at Burbank Boulevard. Luthier Mike Lipe (lipeguitars.com) runs the show. Ridiculously good players, friendly as all get out, tiny audience. I admired Mike’s new guitar, so he let me play it onstage. The bass player noticed my sunburst Mexi Strat, and promptly uncased a REAL ’58 V-neck Strat, and let me play that for half an hour. Then it happened. I’m onstage, mid-solo, when in walks a grinning Coco Montoya. I got SCARED. Not his fault;he couldn’t’ve been nicer, but DAMN. He even put some dough in the tip jar at my feet while I played, a gesture I interpret to mean he wants me to teach him some licks. After getting offstage and feverishly texting some Dallas buds, I pumped Coco’s paw, and told him what an impact he’d had via that aforementioned interview. Blank stare.

DAY ELEVEN

Back to Sixty25. A guy in a concho hat and a Strat denuded of paint ala Stevie played THAT LICK. That shop-worn moth-eaten groove from “Cold Shot” Cha-kong ,cha-kong , cha-kong ,cha-ka kong. Got me thinking about SRV. This guy is up there in what amounts to a Halloween costume, imitating Stevie’s most quoted licks. One old fart offstage griping to me that Stevie was nothing but an Albert King wannabe. Another Stevie fan-FAN!- said that Stevie had “Hurt the blues as much as he helped it”. Mind you, all this was in Hollywood, not Deep Ellum. Stevie Ray Vaughan remains THE topic of argument, adulation, and conversation in the blues community nearly 20 years after his last album.


So that’s about it. Some random parting thoughts after 9 jams in 11 nights in Los Angeles…

*The beret (and its cousin, the hackie cap) is the universal headgear of middle-aged bluesers. That’s fine, but be warned: the effect is not Samuel Jackson, but Buddy Hackett.

*The 2nd-best musician I saw was Coco Montoya. Topping him was Bob Mitchell, the 95-year-old Hammond B3 Super Genius at the Silent Movie Theater next to Canter’s Deli.

*The preferred guitars and amps were exactly what you’d find in Texas. Super Reverbs for guitarists, Bassman Reissues for harp blowers dominated. And Ibanez Tube Screamer overdrive pedals EVERYWHERE. I’m not a user, but I damn sure wish that I was the patent holder.
Strats and Teles out the gazoo, a smattering of Les Pauls, not a single Gibson 335. Orange County, just South of L.A., has been Fender HQ for sixty years, so no wonder.

Nota bene

I made a living playing w/ Lou Diamond Phillips back in the early ’90’s. In the space of a year, I was fired from my own band, run over by my own ’69 T-bird, and hospitalized to get help with…ahem, well, to get some help. I moved to Dallas, got a day job, and my Gibsons hung on the wall from 1993 til 2006. Don’t know why, but one day I put up a Craigslist ad, and ended up neck-deep in Dallas’ fertile blues jam scene. I was allowed by patient jammeisters to “Grow up in public”. Hell, my jams with the Bulldogs landed me a steady paid gig. You can make literally tens of dollars if you apply yourself.