The Boy Who Cried Freebird

Introduction

Prelude—A Rock & Roll Fable

River Deep
(Phil Spector and Tina Turner)

Hellhound on My Trail
(Robert Johnson)

Nuggets
(Sixties Psychedelia)

The Sound and the Fury
(Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music)

Endless Boogie

When Harry Met Allen
(Allen Ginsberg and Harry Smith)

The Power of Tower
(Sonic Youth)

Who will Save the World?
(Black Sabbath)

Something Freaky this Way Comes
(Outsider Musicians)

The Monk and the Messenger
(Art Blakey and Thelonious Monk)

Captain's Orders
(Captain Beefheart)

It's How You Play the Game
(Johnny Thunders)

Back to the Fillmore
(the Grateful Dead)

The Steel-String Trilogy
(John Fahey and Leo Kottke)

—A Man Out of Time

—The Strength of Strings

—Bundy K. Blue's Dance with Death

Roundabout

War All the Time
(Richard Meltzer)

Erector Set
(Mekons)

Classics vs. Anthems

Oh Happy Day
(The Edwin Hawkins Singers)

A Lone Star State of Mind
(Doug Sahm)

Taking Tiger Mountain
(Eno)

The Sweltering Guy

The Ballad of John Henry and the Wheels of Steel

Need for Speed
(Car Tunes)

Respect Due
(Aretha Franklin)

Closer to Home
(Grand Funk Railroad)

Diminuendo and Crescendo
(Duke Ellington)

World's Biggest Gong Fan
(George Jefferson)

What Can You Do That's Fantastic?
(Frank Zappa)

A Chance Encounter

High Noon
(Alejandro Escovedo)

This American Life
(Terry Riley)

House of the Rising Son
(Steve Albini)

Requiem for a Cowbell

Tie-Die!
(A Demonic Tale of Psychedelic Possession)

Almost
(Famous)

A True Story
(Jeff Beck)

Spirits, Ghosts, Witches, and Devils
(Albert Ayler)

Ohm on the Brain
(An Electronic History Lesson)

Rock 'N' Roll Heaven
(On Earth)

The Mix-Tape Murder Mystery

Waiting on a Train

Afterword—How to Succeed in the Music Business Without Really Trying

Acknowledgments

Credits

Searchable Terms

About the Author

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

This collection has been carefully crafted for your reading enjoyment. The writing incorporates the use of fables, straight reportage, metaphorical criticism, yellow journalism, red herrings, shaggy dogs, serious artist profiles, the reworking of myths and the updating of legends, first-person narratives, comedic spritzing, fanatic pop humor, and odd social commentary—tales of history and imagination, if you will.

All of which adds up to the elements of contemporary literature, I think.

In my further estimation, this is an extension of the oral storytelling tradition here in America, a fact first illuminated when my producer at
All Things Considered
, Bob Boilen, gave me a platform on
National Public Radio
.

Clearly, this book is a love letter to the music and popular culture of the twentieth century. Any attempt at embellishing these stories with more modern accoutrement would not change the fact that I'm a child of the '70s, pure and simple.

My father, Chuck Myers, was in the record business when I was young, and my life was shaped by a chaotic collision of cultural influences. My uncle, Shel Silverstein, was a personal inspiration, as
was his friend Charles Bukowski. Later, while earning my doctorate in psychology, the teaching tales of hypnotherapist Milton Erickson factored into the mix, as did the theories of my mentor, Dr. Bob Roth.

This was originally intended to be a collection of “reviews as fiction,” a concept inspired by certain record reviews in the early issues of
Rolling Stone
, written by critics like Lester Bangs, Nick Tosches, and most important, J. R. Young. Those fantasias manifested the idea of allegorical commentary via playful, music-oriented vignettes.

Some of my fables have become urban legends, passed on by word of mouth and through the Internet. These works often touch on rock artifacts, when music was universally experienced through vinyl albums (later CDs), concerts, and underground radio. While new digital formats are supplanting older listening modes, there's still something to be said for the tangible experiences celebrated (and spoofed) in this collection.

It is a rare pleasure to reinterpret old American folklore. But, in addition to the murder mysteries, ghostly tales, and science fiction, vehicles for some of these tales came in the unlikely form of glockenspiels, cowbells, borrowed combs, car songs, circle jerks, and subway stations. The song “Freebird” remains an exceedingly familiar allusion to rock mentality in the twentieth century—hence the title of this book.

The sardonic power of these stories is revealed by the uncomplicated observation that some folks seem to think that I'm telling the truth when I'm jiving—and think that I'm jiving when I'm telling the truth. Go figure. While I'd like to think that there is some complexity and eclecticism within this book, my persistent theme is the simple joy of discovery, musical and otherwise.

The potential impact of myths and fables cannot be underestimated, however, and as a result I must reaffirm that some of the characters here are fictitious and are not intended to resemble anyone,
living or dead. A few of the more famous living characters (and the scenes in which they are placed) have been utilized in fictional scenerios for satirical purposes only, as the humor or dramatic import would have been diminished without their iconic presence in these (imaginary) settings.

Certainly, art that was once on the fringe has been absorbed into the mainstream. Still, these stories define what is perennially cool. They are pop tales for brothers and sisters in arms, and for parents to pass on to their children.

For the record, there are some recurring subject matters; these include time travel, pot and drug use, youthful protagonists, damned and devilish things, steel-string guitars, and my ubiquitous hero, Adam Coil.

Ultimately, this book asks the musical question, “Do You Believe in Magic?” If the answer is yes, these stories—the shorter humorous interludes and the longer, more elegiac pieces—will speak directly to you. So, as John Sebastian of the Lovin' Spoonful once sang…

 

I'll tell you about the magic, and it'll free your soul,
but it's like trying to tell a stranger about rock and roll.

 

And that's what I'm trying to do here.

—Mitch Myers

A ROCK & ROLL FABLE

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, Adam Coil was home changing clothes, preparing to go out for an evening of musical entertainment. He was almost giddy with anticipation—he hadn't been to a concert in over a month and was eager to catch the show.

For Adam Coil was no ordinary spectator. He'd carved out a special role for himself in the late 1970s—concerts were his sole outlet for personal expression. It was one brief moment when Adam discovered his calling, but since then his behavior had grown into a lifestyle that he was reluctant to abandon.

Concertgoers encountered Adam frequently over the years, but his appearances had a Zelig-type quality, and people rarely realized that it was the same person. Different times, different cities—it was always Adam. Most folks just took him for granted without knowing who he was or what his purpose might have been. His exploits were recounted until they became embedded in our collective unconscious. In a way, Adam had discovered his own version of immortality.

You see—Adam Coil is the guy who always yells “Freebird!” at a concert.

Yes, no matter what kind of show, Adam is the smart-ass shouting Freebird. And he takes his prank seriously, too. He doesn't just blurt out the old familiar standby—he waits and measures every performance until he finds just the right moment. Timing is everything—he'd learned that lesson early on.

He first shouted Freebird in 1979 at a punk-rock club in Cleveland, Ohio. Pere Ubu was performing, and there was a lull between songs. Adam was drinking with his college pals when he impulsively called out for the southern rock rave-out.

The club exploded with laughter and Adam's buddies slapped his back in support, complimenting his sarcastic genius.

That was all it took. Adam was filled with a grand sense of confidence and from that point on, he made sure to holler for the Lynyrd Skynyrd song whenever he could.

Initially, his friends encouraged him and sometimes joined in on the game. But years passed, and his college pals all went their separate ways. More recent acquaintances tired of Adam's conduct and declined to attend concerts with him. He lost two girlfriends because of his “hobby” and took to going to shows by himself. Adam was the lonely purveyor of his ironic little sport.

Despite the alienation, Adam clung to his strange pursuit and took pride in his behavior. He even had a few accomplishments that he bragged about.

One such incident occurred during a Keith Jarrett recital in Philadelphia. The pianist had just received a thunderous ovation from an appreciative audience intent on an encore. Jarrett bowed before quieting the crowd and sitting at the piano.

Hidden in the darkened auditorium, Adam yelled “Freebird!” just before Jarrett's fingers touched the keys.

The pianist froze, then stood up, and walked offstage without saying
a word—refusing to return. The following day, Adam found mention of the event in the daily paper. He clipped out the article and envisioned compiling a scrapbook of similar achievements.

By the late '80s, Adam had his concertgoing down to a science and avoided any show where the musicians might actually perform “Freebird.” Naturally, country-rock gigs were out of the question.

Adam had other concerns as well. Sometimes he'd be poised, ready to shout out his request, and someone would beat him to it. This irked Adam to no end. There were implicit dangers, too. One night, at Red Rocks outside Denver, Colorado, three zealous Iron Maiden fans cornered Adam and threatened to thrash him within an inch of his life if he opened his mouth again.

All this embittered and emboldened Adam Coil. Obsessed, he kept a list of every concert he'd attended since that night in Cleveland. Sometimes his cry was received with complete indifference, but he'd persevere until another response was finally elicited. Feedback could come from anyone—audience or performers—Adam didn't care as long as he was noticed.

He'd been living in San Francisco for about a year and had only visited Yoshi's jazz club once before. It was a Thursday, and the Sex Mob—a group from Manhattan—was performing. Adam took the BART out to Oakland and arrived around 7:30, where he managed to get a table near the front of the stage. He'd never seen the Sex Mob, but he knew that they were talented players. Adam had also heard that the band's trumpeter talked a lot when he was onstage.

Adam could feel it in his bones—this night would provide him with a perfect opportunity to do his Freebird thing.

By the end of the first set, Adam was ready. The band was quite good and their leader, trumpeter Steven Bernstein, kept yammering between tunes. Adam could hardly contain himself. They had just
finished playing an old James Bond movie theme and Bernstein was giving another long spiel when suddenly, Adam shouted…“Freebird!!!!”

A few people tittered, but the crowd was mostly unresponsive to Adam's quip. Onstage, the band did not look amused. The trumpeter stared directly at Adam as the quartet huddled near the back of the stage. A moment later, they resumed their positions and Bernstein counted off the next tune.

It took Adam a minute to realize that the brooding introduction was actually the melody from “Freebird.” He listened in amazement as the song took shape and built in intensity. The saxophonist took hold of the second verse, and his solo was sad, gently urging and poignant.

The group kept increasing the song's tempo until they burst into a rousing, free-jazz interpretation of the song's climactic guitar flourish. People in the audience were going wild. Many of them had their lighters out and they were standing and cheering while the band played faster and faster.

Meanwhile, there at the foot of the stage, Adam Coil was crying. He didn't know if he was happy or sad, but the one thing he did know was that he would never call out for “Freebird” again.

The song ended and there was a big round of applause. The trumpeter thanked the crowd for coming out and encouraged everyone to stick around for the second set.

But for Adam, the night was over. He made his way back home on the BART and went to sleep round about midnight.

It had been a long day.