Disciple

After seventy-five miles down Route 1, I decided to stop at this little highway dive I had eaten at a few times in the past. The food was edible and the prices were as low as they get in this part of the country. I walked in and sat down at a table covered with a stained lime green cloth. Before I even opened the menu, a peroxide-blonde waitress rushed to the side of the table. She smelled like stale nicotine. Her hair was tied into a sloppy bun on the top of her triangular shaped head. 1

“Hi…” I said, looking at her chest to find a nametag, “Tracy, give me the Denver omelet and a large black coffee…please.”2

Tracy was one of those girls who looked like she was forty-seven but was probably only twenty-eight. Fifteen years of cigarette smoke had formed permanent creases in her upper lip and her teeth looked like pointy pieces of cheddar cheese. Her face was white, her eyes were grey, and her brows were trimmed to look like someone drew two thin lines of Sharpie on her forehead. I noticed that she had a ring on her left hand and tried to picture what her husband would look like. The thought depressed me, so I tried to focus on something else.3

A band was playing about three yards in front of me in a cobwebbed corner. They called themselves The Assassins and were playing an odd mix of covers that ranged from Jethro Tull to Guns ‘N Roses.4

“I’m walking, yes indeed,” Jack Ruby wailed into the mic as he strummed an old Taylor.5

“I’m talking for you and me,” he sang in a thick Texas accent.6

“Yeah, I’m walking!” Sirhan Sirhan sang backup and plucked a walking bass line on his Fender Jazz. Behind them, Mark David Chapman wailed on a nine piece Ludwig drum set and James Earl Ray tinkled the keys. Lee Harvey Oswald played rhythm guitar and John Hinckley banged a tambourine against his leg and danced in a way that reminded me of Davey Jones.7

For someone who hadn’t slept in five days, this was an unnerving scene.8

****9

When I woke up from yet another twisted hallucination that only sleep can bring, I was still parked on the side of the highway. After realizing how long I had been passed out, I left the car and made my way into the restaurant I had arrived at over two hours earlier. I sat down, stared at a pretty young brunette waitress and ordered a Denver omelet a large black coffee and a small glass of orange juice.10

St. Mary’s Tap is located about forty miles north of D.C. in Charlotte Hall, Maryland. I had been driving across the south for the past five days searching for answers to the infinite questions I had about music. Why does music have such a powerful force? Why do more people listen to music than worship God? Why can music produce such a strong, personal emotions in the listener? The south brought me closer to the answers to some of these questions with its Delta blues, freight-train country, and heart-on-sleeve soul. However, I still had not found the root of music’s power and I knew I probably never would. After quickly downing my breakfast, I left for New York where I would take a plane to San Francisco.11

****12

Five days earlier, on the eve of the New Year, I boarded the non-stop red eye from Boston to New Orleans. I was sleeping 3,000 feet above the Appalachians when 2006 ended and 2007 began. I didn’t miss much. The war in Iraq was still raging and hotel heiresses were still receiving more news coverage than global warming. Since 2004 the world had been a rather stagnant place.13

As soon as I landed, I picked up my rental car and drove towards the French Quarter. I put on the Last Waltz version of The Band’s “Up On Cripple Creek” and let Levon Helm’s throaty growl fill my soul and the land around me.14

When I got to the French Quarter I parked in front of the first club I saw and went inside. There was a man playing a cover of Dr. John’s “Iko Iko” on a piano. It was an OK cover, he had a nice boogie line going, but it seemed somewhat cliché. I didn’t mind though, New Orleans was just a quick stop on the way to Mississippi and it was nice to hear some live music before hitting the road.15

When the man at the piano finished his set, I paid my bill and left for Mississippi. It was only six and the sun had just started to set. I figured if I left before the next act, I could make it to Jackson by nine and catch a late night blues show. 16

I crossed over the Mississippi border into Osyka around seven forty-five. The sun had only set an hour before and the sky was a soft velvet blue. I was surrounded by green fields, brown barns, and dirt roads. I looked at a vast field on my right and imagined Son House’s voice booming from deep within the corn stalks.17

As I drove along the almost abandoned Route 55, I slowly traveled back in time. I could hear slaves singing spirituals, stomping their feet to keep rhythm. As I drove further along the road, the spirituals turned into primitive verse-chorus-verse blues anthems. Slowly drums were added and slide guitars provided harmony. The guitars eventually became electric and deep bass riffs added more rhythm to the crack of the percussion. The singing grew louder and more convicted as audiences gathered to watch. Men rose to fame for their natural talents and record contracts were signed. This is where rock was born.18

****19

On the outskirts of Osyka I came across a little shed that sold various musical instruments. I decided to check it out and parked my car in front of a sign that read “Ted Cole’s Music Shop”. 20

Inside, the shop was filled with multicolored string and percussion instruments. Sitars, berimbaus, and psaltries hung from the ceiling above me. The wall to my left was covered with amber acoustic guitars. I walked to my right and picked up a yellow 1957 Fender Telecaster, the kind Bruce Springsteen is holding on the cover of Born To Run. I put the strap over my head and felt how the guitar hung around my neck. It had the beauty of a Porsche and the power of a Pistol.21

Music was playing somewhere above me. “You know you got it – Wahhhhhhhh.” I strummed a few chords and contemplated how Janis Joplin’s brief four-year career still has such a profound effect on rock music.22

“That’s a nice piece of beauty you got there,” the clerk in the back of the store said to me. He was standing behind a glass case filled with various types of strings, picks, pedals, capos, and slides. Black and silver quarter-inch chords covered the wall behind him and a banjo hung above his head. The man had jet-black hair and a graying goatee. He was wearing overalls and a yellow button-down cotton shirt. A tag reading “Richie” hung around his neck.23

“Yeah, it’s its gorgeous; it’s classic.” I replied.24

“Great sound, great looks. I tell you, that’s a fifteen thousand dollar guitar, but you look like you know your shit, so I’ll give it to you for twelve,” Richie said with a grin on his face. 25

“No thanks,” I told him. “I was just passing through Osyka, your store caught my eye.” 26

His grin turned into a frown; I could tell already that he didn’t like me. I knew that he would only become more annoyed if I stayed in the store without buying anything, so I left Ted Cole’s and hit the road once again.27

Despite the long day, I felt fully awake. The encounter with the Telecaster charged me up; it was nice to play something besides the Ibanez acoustic I brought along with me. The warmth of the tube amp I was plugged into and the muscle of Janis Joplin’s voice galvanized my spirit and left my adrenaline pumping.28

****29

On April ninth, 2006 I witnessed the John Butler Trio perform at the Avalon on Lansdowne Street in Boston, Massachusetts. The concert was the most stunning display of musical talent I have ever seen. I felt more spiritual than I had ever felt in any church, mosque, or synagogue.30

The Trio opened with an early classic, “Take”. As soon as the swirling acoustic intro ended, drums and muted guitar created a rhythm that hijacked my heart. Like Santana’s “Soul Sacrifice”, “Take” has a percussion solo that carries the listener away in a sea of bodily drums and a heavy, heaving rhythm. After “Take”, the band left the stage and left Butler alone to perform his masterpiece, “Ocean”.31

“Ocean” uses a vast array of sound to overwhelm and surround its listener. It is complex and climatic with many different layers and levels of controlled sonic disarray. It grabs hold of your ear with sounds that are exciting, mellow, exhilarating, tender, raw, and powerful. At the end of the song, when the roar of the audience died down, a man behind me yelled, “John Butler, you turn music into magic.” I have seen John Butler many times over the years and “Ocean” is always the highlight of his shows. At every concert someone is moved to tears, someone is laughing joyously, and thousands of people are screaming at the top of their lungs.32

“Take” and “Ocean” are two songs that show the greatness the human mind is capable of. Neither song will ever become outdated or overplayed. They are so intricately layered and creative that it takes multiple listens to fully appreciate and grasp the beauty of the music.33

****34

I arrived in Jackson around nine fifteen and drove around the main street looking for a club with live music. I found one and went inside. The band was playing some sort of ambient acid-jazz rock. This was not what I wanted to hear my first night in Mississippi. I wanted something gritty; I wanted real Delta blues straight from a hurt soul; I wanted to see some heartbroken man singing away his sorrows while happy drunks watched on.35

I drove a bit more and stopped at a little bar called Theodore’s Place. There was an old black man inside playing a big metal Fender Resonator. He was singing Robert Johnson’s “Me and the Devil Blues” in a deep, worn, raspy voice. He sounded like he had been inhaling cigars and packs of cigarettes for seventy years. He sounded perfect.36

Robert Johnson was said to have sold his soul to the devil in return for his now legendary guitar playing skills. Johnson’s words and music still inspire artists today. Without Robert Johnson, there would be no Eric Clapton, Led Zeppelin, Stevie Ray Vaughn or Aerosmith. I sat and listened to the performer’s howl and wondered if Johnson knew he would be responsible for creating a new musical genre.37

Johnson’s simple music remains powerful today because almost anyone can identify with it. We have all felt the depression “Me and the Devil Blues” evokes. Its slow tempo recalls a feeling that every lonely person has felt, the feeling that their sorrow will never end.38

****39

Delta-blues is an often overlooked art form. Although the twangy guitar and raspy unrehearsed vocals may alienate some listeners, they add character and a raw feeling. This music is straight from the soul, no frills added.40

Many popular and legendary musicians have found inspiration in the Delta. Jimmy Page based his guitar playing on Sonny Boy Williamson’s finger picking grooves, The Allman Brothers made Blind Willie McTell’s “Statesboro Blues” a hit, and Eric Clapton recorded a full album of Robert Johnson classics.41

On my last day in Jackson I took an hour-long drive out to Vicksburg where I boarded a riverboat and cruised down the Mississippi. The water was muddy and the air was humid. This was the Mississippi you see in movies.42

I left Mississippi early the next day and headed all the way to New York City to visit the home of a demigod43

****44

The Dakota is located at 72nd street and Central Park West. On December eighth, 1980, Mark David Chapman murdered the most talented member of the most important band in music history. John Lennon was shot four times in the back as he returned home from remixing tracks in a studio. That day, the world lost one of the most influential people in music and history.45

John Lennon’s genius was seen in all of his albums and songs, most notably “Jealous Guy”. “Jealous Guy” is simple and tender. Lennon’s bleeding voice and stripped-down piano expose vulnerability, fear, and repentance. The lack of sound makes Lennon seem lonely and exposed. His barefaced emotion reaches out to his listeners and asks them to share his pain.46

I walked past the Dakota and into Central Park. After walking around the edge of the park for a few minutes, I came across Strawberry Fields. A crowd of people huddled around the black and grey mosaic. A bou1`quet of flowers was resting above the “Imagine” in the center of the memorial.47

Every week, hundreds of people of all ages and ethnicities make a pilgrimage to this site. For many, this is sacred territory. I have been to Strawberry Fields many times, and each visit is a memorable experience. This time, a woman broke down in tears and recalled the horror of the day Lennon was shot.48

****49

I arrived at LaGuardia two hours before my flight and made it through security without any problems. When I boarded the plane, I took out my iPod and began to listen to Radiohead’s The Bends. I skipped over the title track and went straight to “Fake Plastic Trees”. “Fake Plastic Trees” begins with a jaded description of corporate England and the effect it has on the people it has trapped. Thom Yorke uses his unique voice to show his detachment from mass-produced corporate culture. His fragile voice, the serene acoustic guitar, and the ambient strings slowly gain strength while guitars, drums, and bass are layered on top creating a multi-dimensional sound. The song creeps to its roaring climax as Ed O’Brian and Jonny Greenwood’s guitars send aural shock waves past the ear and into the mind. Yorke howls in dismay and anger as the bass comes in slow but powerful and the drums boom ominously. Suddenly, the cluttered music breaks off and Yorke returns to his depressed groan, defeated by the electric chaos that surrounded him: “If I could be who you wanted/ If I could be who you wanted/ All the time.”50

****51

I landed in San Francisco, picked up another rental car, and headed to Monster Park. When I arrived, football fans had already started to tailgate even though the 49ers game didn’t begin for another five hours. I stood next to the entrance to the park and looked up at the towering bleachers. Forty-one years ago, a baseball stadium called Candlestick Park stood in this exact spot. On the twenty-ninth of August, 1966 the Beatles performed their last official concert here. This marked the Beatles transition from bubble-gum pop stars to the most influential and innovative band in music history.52

From 1964 to 1966, the Beatles traveled around the world performing short pop tunes for millions of screaming fans. For some reason, the Beatles’ music caused mass hysteria. Their concerts are remembered for the uncontrollable female fans who would shriek, cry, and even faint when they got a glimpse of the Fab Four. 53

The Beatles revolutionized music. Before John, Paul, George, and Ringo played the Ed Sullivan Show, the number one hit in America, “Dominique”, was sung by a nun. “Love Me Do”, the Beatles first number one in the states, was a welcome alternative to the Singing Nun. The Beatles total disregard for social standards and refusal to conform sent a shockwave through the youth of the world.54

After the Beatles retired from touring, their music reached new heights and the band recorded some of the most important rock albums to date. Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band is the best of these albums. For this album, the band recorded under the guise of a psychedelic group headed by a fictional bandleader named Sgt. Pepper. The album is multilayered and multifaceted, yet flows seamlessly together. Listening to Sgt. Peppers, one feels as if they are attending some sort of rock circus complete with acrobatics (“Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite”) and magic (“Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”).55

The best music and lyrics on the album are featured in the song “A Day in the Life”. In this song, John Lennon paints a picture of a sad world that cannot be fixed. “I read the news today, oh boy” he croons, tired of the dreary daily headlines. The song twirls to the famous orchestral build, which breaks off and leads into Paul McCartney’s song within a song. “Woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head,” McCartney sings in a surprisingly upbeat manner, a sharp contrast to the bleakness of the first verse. Eventually, McCartney falls into a dream and the song reverts back to depression; “I read the news today oh boy, four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire.” Slowly, the song builds up and the backing orchestra is enveloped in turmoil. The bedlam finally stops and a piano strikes a chord that echoes on the record for over a minute and in your head for much longer. This song alone is timeless evidence that the Beatles are the greatest band in the history of music.56

For five days, I traveled around the country searching for the source of music’s power. I found many excellent examples of the effect music can have on an individual. John Butler’s “Ocean” send chills through the body, blues music helped desegregate the south, and John Lennon inspired millions with his principle albums with the Beatles and his subsequent solo work. However, I was unable to find the exact root of the emotional control in these songs.57

Perhaps this is because music is different for everyone. What may give me goose bumps and send chills down my spine might make someone else block their ears and change the station. If there is no general definition of “good music” than it is impossible to determine the overall effect it has on society as a whole. Music may be powerful because of the pain that everyone relates to, astonishing musical back flips, or touching, tender lyrics. In any case, music is one of the most important elements of the media in today’s society. It shapes politics, art, and peoples’ minds. Without music, our culture would cease to exist.58