In 1959, when I was nine, I went to the neighbor's house for piano lessons and the neighbor kids came to my house for hair cuts. This exchange of parental "services" resulted in the kids next door looking like new marines and me sounding like a new student of the old piano school. I often strayed from metronome accompanied Brahms and Mozart practice arrangements in a pathetic attempt to play along with the jazzy "Take Five" and "Cast Your Fate To The Wind" while my parent's tried to "Sing Along With Mitch."

My elementary school chum, Michael Brubeck, lived in a classy glassy house in the Oakland hills and had a pop who composed and played cool pop. Michael wore a military jacket to school when, before Vietnam, it was cool for the military to dual. I thought Mike's dad, Dave, played piano a hell of a lot better than my piano teacher. He also looked a lot better than Brahms, Mozart and other deceased composers whose mug shots head lined my music sheets, and in whose finger steps I was constrained to follow.

My classical performance debut, in front of my 5th grade class, got off on a bunch of "wrong notes" that I perceived as merely being inconsistent with where the deceased had bequeathed them. Such disregard for copy cat perfection contributed to my friction free future as a garage band collaborator.

During the 6th grade I was dishonorably discharged from piano lessons and made the liberating transition from visual learner to auditory learner, doing it Ray Charles style - minus the style. Tossing the finger maps of the classic dead, I was destined to follow the likes of the Grateful Dead.

In October of 1963 I attended my first Junior High dance. It was the first time I touched a girl who wasn't my sister or listened to a rock band without the aid of a radio or record player. "The Cheques," a band of four Skyline high guys, dominated in local "Battle of the Bands" combat. Their vocal arrangement of "Good Day Sunshine" proved lethal to enemy bands and teen girls susceptible to 'heart throb.'

On that warm October night in junior high, I found a pursuit of adolescent purpose, and segue to the opposite sex, comprised of the kind of stuff pubescent dreams are made of.

Disappointedly, I soon discovered that achieving my new found life's purpose posed a few technical and cash flow problems. Although musical science had achieved the means of damaging human ear drums with electric guitars, keyboard decibel technology lagged far behind. Furthermore, in the mid 1960s, it was nearly impossible to impress anyone under thirty or offend anyone over forty with the decibel output of a "portable" keyboard and amplifier. However, switching from keyboard to guitar would have severely crippled my chance for fame, fortune, and groupie adoration. With the guitar competition already off to a mega head start, comprised of multiple chords and quick hot licks, there was no catching up.

My first "portable" keyboard was a Wurlitzer electric piano, a heavy trunk sized instrument with screw on legs. If played with too much enthusiasm, or percussion, a keyboard "reed" would break, rendering a note unnoteworthy until repaired at significant cost.

A portable Wurlitizer hooked up to an affordable amplifier could be heard across a modest auditorium, providing the guitarists kept their volume down and the audience gave the kind of polite quiet attention reserved for a small classical music performance.

By the time I joined my first band, in the summer of 1966, I was able to afford a "Farfisa" portable organ. This instrument was lighter, louder, and more durable than my discarded Wurlitzer, lacking only a monkey and organ grinder to complement most of its push button sound options.

A generally preferred keyboard was the Vox organ, used by "Paul Revere and the Raiders," "The Beatles," "The Dave Clark Five," "The Animals," and others of the popular pop top elite. Unfortunately, this instrument suffered a break down defect similar to that of the Wurlitzer, requiring a stash of cash to keep up with repairs. A paper boy of modest means with keyboardist aspirations could not afford such an extravagance without parent or government assistance.

Fender produced an electric piano that suffered few break downs thanks to sound quality deficiencies resulting in minimal use wear and tear and long shelf life.

Mid way through the stint in my second band I traded in my portable organ and Volkswagen for a large Hammond and Chevy truck in a vain attempt to keep up with, among others, the Procol Harum's "Whiter Shade of Pale," The Allen Price Set's "I Put A Spell On You," and Otis Redding's "Try A Little Tenderness."

Notwithstanding the limitations of 60's rock 'n roll portable keyboard technology, keyboard players, unlike guitar players, were not a dime a dozen. It was largely a keyboard player's market, providing even mediocre keyboardist's with performance association options reserved for lead singers and guitarists with good sounds and good looks. This was of no small benefit to the author who, based on a self serving interpretation of constitutional protection from self humiliation, is not inclined to elaborate.

I joined my first band, The Broken Glass, in June of 1966. The name "Broken Glass" was inspired by the Oakland neighborhoods in which the Broken Glass was formed and where broken glass remains plentiful. Robert, the drummer, inscribed the band's name on his bass drum with simulated broken glass, or colored plastic chips. The plastic chips kept popping off during performances giving birth to one of the earliest, yet little known, discoveries in low cost rock n' roll special effects.

While the lead singer wrote lyrics, other band members composed melodies. The connection of lyric and melody infected collaborators with delusions of star studded grandeur. The Broken Glass, unbeknownst to itself, was indeed a run of the mill pre-Woodstock garage band that never made it to Woodstock due to, among other more significant reasons, a junker station wagon that could barely transport amplifiers and instruments across town, much less to Woodstock.

It was often said that the Broken Glass lead singer sounded a lot like Mic Jagger, which I never perceived as a compliment. Hinkie, the lead guitarist, played a few quick licks, but his "other guitar" was a rhythm twelve string. Rodrick Lee, the bass player, acquired bookings and groupies at the Oakland Chinese Community Center where our 'Temptations' imitations, though not tempting, were repeatedly requested and attempted.

The rhythm guitar player's mother, a piano teacher, was consumed with managing our deportment and music. She became concerned when several members got busted for stealing gas for the band's junker station wagon. She was also concerned about my unrepentant dishonorable discharge from piano lessons.

The Broken Glass was infrequently visited during practice sessions by prospective one 'gig' employers. Our most memorable visitor was a "record company producer" who gushed about our "great sound" and invited us to his San Francisco office to "talk business."

We were very excited about the invitation and the prospect of going 'big time.' To make an even better impression we decided to slip into our performance outfits, consisting of shiny green and gold plumed shirts complemented by white dickey insert turtle necks. During our meeting with the "record executive" we were again lavished with compliments and told our future was bright if we invested in it. The record executive had "already" scheduled a promotional debut at a San Leandro roller rink and asked if we had any money to assist the effort. Each of us reached into the confines of our tight performance pockets and scraped up our non spare change, placing crumpled dollar bills and coins on the executive's desk. The loot was promptly scooped into a top drawer followed by an executive order to "get ready for the big night."

On the appointed Friday evening we arrived at the rink bursting to blast ourselves into the big time. The "record executive" hadn't arrived and a bunch of kids were still rolling about, having not yet been told to get off the rink and make way for the making of 'Broken Glass' rock n' roll history.

The rink's top link regretted to inform us that no plans or accommodation had been made for a Broken Glass performance on that, or any other, night. The "record executive" could not be reached for comment, having already skated with our money.

The Broken Glass went on one "road trip" (in a borrowed station wagon) to the central valley town of "Los Banos," translated "The Bathrooms." The promoter had littered the town with large event posters featuring our band name and picture. All other "gigs" were close to home, within junker driving range.

Our egos boosted when our band got boosted on KFRC, a major AM Bay Area rock station. The event announcer advised prospective attendees to "watch out for flying glass from the Broken Glass." We thought it a gas! We particularly enjoyed passing out Rollarena event fliers to selected members of the opposite sex with our band name prominently bottom lining the hand-outs.

By early 1967 the Broken Glass had broken up, but rallied to perform a few more swan songs at an Oakland High 'Battle of the Bands' Assembly. On an historical note, of limited importance, this final Bay Area performance of the Broken Glass, in 1967, was preceded just one year earlier by the final Bay Area performance of the Beatles, in 1966. However the 'last public performance' of the Broken Glass, unlike that of the Beatles, was not followed by a series of albums or even a dam single!

The final performance did result in a 'Battle of the Bands' win in the first of a three stage competition conducted at different Bay Area high schools. These elimination events were sponsored by the then 'groovy,' now 'oldies,' Bay Area rock station KFRC. Winning bands at the high school stage moved on to the second stage, located in a tiny auditorium in San Francisco. Three judges, with cotton stuffed ears, sat out front taking in and making notes. My new band, The System of Soul, employed a temporary alias in the wake of a broken up Broken Glass, entering second stage right as the "Broken Glass (reincarnate)," only to be judiciously swept off and the name 'Broken Glass' relegated to the dust bin of 60's garage band history.

One Oakland band, "Rain," made it on to the coveted third stage, located in San Francisco's Civic Center. Rain was a darling of the Oakland hill top's Skyline High. The Rain, and other finalist bands, shared the stage with the "Seeds," a band of four with a hard driving nasal sound and several short lived bottom feeders on the "Top 50." Richard, Rain's lead singer and rhythm guitar player, acknowledged having visual and auditory digestion problems with the Seeds. None of us could stomach their sound. When the "Seedlings," as Richard called them, slid around stage during their "celebrity guest performance," their white tight levy's picked up floor grime giving them a rather tarnished look. I suspected their celebrity soiled pants were being sold to an advertising agency specializing in name band 'before' & 'after' laundry detergent commercials.

Many Band Battle judges were radio disk jockey's, not well practiced in rendering first place decisions about which garage band sounded the most like which record label band. At a 1968 'Battle of the Bands' competition in Piedmont a "first place" judgment was rendered, and jockey judge returned to his work station, before all competing bands could launch their plagiarized sounds. Mercifully the rush to judgment, and back to the air waves, wasn't discovered until all performers had experienced the catharsis of competition.

My first girl friend, and first daughter of Oakland's Fire Chief, encouraged me to drop the Broken Glass and pick up with The System of Soul. The guys in my new band were not

so much into making it big as making it local. Unlike the Mic Jagger "style" singer of Broken Glass limited fame, the System of Soul's lead, Terry, had the strength of voice and lungs to competently carry his notes, with enough wind left over to blow a sax. The lead guitar player, Gary, played average guitar weekends and delivered regular milk week days. He had an incurable fondness for soul instrumentals featuring guitar and organ. Gary talked me into dumping my small portable Farfisa, getting a Hammond, and running his wife, Peggy, down to the 1967 Monterey pop festival while he ran a milk run. Peggy and I spent the day with Janis Joplin, The Who, and others who indulged the auditory and visual infatuations of aspiring young counter-culture recruits.

I knew how to "Just say no," and often did, long before Nancy Reagan taught us how. My ability as a "designated driver" was put to the test after late night gigs that occasionally ended with our bass player plucking out his final notes while flat on his back. Even under the influence of the fermented spirit (etc.) he rarely missed a note or beat, suggesting that practice really does make perfect. Not only could I walk and drive in a straight line 'after hours,' I also drove a Chevy pick-up, the perfect conveyance for designated drivers who hate stubborn upholstery stains and enjoy the convenience of cleaning with a hose.

Terry was wearing his replica James Brown cumber bun the night he met his wife-to-be at a Hayward recreation center performance. His good looks, charm, and good voice provided him with numerous presidential opportunities. A seeming multitude of temptations clamored to join in his off stage acts.

The System of Soul often performed at the, now extinct, 'Enlisted Man's Club' on San Francisco's Treasure Island, a Navy dive where the lead guitar player's wife was persistently enlisted by the enlisted to perform. Her performances regularly drew a swarm of smarmy swabbies. One night, during the latter part of her pregnancy, she ambled over to the edge of the stage and belted out her husky rendition of "Shot Gun." Her abdomen stuck out so far it resembled a basketball storage receptacle. Several of our country's salt water finest crept up front for a peek. This was, however, before "sex education" had become a standard component of our nation's secondary school curriculum, suggesting uninformed curiosity as the likely motivation for such salty behavior. Or perhaps some of these peeping Popeye's were merely exhibiting the curiosity of amateur basketball players?

Many of the Treasure Island guys didn't like guys with long hair, not even as a source of entertainment. The Island's Military Police were empowered to arrest sailor aggression before it escalated beyond verbal harassment. A special band arrangement of the "Popeye" theme, featuring a naughty nautical "TOOT TOOT," attracted a lot of well deserved attention that brought our MP protectors to the rescue. We found considerable comfort knowing our garage band was shielded from the horrors of domestic military aggression.

In '67 and '68 "Rain" was arguably Skyline High's most popular band. Because it lacked an organ I sought to be attached. After sharing a musical moment in my parent's garage, in the late summer of '67, a new star was born. From my Broken Glass humble beginnings I had ascended to the top of the Oakland hills high school band chart where I enjoyed the magical mystery experience of sudden popularity by association. My senior year was comprised of the kind of stuff my once pubescent dreams were made of.

Richard, the lead singer and rhythm guitarist, could seemingly sing, strum, and good looks his way into the heart (etc.) of most heterosexual females with normal vision and hormone levels. Juan could make his guitar sound like real Cream and his Purple Haze like authentic purple. When he played "Who," it was obvious he knew his Who. Scott was considered by many to be the best drummer on both sides of the neighborhood high school boundary line. He took his early music lessons seriously and had a professionally honed edge over other drummers who started out banging on pots and pans in the wake of Ringo, and company's, TV debut on the Ed Sullivan Show. John was a highly regarded low key bass player.

Consistent with the pubescent dream scheme of things, the girl in my science class couldn't decide if she wanted to date me, a minor player in Rain, or a major player on the football team. The football guy made the touch down, but it was exciting to even be considered for the position. A year earlier the same girl would have likely mistaken me for a classroom waste basket. It was indeed popularity by association with plenty of groupie fish to fry. I felt like, "Hey hey we're the Monkeys," at least when it came to opportunities for monkeying around. However, I was more a "Johnny's Girl" kind of guy, limiting myself to monogamous smooching prior to the advent of sex education.

Rain's drummer, Scott, was a teen musician with an ego refreshingly equal to his talent, as aptly demonstrated at a school sponsored 'Battle Of The Drummers' where Skyline's lanky drummer boy took on some other school's dead beat. There was never any doubt that Rain's drummer would retain his reign as teen king of sticks.

Juan seemed mesmerized by the "special effects" of the "Who," who he tirelessly tried to emulate while insisting the rest of us do likewise. I unsuccessfully argued that Rain lacked the pyrotechnic means, or expertise, to simulate the pyrotechnic special effects of the "Who." During my time in the Rain I sometimes longed for a more simple time when band member satisfaction could be derived from life's simple pleasures, like the sight and sound of plastic chips popping off a bass drum.

During a Spring, '68 Skyline high assembly I broke out in a sweat of embarrassment when Juan and Richard set off a cheap smoke bomb during a "Who" number. Rain's 'special effect' smoke ball rolled around stage huffing and puffing little whiffs of smoke before snuffing out. This pyro nontechnic display of hilarity was a source of comic relief for many and comic grief for one. I was sure this spectacle reaffirmed for the girl in my science class that she'd made the right choice in touching down with the football player instead of Rain's, now smoke tainted, organ player. By loony tune's end I felt more a Monkey than a Who, having discovered the steep down side of 'popularity by association.' Scott, who was as intelligent as he was talented, got out of the Rain just in time to avoid getting smoked.

Juan once shared a fantasy from his early guitar playing days. Reportedly, while attending weekend dances at Oakland's St. Elizabeth High, he fantasized that the featured band's lead guitarist suddenly took ill and had to be carried off stage. Following this tragic event someone desperately grabs a microphone and asks, "Is there a guitar player in the house?" Juan imagined himself stepping up on stage, strapping on the dying kid's guitar, and rescuing the night with a slew of lightening fingered hot licks while launching his career and social life into the local stratosphere.

I fantasized (further) that the, largely Catholic, St. Elizabeth dance crowd suffered significant guilt and emotional conflict associated with the replacement of a dead guitar player with a wild alive new super star, destined to become a primary topic of conversation at teeny bopper pajama parties.

As partially evidenced by the staged smoke bomb incident, Juan's and Richard's fantasies often conflicted with my "uncool" pragmatism. Juan was not shy about directing a mid fingered gesture my way when I complained too loudly about the down side of public humiliation.

Juan and Richard rightfully had their own complaints about me, having repeatedly asked me to bang on a tambourine and bounce around during performances, which I refused to do. Perhaps it was the ghostly grip of deceased childhood music sheet composers that kept my ass firmly attached to my organ bench, which likely cost me a place in 1968's 'Who's like Who.'

My conflict with Rain's major players eventually resulted in their initiating elective organ surgery, leaving my organ and I in search of another host band. Because my senior year had ended there was no embarrassment, or loss of popularity, associated with my organ detachment. Rain broke up shortly thereafter, causing me to fantasize an autopsy report attributing Rain's demise to "a loss of critical organ function."

I entered the Gates of Eden through introduction by one of my white System of Soul brothers. Due to university and work conflicts, it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain my commitment to rock 'n roll. Eden's leader remained committed to writing, playing, and doing home grown stuff. He claimed that listening to jazz, while doing homework, helped his concentration. I, on the other hand, could barely concentrate on brushing my purple teeth while listening to acid rock in purple strobe lit bathrooms.

Several Eden band members liked stoking up their creativity with a toke or two, or more, before performing in the public eye. My "designated driver" offer was rejected due to a burned out tail light and the anticipated odor of burning vegetation, considered a high risk recipe for getting burned by the cops. My head was dancing with visions of old Driver Ed movies where 'one toke over the yellow line' translated into Gates of Eden admission to the gates at San Leandro Eden Medical Center, or maybe even 'them pearly gates.'

Eden played a one night gig at a Hayward club, previously played by the System of Soul. Our repertoire evoked an eruption of patron protest reflecting an intolerance for the sounds of the 'counter culture,' including Jefferson Airplane's "one pill makes you larger and another makes you small." Perhaps now, several decades later, some of the guys in that crowd are urgently seeking the "one pill (that) makes you larger."

In Castro Valley, out behind the practice barn, grew some large plants not appreciated at the time for their medicinal properties, but appreciated by law enforcement for their incarceration and confiscation of property properties.

In spite of the band's egg carton sound proofing, too many decibels slipped through the cracks and into the ears of a certain neighbor and source of "noise complaints" to local authorities. I had difficulty understanding why a burned out tail light was of more concern than the risks associated with growing forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden.

One evening I had an opportunity to "jam" with some players outside the 'Gate' and consider the prospect of playing a few independent gigs. When word of this got back to the barn I was judged to have partaken of a forbidden jam and was cast out forever from the Gates of Eden.

Several months later I was allowed back in the barn as a guest performer. After a note worthy reunion we engaged in friendly chatter during which it was divined that my Astrological sign was incompatible with that of other band members. Although the stars had belatedly provided us with a causative understanding of our incompatibility, why none of us ever became rock stars remains an "unsolved mystery."

Following the end of my rock 'n roll career I earned a teaching credential in 1973 and supervised a child development center until 1974, followed by two years in Scotland working for a church organization where I played Protestant page numbered soul numbers without looking at the page.

After returning home I continued my work in lower education as a preschool teacher and was soon performing for much younger audiences. The members of my new band changed daily. Their instruments included sticks, triangles, bells, and tambourines. I adapted my 60's rock repertoire to preschool march, rhythm, and song activities. Like Barney, I took liberties with oldies lyrics, adapting them to the developmental tastes of the young of heart, mind, and body.

I evolved, or degenerated, into a kind of 60's rock of ages Barney. As I suspect Mic Jagger discovered long ago, after falsely vowing he'd never become a middle age public performer "like Elvis," it's not easy giving up the adrenaline high that comes with performing before a bunch of shrieking, crying, and sometimes incontinent fans.

However, I'm happy to report that all my fans eventually achieve total continence while Jagger's fans will continue losing theirs in ever increasing numbers. For this reason, among others, I'm no fan of Mic Jagger and his Rolling (kidney) Stones.

It won't be too wonderfully long before I'm able to answer the old age lyrical question contained in the Beatles' Sergeant Pepper album as to what I'll be doing "when I'm Sixty-four."

A recent study from the realm of science suggests that a possible early symptom of Alzheimer's is a radical change in musical taste. Should I ever succumb to this symptom, I'd prefer 'rockering out' to rap than to the Stones. Losing control of my mind would be hard enough, but the additional loss of bladder control would be intolerably embarrassing!

When I turn that final 'whiter shade of pale' I don't want it mixed with 'a blush,' unless it comes from the undertaker's brush. And I won't be leaving behind any sheety notes for some poor school kid to stumble over in front of his 5th grade class! Being dead is one thing. Being gratefully dead is another.