There it was, sitting in my inbox—those two and a half words that started the world on fire more than once. The kind of fire you want to stand next to, the kind you want to play with. These same words birthed “Cinnamon Girl”, “White Punks on Dope”, and a “21st Century Schizoid Man” amidst hundreds of other creations that have made life on this flying rock more bearable, three and a half minutes at a time. These words smell like teen spirit and when you hear them they make you wonder who the fuck are you? The two and a half words I’m speaking of live in the question: “Wanna jam?” My god, how one little phrase can change the world… our world, my world. As epochal as any in rock ‘n’ roll and maybe outside of it, given the influence the people’s music has had on things the rabble would otherwise have no influence on. Like a proposal on bended knee, these words spawned the great marriages; Jagger-Richards, Lennon-McCartney, Bowie-Ronson, Strummer-Jones, to name a few. These words spelled doom for some and hallelujah for others. And for everyone who died responding to that question, large groups of the “rest of us” were saved. If you look at the numbers, John Lennon was right, and they crucified him for it. (Personally, I’ll take an evangelical Beatle fan over an evangelical preacher any day, for the former will be honest in ways the latter cannot afford to be.)

“Wanna jam?” That was all the email said. Normally, anything that affects my activity matrix, I discuss with the family to make the right decision for all of us. But this time I replied with hellacious affirmation long before mentioning it in passing between the walls of ye old homestead. Good thing I tend to mumble.

In truth, it has been years since I’d played in a band. Could I do it again? I looked down and saw a belly that threatened to arch the normally low-slung guitar gently upwards, which is if I could see the breadth of my instrument beneath my own. “Hey look around,” I tell myself. “Rock musicians don’t look like Iggy Pop no more.” (Note to self: steer clear of leather pants and you just might pull this off!)

The next question my second-guessing mind asked: Can your body take it? What kind of question is that?! It’s not like I’m Grampa from The Simpsons, and it’s not like I’m a geriatric boxer with one last shot at redemption. I gave up redemption long ago… stupid redemption. I’d much rather have a cookie, they last longer. Still… I broke my foot, sliced open my hand, lost an entire fingernail, tore my knee to pieces (before it became vogue), suffered at least one concussion, countless electrocutions, and a priapism—all on stage! Not on the same night of course, but this was all before stage diving. And yet, in every instance but one (not mentioned), the show went on. Sometimes this wasn’t a good thing.

Upon hindsight and given this is Super Bowl week, I am proud of that fact. And it only makes me want to play again. Of course, nowadays I can miss a day of work from a really hard sneeze. I’m only a few years older than a Foo Fighter. And I really dig Tom Waits, and he looks old-er. Besides, I don’t want to play like I did back then, musically and physically. But the spirit, ahh the spirit is the same, and that’s why I knew I had little choice but to find out where those two and a half words would lead me—this time without the thoroughly satisfying distractions that surrounded the first go around. That’s huge! Like a rock ‘n’ roll reincarnation, I’ve reached a level of existence where I don’t cut myself any more. Cool.

Okay, next question—rust. Okay that’s not really a question, nor is it immutable. I’ve shaken rust from these hinges before, I can do it again. Spirit is a great solvent of rust almost anywhere rust grows. And thus far my spirit is answering these questions better than I ever could, even if I annunciated properly. Let the spirit take control. And that’s the thing about those words. Like many other people, I cannot deny them once uttered. When I’m being a musician, especially a guitarist in a rock ‘n’ roll band, my spirit takes control with effortless ease. If only it would do so the rest of the time. I guess it is the moment… you don’t have to be famous or dead to know this, and rock ‘n’ roll isn’t the only vessel. But a grand and hoary vessel it is! Ahh, what a stink! Speaking of stink, the legion of everyday anonymous rock ‘n’ roll geezers like myself know the neck ache associated with turning your head too quickly in response to a smell reminiscent of sound-check in a dive club. If your spirit’s gonna surface, making music is as good a place as any, I suppose. I’ve always been grateful for it. And I’ve pretty much always been good at it (except in the very beginning). It’s a funny feeling saying you’re good at something that’s not in your life at the moment. I think I feel an epiphany coming on, or maybe it’s just the curry…

Shaking the rust off won’t be like the past times, however. I’ve got too many squares filled in my activity matrix to lock myself away on a regular basis with a guitar, an amp, and a bunch of doo-dads. It would be most accommodating if the rust would voluntarily quit and take up another host. There’s plenty around, and some wear rust better than others. We’ll see.

What about the gigs? Ahh, the gigs won’t be the same. And that’s good and perhaps a tad melancholy. No one here is desperate to be heard. And just like there won’t be as many rehearsals (pros show up prepared, anyway), there won’t be as many gigs, so we’ll have to try to make them meaningful, and that means no chicken wire, and no nautical themed eatery stages, either. (Alas, poor Hedwig, we knew thee well!). And we could care less about selling tickets like the slaves of the circuit are forced to do. I’ll be damned if I’ll pursue another record deal, I’d rather have a hemorrhoid (careful, Max). You know, it’s quite liberating not having any illusions or delusions on at least one front in my life.

Let the spirit take control—every Thursday, in a garage somewhere in Santa Cruz, from 7pm to 11pm. Home in time to snuggle the sleeping babe, pet the cat, and comment to the wife, “Dammit Dotsie, it’s a good life”—once again!

Now for a name… how about Physically Bigger than Jesus? That ought to get us some free press… no wait, I got it! TEAT!

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