In 1971, I was a Yorkshire man who migrated to Massachusetts with a dream to create the cleanest, best sounding music reproduction sound system for touring bands. After years of touring with Fleetwood Mac and the Byrds using a Watkins Electric Music (WEM) system, I knew there had to be something better than the horn loaded systems that were on the road. I arranged a meeting with Bobby Greenburg, aka B.G., the electronics whiz of Boston’s E.U. Wurlitzer’s music store, where roadies congregated to try and buy amplifiers, speakers, and other sound equipment. B.G. gave me a tour of his electronics shop, introducing me to a skinny, long-haired kid with a goatee playing electric guitar. He looked like a musician and told me he and his roommates had a band called Mule. We discussed guitar amps and I was impressed by his knowledge of tube amplifiers and his experience customizing guitar amps.

Months later, my quest for clean sound began in earnest, as B.G. and I assembled a crew of techies and roadies to begin building an acoustic suspension sound system in my garage. The first techie B.G. told me to hire was that skinny, long-haired kid. “Andy’s the best,” he said. “He’s as good with a transistor as he is with a coping saw. He can help us with the specs. And, because he’s a musician, he knows what will work for them.” We were all excited—everyone bought into the dream and worked round the clock to meet our first deadline—a summer concert in Lenox with the Mahavishnu Orchestra. From day one, Andy led the crew, sometimes barely sleeping, often sleeping leaning back in a chair near his workbench, cigarette dangling from his mouth. He was a part of every aspect of building that system—speakers, amplifiers, multicables—even helping B.G. with the mixing consoles. His enthusiasm was as infectious as his smile, but he was an exacting taskmaster—all the work had to be done right, no mistakes, whether it was cutting the speaker holes in the cabinets or wiring an electrical harness. And Andy pushed himself harder than anyone else. He once sent his roommate and fellow Mule member, Steve Berkowitz (now senior VP of Legacy/Sony), home to sleep while he stayed on, working on our custom amplifiers, even though Andy had been awake just as long as Steve. When we turned on the system for the first concert and it sounded awesome, I was proud of the guys and what they had brought into the world. Andy beamed, knowing this was his baby, too.

Andy was born in Cleveland; his dad worked for General Motors, but Andy knew the Midwest was not for him. He didn’t like boundaries, and college was way too restrictive. After a year at Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, Andy dropped out despite his straight As, and eventually found his way to Boston. He began his road career with Dawson Sound, but went on to work with Jan Hammer, the Cars, J. Geils, Aerosmith, and the Rolling Stones. To this day, I know of no one who has the breadth of Andy’s technical expertise (he could program a synthesizer or build guitar pedals on the fly on the road—and he was at home in a studio as he was on the road). He once worked with a BBC radio employee to stop the Crystal Palace’s radio station from leaking through Lou Reed’s guitar amp during a show in 1973.

One of the wildest Lou Reed shows in 1973 occurred in Brussels, where we played an old building called the Marni. The power outlets and equipment were antique and untrustworthy, as Andy found out when he tried to hook up our AC and received a nasty shock under the stage. As he emerged from the gloom, I noticed that his face was as pale as Lou’s when it was painted white and lit up during a black-light sequence. I told him to sit down for a while, but Andy bounced right back for the show. “I don’t want to miss anything,” he said to me. “I heard Lou is in a crazy mood tonight.” “Oh,” I replied, “we’re going to have one of those nights. God help us!” Sure enough Lou split his leather pants in the first song and the rest of the night sang with his crotch duct taped.

But what I remember most about Andy is his love of challenges and his innate humanness. Never one for taking center stage, Andy nonetheless was more than a techie geek. Many nights he interceded between me and union members when there were stage altercations. I remember once driving with him in the Smoky Mountains of Virginia late at night, our truck almost out of gas. Spying an open gas station, Andy pulled our truck up to a pump, instructing me to keep my English mouth shut. To the redneck attendant, it was obvious we were Yankee hippies with our long locks and facial hair, and he wasn’t about to let us pump any gas without giving us some grief.

Smiling politely, Andy got out of the truck. “Can we get some gas?” he asked. “Well, maybe,” came the reply. Andy began reaching in his back pocket for his wallet. “It’s not about yer money, though you need that, too,” drawled the grim-faced man from under his baseball cap. “But we’re almost out,” pleaded Andy, “and it’s two in the morning.” “Yep,” came the terse answer. After an awkward silence, Andy asked, “What’s it gonna take?” “Well, sonny, we only serve men in these parts. And men in these parts drink this,” smiled the attendant, holding out an open pint of Jack Daniels that he had obviously been drinking. Now it was Andy’s turn to smile—Jack was his favorite whiskey. Turning the bottle upside down, Andy downed it in two gulps, much to my and the attendant’s amazement. “How’s that?” Andy asked when he finished. “Go pump your gas, boy, and remember to pay me when you’re done.” I don’t know how we made it to the gig that night, but Andy made me drive after a half mile down the road.

Yet Andy could be gentle and loving with children. When I was first on the road with the new system and my wife was expecting, Andy offered to be her Lamaze coach if he was home while I was on the road when my daughter was born. He took classes so he could be helpful. Later, he nicknamed my infant daughter Hi-Watt, playing Lou Reed as he bounced her on his knee or showed her a C chord on a piano.

Andy died in 1995, leaving his wife Boo and daughter Kira. A lot of folks in the business miss him because he was great at what he did. As Chuck Leavell, who played with the Rolling Stones and Allman Brothers said, “I loved Andy so much. He came aboard as a keyboard technician. Little did I know how good he was—he could fix anything. He was the brightest and best technician I’ve known in my life.” I miss him, too. He was a good friend, and it’s hard for me to think he’s gone. Sometimes though, when I’m backstage at a concert, I expect to see him, coming from behind a guitar amp, smiling and telling me to stay away from the union stagehands.

Dinky Dawson and the Legendary Gig Wagon Races

Part II: Dawson and the Legendary Gig Wagon Races

Part III: Dawson and the Legendary Gig Wagon Races