MUSICIANS
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Shannon, 29
I started on the north side, where Santa Monica casually deteriorates into Venice, and I had walked as far south as the paddle-tennis courts, interviewing and photographing the many musicians I encountered along the way, when I decided I’d gone far enough and headed back to my bike for the long ride home. I was fucking burnt and weary of the constant jostle of the two-mile-long mob scene. My mind was going pleasantly blank when, just beyond the basketball courts, the crowd to my left randomly thinned as I happened to turn my head in that direction, and I was stunned into immobility by a strange and arresting presence. Shannon, in full kingly regalia, was using a cast-concrete park bench as a keyboard stand. She was hitting the keyboard with one or two fingers of each hand in a simultaneous, arrhythmic staccato, a crazed, atonal “Chopsticks.” She was brilliant. A brazen, glorious “Fuck you!” to the swarming normals who surrounded her, gossiping like flies on the snaking turd that is Venice Beach. I grabbed my camera and took a few shots. She stared back at me, unflinching and defiant, and a maniacal, toothsome grin spread across her face.There was a partly crushed shoe box at the foot of the bench, and it was hard to tell whether it was hers or just part of the trash that was strewn about. I walked up to her and picked up the box. “Is this for tips?” I asked. She seemed ambivalent for a sec, then nodded. “I’m going to put it up here so people know to put money in it.” I placed it on the bench, wadded up a dollar bill, and put it in the box. That’s when I uttered the stupidest, unkindest words. All in a rush, I said, “I’m doing an article for a magazine and I’d like to talk to you. It’s the Anti-Music Issue, and this is perfect, because this is so anti-music already.” It was then that I realized just how horribly I had misread the situation. Her voice was deeper and thicker than I expected and her face slackened. I noticed the pair of prescription glasses under her costume shades. “Why is it anti-music?” she asked, sounding dully petulant. She wasn’t the cleverly ironic misanthrope I had projected. She had been playing her heart out, and I had just totally hurt her feelings. Quickly attempting to diminish the insult, I added, “You know, it’s like performance art.” A flash of hot shame spread over me then, during which I have no memory of what actually transpired. The only note I scribbled down during this interlude was the phrase “just playing music.” I have no idea what it means or what it refers to. I got my head together and fell back onto the standard script.
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Winston, 41
Winston wasn’t having a very good day. He’d somehow had the unfortunate luck of drawing the attention of Officer Carl, one of several community service officers roaming the Third Street Promenade, and certainly the most enthusiastic. He had been fingering through Winston’s business for a good 40 minutes. Sweet, gentle, and unassuming, Winston just sort of half-smiled through it all, emanating an aura of monkish patience. It had all started just a few songs into his set. Officer Carl marched on the scene, squatted in front of Winston’s speaker, and probed it with his decibel meter. He didn’t like what he saw. Not one bit. He stopped Winston midsong and showed him the readout on the meter. Officer Carl pulled him aside to quietly discuss what he’d found. They conversed genteelly for several minutes and then Officer Carl pulled out his ticket pad and politely issued Winston a summons.
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“Cowboy,” 42
Dennis “Cowboy” Morgan said the worst blow music had dealt him was the breakup of his band, Content Life. When I got home that night, I googled “content life band,” and the first link that I followed named two players, neither one of them Cowboy, and then briefly described the rest of the band as “two guys that looked like they were homeless. One was wearing chains around his angles [sic] that jingled when he stomped, and the other had a tambourine.” The next link reduced the lineup to three and finally named Dennis, our Cowboy, as the tambourine player, and it identified him as someone who had lost his home during Katrina.
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Darius Maxey, 11
Darius Maxey’s road-to-Damascus moment occurred at his grandmother’s knee. A singer in her local church choir, she would have Darius help her to practice her songs for Sunday. One day as they sang together, offering praises to Jesus and proclaiming their wretchedness before the eyes of God (I assume), his grandmother first lowered her voice and then dropped out completely. Her grandson kept going, taking the lead, and on that day, young Darius, six years old and presumed first grader, disappeared, and Darius Maxey, gospel-singing wunderkind and preteen street performer, was born.
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Mark Anthony, 55
My friend told me she knew of a local department store that had a guy playing piano in the women’s underwear section, so I went there and soon met resident ivory tickler Mark Anthony. He came off as knowing and lightly jaded, like he’d discovered that life was as pleasantly pointless as a Sandra Bullock movie on a turbulent transoceanic flight. I told him what I was up to and he was almost conspiratorial in his openness to it. When I was concerned that store security might have a problem with me taking pictures, he said he’d say it was for him. He was like that kind-of-cool, kind-of-weird neighbor you had in your 20s who you’d only exchanged pleasantries with when you happened by him in the hall, until you ran into him at a bar on St. Patty’s Day and he told you how, back in the day, he had been the lead singer in some band with Yanni, back when Yanni was more new wave than New Age.I photographed Mark a couple times, but they were both hit-and-run sessions and I hadn’t gotten a chance to interview him. He did give me his card, though, and the day before my deadline, I decided that I wanted to find out more about him. So I gave him a call. Guess who he used to be in a band with?Chameleon was a hot-shit act out of Minneapolis in the late 70s and early 80s. Their sound was a restive mix of Tommy Tutone, Styx, and Vangelis. Besides Yanni (who was already showing signs of megalomania and whose gassy excursions, it seems to me, were the only things keeping them from Top 40 recognition), they also boasted drummer Charlie Adams in their lineup. He’s the guy who started the whole spinning-upside-down drum-kit thing that Tommy Lee would later steal. Mark’s vocals had a nervous, propulsive energy in keeping with the air of Icarusian cocaine-fueled comedown the wound-licking boomers were going through at the time. But the band had some bad luck with the labels and then Yanni wanted to take things in a different direction.
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J.B. Willit, 54
“That’s ‘w-i-l-l-i-t,’ as in I ‘will it’ to be.” James Bartholomew “J.B.” Willit was just back from Warsaw. He’d spent five years in Eastern Europe, and now he was playing around the States, hoping to get up enough money to bring his wife over from Lithuania. Poker-faced, his default stance was defiance, and from behind his deep black sunglasses I could feel him eyeing me with suspicion. I got the feeling that a wide swath of humanity would fit under the heading of “The Man” to him. And maybe with good reason.Like a Hallmark card to silver linings, in a gravelly mumble J.B. told me a story that contained both his lowest point and his fondest musical memory. J.B.’s anti-folk style, his barking, punk-inflected blues, belies his hippie past. He’d been familiar with the Rainbow Family, a lanky and loose group of eco-anarcho-gypsies, sometimes numbering in the tens of thousands, who live in state and national parks for up to a few weeks at a stretch, stupefying locals and vacationers and digging low-impact shitters. I had encountered this Family myself while hitchhiking and hopping trains as a teen and, for a few months, probably counted myself among their numbers. In fact, J.B. and I knew some of the same people from this way back when. But, as he had written off the Rainbows decades earlier as sellouts, I sensed that did nothing to dissuade him from being suspicious of me. One night, in 1989, J.B. had just left Irvine Meadows, down in Orange County, where he’d been attending some Dead shows. He was walking down the PCH, holding, when the cops pulled over to check him out. Taken in under the purview of the draconian drug laws of a different era, he was sent up the coast, to San Luis Obispo, to a place with such a weird, time-capsule name, it sounds like it was pulled from the pages of
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Harry Perry, 59
This is Harry Perry. He’s been playing guitar on roller skates in Venice since 1974. He’s from Detroit, where he had his first band at 13. He lived with the MC5, hung out with the likes of Ted Nugent, and was managed for a time by Punch Andrews, Bob Seger’s longtime manager. His first record was a cover of Seger’s “Heavy Music,” released on the legendary record label Hideout. Harry himself is a legend, and you can find out all sorts of tidbits about him online, or just look for him at the beach. But even legends have to pay the bills.
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Roger Hinz, 40
After taking his picture, I asked him how long he’s been playing.
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Al, 50
This is the same vaguely disappointed expression that Al had on his face for the entire four minutes and 27 seconds during which we spoke. I even said, at one point, “That’s some expression you’ve got there, Al.” And he said, “Yup.” It’s not like he was unfriendly at all. One time he almost did this kind-of-laugh thing that played ever so subtly across his face. And when we were talking, the expression took on a quality that was less peeved and more like maybe someone had quietly let out a stinker, but we didn’t know each other well enough to acknowledge it.Al’s been a musician since he was a child. Growing up, there was a piano in his house that nobody touched until one day he started messing with it, and music got hold of him. He also plays the trumpet, though on the day I met him, he’d been playing guitar in a four-piece funk outfit. He has an easy way about him when he plays. Music is second nature to him, and he said it kept him out of trouble when he was a younger man. It almost seemed as if he looked up to music itself as some kind of benevolent guiding force, like an older sibling who’d already made all the mistakes so he didn’t have to. This is why he has no patience for fools who can’t get their shit together to play.
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David Waller, 62
David Waller has a pedigree. At least he thinks it’s a possibility that he’s a distant relative of Fats Waller. His grandmother and his aunts had pictures of Fats all over the place, and it was their love and admiration of the man that prompted David to pursue music in the first place. He started with the baritone horn. His best friend growing up in the ghettos of Detroit was Marvin Marshall, whose mother had a beauty shop that happened to be halfway between the two Motown houses, and it was where their stable of stars would go to get their hair done. David and Marvin would hang out there in the afternoon, soaking in the cool. By then, David had moved on to the bass guitar, and he said all the young players had to learn that session style, the Motown Sound, note for note. “I hate to say it, but note for fucking note.” Eventually, he hooked up with the right people and was granted entrée into that world of propitious splendor, Hitsville, USA, where he mixed with the likes of Marvin Gaye, Gladys Knight, and the Jackson 5. In 14 years, he played with everyone on the Motown roster except for Stevie Wonder and the Supremes.
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Marla Garvin, 55
Marla Garvin was born in Davenport, Iowa. She took up the violin in school in the second grade, but being one of eight children, her family couldn’t afford to get her one of her own, and so she switched to voice. In her early 20s, she was the lead singer of a heavy-metal cover band called Lillian Storm, but she longed to break out of the cultural isolation of the Midwest, and she wanted to do her own songs. She headed to New York in ’84 to pursue her dream of being a solo singer, but she couldn’t get any traction, and she didn’t stay long. When she got back to Davenport, she was semifamous and they interviewed her on a local radio station simply because she had survived New York City.She gave the dream another shot a couple years later, this time in Atlanta. She reinvented herself as a performance artist, performing what she called “heavy-metal a-cappella slash rock-’n’-roll poetry.” She lived in the dressing room of a club called the Metroplex, where she says she met lots of “alterna-stars.” But that didn’t work out the way she had hoped, either, and she split after a year.Whatever she was doing in the 90s, by the fall of 2001 it had left her restless, and she headed out to California. On her very first night in Venice, she met Sonny, a homeless, larger-than-life musician. The first thing Marla told me about herself is that she is “the illegitimate widow by proxy of King Sonny Zorro, 1942 to 2003.” To some, Sonny was like a later-era, West Coast version of Moondog, the blind, giant jazz musician who stalked New York City in a Viking outfit for 30 years in the middle of the past century, jamming with the likes of Steve Reich and Philip Glass. In a mirrored, Left Coast incarnation, Sonny, it’s said, wrote “Purple Haze” in a cafe as a dedication to Jimi Hendrix, transcribed it on to a napkin at Janis Joplin’s urging, and then passed it on to her to give to Jimi. It seems like Sonny was an interesting guy, and I might have enjoyed talking to him. But I didn’t, because he’s dead.
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Los!, 48
Los! is a veteran of the Sunset Strip hair-band scene. He came to Hollywood in ’86 and moved in with a little-known group of guys who went by the name Guns N’ Roses.Soon, he was watching as his friends broke big all around him. He was proud to be in the brotherhood of music, and he still is. “I can approach anyone. I can approach stars. The best and the worst. David Lee Roth. Nikki Sixx. Slash was my best friend.” The stench of success was heavy in the air, and he was itchy for a taste, but it wasn’t meant to be. Not yet, at least.He’s been playing guitar since he was 11. “My mom said as soon as I heard Kiss I was fucked.” But it just might have been in his genes. When he was 20, the woman who raised him tearfully informed him that he was adopted. He found his birth mother in the Bay Area. She had been a guitar player in the café scene of San Francisco in the 50s. Her peak was when “she achieved total silence.” Apparently, for the finger-snapping beatnik set, total silence was the hepcat equivalent of leaping to your feet and shouting, “Bravo, bravo!” She awed them into giving her four and a half minutes of this awkward, disconcerting praise.And apparently John Denver tuned her guitars. The nose for near greatness was in his blood.For 14 years, Los! and his girlfriend had a band called Mama Fights Back. Though he was the main songwriter and diligent with his copyrighting, they were songs that the two of them brought to life together and, in a bit of morosely romantic logic, his girlfriend felt that they should get married to ensure that she could keep using the songs in case he died. Her father disagreed. Burned by marriage himself, he felt that was the quickest way to end their relationship. So they got married. Two months later, her father died and left her several properties worth millions. Two weeks after that, she wanted a divorce. She took the money and she took the songs. But the worst was what she did to his dog. “He was my best friend for 12 and a half years.” She took the dog with her when she left, only to inform him a short while later that she had him put down. When he asked why, she said his breed only had a life expectancy of 12 to 15 years, so it was time, as if he was in the dog version ofLogan’s Run.But Los! still has hope. Jesus Christ, he’s got a fucking ton of it. He said his new band, Vampire Toothfairies, looks like it’s going to break. “But it took this long. I’m the only one that lightning didn’t hit. This time it’s my turn.” It makes me wonder, though, what that even means. What constitutes making it in the music business to a 48-year-old hard rocker? At a time when success is measured less in chicks banged than in downloads and page hits, by what metric will he gauge his? When will he know he’s arrived?They say you won’t know you’re trapped in a black hole until it’s too late. Cruising through uncharted space, you’d slip by the event horizon, completely uneventfully as it turns out, and there’d be nothing left to do but to drift inexorably toward the only possible destination left to you: oblivion. And yet you’d be none the wiser until gravity started pulling you into spaghetti. Dreams are like that. Not your nightly REM sleep dreams, but your I’m-one-in-a-million dreams. Those grand, American dreams. Maybe it starts with Gene Simmons spitting up red dye No. 4 and corn syrup, and then it’s nurtured by a charismatic homeless guy telling you that you’re somebody. But despite the fact that you’re rationalizing against ever-diminishing returns, like a desperate actor shitting in the bushes ’cause he’s hoping to get the lead in Shakespeare in the Park, you never realize you’ve made an all-in bet until that unquenchable, outsize longing for greatness has been finally whittled down to an essential nugget of need, that someone, someday, will tell you that it wasn’t all just a waste of time.I met Marla and Los! one after the other. They were both so warm and welcoming, and desperate for a sympathetic ear, and though they probably have nothing in common other than circumstance, they’ve become linked in my mind. If the universe is infinite and so an infinite number of Earths are scattered across the cosmos, each an expression of some small facet of discrete possibility, then on one of these Earths, Los! and Marla have found each other and they spend their nights together in a $20-a-night room making beautiful music without care or silly dreams. And they breathe marshmallows, talk in a language that’s like squeaky door hinges, and have long, spindly arms like spider monkeys.