Photo by John Matychuk on Unsplash
By 1976 the band members had gone separate ways, disappearing to other neighborhoods or cities to play Jimmy Buffet for tourists, white boy blues for frat bro’s and weekend bikers, to college, or to jobs far more reputable than ever imagined. Cosmos died in the mid-80’s after discovering crack. Jim tried to die many times, but some immutable power kept him breathing.
Band practice was Monday and Thursday evenings in Dewey Pyle’s basement, aka the center of the universe. Mr. Pyle was a retired music teacher whose class Jim and I had endured in 9th grade. Somehow able to ignore our surly attitudes, spitballs, and dim-witted pranks, Mr. Pyle dutifully taught sight singing and basic musicianship, generally boring us to tears. Somewhat elderly, childless, perhaps lonely, he miraculously ended up offering his “kids” (as he called us) and our band the run of the lower floor of his huge suburban house. It was my senior year in high school.
The house was so big we could be shaking the foundation with our Marshall stacks, and he and Mrs. Pyle could comfortably sit in another wing of the house. He seemed to have an unlimited tolerance for the band's behavior, though occasionally he’d shake his head at us if he wandered into practice and saw us sitting around getting high. “Boys,” he’d say, “I’m turning a blind eye to all this. But I assure you—the end of the road comes far more rapidly than you think.”
If practice was called for 6 pm, we might start by 8. I was always on time. Carl would stride in next with a purposeful grimace, sunburst Stratocaster in hand, his amp towering in the corner. A half hour later Jim would show up with his Fender Rhodes, a keyboard that weighed almost one hundred pounds which he often carried by himself. He would set up next to Carl and then they would do bong hits. I didn’t like smoking, it made me paranoid, but I enjoyed watching. Cosmos, the bassist and elder of the band, all of twenty-four, stoned every waking minute and perpetually jobless, would show up yet another hour later with the drummer, Big Man, and then they would have a smoke. We had all the time in the world. Days didn't end, they simply morphed one into the other. Sleep was a mirage, weather meaningless. The forecast was always more music.
Mr. Pyle’s basement was a sprawling empire. The room that the band practiced in contained a pool table, a couch and love seat we stained with cigarettes and drinks, a bean bag chair purchased just for us, a large poster of Bach and, improbably, a lava lamp. The gargantuan stereo occupied an entire wall, an imponderable kingdom of tubes and blue and red LED's, thick cables and imposing speakers, LP's spilling out from a turntable whose price alone was more than Big Man made in four months of pumping gas. We had no idea how Mr. Pyle had become so rich. Perhaps it was his wife’s money, certainly it wasn’t his teaching salary.
This room led through a metal gate to a smaller area with a state-of-the-art washer/dryer, stacks of canned food, sealed boxes and shipping containers, and shelf upon shelf of music scores, National Geographic magazines, and romantic European poetry. A third area was used as a dark room, but doubled as a storage facility for Mrs. Pyle, who thinking no one knew, stashed bottles of booze there, hiding them from her husband who lived in diminishing hope that she would become sober. She locked this room; however, she so often lost the key that the locksmith finally installed a lock that any key could open. Jim discovered this fact one afternoon. Knowing booze was in there he tried his own key in the lock just for kicks and was overjoyed to find the door give way. The band dutifully plundered the assortment of liquor, foreshortening band practice considerably.
Carl was the nominal leader. He had a foot-tall faux-afro that rose from his narrow, pale face like an unnamed planet. Frail, thin, he was a young virtuoso whose long, bony fingers would tear up the fret board. His compositions often came to him in the first quadrant of an acid trip when matter would disintegrate and sound would appear as colors pouring from his fingers onto the guitar strings. Jim was his closest ally and frequent trip-mate, and his classical music training helped Carl translate the untamed strands of his imagination into solid form. Jim had huge hands, a gigantic nose and a loud laugh that was deployed frequently since everything was funny to him. Having grown up playing Bach and Chopin he had plenty of technique that began to decrescendo as his days tilted from etudes and fugues towards Alice Cooper and Mott the Hoople. The singer, Thomas, wrote the lyrics. He was pallid and short, so that when he belted out a high note you might step back in shock. He'd been a choir boy as a youngster, and still seemed to reach the stratosphere at age seventeen, though not always in tune. He’d announce his arrival by gunning the engine of his muscle car out front.
I remember well the day they asked me to join the band. I had asked if I could sit in during a session, timid, unsure of my ability. I was in awe of Carl, who was a few years older than me. Whatever happened, we clicked, and we sailed into a half hour long jam that had everyone looking thrilled afterwards. It was one of the happiest days of my life. My job was to support Carl which required a lack of ego which I struggled to maintain.
A senior in high school, deeply earnest about making music my life, I’d show up at Mr. Pyle’s straight after PE was done, impatient with the hijinks, just wanting to play. I hated my school, everything about it. Almost everyone I knew, certainly anyone I respected, hated school. That winter, for some reason, I’d chosen wrestling as my sport. It was pure torture. You had to dress in a sleeveless jersey, stretchy pants and lace-up, leather shoes while a short, wide coach with a loud whistle would bully you into unimagined indignities. The mats were inundated with bacteria from sweat and drool, the practice room a windowless prison smelling like a cattle car. You'd grind each other's faces into the floor, clutch each other's necks trying to remove heads from bodies, twist ankles to the breaking point or as a last resort ram each other's balls. Who wouldn't choose rock n' roll over this?
The band was named Arcturus. When we launched into the Hendrix song "Freedom," I experienced something akin to what St. Paul must have felt on the road to Damascus—purpose, destination, a reason to believe that the earth was a tolerable place to remain in. The band was a magnet to anyone with bad grades, problems with authority, long hair, a nascent drug habit, a peace button affixed to an army jacket, or an ongoing battle with uptight parents.
Carl was a whiz at numbers and had a photographic memory for a tune, Jim could fix anything, a car, electronics, a stuck window or badly hung door. Big Man, six-foot-six and barefoot all winter long, even when playing drums, had studied Eastern philosophy, become devoted to the teachings of Satchidinanda. Cosmos, a black man with a shaved head, permanently bloodshot eyes that resembled red marbles was a born comic. He called his mother, a church organist and librarian, "The Gestapo." My bandmates had wit, an imperial sense of irony. They didn't care a whit what anyone thought of them and sprinted from all prevailing norms towards their devotion. Outcasts, delinquents, most without a high school diploma, but in their own way kings.
Carl’s acid-tinged compositions were exploratory and full of dark agency. Thomas’ psychedelic lyrics spoke of spinning pinwheels, flying bullfrogs, anointed moon rays, the walking dead. There were heavy back beats, baroque drum fills, lightning fast solos, a smattering of jazz chords, turgid bass notes, three-part harmonies that Thomas arranged. During breaks we would talk about the infinity of galaxies that was said to exist within our own; The Big Man expounded upon Satchidananda's teaching on the oneness of consciousness while planning his next female conquest. Jim told tales about waking up in stranger's yards with twigs in his ears. Thomas would discuss the pros and cons of a red versus a blue Corvette. Once we were at Mr. Pyle’s no one wanted to go home.
Sometimes band members would linger after practice, play pool, listen to tunes, blather. Mr. Pyle would poke his head in, ask if we needed anything. “Kids,” he said, “Mrs. Pyle made a fruitcake if you’d like some, I’ll bring you down a piece?” He walked with a cane, his thinning hair barely covered a flaking, crimson pate. His dark coat was covered in dandruff, his glasses perpetually falling down his nose. “Don’t forget your Bach,” he’d admonish us. “Rock is fine, but don’t limit yourself, boys, don’t limit yourself.” The sole price we paid for his generosity was that he occasionally insisted we listen to classical masterworks with him. He’d sit us down, put Beethoven’s 5th on the stereo (being careful to brush the lint from the vinyl) and hold forth on its wonders. He was a bit waggish, slow in speech because of his years, but we mostly appreciated his efforts. There were at least two listening sessions where one of us snuck a portable cassette player behind our backs and played fart tapes we’d made at just a low enough volume so Mr. Pyle couldn’t hear it over Beethoven’s brass.
Mr. Pyle’s wife was a pleasant, refined woman who spoke with a hint of a British accent. She was polite and welcoming in the rare times we encountered her. She seemed ancient to us, gray-haired, old-fashioned, a bit decrepit. I doubt she was over sixty. In general she never entered the basement when the music was going on. There was an unspoken boundary. Once, however, she wandered into an evening session, weaving to and fro in her silk night gown and slippers, staring at the band with a regal demeanor.
Arcturus stopped playing, not sure what to do. We cleared throats, placed beer cans on tables, trying to look polite. Obviously quite drunk, she began to address us as if she were a band director. Leveling a stern gaze at Big Man she said "I've been listening to you for a good long while. You're no Guy Lombardo, but you're getting better. Have you considered playing more quietly? Have you heard of the word finesse?"
She then turned to Jim with a mad glare. "You! The hairy one—who on earth is your hair stylist? You look dreadful!" Mr. Pyle appeared, looking horribly embarrassed. He tried to shepherd his wife back out the door. She was undeterred. While listing like a storm-tossed ship, she advised Carl to "turn down and consider learning the good lessons of the three B's, Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms," then turned to me. "What on earth is this terrible racket you're making? Does your mother know you're here? Perhaps it's time you learned some Sinatra!" She slurred her words and finally stopped short in the middle of a sentence and almost fell over.
Everyone choked back laughter while sneaking looks at Mr. Pyle. He tried to hide his embarrassment. You could see him flinch as she stumbled out the door, his eyes briefly aflame with sorrows he couldn’t express. She was dead from the booze within a year.
Incredibly Mr. Pyle allowed us to throw a party. The poor man had no idea what he was getting into. I suppose he expected ten or twenty folks to gather round the pool table singing “If I Had a Hammer.” On a cold Saturday night a mob began to pour through his basement, the band's gear crammed into a corner. As loud as we played, the revelers were louder. Poker games, someone spinning LP's, couples making out, couples passed out. Mr. Pyle pushed through the scrum at one point with a look of horror, even betrayal on his face. “Boys,” he cried, barely audible, “My god, you HAVE to do something about this! Please, please turn the music down, the neighbors are having fits!” We smiled and nodded and pretended we cared. People were spilling out into the street, the yard was littered with beer cans, there were cases of Budweiser the horde descended upon like piranhas. Countless lines of high-grade coke were snorted in the bathroom, or the closet, those who had access to it lurking around like feral dogs, and then, no doubt, lying awake as the birds began to sing, grinding jaws, the bed a prison sentence.
The symphony of regret. All that freedom.
We cleaned up as best we could as the sun rose. But I’m sure we still left a godawful mess. We knew we’d better start looking for another basement. How much longer could Mr. Pyle put up with this?
Jim began to drink too much, Cosmos discovered harder drugs, Thomas, who planned to attend a conservatory, wanted the music to become more complex, while Carl wanted it to become more simple. I was off to college. The Big Man was tired of being broke. He sensed an inevitable expiration to the conflagrations of prog rock and the arrival of something far more lucrative and down to earth: country music. But before the powerful bond that held us together unraveled, there was a moment—
Arcturus had a performance lined up at a local high school and we were told that a man named Preminger would show up to audition us and perhaps back the band with his considerable fortune. Preminger was a trust fund child who believed that forking over money to a rock band in the hopes of some future return would make him into a person that he longed to be. There were a few of those types around in those days.
Carl had assembled the troops a couple weeks earlier and delivered a sermon.
"Guys," he said, "It’s all fine and good to be rowdy and fuck around and have fun, but we have to either get serious about this or give up. Why don’t we bear down a little, get our asses in gear and play some real shit for this guy? Who knows how deep his pockets are?"
The next few practice sessions were marvels of focus. The band cut down on its smoke, its beer runs, and began to resolutely practice parts at home. Carl refined his chord voicings; I practiced the fast runs over and over again; The Big Man put a new battery in his metronome; Thomas gargled saltwater, did daily warm ups, consulted his old choirmaster about vowel placement; Jim busted open the Well Tempered Clavier. The night before the performance even Cosmos arrived on time.
I hardly recognized the lads as we began our dress rehearsal. Carl had donned a magnificent paisley shirt, Thomas was clothed in a white satin kurta, and there was nary a hole in anyone's jeans. Mr. Pyle, who had caught wind of our audition, asked if he could sit in on the final rehearsal and perhaps coach us. He looked tiny, amazingly out of place in his own home, perched on the corner of the couch, dressed in a tweed coat and bow tie. I wanted to hug him. He seemed as excited as we were. I noticed he had ear plugs. The vocals were in tune, Carl playing vicious, thrilling leads, the Big Man pounding the drums as if he might break down the walls. The energy built and then built some more until we arrived at the final number of the set, a piece of Carl’s called "The Cyclops Threnody," everybody’s favorite number, a three-part affair that culminated in an exciting unison that was difficult to execute.
On this occasion each member of the band nailed the tricky ending flawlessly and with such enthusiasm, such oneness, such volume-drenched audacity that when it was over Mr. Pyle gasped. As the last chord resonated and died out everyone stood silent as if someone had just died.
Then Mr. Pyle, who was normally perfectly reserved, jumped off the couch and yelled "THAT WAS IT!" Tears had formed in his eyes which he did his best to hide. We hugged each other, did high-fives, embarrassed at the intensity of feeling that had flowed from our fingers. In that moment the universe came close to the perfection I knew all along was ours.
As can often happen, the actual performance the next day was not nearly so powerful. Who knows why? Consistency was never a strong suit. Preminger was briefly impressed but upon further consideration phoned Carl a week later to tell him that unfortunately he was not interested in sponsoring us.
Years later, paunchy, gray, missing a few teeth, this was a night that stood out. It hung like a distant star over lives sprinkled with trade-offs, disappointments, false peaks, and of course, gladness.
We had been invincible, then—not yet aware of how little we knew. The sound of that last chord continued to reverberate through our lives. It was as if someone had stood at the edge of a canyon and cried out, and as the cry bounced back and forth off the walls, year after year, the echo grew louder than the source of the sound itself.
Joel Harrison is a Brooklyn-based composer, guitarist, producer, singer, and writer. He has 23 CD's under his own name and is the founder of the Alternative Guitar Summit, a yearly concert series and camp devoted to forward-thinking guitar playing. He has been writing fiction and non-fiction for many years, notably for Jazz Times and Downbeat magazines, and is the author of the book Guitar Talk (Terranova Press).