When I got a letter from Kathi, saying she was trying to put together a band of writers for a book convention, I strapped on the gift Gibson and made a tape of myself playing and singing the old Phil Phillips tune “Sea of Love.” I sent it off, thinking it sounded just fucking awful and they’d never let me in the band. Little did I know that I could have made the band if I’d said my instrument was a cowbell—which I have, in fact, played in the RBRs, most notably on “Don’t Fear the Reaper”—or the skin flute.
Looking back on it, I thank God that I sent in that tape and that Kathi said, “Yeah, come on, play rhythm guitar for us in Anaheim.” Because no one should let their little bit of talent get away just because they happen to have a bigger one with a cash register attached. Roy, who usually served as the band’s chief—and very amusing—spokesman during the RBR’s unlikely twenty-year run, became a master at lowballing the band. He defined our style as “hard listening” (as opposed to “easy listening”) and liked to tell audiences, “The more you drink, the better we sound.”
Yeah, but guess what? We all worked hard. Partly this was because any group of successful writers is, in reality, a bunch of nervous norvus type A obsessive-compulsives. Mostly, though, it was because all at once we were going to play for other people instead of just for ourselves. For some of us, it had been a long time. And while I can’t speak for the others in the band, I was pretty fucking skittish before that first—and supposedly only—show at Cowboy Boogie in Anaheim. I had read my fiction or spoken entirely off the cuff before lots of audiences, and I was okay with it because that was my major talent. When we took the stage in Anaheim, I was going to be doing something that—let’s face it—I could hardly do at all.
I wasn’t alone in that, but there were enough good players in the band—especially Al, our musical director, and God bless him for his laid-back instruction—to carry it off. We had a good time, and more importantly, the audience had a good time (they were pretty drunk). After the show, I corralled Dave and told him we couldn’t let it go at that; we absolutely could not let it go at that. And we didn’t.
STEVE ON THE STILL YOUNGER THAN KEITH 15TH ANNIVERSARY TOUR, JUNE 1, 2007,
Photo by Julien Jourdes/The New York Times/Redux
During my time with the band, I played almost every day, and I was delighted to discover you actually can teach an old dog new tricks—a few, anyway. I could list some of them, but it would be wrong…like a magician explaining how his illusions work. But one example might be okay.
From our first performance in Anaheim to our last one (also in Anaheim), we played a great old soul song called “634-5789.” It begins with half a dozen or so quick changes from G to C. Because I came to the Remainders from a folk background rather than rock, I’d never learned any bar chords. Oh, I knew they were there, but for the kind of stuff I was used to doing, they weren’t much good—the sound was too funky, somehow. So when we played “634,” I was going back and forth between G and C at the top of the neck. I couldn’t quite keep up. The changes were a little too quick.
After one rehearsal, Dave grabbed me and said, “There’s an easier way to do that, you know.”
He showed me how, if I played a bar-G, all I had to do was rock my fingers to get the C. It was a little uncomfortable at first, but actually easier than learning to play that first B-chord at the top of the neck. And boy, was it fast. So, at the tender age of forty-four, I began the transition from folk guitarist to rock guitarist. I’m always going to be more comfortable playing a song like “Hey, Baby” (the old Bruce Channel thing) at the top of the neck—the progression is simple and sweet, from G to E7 to A to D—but a song like “Runaway” doesn’t work up there very well. If you can play the bars, though, it’s a piece of cake.
Stuff like that is no substitute for talent, and in spite of Roy and Dave’s comic lowballing, there was plenty in the band. I was astounded and uplifted by Sam’s joyous harmonica solo on the old Staples Singers’ number “Nobody’s Fault but Mine” (and he played it while prancing along the edge of the stage), and delighted when Greg, our lead guitarist, nailed the John Fogerty swamp lick that opens “Suzie Q.” That was my song to sing, and when we did it at our final show, I added an extemporaneous verse simply because I wanted to hear Greg play some more. I can hear those magic dozen notes in my head as I write this, and it makes me smile.
A bit of craftsmanship—a teeny, tiny bit of craftsmanship—was the best I ever managed as the RBR’s titular rhythm guitarist, but every now and then I actually did manage what Al once termed “that quantum leap to palatability.” (Al, a font of musical knowledge, once informed me that the chorus of an old doo-wop song by The Elchords, appears to include the line “Peppermint Stick will suck my dick.” Thanks, Al. Good to know.)
A little musical talent is what I’ve got and all I’ll ever have, but playing with the band made me hugely happy. The great gift was that the band gave me back an instrument I might otherwise have finally put away in a corner forever. And you know what? Having just a little talent is useful in all sorts of ways. It keeps you humble; it lends you perspective; it gives you something to fall back on when it rains and nothing in your life seems quite right.
I no longer play for my kids—they’re grown—but the miracle of talent is that sometimes it grows as it makes its way down the bloodline. I have three grandsons who are in a band—Ethan plays drums and sings backup, Aidan plays bass, and Ryan sings lead. They’re pretty good. Their favorite group is the Black Keys, a blues band that sounds quite a lot like Koerner, Ray, and Glover. Would you pay to hear them? Not yet, but maybe soon. And I have a pretty little granddaughter who just turned three. She might get a kick out of “634-5789.” I’ll try it on her, see what she thinks. Until the band reunites, that’s good enough for me.
FedEx from Stephen King
Sent after the Remainders first-ever concert
May 26, 1992
Dear Kathi,
When I was a kid attending my first birthday parties, my mother instructed me to always seek out the hostess before I left and say, “Thank you for a very nice time.” I didn’t get the chance to say that to you before Tabby and I headed back to Maine yesterday, so let me say it now: Thank you for a very nice time. Also, thank you for giving me a chance to kick ass and take down names in an all-out way for the first time since I was sixteen or so.
A bunch of us were up in Al’s room Saturday night, watching some of his weird videos, and Dave slid to the floor, just howling with laughter. When the spasm finally eased a little, he looked up at me and said, “This is the best time I’ve ever had in my life.” As simple as that. And I feel almost the same way; I think my first wet dream was better, but I can’t remember for sure. Anyway, nothing from now on will be quite as good as lighting off that first set with the downbeat to “Money”—of that I’m almost positive.
Thank you, thank you, thank you. It was totally tubular.
Love from us Kings,
Steve
PS: Please send cassettes, videos, clippings, and lace underwear as soon as possible. And speaking of lace underwear, one more story. While Dave was introducing Al’s song the second time, I picked a pair of pink panties up off the stage and hung them over the end of my guitar. During the sax break, Al came over and asked me what my wife would think of that. “I don’t know,” I said, “but I think they’re hers.”
INBOX > Subject: Keep It in Your Heart for a While
From: Dave Barry
Sent: Sunday, June 24, 2012 1:43 p.m.
Dear Band—
I’m here at LAX, about to leave, wishing I were arriving so we could do it all again. That was perfect, all of it, including the mistakes. Especially the mistakes. Thanks to everybody for making the effort. But above all, thanks to Ted, who made everything happen and worked so hard that he actually fell asleep. You’re amazing, Ted. We owe you.
I don’t know what happens next, but I do know this: I love you guys.
Dave
From: Roger McGuinn
Sent: Sunday, June 24, 2012 5:22:59 p.m. +0000
It was a blast!!!
Love all you guys!!!
Headed to SF.
From: Sam Barry
Sent: Sunday, June 24, 2012 2:32 p.m.
Amen, Brother Dave.
Thank you everyone for your love and kindness. You rock forever.
Sam
From: Scott Turow
Sent: Sunday, June 24, 2012 2:33 p.m.
Also at LAX. Also still in love.
I have had a remarkably blessed life on so many fronts. Some of that has involved being in the right time at the right place and having enough ability to take advantage of that. But not even that formula accounts for the piece of extraordinary good fortune that allowed me to hang around with you guys for 12+ years and ruin your music. You are each an effing treasure. It’s been a gas to share your company. To all, special thanks for your patience in allowing me to bring 12 tone music to the set list and rhythms unknown even to the caveman. I love you all, together and the individual pieces. I am really good at keeping track of the people I care about, so you’ll have to avoid me if you want to take full advantage of this breaking-up thing. XO S.
From: Scott Turow
Sent: Sunday, June 24, 2012 4:46 p.m.
Now hear this. Flew LAX/SFO with Ted. He slept AGAIN! Apparently all these years, he was waiting for the band to play its last before closing his eyes.
From: Stephen King
Sent: Sunday, June 24, 2012 6:15 p.m.
That was the greatest. Thanks to all, especially Ted and Dave and SAM. Wore my tattoos home with pride.
Steve
From: Roy Blount Jr.
Sent: Sunday, June 24, 2012 6:51 p.m.
I thought the love thing, I mean, openly, was just between Scott and me. And now, all I can say is, y’all move me.
Roy
From: Dave Barry
Sent: Sunday, June 24, 2012 7:38 p.m.
Sometimes, when Scott and I are having sex, he speaks Roy’s name.
From: Camilla McGuinn
Sent: Sunday, June 24, 2012 8:14 p.m.
There y’all go again! Me ears and eyes is a burning! but…I’m peeking
Blessings to you,
Camilla McGuinn
From: Greg Iles
Sent: Sunday, June 24, 2012 11:50 p.m.
Once in, never out.
From: Matt Groening
Sent: Monday, June 25, 2012 10:18 a.m.
Now I can confess after all these years that I’ve finally figured out who everybody is. By the way, I was the guy in the Marge Simpson mask, except at the end in Anaheim, when it was Ted…Thank you all for letting me wiggle around at the beautiful end of the stage. I had a blast!
Matt
From: Ted Habte-Gabr
Sent: Monday, June 25, 2012 11:34 a.m.
Just waking up…
But wanted to say thanks for letting me have fun with you guys for the last dozen years. It’s been fun. I recall the first gig, where—in the name of efficiency—I suggested you guys tune your guitars at the hotel, where we had time to kill. We were waiting for, well, never mind. It’s been fun—from all the cities, the venues, the trips, the causes, the laughs, the hangovers, our once-thriving “internship” program, and yes, a little shut-eye.
I have learned a lot, but I’m still not sure I understand what real action weighted keys are.
Thanks to all of you, for welcoming and being nice to Lisa.
As always, go on gently,
- Ted
From: Greg Iles
Sent: Monday, June 25, 2012 3:21 p.m.
Paraphrasing my Mississippi homeboy, William Faulkner, I offer the following:
I decline to accept the end of Band. It is easy enough to say that the Band is immortal simply because it will endure: that when Stephen King has signed the last book shoved in his face by the last crazed fan, that when Matt Groening has drawn his last toxic snack plate, that when the last power chord of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless amp hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even there will still be one more sound: that of Roy Blount’s gravelly inexhaustible voice, still mumbling: “You love me…I move me?”
I refuse to accept this. I believe that the Band will not merely endure: it will prevail. The Band is Immortal, not because we have inexhaustible voices, but because we have survived marriages and divorces, births and deaths, illicit affairs that became licit (if that’s a word—Roy?), tragic accidents, illnesses, and amputations, and we have still pushed on with Churchillian verve and style. We’ve also narrowly avoided the spontaneous combustion of egos that destroys so many Supergroups; as well as miraculously dodged the potentially world-annihilating paradoxes that customarily ensue when public and private personas occupy the same space.
On a personal note: when the drummer for Def Leppard lost his arm, he kept on drumming, but the band’s music was never really the same. My experience proves that for a guitarist in the Rock Bottom Remainders, a leg isn’t really all that important. Our music sounded just as bad this past weekend as it did last year. On the other hand, a leg turns out to be sort of necessary to get you from gig to gig. But if a man has friends who are healthy enough, and loyal enough, to push him from place to pace on a goddamn mail cart by the sweat of their brows, then that man has to paraphrase Gary Cooper quoting Lou Gehrig: “You love me.” No, no, wait—“I might have been given a bad break, but I’ve got an awful lot to live for. In fact, I am the luckiest man on the face of this earth.”
And I am. We are a family, folks. End of story.
From: Gary Hirstius
Sent: Monday, June 25, 2012 3:49 p.m.
My Dear Friends,
For the last 14 years, starting the night Bruce joined you in LA, I have had so much fun with you, and somehow I feel this is not over by a long shot. We have the right to reunite at any time…until then I’ll be here waiting for Ted to call. I love you all so much! Thank you from the heart. Your Soundman ;-)>~ Gary
From: Ridley Pearson
Sent: Monday, June 25, 2012 5:06 p.m.
Nice goatee, Gary!
Safe travels with Slash over the next 9 months. It doesn’t matter really if we get back together, because after Slash you’ll be DEAF.
R
From: Roy A. Blount Jr.
To: Greg Iles
Sent: Monday, June 25, 2012 7:41 p.m.
If you love me, licit.
From: Mitch Albom
Sent: Tuesday, June 26, 2012 8:38 a.m.
As one of the last to always arrive (I would blame Janine but it’s often my fault) it is normal for me to be late chiming in, but after reading all the e-mails I wanted to add this:
I thought I lost my Elvis wig the last night, thought someone took it, and I figured, “oh, well, that’s fitting.” And then, as we were walking out, someone handed it to me and said, “Hey, I found this.” And it looked like a dead raccoon. And I put it in my bag. And I still have it. And that is symbolic of who we are and how we go on. Not the dead raccoon part.
Music stops, friendship does not. And where there is friendship, there can always be new music—around a piano, on a massive stage, or under a Marge Simpson mask.
You have all enriched our lives, and every memory is like a well-played chord. Even though I don’t remember many well-played chords.
Thank you for letting a sportswriter into the band.
love
Mitch and Janine
From: Amy Tan
Sent: Tuesday, June 26, 2012 9:16 a.m.
Well, I just noticed that I sent my note to Dave only on Sunday. So here is what I meant to send all of you.
---
I’ll keep you all in my heart for a while, if a while means forever. These shows made me feel we should start over again as a tribute band to us.
Whether we get together to play in front of paying audiences, I hope we promise to have reunions. Even though I know I will see you all
individually over the years, there is something magical about all of us together in one green room with junk food.
Love you all.
Amy
From: Ridley Pearson
Sent: Tuesday, June 26, 2012 10:09 a.m.
Surfin’ Bird is stuck in my head.
From: Stephen King
Sent: Tuesday, June 26, 2012 12:29 p.m.
That’s because the bird…is the word.
Everybody’s heard about the bird.
Even Mitt Romney knows that…the bird is the word.
Word, bros and sisters.
Word.
This is the gospel according to Little Stephen.
From: Steve King
Sent: Tuesday, June 26, 2012 10:23 a.m.
Mitch, when you put on that weird wig Saturday night, I thought I’d either shit myself or die. Luckily, I did neither. You were great. You always are. God bless ya, and Janine, too.
Steve
From: Ted Habte-Gabr
Hard Listening: The Greatest Rock Band Ever (of Authors) Tells All Page 12
