BURNED - Living Through the 80s and 90s as a Rock Guitarist

by Bobby DeVito

  So after my little adventure in 7th grade being busted for merely wanting drugs, I got sent to New Jersey to live with my aunt and uncle and go to Catholic school. This was a great time; it was exciting to be so close to New York City and the music scene. I saw Twisted Sister when they were a cover band and played at the March of Dimes Walkathon, and I saw the US premiere of Led Zeppelin’s “The Song Remains the Same” at Madison Square Gardens. My aunt Marie was really into my musical talents, and encouraged me greatly when it came to the guitar. She had me play for the Saturday night folk mass at the church, and I really started to play more and more during this time. My cousin Stephen and I played a lot of guitar, and listened to records all the time. I got to hang out with my autistic cousin Chris, who has a photographic memory for music and still remembers nearly every song we listened to 30 years ago. I’ve spent my whole life trying to develop musical memory like that while being allegedly “normal”. So I spent about 9 months living with my aunt and uncle in Long Branch, going to Holy Trinity Catholic, and playing guitar at mass, a good Italian boy.

  I was able to get into some good surfing during that time in New Jersey. I was out at the beach quite frequently. After recovering from the burns on my legs, I had to wear pants to shield my skin grafts from the sun when I was swimming. I had just gotten out into the water that day, and was drifting out to where the water was just over my head. There were jetties to my north, and unbeknownst to me a healthy riptide was churning. I got caught into the riptide and fought it as it dragged me further out and southwards down the beach. I began to go under, and I remember looking up at the surface as I was sinking downwards, thinking that it really sucked that I had just a year ago escaped death from the gasoline explosion and now was going to simply drown. I kept sinking and taking in water when I was suddenly grabbed and brought to the surface by a lifeguard. He hauled me to shore, where I was trying to get the water out of my lungs. He hauled me up on the beach and laid me flat on the sand, trying to get me to breathe. As soon as I came to, I bolted upright and hit the ground running, leaving him far behind. I’m sure I owed this poor guy at least a “thank you” for saving my life, but I hit the road. I had already caused my immediate and extended family far too much grief already, and did not want to add another near death experience to the rapidly growing list.

  After my time in New Jersey, I did miss my parents and headed home to North Carolina. I managed to stay there long enough to make it into East Gaston High School in Mt Holly NC, a town that is next door to Stanley and is actually big enough to have a high school. I had started occasionally drinking at this point, either with the guys after a day of baling hay or on a weekend night out. Stanley was a dry town, so one would have to drive nearly 15 miles to actually purchase any alcohol. I smoked pot with several of the older musicians that I hung around with, but refrained from trying anything harder. I had a fantastic chorus teacher at East Gaston named Catherine Painter, she was an ex-opera singer with taste and class, and there’s no telling how this poor woman ended up in a town like Stanley. I never really fit in with any particular social group in high school, but was accepted by most because I could play some pretty mean guitar, even back then.

  I had a good friend across the street who was one grade older than I was named Donny Martin. He had one of those mothers who had that whole Joan Collins thing going on. She would walk around the house in the afternoons wearing revealing nightgowns and drinking Crown Royal, and would sometimes fix me one as well if she was feeling good. She had an amazing body, and was always very attentive to me. I liked the taste of Crown Royal and Coke from the very beginning. Donny had a beautiful ’65 Ford Galaxie that his stepfather bought for him when he turned 16, and I used to ride to school with him instead of riding the bus. He was a smart, funny guy who everyone liked at school, and we had a lot of good times together. During the summer, a female cousin of his came to stay with his family for a few weeks. Donna was 17 and was a complete wild child. She had beautiful golden hair, and a body that distracted me to no end. Donny and I partied with her frequently, and she liked pills. I had never experimented with pills previously to this summer, but remembered how good the Valium had felt in the hospital. Donna had a few yellow Valiums, but I went one better

  – my mother had an entire bottle of the much stronger blue Valiums in her medicine cabinet. I ended up taking six of them that day, and don’t remember much of what happened. Donna and Donny told me that we had walked to a local pond to hang out, and that I had simply walked over to a huge hornet’s nest and began kicking it as the hornets swarmed around me. Miraculously, I did not suffer a single sting from the creatures. I had absolutely no fear, and walked away. The next morning, I woke up in bed with the two of them, and had no idea of what had happened the night before. A blackout episode before I had even turned 16!

  All during this era, my parents were killing themselves running the restaurants. When my father got a job offer from his old employer Control Data to run their New Orleans technical school, my father sold the business and off we went. My parents bought a house on the West Bank Harvey neighborhood on the other side of the river from the Big Easy. Suddenly, I was 15 years old and thrust into a much different world.The high school I was enrolled in was nearly 3,000 students, equally split between whites, blacks, and the newly arrived Vietnamese boatpeople that had been settled by our government primarily in Louisiana. Our school had all sorts of racial problems, riots, gangs, weapons, barbed wire fences, the cops, the works. I ended up skipping nearly half of the days of my junior year and flunked 11th grade. I lived in a subdivision called Woodmere, and ran around with a group of somewhat noble hoods from the area. We did a lot of typical stuff, vandalism and theft, blowing things up, causing trouble to the construction guys by firing up the bulldozers and ruining a days’ work. We never tried to hurt anybody, just out to get something quick and simple for cash – like stealing a boat motor and selling it for a quick $500, even if it was worth $10,000. Taking that money and buying a quarter-pound of pot and enough beer to last for days was heaven to us.

  New Orleans had a great effect on me musically. I had a fake ID at 16 years old, and I was getting into most nightclubs I wanted to visit. I managed to get an audition with a local bar band called “Cypress”, and played a few gigs with them. I hung out at Tipitina’s, Jimmy’s, Old Man Rivers on the West bank. Randy Jackson, the guitarist/vocalist for the amazing Zebra used to let me sneak in with the band sometimes. New Orleans music was alive and vibrant, and there was a cool little New Wave music scene happening. My sister Anna was totally getting into music at this point, going to see The Fixx and Flock of Seagulls on the Riverboat President. I would sometimes take my electric guitar and battery powered amplifier and go jam in the French Quarter for tourist money. My family also really took to N’awlins culture like fish to water

  – we ate crawfish and went to all manner of Mardi Gras parades, had a baby cake at the house every day of Mardi Gras, and did weekend trips to Grand Isle, Baton Rouge, and Slidell to take in as much Louisiana as possible.

  New Orleans is also the site of the only Prom I ever attended. My good friend Billy Murry was a rock and roll singer, and a damn fine one at that. He and I had hung out for a year or so, had jammed music and smoked a LOT of pot together, and orbited the same group of people from Woodmere. He had a sister that was a couple of years younger than I named Lucy, and she was really a great girl – Lucy went to a private Catholic girls school, had good grades, and was a local volleyball star. Of course, since she was Billy’s sister, she was pretty much off-limits to the rest of us. However, two days before the prom her date suddenly cancelled on her, leaving her stranded. Billy was already taking one of Lucy’s friends, and they were all supposed to do it together in a big limo, the works. So, with me being quite possibly one of the more harmless of Billy’s friends, I was asked to take Lucy to the prom. It sounded like fun to me, so I got a rush rental tux and off we went. I started drinking Black Russians at four in the aft
ernoon as I got dressed. In the limo, we drank bad champagne. At the finest restaurant on the West bank, we dined on Trout Almandine, and drank more champagne. After dinner, we finally made it to the prom. Exiting the long black limo, we mad a beeline for the dance floor and danced one dance, and headed straight for the photo line. We did our obligatory “we were there” Prom photos, and headed back to the limo to go to the French Quarter. Less than 30 minutes wasted at the event, we arrived in the City of Sin, and got dropped off at Pat O’Brien’s for a Hurricane – basically red kool-aid filled with more liquor than anyone really needs in one glass. I remember heading to my favorite watering hole, The Olde Absinthe House, for one more drink before we headed to the hotel we had arranged downtown. I don’t remember anything after that drink, other than being kicked out of the limo onto my front lawn much later that night. It’s too bad, Lucy and I were certainly vibing that night, and although I am sure Billy would have kicked my ass, if I had been a bit more sober that night Lucy and I would have made some fond memories of that night. As it is, from what I heard I ended up painting the inside of the limo with purple and red puke, and thy just took me home and kicked me out onto my parents lawn. My mom opened the door as I was fumbling with my keys. God bless her, she helped me get out of the vomit-ridden tux and get to bed. Then, she woke me around noon and forced me to go shopping with her for hours. And hours. It was punishment in a very passive-aggressive way. Nothing like the head-splitting sound of feedback through the public address system at Schwegmann’s “We need a porter with a mop to aisle 17….weeeeaaaahhhhh!!!!! Porter with a mop to aisle 17!!!”

  I haven’t really spoken much of my love life during these teenage years, because there wasn’t much to really speak of. I was sort of a late bloomer, and it seemed like everyone was getting it on but me in the late 70s. I was always the guy that girls loved to talk to and be friends with, so they could complain to me about their asshole football player boyfriends. I had my share of crushes over those years, especially the preacher’s daughter, Cheryl Edwards. My attraction with her seems almost like a primal imprint or something, as it has remained with me as some flawed ideal in the physical sense. She was just absolutely beautiful to me, with bright blue eyes, long straight blonde hair, and a fantastic body. I have been seeking a woman like her the rest of my life, and still have never found another quite like her.

  I was sitting in class during what was supposed to be my senior year, but I was still a junior, as I had flunked 11th grade for non-attendance. The Armed Forces came through, and offered us a 6 hour pass out of classes to take the ASVAB test. I’m pretty good with tests, and wanted to get out of class, so naturally I went for the ride. I ended up scoring so highly that the various branches were calling me and making me offers. So on my 17th birthday, I entered the US Navy as an Electronics Warfare trainee, and spent Christmas 1981 in boot camp at NTSC San Diego. My first night of boot camp was classic intimidation and shenanigan. We new recruits had spilled out of the bus, and the company commanders were already breaking us down and tearing us apart. They asked us “are there any musicians among you?” Luckily, although I had been counseled not to volunteer for anything, I raised my hand. “What do you play?” queried the leader of the group. “Guitar….and drums” said I, remembering that I had played drums in marching band back at Stanley Jr High. I, and the rest of my musical counterparts, were segregated into what is known as a “drill company”, and we focused on being the base marching band for most of our boot camp experience. It sure beat doing laps around the base like the Marines were doing. But unlike high school, if you made a mistake you had to do laps around the training ground WITH YOUR INSTRUMENT. I sometimes wish I could do this with musicians today. It would make rehearsals infinitely easier.

  I made it through boot camp relatively unscathed, and started Basic Electronics & Electricity school, called “B double E” school in naval parlance. San Diego was a great experience, but most of my time was on base. As a 17 year old, I was allowed to drink this horrible concoction called “near beer” that only had a 3.2 alcohol content. It didn’t let you get drunk, it just made you pee copious amounts of clear urine all night long while you basically pretended you were having a good time. Right after boot camp, however, the Navy had given me a check for nearly $2,000, and I went out on the town with a few other recruits. We went to one of the best restaurants in town and ate steak and lobster until we couldn’t walk. Afterwards, we headed to downtown San Diego to find some trouble to get into. One by one, my compatriots found themselves a lady of the evening and wandered off to do their business. But all of the girls were black, and as I mentioned earlier, I really have a thing for cute blonde white women. So eventually I was left sitting alone on the steps of some building, biding my time, when this nice-looking late thirties blonde came walking by. It was then that I learned the hard way that you never want to have traveler’s checks when you are paying for illicit sexual activity.

  One standout weekend that remains from my time in San Diego would have to be my trip to Twenty-Nine Palms Military base. The desert blew me away up there, and I have been meaning to get back ever since. That weekend was my first time ever smoking real California sinsemillia marijuana, and it blew me away. I didn’t get to smoke pot too often during my time in the military, due to the fear of being caught, and simply not having any most of the time. I drank regularly like the rest of the sailors, and smoked my Marlboro Reds. Still smoking those damn things today, thanks to Eddie Van Halen. Be careful who your childhood idols are, as you can become them.

  After B double E school, I was shipped off to Pensacola Florida to attend Electronic Warfare School at Corry Field. Corry is a very small high security base located a couple of miles from NAS Pensacola, and is where all branches of the military train for Electronic Warfare and Cryptologic Technology. I loved being on this base, as I was finally on “the inside”, with a Secret Clearance and working my way towards possessing knowledge of all the US and foreign weapons systems. We had periodic meetings regarding the local spies, and were instructed how they would try to approach us and ferret information regarding our weapons systems. We had a decent Enlisted Club on base that featured local bands, and actually served us real beer. It was by this time that I began to realize that I was not really cut out for military life, and began to refocus on playing guitar. I began jamming with the local bands that came through our club, and also began to hang out at the local live music clubs off base. Pensacola had a really happening little music scene in the early 80s, with clubs like Franco’s, Jeri’s, Trader Johns, McGuigans, Kevin’s, The Barrels, and more. I had begun to work as the lighting guy for a local band called “Flame and the Heaters”, one of Pensacola’s best bands during that era. Their guitar player was the hottest young hotshot guitarist in town at that time, Vic Valmus. We all wanted to be Vic; he had the cool guitars, the girls, and the obligatory rock star custom van. I worked with them for a few months, and they would always let me sit in and play a song. Since I had started playing so young, I always managed to get onstage with people just as a novelty, and then I would blow them away since I could actually play the guitar pretty damn well. One night, after a gig we all went to a “bottle club” called “Franco’s All Nite Affair”. It was a momentous evening that would change my life.

  If you haven’t been to a bottle club, let me enlighten you – you bring your own six-pack, or bottle of liquor, and pay a steep cover charge. The bartenders stash your beer in the cooler or your bottle on a rack, and then you order drinks and pay a set-up fee each time you get a drink. It’s a beautiful concept – the place opened at 2 am, when all of the legitimate bars are closing. The All Nite Affair would open at 2 am, and usually stay open until 7 or 8 am the next morning. We got there, and I saw a band playing that was really, really good…except their guitar player sucked! The guy looked just like Magic Dick from the J. Geils band, big fro and all, and played a zebra-striped Flying V guitar. He just looked completely out of place with the rest of the band, wh
ich was a smart early 80s new wave ensemble called The X-Statics. On their break, I sidled up to the lead singer/keyboardist and made friends. His name was Jon Allmightey, and he was a classically-trained keyboardist and vocalist from Pensacola. His parents were both college professors, and he lived on The Bluffs, an exclusive neighborhood in town.

  Jon was an amazingly good looking guy, with huge Miss Clairol blueblack #1 hair that was tall on top and really long in the back. I guess you could have called it a mullet, but it was a mullet of the Gods. Someone from Flame and the Heaters remarked that Jon looked like a “new wave Eddie Munster”. But it was obvious to me that Jon was an amazing talent, and likewise drummer Scott Slusser and bassist Curt Robinette. Jon had racks of keyboards on either side of him, analog synthesizers and a real Farfisa organ! They always did a real good version of “96 Tears”, and were starting to get well-known around Pensacola as an upand-coming band. I saw my chance and took it.

  “So, I really dig your band”, I said. “But your guitar player completely sucks and does not fit the band”.

  Jon looked at me kind of seriously for a moment, and quipped “And I suppose you would be a better guitar player for us”?

  “Yep” I replied. “At least I have better hair and don’t have a zebra print Flying V guitar!” Jon laughed, paused a moment, and said “Listen, I’ll call a band rehearsal for Monday night at 8 pm. Here’s our song list, go learn a few of these, and come audition with us Monday night”.