Rebel for God

by Eddie DeGarmo

  FIFTEEN

  Are You Ready?

  Rick Miller successfully booked three weeks’ worth of West Coast shows for us and we could not wait to load up Happy Truck and hit the road. The tour started with a show all the way across America from Memphis in Bakersfield, California. From there we worked our way north, through the San Francisco Bay area, and then on to Portland, Oregon, and Seattle, Washington. Then we did an about face and worked our way back south, ending with a show at the famous Calvary Chapel in Costa Mesa, south of Los Angeles.

  My dad asked me privately before we drove away, “How much money have you got, son?”

  “About 150 bucks,” I replied. “We’ll be fine.” None of us would have qualified for a credit card at that point, and $150 was all we could scrape together.

  “This is for emergencies,” he said as he handed me his MasterCard. “Now get outta here.” Again, his support was both touching and important. I actually think he would have gone with us had we had enough room in the truck. There were four of us in the band plus our soundman. That meant three guys in the back could sleep and two up front would drive and navigate. Perfect, but full.

  It was an adventure for us to drive across the Mississippi River and the flat delta of east Arkansas, to the hills of west Arkansas and then across the Oklahoma plains where the towns had peculiar Native American names. Some of us had never been as far west as New Mexico. We’d not had the pleasure of seeing the stark beauty of the Arizona desert. When we climbed the hills toward Flagstaff though, things started going badly for Happy Truck. It seemed the more you mashed on the gas the slower the truck went—even though the engine was revving high enough to blow sky-high any minute. I had a sick feeling in my stomach the transmission was going out.

  We exited the interstate and saw a transmission shop close to the ramp. When we came to the first stop the truck would barely take off again. We needed to make it about a half mile down the road to get to our destination. It was 9:00 pm when Happy Truck finally rolled into the parking lot of the repair shop and came to a stop. The shop was dark and empty as the mechanics had gone home hours earlier. I noticed the “Office Hours” sign on the door and was pleased to see it opened at 7:00 am. We had an extra day to get to Bakersfield, which was still roughly five hundred miles on down the road.

  Our plan was to spend the night there in the parking lot, and then get up early for the shop to repair the transmission the next day. Then we would leave in the evening for Bakersfield. We still had the Mojave Desert in front of us and would rather make that drive at night due to not having air conditioning in the truck. It could get pretty stifling in the rear, not to mention smelly from the stink of sweaty bodies (and who knows what else).

  As we settled in for the night, we noticed we were in the industrial section of the city. There were zero restaurants anywhere near us. There wasn’t even a gas station with a vending machine or a pay phone close by. Cell phones were a few decades away, too.

  So, we just sat in the parking lot of the repair shop and grumbled. Fortunately, Flagstaff is a little higher in elevation, and thankfully it’s not as hot as the rest of Arizona can be.

  I had never seen the night sky from the high desert before. It was amazing. There were so many more stars than I ever saw through the muggy and humid Memphis night air. It made me feel incredibly small, in the scheme of things. But the idea God took an interest in us also made me feel very important. We were on a mission.

  We awoke at daybreak to the clanks of an old wrecker dropping off another car the desert had chewed up and spit out overnight. A few minutes later the shop opened up. We were the first in line. Actually, we were the only ones in line. I explained our situation to the man in charge and that we needed to be in Bakersfield the next night. He was wearing the stereotypical blue mechanic’s jumpsuit with his ball cap cocked off to one side and the stub of an unlit cigar in his mouth. He cut his eyes toward me and I can still remember his fateful words.

  “Son, we will look at your truck, but it’s going to be four days until I can get to it. We are covered up.”

  I tried another tack and told him we were a Christian band and just had to make it to Bakersfield for a concert. I made it sound like the world would end if we didn’t show up.

  He stood, looked at me square in the eyes, held up four fingers, and whispered, uncomfortably close to the end of my nose, “Four days.”

  I went back to the fellas and explained what the man told me. We just sat there in silence for a few minutes when Dana finally asked, “What do you think we ought to do?”

  “I think we crank this beast up and go for it,” I replied. “No reason to stay here.”

  Then Dana and Kenny both spoke up, “We ought to pray first.”

  We got out of that truck, got down on our knees, hung on to the rear bumper, and prayed. There were three or four mechanics peering from just inside the roll-up workshop doors, watching as we prayed. It must have been a peculiar sight. Here were five long-haired hippies who slept in the parking lot the night before, praying God would get them safely across the Mojave Desert with a busted transmission.

  In case you don’t know, the Mojave happens to rank as the hottest place in the USA. And this was the month of June.

  I started Happy Truck up, and we limped out of that shop and back onto I-40 toward the desert. The longer we drove, the stronger the truck got. It did smell kind of funny, though. Maybe it was us. It was hard to tell.

  Gosh, it was hot! We stripped out of all unnecessary clothing, which at that point was just about everything we had on, and opened every window and vent. We were nearly buck naked, and hanging out the windows when we passed through Needles, California and on to Bakersfield. That wouldn’t be our last run-in with the “Stinkin’ Desert,” as we called it.

  We stopped along the way and I was able to call the church where we were scheduled to play the next night. I explained our situation and asked if we could unload our equipment when we arrived later that afternoon. I also asked if they knew a transmission mechanic. After we played in Bakersfield we were due the very next night in Oakland for another concert.

  We rolled into the church parking lot at around 5:00 p.m. that afternoon. They were waiting for us and let me know they set up a delivery time for our truck at an AAMCO Transmission shop that agreed to repair the truck overnight. Exactly what we needed.

  We slung the equipment out of the back of the truck and then I left, with a couple fellows from the church following, to take the truck to the repair shop. When we got there I had to stop to turn left across two lanes of traffic, and into the shop’s lot. When I stepped on the gas, though, the truck just sat there. It wouldn’t budge an inch. A bunch of guys had to help me push the truck across the traffic and into the transmission shop. It was a good reminder that God really got us through the desert and right to the street in front of the shop. It was a cool lesson in faith for me.

  The concert that evening was filled to capacity. The band played well. It was one of the first times in our history that, late in the set, Dana preached and invited folks to accept Jesus. Many came forward that night. I led them back to a room and prayed with them to receive Christ. It was a pattern Dana and I repeated for many years to come. He delivered the message, and I managed our counseling efforts. Over the years we saw thousands upon thousands of people ask Jesus to forgive their sins, and then commit their lives to him at our concerts. I still get letters and emails from some of those folks to this day, almost twenty-five years after we retired.

  The next morning was beautiful. We got up early to go fetch Happy Truck. A couple of guys from the church picked us up to take us to the shop. The good news was it was ready and repaired. We got the hard news, however, when we arrived at the shop. The repair bill was over $1,500, which was way more cash than I had. We were paid a few hundred dollars by the church for the concert and sold t-shirts and albums. I only had about $600 in my pocket.

  But wait! I just remembered dear old Dad gave me his
MasterCard for emergencies. I proudly plopped that puppy on the counter and said, “Just charge it, please.”

  In those days, the shop owner had to call MasterCard on the telephone for an authorization code for a purchase of that size to go through. I smiled and waited. And then waited some more. The attendant looked up at me and said, “Card’s no good. It won’t go through.”

  “It must be a mistake,” I responded. “My dad gave me the card for emergencies. Would you try it again?”

  He shook his head and whispered, “Okay.”

  He dialed the phone. We waited—and waited—and waited some more. Then the shop manager lifted his head and said, “Same as before. The card is no good.”

  I didn’t know what to say or what to do. I stammered a little bit as I thought out loud. These guys did us a great favor by working on the truck overnight and then this happened! It was so embarrassing.

  Right as I was about to begin trading guitars and drums, one of the fellows from the church who drove us that morning stepped forward and said, “I would like to pay the bill. You guys blessed us last night and now I want to bless you.”

  That was a great moment and just one more of the many miracles we experienced.

  We drove all day and night to make it to Oakland in time for our concert the following evening. At the urging of Stephen Lawhead, Lamb and Lion and their distributor Word Distribution coordinated several promotional appearances for us over the next few days in the Bay Area. Thus Oakland became our hub for the following week or so. We figured it would be cheaper to rent a motel room by the week than to get different rooms each night. We found a place not too far from the Bay Bridge and rented one room for the five of us. That’s all we could afford. It was two guys per double bed and one on a rollaway.

  The promotional events were interesting, to say the least. We made an appearance on a San Francisco morning TV show. I remember the lead act on the show that morning was a local sister duo called “Two Tons of Fun.” They were very, very, large twin sisters. They could really sing, though. It was them and us that morning. I can’t imagine what the ratings were.

  We were also scheduled to do our first in-store autograph party to meet our fans. The place was a mom and pop independent Christian bookstore in downtown Oakland. I remember showing up and awkwardly introducing ourselves to the storeowners. I say “awkwardly” because no one else was there. It was just the elderly couple who owned the store and us. I walked over and thumbed through the record bin, which was in a dusty corner of the store all by itself.

  The store was a peculiar mix of books, Bibles, and all sorts of trinkets, with just the one lonely bin of records in the corner. A jewelry case proudly displayed crosses in every size and made out of every possible material you could imagine. The floor was green asphalt tile. It reminded me of my elementary school. Big fluorescent bulbs glowed their eerie ice-blue color overhead.

  The elderly couple seemed welcoming and nice, but the store and the vibe was very creepy. It was hard to imagine any somewhat-normal teenager ever walking through the door. We felt about as out of place as cats in a swimming pool, but did everything we could to be friendly and grateful. I recall asking the older lady just how they let kids know we were going to be there.

  “Well,” she said, “We put a poster in the front window.”

  “Hmm,” I replied.

  I thought most teenagers would run past those windows as fast as they could. They’d probably be afraid of being seen by the aliens inside. I also realized this was indicative of where our records were being sold.

  “Houston, we have a problem!” I thought. “How are the kinds of people who might like our music going to find it?”

  I was pleased to at least find two copies of our record in the store. Eventually a couple of fans showed up to meet us. Those were the only two who came that day. The awesome news was they each bought one of the copies the store had in its record bin. We called it “Our first sell-out!”

  We had a great concert at a little venue in downtown Oakland that evening. There was a good crowd that filled the small room perfectly.

  SIXTEEN

  You Can’t Run From Thunder

  We headed over to Sacramento and up to Redding the next couple of days for nightly concerts. Then we drove north, farther up the coast to Portland and on to Seattle. The people promoting the concert in Portland all lived together in a couple of large, older Victorian homes not far from downtown. We stayed the night with them, and it was my first taste of sleeping overnight in a commune. There were families with small children and several single folks. Everyone got along well, but it was new for me to be in a house with a bunch of people I didn’t know too well.

  After the concert in Portland we drove three hours to Seattle. I remember waking up in Happy Truck to the sound of our drummer Terry screaming. As he was also the driver at the time, you can probably understand my concern. Terry had a Grape Nehi soda in one hand and an open package of Twinkies in the other. Rock-n-roll and health food didn’t blend in those days. Also, he was navigating the winding mountain roads with his thigh jammed up against the wheel from the bottom.

  He was overcome with excitement at the sight of the scenery outside the window. Mount St. Helens was glowing in the moonlight. Terry wanted us all to share in the beauty of it. I remember asking him to sit the grape soda down while he tried to eat a Twinkie and wondered aloud if doing either of those things while steering down the side of a mountain with his knees was such a good idea. I think that may have been the night I started driving more than the other guys.

  Anyway, if you have never taken the drive from Portland to Seattle, I encourage you to do that. It’s one of the prettiest drives in the country. Just save the snacking for later.

  The next day was to be an exciting one. Not only were we scheduled to play at a large outdoor stadium in the evening, but we were also booked to do our first live radio interview during afternoon drive time at the local Christian radio station. We were definitely excited about that.

  We arrived in Seattle in the early hours of the morning, so we just slept in the truck for a few hours before going over to the stadium to set the equipment up. We were scheduled to be at the radio station at 5:30 in the afternoon. That’s right in the middle of the peak audience for radio listeners during the drive home time.

  We arrived at the station, walked in, and introduced ourselves to the receptionist. I was a bit surprised she didn’t know who we were. I figured that out because I had to spell my name about three times in a row. We should have listened to Pat Boone when he suggested we call ourselves “Memphis” when he signed us.

  “D_E capital G_A_R_M_O,” I said slowly.

  “Now, what’s that again?”

  “Geez Louise,” I squeezed out of my lips.

  Sometimes I would end those episodes of name spelling help with a snarky “D_E capital G_A R_- M_O_U_S_E” like Mickey Mouse to get a laugh, but not that day.

  The receptionist said she would be right back and then stepped through a coded door behind her. I think radio stations were very secure to keep crazies from taking over the airways. She came back in a couple of minutes and said so and so would meet us through the door. She buzzed the door and we walked through into the inner sanctum of the broadcast studio.

  The D.J. who met us was friendly enough, although I noticed he was dressed in conservative double-knit slacks and a starched shirt with a button down collar. He didn’t necessarily portray the rock-n-roll culture. Dana asked him, “Which one of our songs do you guys play?”

  “Uh—we don’t play your music,” he replied.

  “Good!” Dana replied.

  Dana was always the best for a wise crack at the most opportune time. I was pretty good at it too. We thought we were funny.

  I looked at the D.J. and said, “I just happen to have one of our records with me. I thought you guys might not have the whole album.”

  I could tell when I handed him the album it was the first time he ever laid e
yes on it.

  “So when this song is over,” he said, “let’s talk for a minute, and then I’ll play one of your songs. We are a fairly conservative station, so I would like to play one of your mellower tunes if that’s okay.”

  “Play ‘Wayfaring Stranger,’ ” I suggested. “It’s an old hymn we have re-done. I’m sure your audience will be familiar with it.”

  When the song he was playing was over, he asked us some questions.

  “Where are you guys from?”

  “Memphis, Tennessee, where Elvis and Johnny Cash came from.”

  “What brings you to town?”

  “We are playing at (so and so) event. Everybody should come out. It’s free admission.”

  After a couple of minutes of Q and A, he asked Dana to introduce “Wayfaring Stranger” to the listeners. Dana explained it was an old hymn born in southern cotton fields. We grew up with it, gave it a new arrangement, and updated it a bit to record.

  The D.J. put the record on the turntable and cued up the song. They actually played vinyl records in radio stations then. He started the song and jumped a little at the electric piano intro. He was okay through the verse. Then came the electric piano solo. I noticed him twitch a little, and then Dana’s guitar lead began with a lick reminiscent of Jimi Hendrix.

  That’s when it happened. The D.J. actually dove over Dana to reach the turntable and hit the record needle and it slid and scratched all the way across the record sounding like a big zipper right there on live radio!

  “Well, That’s De Marco and Key! Now, a word from our sponsors,” the D.J. blurted out in a near panic.

  He quickly started a commercial and said, “Thanks, guys, for coming in. I hope it goes well. I gotta get to the weather—or the traffic—or the news—or something different—see you later!”

  We were escorted back into the lobby and were busy thanking the receptionist and saying goodbye when the coded door opened. It was the D.J.