C’MON! – My Story of Rock, Ruin and Revelation

by Christopher Long

  Snakes on a Truck

  Based on my continued personal political interest and school-related student government activities, most of my family members and teachers expected me to pursue a career in politics. However, my future direction would veer sharply off course when I was officially initiated into the world of rock and roll in January 1978.

  My student government adviser, Fred Perlee, noticed how seriously I took my class responsibilities and recognized my knack for getting things done. Consequently, when Principal Howard Hickman approached Perlee regarding assigning a student to organize and promote an upcoming school-sponsored rock concert fundraiser, Perlee replied, “I’ve got just the man for the job.”

  Made up of British and American musicians in their early twenties, Aaron was a national touring act, playing popular rock cover tunes. Promoting “Just Say No” and “Stay in School”-type messages, Aaron typically played in various junior and senior high school gymnasiums across the country. An appearance at DeLaura had the potential of being a huge success, if orchestrated properly. Simply put, the job was mine and at age fifteen, I became a rather unlikely and very young concert promoter.

  I immediately printed promotional posters for the event and positioned them prominently around the campus and in the windows of various local businesses. I also printed advance tickets and had some girls from class sell them outside the cafeteria during lunch. Quickly, the word spread throughout the school – rock and roll was coming to DeLaura!

  Shortly after Aaron’s enclosed white equipment truck pulled up next to the school gymnasium on the morning of their show, I was introduced to their one-man road crew – a thin, experienced-looking rock veteran named Bernard McNally. “All right mates, let’s get moving,” Bernard announced in a thick British accent to his local crew which that day actually consisted of five or six rather clueless ninth grade boys from my student government class. As Bernard swung open the rear door of the truck, I was astonished to discover it was PACKED with sound and lighting gear as well as drums, guitars and stage amplifiers.

  “Let’s get the snake out of the truck,” Bernard instructed us at one point. I fearfully thought to myself, what on earth was a snake doing in the truck and why was it our responsibility to remove it? Bernard then ordered me and one of the newly recruited fifteen-year-old stagehands to assist him with moving a (very long) cable that had been curled into a huge pile from the truck to the stage. “Thanks mates,” he said. “I always need help getting the snake out of the truck.” Ah, my first real life, rock and roll lesson. A “snake” (as I found out) is a fat cable consisting of numerous thinner cables that runs from the stage to the soundboard. Microphone cords are plugged into connections at the stage end of the “snake” and at the other end, connections are plugged into various channels on the soundboard. During load-out that night I asked Bernard, “Need help getting the ‘snake’ back in the truck?” as if I’d now become a seasoned pro!

  Aaron could perhaps be best described as a Journey-type group. They (kinda) looked like the band Journey (circa 1978), they had the same type of line-up as Journey (Yes, with REAL keyboards!) and they played the same radio-friendly rock style as Journey. They had long hair and wore cool, tight-fitting stage outfits. They also played ELECTRIC guitars through MASSIVE amplifiers and the drummer had a HUGE kit. In short, to me, Aaron were rock stars.

  Three hundred kids attended the Aaron concert on a cold Thursday night in February. At $3.00 a head, both the school and the band made money (by 1978 standards) and I had now solidly cemented my reputation as the new golden boy in the eyes of the school administrators.

  I even got to become buddies for the day with the guys in the band. I recall hanging out with guitarist Tim Jenks as he worked out in the school weight room just prior to show time and the guy was completely cool and unassuming.

  I also got to witness “bad” girls trying to seduce rock dudes for the first time that night. After the show, I noticed that keyboardist Kenny Hampton was surrounded by several adventurous local teenage girls inquiring as to his “party” plans for later. Heck, even a naïve, fifteen-year-old church boy like me knew what they were ramping up to. But I was a bit surprised when Kenny informed the girls that he planned on returning to his hotel room to enjoy some TV, a bag of pretzels and an orange soda. And his plans clearly did NOT include partying with them. He wasn’t rude to these gals – in fact, Kenny was quite personable. However, his position was clear and he handled himself with genuine class and style. Of all the people I’ve encountered in my various rock experiences, I found Kenny to have been truly impressive.

  Aaron circa 1978.

  (Photo: Courtesy of Tim Jenks)

  When in Rome…

  My desire to be part of the rock world only intensified following my Aaron experience. In my mind I now had become a successful concert promoter. I had hung out with rock stars and I knew what a snake was. In fact, the only thing I could see preventing me from becoming a rock star myself was that I had no musical talent. I briefly had taken violin lessons in the fourth grade, but I never advanced beyond “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Ronnie Burns had allowed me to bang on his drums a few times, but banging was all it amounted to. So I decided to put my newly-acquired music biz skills to good use and make the next logical move forward – I decided to become a band manager. There I was, a junior high student with a briefcase, sitting at a lunchroom table, brokering deals to bring various other kids from school together to start a band – and I was successful! Within days I had put together a neighborhood super group of sorts. Drawing inspiration from a Kiss song of the same name, I called the group Parasite.

  I quickly scheduled the band’s first rehearsal in a garage at the home of one of its members and the guys immediately clicked. The band worked diligently for a few months, developing their original material along with popular cover tunes of the day. Before long, I was booking Parasite into local gigs at parties and school functions as well as orchestrating promotional photo shoots. The band was in desperate need of professional P.A. equipment so I also staged fundraising events like car washes in order to obtain the necessary capital. All of this was happening while I was just fifteen years old.

  As the saying goes, “when in Rome do as the Romans do,” and I soon found myself losing my church boy naiveté and falling in line with my newfound band buddies. In no time I was experimenting with such drugs as marijuana, hashish and speed. Fortunately, drugs were never my thing. With the exception of hitting the occasional joint now and then over the next few years, my illegal drug experience was limited and rather short-lived. I would, however, get hooked by other wonders of the world later in life.

  It didn’t take long before Parasite began experiencing intra-band fights over artistic control, member unreliability and who owned how much of the gear, as well as various other ego clashes and drug-related issues. And after only eighteen months, the band was over. At the ripe old age of sixteen, we had already experienced the entire rock and roll “movie” which we would relive over and over until we each finally had enough sense to walk away from that world. Some of my Parasite buddies wised up early and went on to college and got real jobs. But it would take me decades to finally “get it.”

  Get a Job!

  My parents’ hopes for my academic future were further dashed when I got my first real part-time job in, of all places, a record store.

  In the fall of 1977 The Connection was bought by new owners and was transformed into T-n-T Music Center. Owned by the Melbourne-based Cadell and Thornquest families, the new Satellite Beach store was the second area T-n-T location. The shops were run by Larry Cadell and his sister Elaine, along with Elaine’s husband Harold Thornquest and his brother David. T-n-T was a more family-oriented version of The Connection and I once again felt safe hanging out there after school and I became fast friends with the owners. In fact, they were so impressed by my wealth of music knowledge, they offered me a part-time job in the summer of 1978, working as a clerk on Saturdays and
a couple of afternoons each week after school. I only earned about $25 a week, but in those days, that wasn’t bad scratch for a kid. And although I spent much of my time at T-n-T merely doing inventory and washing windows, I didn’t care – I was now working in the music business!

  My first bosses treated me more like a family member than an employee. Larry and David were only a couple of years older than me, so I looked up to them as big brothers. They both drove cool cars with built-in tape decks, dated chicks and wore flip-flops to work – David even had a ponytail. My dad really liked Larry because they were both into cars and my mom adored David. As a result, I was allowed to attend rock concerts and racing events with Larry and go wherever else I wanted with David. Larry and David were also responsible for turning me on to rock guitar greats like Jimi Hendrix, Johnny Winter and Frank Marino.

  I had relatively few life experiences when I was first hired, but my bosses were always patient with me and I learned a lot about life, responsibility and the music business during my time working at T-n-T from the summer of 1978 until the business closed in late 1980. And to this day, I’m still friends with the Cadells and Thornquests.

  You Wanted the Best…

  Growing up in Satellite Beach at the height of Southern Rock Mania during the late 1970s wasn’t easy if you were a Kiss Freak, especially if you attended Satellite High School. In 1978, I was just one of only about six Kiss fans in the entire 1,500 member student body, yet I supported the band with great reverence. For Halloween in the tenth grade I came to school dressed as Gene Simmons in full make-up and costume. When the Senior Class sponsored “Toga Day” in 1979, my friends and I showed up for school dressed as Kiss in Togas. Had the 4-H Club sponsored a theme day I would have likely come to school dressed as “Farmer Frehley!”

  Because of my overzealous enthusiasm for Kiss, I faced almost daily ridicule from Lynyrd Skynyrd-loving redneck schoolmates, which usually led to someone in a Molly Hatchet T-shirt informing me (with a southern drawl) that “Kiss sucks.” The BMOC, David Fredericks, even got into the act by mockingly nicknaming me, “Kiss” Long.

  My buddy Scott Amendolare did a fabulous make-up job for me and crew on Toga Day at Satellite High School in 1979. (That’s me lying on the ground doing my best Paul Stanley.)

  I remember taking my seat one morning in eleventh grade art class and discovering that a drawing had been taped to my desk. It appeared to be a cartoon of me, wearing Gene Simmons-like dragon boots, being hung by the neck from a tree. The caption read “Die ‘Kiss’ Long - Die!” It was hard to believe that I actually received a death threat of sorts over liking a rock group. Still my devotion to Kiss could not be shaken.

  After years of persuasion, I was allowed to see my all-time rock heroes in concert when Kiss returned to Florida in 1979 during their Dynasty tour. My mother was confident that the experience would prove to be such a disappointment to me that she’d never again hear Paul Stanley’s name pass my lips. That didn’t happen. The experience was every bit as spectacular as I expected and Gene Simmons even magically flew (via a harness and steel support cables) from the stage to the arena rafters to growl out the show-stopping standard, “God of Thunder.” In fact, my first Kiss concert experience was so inspirational that I finally formed my own band the next day.

  *******

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Trial and Error

  My first Kiss concert proved to be such an inspirational experience that I decided to become a drummer and I formed my first band the very next day. I’ve often been accused in life of putting the proverbial cart in front of the horse, and my sudden leap from spectator to musician certainly exemplified my often rushed decision-making process. Except for some occasional banging on Ronnie Burns’s drums, I’d never played a note and I certainly didn’t own a kit. But I was gonna be a rock star and I couldn’t be sidetracked by minor details. In fact, over the next thirty years I allowed nothing to interfere in my pursuit of the rock and roll dream.

  You can make many plans, but the

  Lord’s purpose will prevail.

  Proverbs 19:21 (NLT)

  I’m With the Band

  In June 1979, I made phone calls to a bass player named Scott Amendolare, and a guitarist named Guy, apprising them of our new band. I wasn’t going to take “no” for an answer, and I notified them of our first rehearsal that I had scheduled for three days later. Fortunately, my friend Glenn Creamer let me borrow his drum kit for a few days and I piddled with it in my bedroom for the next two mornings, trying to play along to Journey and Pat Travers records. I had no clue what I was doing – and it showed. But that was of little concern to me. My band had our first rehearsal coming up and I knew I’d somehow miraculously become a virtuoso overnight. That didn’t happen. In fact, it still hasn’t happened.

  But Scott didn’t flee upon discovering my lack of musical ability. We actually kept playing together. We soon replaced Guy with new guitar recruits Nick Burnside and Eric Nobles, started writing our own tunes and on December 1, 1979 my first band, Beowulf (insert wisecrack here) debuted at Satellite High School’s Battle of the Bands. We sucked. I sucked. And not even my best friends – not even Glenn Creamer, could or would deny it. There we were, four kids who couldn’t play, onstage attempting to perform (horrible) original tunes, wearing make-up and matching Japanese-style outfits, among a host of competing T-shirt and denim-wearing Southern rock cover bands. I even set my kit on fire ala-Alex Van Halen during my ridiculous excuse of a drum solo. My very first show provided me with the humbling experience of being booed off the stage by more than 1,000 people. I learned a lot from that gig. BTW – Beowulf broke up the next day.

  I Ain’t the One

  Despite my humiliating debut with Beowulf, I remained undeterred in my quest for rock and roll stardom. I continued to network (years before it became a verb), making as many music biz-related connections as possible. Along the way, I met a twenty-two-year-old journalist named Susan who recently had come to Florida from the U.K. and she currently was writing an entertainment column for our local newspaper. Susan had witnessed the Beowulf debacle, but given her passion for unique original bands, she actually kinda liked us and we became fast friends.

  In late 1979 she was assigned to cover a concert appearance by a Southern rock act called The Austin Nickels Band at The Joint in the Woods nightclub in Orlando. Being relatively new to the area, Susan didn’t have many friends on the local scene and she had no idea where the Joint in the Woods was located or how to get there. Consequently, she offered me and a couple of the Beowulf alumni free tickets and backstage passes in return for a ride to the show. We gleefully accepted her offer.

  This journey was a particularly big deal for me and my buddies for a couple of reasons. For starters, standing at a slender five-foot-seven with shoulder-length brown hair, green eyes and a fair complexion, Susan was a real knockout. To seal the deal, she also had an alluring British accent and my crew and I were young teenage rock dudes with raging hormones. In fact, Susan was the only member of our entourage who was actually old enough to even get in the club. I was also excited about our excursion because this was during the height of Southern Rock Mania and The Austin Nickels Band was not only the hottest up-and-coming Southern rock act in country, but their lead singer was nineteen-year-old Johnny Van Zant – the younger brother of the late Lynyrd Skynryd founder, Ronnie Van Zant, and .38 Special frontman, Donnie Van Zant. In my world, this guy was royalty.

  Upon approaching the club’s doorman on the night of the show, I quickly surmised that Susan was experienced at playing the rock and roll game. Within seconds, she confirmed that our names were, in fact, on the guest list. And despite our underage status, we all were whisked inside immediately.

  The Austin Nickels Band was already onstage as we awkwardly navigated through the packed club – desperately trying to look as if we fit in. I remember them sounding louder than any band I’d ever heard as they delivered a blistering rendition of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “I Ain’t t
he One” early in the set.

  Following the conclusion of the band’s set, our gang of four made our way backstage to meet the band. With a hub-bub of confusion regarding loading stage gear and moving the equipment trailer, I was surprised to discover that the Austin Nickels’s post-show experience was similar to that of the bands with whom I’d already been involved in my brief local music business career.

  Wide-eyed and impressionable, my buddy Eric Nobles blurted to the Austin Nickels bassist (in a thick Southern accent), “Like, how do ya’ll do it night after night, man?” “Drugs! Lots and lots of drugs,” the rather inebriated musician replied. Huh? Say it ain’t so, I thought to myself. I’d only ever had personal interaction with one other “real” band – Aaron. And they were happy, positive guys, fueled by bottles of orange soda and bags of pretzels. In contrast, not only was this Austin Nickels Band member suggesting that his group actually used drugs, he clearly and proudly maintained that they used, “Lots and lots of drugs!” At seventeen, this was a shocking revelation. But I was sure that The Austin Nickels Band was the exception and that most bands were actually more like Aaron. Stop laughing! I was young, okay? No really, I mean it. Stop laughing!

  Within a few months, The Austin Nickels Band would change their name to The Johnny Van Zant Band. Their 1980 major label debut record, No More Dirty Deals, generated marginal interest and after a couple of other less than well-received efforts, the band called it quits. However, in 1987 Johnny Van Zant was brought onboard to fill his brother Ronnie’s shoes as frontman for Lynyrd Skynyrd. He has remained at the helm of the legendary band ever since.

  Hail to the Chief

  During the eleventh grade I was playing drums for my high school song and dance troupe called The Ten Tones. Our well-groomed, wholesome-looking group performed choreographed dance routines as we sang standards and show tunes. Certainly not very cool or very “rock and roll” to be sure, but the act was a huge hit on the local elementary school and retirement home circuit. Due to our frequent daytime performance schedule, Ten Tones members were often afforded a certain perk that not even many of the cool kids were privileged to receive – the coveted “Off Campus Pass.”