My roommate Ally and I spent many hours spinning vinyl as art school students, listening to U2, The Ramones, The Beatles, Psychedelic Furs and whatnot as she did underpaintings on her gesso-covered canvases and I smeared ink on drafting vellum with a Rapidograph in our roach-infested Capitol Hill double-studio. We endured alcoholic building managers, violent elderly next-door neighbors, cacophony of BMW/Mercedes dealership on one corner, dive bar on the other, and said bold insects — because of the rock. We were too young and broke to drink away the sorrows of being young and broke, so we sought solace in music instead.
At some point during my nineteenth year, I discovered I wanted to sing and play guitar in a band. I'd probably wanted to perform since I was eight years old, but here I was in a city with plenty of resources. It was time to do something about it. I didn't have the slightest clue of the equipment a singer would need and didn't even own an electric guitar or amp. All I had was the sweet, cheap acoustic guitar my dad had bought me when I was fourteen. And I'd written a few songs in our apartment while Ally painted and encouraged me from the next room. One day I just put a "Musicians Available" ad in the local music rag, The Rocket. I advertised myself as a new-wave-influenced singer, citing Siouxsie & the Banshees and U2 as influences.
I got ten calls. After weeding out most of them (early Stones or relocation to Juneau were not possibilities), I was left with a few interesting experiences.
I tried out with one cover band who, at our introductory meeting, talked about light trees and low impedance microphones, neither of which I'd embraced as tools in my life as a broke graphic design student. They played me a few songs from their repertoire and let me have a crack at singing along with the songs I knew. It was at this introduction that I learned just how loud I'd have to sing to be heard over their Marshall stacks and rototom-studded drum kit. My Olivia Newton-John wisp was not going to cut it. It was going to have to be that voice I used at parties when imitating Robert Plant. They sent me home to learn songs by Rod Stewart, Michael Jackson and INXS. Note that none of these were in my short list of influences.
When I got home, I walked into my closet, turned on the light, closed the door behind me, and cut loose with the new maniacal voice. There was no way I was going to make Ally listen to this shit at full volume. I don't think when we decided to live together she dreamed she'd have to hear me scream the lyrics of "Beat It" at the top of my lungs. She could still hear me in there, but I think she truly sympathized. If this was what I was going to have to do to break into the Seattle rock scene, then that was it. But admittedly, it was pretty annoying.
When I showed up to the next practice with my fresh, emotive voice, the guys seemed stunned. Bewildered, perhaps. The guitarist and bassist, both named Glenn if I remember correctly, became shoegazers during the practice. The drummer — we'll call him Glenn for convenience — was the only one to comment. "You have a really emotional voice!" He said it in a way that wasn't condescending, but somehow encouraging. It said "You're probably not the singer for this band, but, keep it up!" If I ever meet up with this person again, I will give him a hug. He looked kind of like Mandy Patinkin circa Princess Bride, and I'm actually sure his name was Glenn. If you know him, let me know. Guitar Glenn was also encouraging on the drive home, but called me two days later to tell me the band had broken up and they wouldn't need a singer. Peculiar.
There were two other ad respondents that I met with. One woman came to my apartment to talk to me about being a backing vocalist/guitarist. She strongly resembled Joan Jett and enjoyed the music of Ms. Jett as well. She brought along a guy pal who played riffs from the metal band flavor of the month on my acoustic guitar. I was impressed that he could make my guitar do that. But other than that, I didn't think we had much to offer each other.
The other call was from a guy who loved Siouxsie. When we met for coffee, he talked about wanting to start a "white collar" punk band. Being painfully naïve, I just nodded politely and mentally logged what he was saying. I came home and gathered up Ally, my "ethical advisor" — dubbed as such after this particular incident — to ask her what the hell this meant.
"White collar punk? That's an oxymoron! I don't think you should be in a band with the asshole. Punk is blue collar!" Thanks, Ally.
I called the guy back the next night and led the conversation to Ronald Reagan, up for re-election at the time. "I'm not voting for him," I proclaimed. "Well, I think he's an alright guy," said white-collar punk. We agreed to disagree, and silently, to never call each other back.
After several months, there was another ad. And months later, another. And another. Though I got better at writing ads and met more suitable playmates, nothing ever quite clicked. I did settle down with two acoustic players, Dave and Clayton, for long enough to play a few open mics, but that was strictly unplugged. Though I had fun times with them and enjoyed our comaraderie, it wasn't quite what I had in mind musically. It wasn't loud enough.
In the meantime we'd moved to an apartment closer to school, and Ally's boyfriend Mike moved in with us. This was cool because Mike was older and could buy beer. Not only that, but he was an energetic painter who loved the punk rock. He brought stacks of tapes and vinyl and turned us on to some great bands; some local (the Blackouts, Student Nurse), and some not (Dead Kennedys, Pere Ubu). We in turn played him our morbid faves (Bauhaus, the Cure, Cocteau Twins), and were one big happy family.
Much of this formulative time was not only spent with Ally, but with my fellow graphic design curriculum best buddy Beth, who lived just a few blocks from us on First Hill. Beth and I spent a lot of time with our new swell friend named Greg. Greg had his fingers in a lot of pies, knew many people who played music, and taught us the art of Dumpster-diving. He claimed to play the bass like Jamaaladeen Tacuma, and had been in a band called The Limp Richerds in high school. He introduced us to Gorilla Gardens, an all ages club where we saw the Butthole Surfers, Sonic Youth, Hüsker Dü, Violent Femmes, and hordes of local bands. He was our floppy friend who made us laugh a lot during part II of the Reagan Era.
On my 21st birthday, I was presented a gift from Beth, Ally, Mike, and Greg that would change the course of my life. In our apartment living room, surrounded by other friends, I opened up a guitar case to reveal a blonde 1968 Telecaster. My first electric guitar. I was speechless.
Greg was not a shy boy. And from there on, whenever we all went out to a show and Greg ran into someone he knew, he would proudly introduce me as "Rhonda, the girl who got the Telecaster for her birthday." It was a moniker I rather liked. The U-Men, one of Seattle's finest bands at the time, played a show at the Oddfellows Hall on Capitol Hill. U-Men shows were always attended by a large, raucous crowd, many of whom, this particular evening, Greg seemed to know.
He introduced Beth and I to a couple we'd seen play at Gorilla Gardens in their band, the Crypt Kicker 5. Chip and Jaime were the coolest. He played surf-style guitar on a Mosrite, and she played a fretless P-bass. I think Chip's first words were, "Oh, you're the girl with the Telecaster!"
I don't exactly remember what transpired after that, but I'm sure beer flowed and phone numbers were exchanged. I found out that their band was no more, and they were looking for a new project. I was eventually invited to come to Chip and Jaime's apartment, just blocks from ours, to quietly jam and talk about music. Eventually, Ally would come with me. She and Jaime would drink wine and talk while Chip and I played our guitars in the next room.
Again, it took Greg to intervene. When he heard Chip and I were playing, he made the bold suggestion: "Why don't you start the CK5 again and have Rhonda sing and play the guitar?"
It all happened pretty fast. We found a drummer, Ian, a friend of another Ian who lent us his house to jam in. After a few rehearsals, it was set. And for the love of rock, I'd found a band!
The rest is on another web page. Suffice to say, though it was a long, arduous journey, I felt like I got what I was seeking. It was a damned fine first band. And I couldn't have done any of it without the patience and support of good friends.
Revised 9/2008. ©1999-2008 R. Pelikan unless otherwise noted.