Robert C : Friend, Foil, Aficionado, and Influencer
Robert and I were both ninth-graders at Westlake Junior High — after the $3.1 million school finally opened in the fall of 1975 — but did not become friends until our junior year at Northglenn High School in 1977. The new Westlake school brought together boys and girls from all over northern Adams County, and Robert was one of several kids from the northernmost end of rural Broomfield. These were not farm boys and farm girls, exactly, but kids from homes set on acreage in the midst of wide open spaces. Robert, like many of his neighborhood friends, played on a dirt driveway and in coarse grass fields, cared for the family cow, and completed assigned chores each day. He was tall and thin with short black hair and wore button-down shirts tucked tightly into Levi jeans; a thick belt and running shoes completed his unassuming dress. Clean cut, well-mannered, and studious, Robert was a typical teen of the time who did not stand out or attract attention. Then, in high school, he discovered rock ‘n roll.
Rock music seemed to descend upon Robert all at once. In an instant he seemingly knew everything about the music and its bands, players, and history. He liked the Beatles and Led Zeppelin and everyone else but loved The Who and, especially, the Rolling Stones, idolizing their guitarist Keith Richards. Mature in his musical tastes, Robert was also interested in jazz, buying records by Jean-Luc Ponty, Al Di Meola, and Tangerine Dream. To satisfy his musical appetite, Robert bought three cassettes each week with his modest paychecks from El Chico Restaurant, then began buying as many LPs as his heart desired. The expensive portable stereo (nicknamed “Herman the Unit”) on which he played his tapes soon gave way to the expensive component stereo on which he played his records. Needless to say, it wasn’t long before stacks of tapes and rows of record albums filled every nook and cranny of his bedroom.
During Robert’s rock ‘n roll transformation, his appearance also changed. An ordinary country boy one minute, Robert was a striking rock-star lookalike the next. His loose straight-leg jeans were outed in favor of tight bell bottoms while his crisp, monochrome shirts were replaced with colorful blouse-like tops. Blessed with good looks and a perpetually slender frame, Robert’s greatest gift was a head of thick hair that grew quickly and could withstand infinite abuse. When his curly mane reached his shoulders, he looked like a bona-fide rocker in the Tommy Bolin/Eddie Van Halen mold — but far more attractive than either.
How Robert and I actually came together and formed a friendship is unclear (we were an unlikely pair in many respects), but a common dislike of school and a shared interest in music kept us close for several years. At first we had disparate musical tastes: My ear was tuned to the popish sounds of the Top 40 and the sixties — Paul McCartney & Wings and Gerry Rafferty, the Lovin’ Spoonful and Donovan — while Robert leaned toward the progressive rock of the day — Yes, Jeff Beck, Al Stewart, and, of course, the Rolling Stones. But continually exposed to Robert’s music, I gradually began to hear what he heard and be moved by that which moved him so profoundly. And while never as smitten with the Stones as was he, I fell head over heels for The Who and, later, Led Zeppelin.
Under the influence of Robert and what I was hearing on the radio, I too began buying albums and reading and learning about everything rock ‘n roll. Never Robert’s musical equal, I now could at least contribute bits of knowledge to our musical discussions, ask the right questions, and share his enthusiasm for the incredible music he continued to uncover. Just as my progress was mounting, however, Robert took his love of music to a new level, one on which I could not compete, when he bought a shiny new Gibson Les Paul gold top for $600 — quite a sum at the time — and a Pignose amplifier. (I never knew where Robert found the money to buy so many expensive toys; in high school, when we both worked at El Chico, he didn’t earn much more than I.) Robert took a few guitar lessons but really taught himself to play by learning the riffs to his favorite songs — tunes like “Satisfaction,” “Jumping Jack Flash,” “Day Tripper,” and “Smoke on the Water.” He even taught me how to play the intro to “Barracuda.” But Robert never joined a band while in high school nor did he jam much with other guitar players. In contrast to his flashy new persona, Robert remained a quiet, solitary person at heart, preferring to practice and play on his own and dream of rock stardom. His dreams even included me.
Because I had played the snare drum in concert band, still pined for a set of drums, and still fancied myself a drummer, I occupied the drum stool in the band Robert and I fantasized about forming. I would be a John Bonham/Michael Derosier type of drummer — a loud, heavy-hitter — while Robert would handle lead guitar duties, bringing a bluesy, Keith Richards-influenced sound to the band. For a moment in time, we believed — we knew — we would make it big. “Five years from now,” I remember us saying in 1980, “we might be standing here rich and famous.” With this steadfast belief in my heart, it is beyond comprehension that I never lifted a finger to acquire a drum kit so we could begin our journey toward destiny. Similarly, we never made any effort to find a bass player or singer, although we did peg Robert’s buddy Steve as our second guitarist. Steve was a bit nerdy (reminding me of Cheap Trick’s Rick Nielson) but a serious guy who truly loved music and truly wanted to make it a career. Steve was a good sport, joining with us as we dreamed and fantasized and invented band names and album titles. [1] (Steve thought Mirror the ultimate band name while I favored Thief; the name Thief, then, brought forth the LP titles Breaking and Entering and Stolen Gems.) But while Robert and I only talked about success (to my credit, I did write song lyrics to familiar and original melodies for a time), Steve actually put forth effort to make his musical dreams come true: he played, practiced, sang, wrote songs, and continually honed his skills. He was always working, always pushing forward, never losing sight of his goals, unhindered and indefatigable. Some time after our days of dreaming, I heard that Steve and his band once played a gig on television, supplying live bumper music for a local PBS program.
I ended my friendship with Robert in 1981. Robert liked to go places and do things I found not only boring but extremely depressing — such as driving around aimlessly at night and ending up in places like Glendale or on South Colorado Blvd. without any kind of plan. Or attending atrociously bad midnight movies in raunchy parts of Denver at old, worn-out theaters like the Ogden and the Esquire. Eventually I could take no more; I was tired of our outings to nowhere and hanging out in unsavory parts of town that made me feel uncomfortable and even unsafe. I simply stopped taking and returning Robert’s phone calls. In hindsight, and in fairness to Robert, I believe we were simply two unsure 19-year-olds afraid to do what we wanted — to walk into Celebrity Sports Center, for example, and explore the building without feeling out of place or self-conscious. So we instead roamed around town with our music up loud, tasting freedom and exercising as much adulthood as we were able to muster.
Nonetheless, my association with Robert was, for a time, a healthy friendship. Already working at El Chico, he helped me get hired there as a busboy — my first job. Stuck in an unsatisfying academic environment, we depended upon one other to navigate and survive two joyless years of high school. And having my Cuda long before he acquired a car, I ushered Robert around town until he found his own set of wheels. More than anything, though, Robert took my everyday interest in music and set it aflame. He fostered a love for the facts, fictions, myths, and minutia of rock and its history. He passed along an appreciation for sound quality, teaching me about high-quality stereo equipment and the sonic virtues of records over prerecorded tapes. And he pulled me out into the world and into concert halls and arenas to see and hear weighty artists like Heart, The Who, and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Without question, Robert was the primary catalyst in my musical maturation, exerting a life-altering influence upon me. He introduced me to all things rock ‘n roll and, in the process, stirred an innocent love of music into an all-consuming passion — one that has dominated and brought inexpressible joy to my life for the past 43 years.
Above piece excerpted from the forthcoming It’s Only Music: A Musical and Historical Memoir.
[1] Apparently everyone dreams of rock stardom, including country superstar Garth Brooks. Wanting to write, play, and sing different types of music, Brooks, in 1999, adopted the persona of Chris Gaines and then fabricated a personal history and career for the fictitious rocker — a career that culminated in Chris Gaines’ Greatest Hits. The one-off record contained 13 tracks: two “new” songs and 11 “hits” from the five albums spanning Gaines’ supposed career. Complete with biographical essay, liner notes, discography, and LP covers from the imagined past, the album was a masterful and convincing exercise in make-believe — one that even yielded two minor hits: “Main Street” and “Digging for Gold.” Brooks was so believable as Gaines that my dad and I were none the wiser as we watched Gaines perform in a televised concert on cable; we both took special notice of the music, wondering who Chris Gaines was and why we had never heard his name.
