The Note

For a few years when I used to ride it was a passage of spring. Most of the guys I rode with were fair weather riders so when it first began to get warm the phone calls would start. We all had a favorite place to ride to and took turns leading our rag tag group on little cruises. When it was my turn the destination was always the same. Up to the north side to Dave's Saloon. It was always a good ride. About 44 miles blasting up the expressway and on to the drive where the pace would slow and we would do our best to maintain some sort of loose formation. At the end of the drive we turned and headed west on surface streets. Roaring through the canyons of tall buildings never getting out of second gear. The roar of our group profiling through city streets on these beasts of chrome and steel turned allot of heads.

When we got onto the street that Dave's was on we had to ride single file because of the amount of traffic on this small street. One by One we filed past Dave's because you never parked out on the street here. There was a lot around the corner and through the ally right behind Dave's. A small sign at the corner of the lot read No Cars Allowed. I don't ever remember riding past that sign and not having the feeling wash over me that I had somehow passed over to the Promised Land. Once all the scooters were secured and our feet were at least for the moment back on the ground we headed inside.

There was a sign on the heavy steel door that led into Dave's it read rules, (there were only 3 rules). 1) No club patches inside of bar. 2) No visible weapons allowed inside of bar. 3) Don't F_ _k with the House Band. As we made our way down the small hallway into the bar there was no mistaking that this was a biker bar. The first thing was the pool table. Nothing fancy and just a bare bulb over the table. Over in the corner was Dave's Panhead. Tons of pictures and Harley signs of ever shape and size lined the walls. The smell was a mixture of beer with just a hint of gas and smoke of course. At one end of the bar was a wall dedicated to those who've been lost. The Wall of Lost Souls. So many pictures, snap shots of men with bikes, arms around each other, and single pictures that looked more like mug shots. At the far end of the bar was the stage for the House Band. It wasn't really a stage, just a small platform with a single chair on it.

The House Band wasn't a band at all. It was just one guy named Billy. About 9 every night Billy would appear and grab a beer and head to the stage. He had this old Strat with faded paint, lots of bangs and bruises, a faded peace sign sticker near the bridge and a small sticker right below it that read To Hell With How They Do It In California. Billy would sit down, plug in and begin to play. In the beginning he wouldn't be playing too loud. As the night wore on the volume would increase. Billy didn't take requests and Billy didn't sing. Billy was a Bluesman and without ever looking up to even see if anyone was looking or paying attention he sat with head bowed, eyes closed and played. One song would just blend into another. Through out the evening every once in awhile he would hit a note. Somewhere way up there where only angels would dare to sing. He would hold that note for what seemed to be forever before sliding down the neck to the next riff.

I used to go to Dave's a few times a month when it was warm. I would always sit down near where Billy played. I was amazed at the ease at which he seemed to melt into what ever he was playing. Once in awhile Billy and I would exchange little tid bits about our lives between sets. Billy was a tall man, lots of ink on his arms and lots of years on his face. He was from somewhere down south and was raised by his Mom after his dad was killed in a coal mining accident. His Mom, music, and going back home seemed to be his favorite topics. Billy was a Bluesman and I know he had his demons. I could see the tracks of some of his demons between the ink on his arms.

On one visit to Dave's I was saying my hellos and was floored by seeing Billy's picture on the Lost Souls Wall. I asked Dave what had happened to Billy. All he said was Billy went home.

A couple of years ago I was sitting in a candle lit room. I was on the south end of a bottle of Jack. Playing softly and trying to figure out if I was drowning my sorrows or my sorrows were drowning me when it happened. My fingers seemed to have left my hand as they slide up the neck one note after another. This was not where I ever played. I'm a first position player, meaning I don't go much past the fifth fret. I'm a storyteller and the music is just back round for me for the story I want to tell. Yet here I was climbing further up, way up. Then it happened. I found that note. The one I'd heard Billy play years before. I held that note, when it faded I struck it again and again.

As I sat there remembering Billy I wrote a song. This is a Song about Billy, as I remember him.

Mama Said

#

I was raised on a quite country road.

Mama Said she always knew someday I'd go.

Chasing down the bright lights.

Looking for my pot of gold.

She said she could see it in my eyes.

I couldn't spend my youth just getting old.

#

Mama Said.

You can come back any time you like.

You can call here any time day or night.

And if your bright lights fade.

Or you lose your pot of gold.

You can come back.

When the running gets old.

She said come home boy.

When you feel your story's been told.

#

I hit the bright lights with a dream and a song.

But these city streets move mean and fast.

And boy it didn't take too long.

People here tend to spend their lives.

As fast as they can.

One night I bought a little bit for ten dollars.

And my downhill run began.

#

Mama Said.

You can come back any time you like.

You can call here any time day or night.

And if your bright lights fade.

Or you lose your pot of gold.

You can come back.

When the running gets old.

She said come home boy.

When you feel your story's been told.

#

Now Mama died last spring.

And I live this one room slum.

My dream and song are but a memory.

All I've got left is this gun.

I've done so many things wrong.

Tonight I'll set them right.

Cause for the price of a bullet

I'm going home tonight.

#

I can hear her say.

You can come back any time you like.

You can call here any time day or night.

And if your bright lights fade.

Or you lose your pot of gold.

You can come back.

When the running gets old.

I'm going home now.

My story has been told.