Read an Excerpt
From The Inside
A Backdrop to the Music of My Life
By Russ DiBella AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Russ DiBella
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-1519-9
Chapter One
Discovery Age is a matter of feeling, not of years — George William Curtis
Forty came surprisingly early to me, at least insofar as how good I felt both physically and mentally. Not that I necessarily knew what it should feel like nor did I believe I was any less mature than a man my age should be — my penchant for Sunday comics and animated sitcoms notwithstanding. I've always been dedicated to my responsibilities as husband, father and professional and maintain an otherwise plausibly adult attitude toward life in general. But with respect to music, my interest in the ancillary aspects of the artists has remained as fervent as when I first dropped a needle on an album back in middle school.
Early on in those teenage years a fair amount of discretionary time was available to indulge and easily become immersed in newly revealed interests. What was once uninhibited childhood curiosity about all things new (because all things were new) soon became teenage inquisitiveness; more mature and somewhat more focused. Moments of self-defining exploration and discovery began to take shape and, in some cases, take hold. And when one of those interests gripped me compellingly I became engaged to the extent that even cursory glance would have elicited a reasonable assumption of endurance; perhaps even of lifelong measure.
And just as I found my passion so, too, did a number of friends realize their own. Although some have maintained to varying degrees the intensity felt in those early days, a few even having uncovered new and lasting diversions along the way, many others seem to have all too easily relinquished their initial enthusiasm as though mere infatuation. Regardless of category, interests that once seemed as concentrated as mine were casually dismissed by most as they made their way into adulthood.
But that was obviously not the case with me; my interest in learning about music actually having increased and broadened over the years as my curiosity about the details continued and eventually led to other more interactive pursuits. Age may have crept up on me but it was clearly not a factor in my love of all things music. And with regard to all that would follow it would appear as though I had yet to graduate from those hallowed halls of youth. Yet here I am chronologically — and seemingly suddenly — more than three times older.
As Sherwin B. Nuland states in The Art of Aging: A Doctor's Prescription for Well-Being: "So gradual a progression is the onset of our aging that we one day find it to be fully upon us."
As a supplement to this realization it's my belief that growing older does not necessarily mean growing up. Though we ultimately have no choice about the former (if we're fortunate), we can still be respected and contributing members of society while suspending the latter — within reason, of course.
I recall a moment from my mid-twenties as I was scanning the pages of Rolling Stone magazine at a local convenience store. A former high school acquaintance I hadn't seen since graduation walked in and quickly recognized me. Seeing the magazine in my hands and knowing my musical background he shook his head scornfully while asking in a derisory tone, "You still read those things?" Though I knew his question was essentially rhetorical, the pause in his step seemed to indicate an anticipated reply. But I felt no obligation to dignify his words with response, taking far more pleasure in my silent rebuff.
Sir Francis Bacon once said: "In taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing it over, he is superior."
Looking down again I continued reading and he simply walked away.
His apparent disdain, however, had me wondering why such an in-depth interest in this particular genre of entertainment is looked upon as juvenile or inappropriate later in life while similar attention paid to other areas of entertainment; professional sports in particular, is widely accepted (I don't recall ever painting my face to cheer on a favorite band or going bare-chested in winter to a concert). In fact, it's almost shocking not to be interested in sports; especially as an adult male, and I wondered if he would have asked that question had I been reading Sports Illustrated instead of Rolling Stone. Though none of this is meant to offend sports fans (many of whom I call family and friends), the double standard makes no sense to me. Likewise, it's of no concern.
Ever since those middle school days for the most part neither time nor responsibility diminished my interest to any discernible degree. From that point forward although the music remained most important, it was never enough simply to listen to records; I had to read every lyric, liner note and credit as well as scrutinize any other information printed on the album jackets or inner sleeves — sometimes even before purchasing them when friends and I would hang out at a small local record shop (typically second among musicians only to stores selling musical instruments) called The Comfort Station; a name I initially thought was by design both skillfully vague and subtly appropriate for a music store. But, as I was quick to discover, it was actually named for the owner — Barbara Comfort (so much for my insightfulness).
* * *
Fun Fact: Although I long wondered why a caricature of an outhouse was used alongside the name of the store, I would years later learn that the term "comfort station" is actually a reference to such a facility — one of which is so notable (as part of the Department of Conservation and Recreation's Trailside Museum in Milton, MA) that it's actually listed on the National Register of Historic Places.
* * *
Although I stopped short of joining any fan clubs, wanting to know as much as possible about the bands, their music and the recordings became an almost essential part of the overall experience. Taking special note of the crossover among certain producers, engineers, songwriters, session musicians and even studios used by various bands or artists I'd admired provided further insight and intrigued me beyond the music. And as an optimistically budding drummer at the time I was even further inspired to dig deeper; to see what may lie ahead in a potential life of music for me.
In those very pre-Internet days additional information about favorite bands could often only be gleaned from magazines such as Rolling Stone, Hit Parader, Creem and later Spin (save the occasional biography). Friends and I would often idle away our time at the local 7-Eleven convenience store poring over these magazines as if on loan from the town library. On occasion when one or two had enough good pictures and stories or, better yet, when they included interviews with any of my favorite bands, they'd be deemed worthy of purchase. But in an ironic twist it would be that very distinction which resulted in their eventual — and deliberate — demolition as various pictures were culled from the pages to grace the walls of my bedroom while others became a veritable palette from which I'd create a variety of collages and school art projects. These, too, would eventually end up on my walls. It seemed no matter the task at hand, whenever possible, music would be the inspired focal point.
As a good student, albeit somewhat detached from an intrinsic desire to learn the more mundane subject matter, employing the creative process and working within the familiar and respected framework of music helped make the assignments much more enjoyable for me. As my interest in writing developed I casually branched out into poetry and even more intensely into lyrics; both styles lending themselves well to my songwriting efforts during the next few decades.
So here I am in my mid-forties, still listening to and playing music as much as possible and expanding my writing yet again — this time in the form of a memoir of sorts. Although I've written other less time-consuming, less in-depth pieces either as college coursework, personal projects or professional assignments, this was the first undertaking of its kind (and magnitude) for me and once again I found myself playing to my strengths and working within a structure that served me so well in the past. But this time, strangely enough, music as the subject was not entirely my idea.
Coincidentally, at a time when I was eager to begin a new writing project and quietly considering topics, some friends suggested individually that I document all the more noteworthy musical moments of my life. Knowing well many of those moments and even having shared in a few, they thought the idea a good one and I agreed, immediately setting out on a journey which has given me retrospection on more than thirty years.
Perhaps the most interesting aspect about the process was discovering that until I found the perfect words to express the memories, I hadn't fully appreciated them for what they were — a backdrop to my life of music. And despite my rather lucid recollections of the experiences, having verbally recounted them many times throughout the years, it was the act of putting them down on paper that assisted in their refinement. As a purist accuracy was important to me and, as such, in the absence of information I didn't want imagination filling the gaps. So I cross-checked details against facts from several sources; old concert tickets, tour programs, albums, websites and even discussions with anyone who shared in the experiences. Those meticulous processes served me well and helped capture or confirm many of the finer points story by story; a method I imagine would work well for most detail-oriented writing projects.
Consider a childhood account related by Anne Lamott in her book Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life: "Thirty years ago my older brother was trying to get a report on birds written. It was due the next day and he was immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder and said, 'Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.'"
An added benefit to this attention-to-detail approach was that it triggered memories that had otherwise slipped through the proverbial cracks in my mind — at one point calling them up at such a rate that, oddly enough, I felt the more I wrote the further I was from finishing.
But as any writer knows; a wealth of information and too many ideas are the exception to the rule — or at the very least a welcome predicament. So I felt good about the position I was in with regard to how much material my experiences would provide. Nevertheless, I wasn't quite as confident about how I'd arrange them into some form of flowing narrative; translation onto paper with a secondary goal of appealing to a broad audience. Though that second part is never undemanding (nor is there any formula for its realization), the words soon came together as I moved further into the outline stage and a larger form began to materialize, almost of its own accord. All I had to do then was begin.
It's been said about writing that simply beginning is to be half done as there are often extensive periods spent waiting for inspiration to strike. But as ironically illustrated in my 1989 ballad-style poem The Blank Page, sometimes even the lack of a topic can prove to be valid subject matter.
With my theme having been defined, a big picture taking shape and the beginning of my account unfolding agreeably, I guess it could be said that I'm half done. Well ... maybe not quite half.
The Blank Page
I stare at the page in front of me
So blank — or so it seems
No words are calling out to me
No loud whispers or quiet screams
No poetry with rhyme or reason
No humor or interesting plot
This just doesn't seem to be working
Nothing's coming and something is not
Yet soon I know I'll have something
And whether it's good or it's bad
At that point at least I'll know one thing
That it's certainly more than I had
Chapter Two
A World of Drums If thine enemy wrong thee, buy each of his children a drum — Chinese Proverb
Growing up in a large and somewhat musical family, the fourth of five children, I was passively introduced to music by way of my parents; their individual abilities pleasantly ever present throughout my childhood and adolescence. It was this familiarity that led me to believe music in the home was likely the norm. Only after experiencing the home lives of friends, however, did I discover it was actually the exception to the rule; the occasional idle or seldom-visited piano sadly more often a piece of ornamental furniture than a musical instrument.
But exposure to music also came in other ways when my three older sisters dabbled in it at various times long before I took an interest (although admittedly I wanted to be David Cassidy from The Partridge Family when I was quite young — but that's another story). I recall to varying degrees their individual efforts; my oldest sister Diane's very impressive song and dance routine to Cabaret for a county-wide pageant on her high school stage (the same stage on which I would perform with my band Thrust years later), Carole's flirtation with classical guitar (the first one I ever attempted to play) and Kathleen's brief dalliance with the clarinet and her far more lasting and beloved pursuit of singing — in the church choir, the school choral group and at wedding ceremonies (including her own when she sang Lulu's To Sir, With Love to our father at her reception). Although the youngest of the brood, Michael, would escape without any apparent active interest in music it's doubtful these memories are any less vivid to him as music permeated our household. It was an infusion that would eventually seep into my life, root firmly and flourish.
My father, Russ, a leisure-pursuit yet accomplished pianist and accordionist, was selected to appear on the All-Navy Toast of the Town Ed Sullivan Show in 1955. My mother, Sally, a gifted vocalist, has been a leading member of the church choir for as long as I can remember. Our home was often filled with the sounds of their respective talents; dad's melodic renditions of the classics emanating from his old Kohler & Campbell console piano and mom's favorite church hymns and other familiar songs of the day sung acapella whenever the mood would strike her.
Almost always on, the radio was a complement to these impromptu live performances and would introduce me at the time to the music of Elvis Presley, Dionne Warwick and Frank Sinatra among many others. Although I'd later discover in more detail the connection between music and memory, unbeknownst to me it was already placing date stamps on my mind. I would be twelve years old when Presley would die, seventeen when I took my first plane trip — to San Jose, CA — reminding me of Warwick's 1968 hit — the Burt Bacharach / Hal David-penned Do You Know the Way to San Jose, and thirty-three when Sinatra would pass away. Although all of this music was a relative constant, neither of my parents pointed me in a musical direction. But following a seemingly negligible twist of fate I discovered a tendency for it and in my pursuit found both of them to be quite supportive. It was then that I began a musical journey that under previous conditions may have simply gone unexplored.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from From The Inside by Russ DiBella Copyright © 2011 by Russ DiBella. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
