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The

Gig

by Mike Dollins

Author of Blues Guitar News & Blues Guitar Chord Book

(First unedited edition for online blog) (All copyright laws apply)

etting to the Gig

- Chapter One

"All the world's a stage" is the phrase that begins a monologue from William Shakespeare's

As You Like It, spoken by the melancholy Jaques. The speech compares the world to a stage

and life to a play, and catalogues the seven stages of a man's life, sometimes referred to as the

seven ages of man: infant, schoolboy, lover, soldier, justice, old man, and second childhood.

I can’t figure out if I’m in old man or second childhood stage, or on the cusp of one of them.

With the phrase “All the world’s a stage,” firmly imprinted in my mind from

early English

rse

in college, I took off on my voyage in life. When you are young, you take what comes across

your path at surface value too often, while

knowledge

is gained as you stub your toe in life.

Wishes and desires in life pushes you onward and upward in your search for a foothold on

planet earth. Lessons begin in the sandbox during youthful sun filled days where sand fights

start out, and you join in the

fray

. You didn’t start the situation, but you’re the one that caught by

the teacher and

reaped

the

punishment

. Sound familiar? Just like the NFL, when two players

get in a

tussle

. The second punch thrown is the one that gets the yellow

penalty

lag

As I grew into manhood, often somewhere past 35 years old for boys, I figured out that

ost

of us are

all

searching for a gig; something to bring in money to sustain essentials like food,

housing

and transportation. Like any life form above

microbe - food, shelter and propagation

are

essentials to natural driving inward forces of nature. I was first aware of “roll playing” when

the United States Air Force. I entered military service in 1963, two months before I turned 18

years old. I was having a tough time adjusting to bitter cold winters in the base I was on in North

Dakota that has only one month of summer. At 18 years old I was suffering from homesickness

and

missing family and friends in the sunny 72-degree weather of San Diego, California.

I had a young first lieutenant that took me aside. We went in a private room. He kicked

back lighting up a cigarette, and tossed me the pack. (Most everyone smoked in the 60’s) He

asked how I was doing. He knew I was raw around the ears, and wasn’t adjusting well. He

confided in me, that military life wasn’t his only goal in life, and as soon as his time was up, he

wanted to pursue his desires in academics. He was just putting his time in to fulfill his military

obligation the best he could. The lesson he taught me was roll playing. Stating that he just

goes

along with the program, even

though military life can be contrary to normality in some

regards.

His sample was

, that

it is

was a lot

easier in life to swim with the flow, than oppose it.

Especially

when you had very little control of the

environment

I saw the light.

Here is another young man

that played the roll of Lieutenant in my life, and I respected as an

officer

. He was

going off the

record, and out of character to show me his real self. We shared some

small talk about

hometown blues, and things we liked and wanted to do in life. The talk did me a

world of good,

and I snapped out of my doldrums, to get back on track. We walked out of the

room, and I

saluted the Lieutenant, and he said, “Carry on airman.” Great guy, and I don’t know

his name

really hope he did well in life.

Life is a stage, and I’ve played many roles along the way. Dad, husband, grandpa, lead

guitar player, boss, manager, teacher etcetera. We all have. I had a director once give me bit

of information in the corporation I worked at. He was convinced it was okay to take your job

serious, but not to take yourself serious. I had to th

nk about

that statement

for a while. As a

type

individual, most of my life I was in a leadership role. When I first attained lead foreman

status at the very young age of 22, I thought being a hard-ass was the only approach to getting

things

done.

Production was monitored, and I wanted to succeed.

I had an old timer tell me

once that he thought I was going to do well

n the corporate

ladder, and reminded me as I

advanced to keep in mind to treat people the way I liked to be

treated. I tried to keep that

philosophy of life in general. Seems to work most of the times,

unless you are dealing with a real

knot headed

creep.

The old fellow also reminded me that, on your way up the ladder don't step

on heads to gain success. They may be attached to the butts of those you have to kiss on the

way back down. Good point.

Like the Presidents of the Untied States – They worked hard to gain the

position

, and at the

end of four or eight years, return to other things in life. It was their gig being president for a

short period of history. Actors understand so well when they are in character, and out of

character. I knew a female commander in a police department. She was proud she was one of

the first women to top out at upper echelons of a male dominated career path. I’ve seen her on

the job, and she was as professional as any law enforcement executive can be. As a personal

friend, I knew her private life. She was a musician, and even had a music room to escape to

where she played classical music on her cello and flute. Quit the different person, than the

gig

she did on duty

as a top cop

. Great lady, and we highly respect her.

I’m sure you get the point of, The Gig, by now? Gigs to working musicians are the lifeblood

of existence

for

great bands. No gigs, no musicians. With gigs, you can hire the best of the

best

to play with you. Getting agents, and finding gigs is the biggest challenge to any working

musician. I was never in the music for the money alone, as gig money hardly pays for gas these

days.

n average musician has at least two to four thousand dollars tied up in basic gear.

You

haul it to the gig like moving your living room furniture. You set it up, do four hours of

music.

Then tear it all back down to move it back home, and unload it all. The musician’s job is

akin to construction or furniture movers, than merely going to a venue to display your

performing

art.

I picked the guitar up officially in 1958 at 13 years old. I immediately set out to form a band

after learning a few basic chords. My first band stage appearance was in Felacita Park, in

Escondido, California around the summer of 1959. I do have a photo documenting that event.

On 10-10-10, this year I told my current band that I quit, and I am retiring from actively playing

music live on stage. After half a century of playing a guitar in bands, recording and road trips, I

finally reached a pause mode. Chronicling my music journey, and escapades would fill several

reams of paper, but not

the total

point for this

book

Along with my music, I also wrote and journalized fulfilling my second desire in life. As a kid,

art was first, then journalizing. When I discovered playing music my first year as a teenager, it

took over my right brain completely for

he rest of my life

. I was first actually published in 1953

while in 3rd grade for a nationally syndicated teacher’s journal. My teacher, Miss Ditmeyer, saw

my writing potential as a young lad, fueled by a vivid imagination. Not that I was gifted or

anything, as my run away fantasy of daydreaming was a product of being an only child. Gifted -

hardly. I have been just about average in anything I set out to do in life.

A chronic C+ student, I would only get an A if I liked the subject, and the teacher in

combination. If the teacher sucked, and the subject was boring, I would get an F, or skate by on

a D. Although my frustrated parents drilled me on doing well in school, I was rebellious and

hyper with a strong dose of Attention Deficit Disorder. A product of the educational system

during the fifties and sixties, a much later subject matter

I was a free flight spirit confined to a

cramped hard wood chair all day long. My only escape was staring out the window, where my

magic carpet imagination would take off in any direction I desired to fly.

I however succeeded with good grades in English. Not so much on mechanics, vocabulary

and spelling, but rather by the jump-start spark I received from the compassionate teachers I was

fortunate to have come along in my life that viewed creative writing as a true art. From an early

age, right brain activities attracted me; art, music, creativity

, craft

and fantasy. As an only child I

had

many hours on long road trips with nothing to play with, but my brain. No siblings to tussle

and

tease each other in the back seat with parents yelling, “Knock it off.” Growing up, we took a

lot

of vacations. Mostly to visit family that was scattered from California,

Oregon, Idaho and

Arkansas. I had

ongoing stories

in my head

I would continue each time the car doors closed,

and we hit Highway 101 or

Route 66.

As music became the dominant driving factor of right brain functioning, art and eventually

writing faded

way somewhat

. My art was used in music to create album covers, and eventually

web

sites. Writing skills came in handy for liner notes, advertising and articles on my favorite

musical

artists. By the time I was 17 years old, I was in the United States Air Force, and along

with me

went my guitar. R&B, Blues and Jazz were all I paid attention to in recorded music.

Radio, TV,

Juke Boxes and records were all we had in the early 60’s.

My discrimination to certain types of music found me in racially mixed music groups of like-

minded folks that shared my love for R&B, as the bubble gum pop music on radio sounded

extremely redundant to me. Now this is 1963, four years before President Johnson passed the

Civil Rights Bill. I caught hell from those folks that did not care for people of darker shades of

pigmentation. Yeah, it was a real ugly time. But, the white guys did not cut it in my book when

they played music. I liked to hear music with real soul and feeling from down in your socks. It

was my Gospel Music background from childhood that shaped my taste. The roots of Gospel

music was a common ground many jazz, blues and R&B musicians shared. Sorry about the fact

white guys can’t jump, and most of them can’t dance a lick either. You know what they say,

“Beer – Teaching white people how to dance for a hundred years.” My hottest group in the Air

Force was The Jades. I was the

crazy

white kid from California on guitar.

Feeling a lot like the cartoon character “Ziggy,” my voyage through life has felt more like

Alice in Wonderland encountering all types of surrealistic events, situations and contrasting

individuals across the human spectrum. The more I have learned about humans and their

nature, the more I am amazed to discover new traits and behaviors.

Nothing a human can do

surprises me anymore.

It makes us special as the

alpha of the animal species. Add in the mental

psychoses for musician, a mental malady

unknown to many

With musicians

you find a very

broad spectrum of narcissistic egomaniac

individuals

driven by strange inward desires to be in

front of crowds of people for self fulfillment.

It could

also be to satisfy lingering childhood

syndromes of parental neglect when they cried out,

“Look

at me,” and have chased getting

attention through playing live music. Who knows for sure

what

harbors in the dark corner

of a

musicians cranium. On the surface a musician will tell you

it is

the music that haunts them, when

in all reality it is delusions of grandeur - A fast track to

wealth

and fame. The golden ring many

musicians are attempting to snare as we go around in

the

merry-go-round of life

- Chasing

the

secret desire to becoming the next Elvis,

Sinatra,

Beatles or

Rolling Stones.

If they say they are

in it for art sa

, they are a lying, as they all

have

daydream

etting

RCA recording

contract,

and would not turn one down if offered.

As a young man, I chased the carrot of music success for years. A rat race one eventually

discovers is

just

a hamster’s wheel going fast to nowhere. After decades of dabbling in every

aspect

of music one could only to imagine, I finally settled down on keeping a good working band

organized. The frustration of beating the bushes for band jobs to fall out has gotten tougher,

and challenging over the decades. Too many musicians, bands and performers, all vying for the

crumbs and tid-bits of money out there to pay street level bands, add to the exasperation of

band life. The music lifestyle is a facet of the entertainment business. A business known for

the

shark eat shark mode of operation. The nature of the process is like thousands of musicians all

waltzing around in a circle playing musical chairs only scrambling to find a seat and sit down

when the music stops. Not everyone gets the gig. After a attaining a certain level of proficiency,

the most important component

in the music business becomes luck

, and who you know

I’ve written many pieces on music aspects for working musicians over the decades, and the

only feedback I received on the writing attempts was from hardcore working musicians

proclaiming, “Right on Mike.” Us musicians can talk to another individual claiming to a musician

for just a few seconds, and know just about where the person is, what they sound like and their

experience. Like Howard Cosell was told by Alex Karras on Monday Night Football, (Mr. Karras

was Mongol in Blazing Saddles), “How would you know Howard, you never played the game.”

Same holds so true for being a working musician. The trade is difficult to explain, as you have to

be there to understand it all. Just the language, like many jargon based subcultures, musicians

speak in a language only known by them. My wife heard a deep technical conversation with a

close musician friend, and me in the early stages of our marriage where she was just discovering

the Sybil possessed personalities of a musician. We were in orbit talking about a wiring job on a

Fender Telecaster electric guitar, and she told me it was like hearing Northern Mandarin dialect

without an interpreter.

NA Delta Link

- Chapter Two

Hey, this ain’t tooting my horn on the credits and dues I’ve paid since I picked the guitar up

at 13 years old in 1958. This is more or less how an Irish, Norman Englishman, Dutch Jew,

Choctaw Indian wound up with such a deep desire for the blues. From what my grandma told

me before she died in 1980 at 97 years old, she remembers moving from Tennessee to West

Memphis, Arkansas when she was a little girl in the late

1890’s. My daddy was born just outside

of West Memphis, in a house along Highway 49, on a cotton farm July 1913. This is as pure

Mississippi Valley delta as you can get. A true blues crossroads of America. During the Great

Depression, grandma lost the cotton farm to Yankee carpetbaggers, and moved down to Little

Rock, AR where my dad met my mother at Olive Hill Baptist Church, Chicot Road. My mother’s

clan, the Squires settled in Little Rock, as far back as pre-1830. Great, great grandpa Hiram

Squires is buried in the woods near Olive Hill Baptist Church family cemetery. Also in the family

cemetery are my great grandparents, grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins that have gone

on to glory. I too will lay rest next to my kinfolk in this hollowed and sacred family ground

someday. It’s the Indian compunction in me that makes me feel this way.

After World War II, times were tough all over. My daddy landed a job with the US

Government, on the Marine Base in San Diego, California. Thus, I grew up in sunny la-la land,

but came back to our home state of Arkansas every summer on my uncle’s farms. I was a

country boy, growing up in one of fastest growing Southern California environments, where I

always felt like a fish out of water. My parents won a housing lottery for an old cracker box

government house in a little San Diego suburb called Linda Vista. Many of Arkies, Okies,

Blacks, Hispanics, Islanders and Asians that were in San Diego for WWII, won lottery’s on these

cheap government loan houses. The street I grew up on, we were the only white family. Many

of the elder blacks saw me banging on an old beat up Stella guitar on my front porch, and used

to give me their old 78 Rhythm and Blues records to listen too. I loved that R&B and jazz from

the pre-rock and roll days of golden 40 & 50’s music era.

My aunt Elsie Dollins, a full Choctaw, played guitar, yodeled and sang. Mostly a mixture of

Baptist Hymnal and fifties popular country swing tunes. Between the two R&B and Gospel, it all

sounded like 1, 4, 5 blues to me. When 1955 hit, I was 10 years old. The early so called Rock

& Roll, sounded like blues to me, until Hollywood started sprucing up all those pretty boys named

“Bobby” and “Pat” to cover black men blues tunes. In 1958 I worked mowing lawns to get my first

good Kay “F” hole arch-top guitar. My older cousins would give me their old 45 records, as soon

as the songs fell of the top 40 hit parade charts, and were considered oldies. I would usually

trade off the bubble gum songs, and keep the ones I liked. I kept them old records still to this

day, and they were all by black artists. Not one white artist except Buddy Holly and Hispanic

Ritchie Valens are in the collection to this very day. Then around 1961 I got my first three 33

1/3 RPM, full play albums, 1. Freddy King – “Hideaway,” 2. Bobby Bland – “Here’s The Man,” 3.

B.B. King – “My Kind of Blues.” I still have all three albums in my massive Blues Record

collection. My cousin Robert “Sonny” Johnson had a band. He played drums, and I used to

sneak in, and listen to them play. When they took a smoke break, I used to mess with all their

gear knowing I would get yelled at. I couldn’t help myself.

The high school band I had in the 60’s become a teenage pop-culture band, and was very

popular for all the local teen dances. We won a contest, and were actually broadcast on KOGO

Radio, in San Diego, CA in 1962. With Rick Matanane, a Hawaiian I met in 8th grade who had a

No-Caster Tele, Larry Cox on a 1945 Fender P. Bass, Skip Young, a New York trained drummer,

Tony Cook and Steve Ewing on horns, we were one tough teenage band. I was up all night long

practicing my guitar just to keep up as the rhythm guitar player. I went from being a little weird

nerd day dreaming about guitars all day in class, to Mr. Cool on campus overnight. We made

good money gigging in San Diego during 1961 to 1963. Mrs. Cox, Larry’s mom was our

manager and kept us booked all over town, all the time. Then the fall of 1963, I joined the United

States Air Force. We were all graduating from high school, and most everyone was going to

college. I didn’t want to be drafted in the Army, and joined the Air Force.

In September of 1963 I landed in San Antonio Texas, at Lackland USAF base. I was in Air

Police Training. In November we were training on weapons at the firing range, when we saw Air

Force One take off from Kelly AFB, and fly over us. A couple hours later we heard over our little

transistor radios that President Kennedy was assassinated. Our sergeant and captain gathered

us up, and told us, “Pack your duffle bags, and keep your weapons by your side. Be prepared

to go anywhere in the world at a moments notice.” We were on lock down watching television of

the unfolding horrid events, waiting

orders to go to war at any second. Within a couple days,

our red alert relaxed. It was a tense time, and I was ready to protect my country. Youthful as I

was, only 17 years old, I felt my call to duty to get those dirty sons of bitches that killed our

president. First and only time in my life I felt like murdering someone, and had a legal right to do

. I had a little Silvertone acoustic guitar, and we would all go in the lounge area, playing and

singing to break the tension we all had

built up

Then in January of 1964, I had a short leave at home, then off to Minot SAC AFB, in North

Dakota. I had to look on a map to even see where North Dakota was located. For a naive,

guitar brained southern California raised Arkie, I was in shock that North Dakota had ten months

of winter, and almost two months of summer most years. In Southern California snow was

something you drove up to the mountains once a year to romp around in, and then back down to

the beach for a dip in the ocean that afternoon. Sub-zero weather and me did not get along.

With not much to do, except eat, sleep, body functions and work - boredom and loneliness were

the moods of each grueling and grinding cold ass day staring out the window as the snow blew

sideways with a visibility of 50 feet on a good day.

With time on my hands, around February of 1964, my dad sent my guitar and amp to me. I

had a buddy drive me down to the train station, and in a wood box crate were my 1962 Gibson

ES-335 named “Suzie” and my Gibson Falcon tube amp. It was like an old familiar friend, a bit

of home and a much-wanted possession I needed very badly. Along with my guitar, was my

small record collection. See the three albums above, and add in Ray Charles’ Greatest hits and

James Brown at the Apollo Theater. Needless to say, I wore these albums out. I was roomed

with two white guys, and they used to rag on me playing “N” word music. I noticed that a black

friend, Thomas, didn’t have a third roommate. I asked if I could move in his room, and he was

more than happy. He was gone most of the time, and our other roommate, Lenny Durham, from

Boston was the first black man I ever met with a Boston Accent. Both great guys, and they got a

kick out of the weird white kid from California that was

isten

to jazz

and blues

. I started buying

Miles

Davis, Coltrane, Horace Silver, Jimmy Smith and Kenny Burrell albums every month at the

when payday rolled around. Now my music pallet was R&B, Soul, Blues and Jazz. Nothing

else

in music seemed to float my boat, and didn’t matter to me especially the top pop crap on

radio.

All my off duty time was spent studying Mickey Baker’s Jazz Guitar Book. I was learning jazz

chords, and solos. I listened to all my albums, and tried playing along. I was intent that when I

got out of the USAF in four years, I would head back to California an accomplished, studied and

hot guitar player. Musical talent, I was not born with. Knowing this, practice – practice –

practice, consumed my every waking hour when not at work. I actually took my guitar with me out

to Minute Man Missile sites, when I was on guard duty. This was like 12 hours of undisturbed

time to practice my guitar, with my M1 Carbine and 38 S&W Police Special by my side on

constant look out for saboteurs wanting to blow up my missile site. I was ready for those

communist bastards, and would blow them away in a heartbeat protecting my country. Guitars

and guns were my way of life then at 18 years old. I never did see anyone, except an occasional

farmer plowing his wheat fields. Dang, those John Deere tractors were massive.

A buddy named Don Grady, popped in my room one day. He was a guitar player- singer

from Danbury, Connecticut. We started jamming the routine club tunes of the era. The

recreation room on base had a stage, and sound system. Occasionally Leslie Burnside from

Bolder, Colorado would sing with us. Don and Leslie harmonized great together. We’d grab a

fill-in drummer and did a few little gigs here and there. In the USAF, everyone had a schedule,

and unfortunately an Air Force base is a 24/7 operation. Getting our schedules together was a

challenge.

One day around March of 1964, I was in my room taking a break smoking a cigarette, and

missing home real bad. My guitar was lying on my bed. I heard a knock on the door, and

invited the person in. The door opened, and there stood Big John Johnson, from Mississippi. A

nose tackle football player, that looked bigger than a Kodiak bear standing in my doorway

. He

asked

very

politely to come in. He introduced his self, and said he heard I played guitar. We

chatted small

talk, and then he asked me if he could play my guitar. He gently picked it up, and

started

walking

the

“Stormy Monday” bass line just like Bobby Bland's version. I got excited, and

ask, “Do

you play bass?” He said, ‘Naw, but I want to buy one and learn.” Will you teach me? I

said,

“Heck yeah.” He then started singing Stormy Monday, and I thought I was hearing Bobby

Bland

in person.

At only 18, I already knew talk was cheap when it came to musicians and want to be’s

talking trash about this and that, which most of the time was lip service, and not a drop of walking

the talk follow through. Then a few days later, Big John again knocked on my door. His hulking

frame came in carrying a case, and tossed it on the table. It was a knock off, Japanese copy of a

1945 P. Bass. We instantly plugged in my little Gibson amp, and jammed the rest of the

evening. John’s hands were twice the size of an average man’s hands, and he learned on the

fly like he was born to play bass. As he learned, every single note he hit was just absolutely

dripping with soul, and I never, ever heard him

ever

hit an un-cool note. He brought me more

King albums, and started pointing out songs, and all of what he called, “Making the guitar

talk.” I

was teaching him bass, and he was tutoring me into listening deeper and more finite to

what the

blues was really all about.

We invited Don Grady to come into our duo. He played rhythm and sang very well. Before

summer arrived, Big John said he would like to have TC Webb, join us. That TC played a mean

sax, and sang really well. I knew a drummer named Pat Bergen, who also was a DJ on the local

top pop radio station in Minot, North Dakota. We started rehearsing in the rec. room, and one

day a big tough looking Master Sergeant was sitting in the back listening to us. Don Grady

knew Sergeant, Teddy Vandeaver, and they were talking during a break. Sarge, as we came to

calling him wanted to manage our group. He had a Quonset hut, where he made us practice

around the clock. He would pull strings, making sure we were all off duty and available to play

gigs. We didn’t have a name, and at 18 years old men’s cologne was a must when socializing

around females. I was partial to Canoe and Jade East. We were going out to hear another local

band, “The Messengers” who were our competition on base, and there would be ladies at the

show. I put on my finest threads, and then doused myself with Jade East. It popped into my

head, “The Jades.” I couldn’t wait to tell Sarge and the guys. When I presented the group

name to them all, they loved it. We were now, “The Jades.”

We started making a name for our self. Pat had toured with Johnny and the Hurricanes,

and was one heck of a stage drummer with his driving rhythms. Big John sang the blues, Don

Grady sang the ballads, and Mr. TC Webb sang all the James Brown songs. TC, stands for Top

Cat, and he also started playing all the Junior Walker songs like Shot Gun, and Road Runner.

John, Don and TC harmonized

just like

the four tops, and temptations rolled together. As

our

popularity grew, Sergeant Vandeaver entered us in the battle of the bands, for the state of

North

Dakota. This was in the summer of 1965. I was four months away from turning 20 years

old. I

had a Chevy wagon to hall gear, made a new stripe on my sleeve and had the hottest

band in

the mid-west. Sarge made us rehearse, rehearse and rehearse. We were tighter than

an 8-

day clock wound up to 10-days. We then went down to the local tailors, and were fitted for

custom tuxedos. Our jackets were Teal Green, sequenced. We were dressed as sharp as any

Motown act at the Apollo, patent leather shoes and all.

It was getting close to show time. The night finally came, and we drove down to the indoor

shopping center where the battle of bands was held. A crowd of thousand or so was gathering,

as in North Dakota, there isn’t much social activity, and when something came along it was a

smash hit. The stage was high, and in the center of the shopping complex. Teddy, our

manager knew we were all nervous, knowing we never saw such a large crowd before. He also

knew the local favorites were bound to win from just shear local teenage popularity. Our main

competition was from “The Embermen,” the local favorites. As the show began, all the local

bands were doing their three song sets. Sarge grabbed us all, and pulled us into the corner

pub. He made us all have a two finger shot of whisky, just to calm our nerves down. I was

nly

an occasional beer drinker, and the other guys didn’t drink much either. This was what the

doctor ordered, as with just a little jolt of Jack Daniels in our system

was

enough to just relax us.

downed the drinks, and our name was called.

We hit the stage doing the James Brown one-leg shuffle, and blew right into “Shot Gun” but

we were so excited it was jacked up on 10. TC Webb blew his butt off on the sax over the

best

PA system we had ever been on, and my 335 Gibson out of a blonde Fender Bandmaster

was

just purring pure soul. The crowd went nuts, and rushed the stage. Girls were screaming,

yelling and going nuts over us. Now this is a mixture of white guys, and black guys in pre-civil

rights act of 1967. It didn’t matter to anyone, as the crowd just jacked us up to turbo level. Then

TC nodded for me to take a solo. To this day, I don’t remember what I played, and only

remember my Gibson 335 singing like a soulful bird. The crowd yelled and coaxed me on. I

was in a la-la land never before felt. It was a fifth dimension of some sorts rarely visited by

humans. We then broke down into Stormy Monday, and gave them a taste of Bobby Bland, with

Big John at his finest. We finished off the show with a James Brown song, which I think was “I’ll

Go Crazy.” Again, with the crowd going nuts over us full bore.

We came off stage after our three songs, with the cheering and hooting of a thousand

people yelling for more. It felt like walking on air. The other bands finished up, and now the

judges came on stage. It was an applause meter contest. As the names of the bands were

announced, there would be applause and cheers. Then our name was announced, and the

crowd went absolute nuts yelling their butts off. We won the battle of the bands for the State of

North Dakota by six lengths at least. The band became ecstatic as we were called back on

stage to get our awards. It was a mystic evening of extreme adrenal flow, and total fulfillment as

a musician. We felt like no one on earth could touch us on stage at that moment in time. It was

such a thrill of a lifetime.

The TV, Radio and Newspaper interviews came flowing in. Teddy had us booked all over

the mid-west, and our fan following was growing fast. We played for an all black social club

called, The Sit Luck Club, and Smokey Robinson’s cousin was there. After the show, he was

talking to our manager, and they began negotiations for us to come down to Chicago and

record. Also, the manager for Curtis Mayfield was there, and he wanted to record us too. As

the talks were ongoing for a record deal, Don Grady had a family emergency, and was given a

Hardship Discharge to go take care of his ailing father. We missed Don, and found a new

Airman just on base named Leroy Johnson who could sing higher than Smoky Robinson, and

played great piano. Pat Bergen also got his discharge, and went back home to Lansing,

Michigan. Big John, brought a new drummer in we just called, “Nevilles.” Yes, he is cousin to

Aaron Nevilles, and is part of the Neville Brothers Family. His New Orleans funky, left-handed

drumming fit us just great. However, our recording date never materialized during our personnel

changes.

We continued on for another year as, “The Jades.” Then Big John also was receiving a

hardship discharge. His father passed away, and his mom was all alone trying to raise his

younger brothers and sisters. We all cried, hugged and said goodbye to our beloved friend,

John Johnson – a true friend, and gentle giant. I only had a few months left in the USAF, and in

September 1967, I bid fare thee well to TC, Leroy and Nevilles. I headed back home to

California, only to find a bunch of hippies sitting down at concerts smoking weed, burning

incense and listening to the most awful music I had ever heard in my life. I tried to get a group

together, but California blacks had just burnt down Watts, and the Black Panthers were in full

force. Whites and blacks didn’t socialize much. I did however play for Huey Newton’s birthday

party, at San Diego State College. I didn’t even know who he was; it was just another gig to me.

I later found out he was a main player in the Black Panthers. My blues band then was called

“Hard Times Blues Band.”

In and out of bands for years, it took me up to the late seventies when I formed “Cruizin”

which was an Oldies but Goodies band, and we played a lot of 60’s Soul and Rhythm and Blues.

I also got my blues songs in the mix. We became very popular in San Diego, and played all the

five star hotels for high rollers from 1979 to 1986 Then in 1987, I dropped out just sitting in with

bands here and there. I was in the late Ken Shoppmeyer’s King Biscuit Blues Band for a year.

Ken was a wizard on blues harp, and we had a great time. Wanting my own band again, I tried to

get the guys from “Cruizin” back together. Our sax man Tommy passed away unexpectedly and

Manny our bass player was in the hospital not doing well. My old childhood friend, from high

school Victor Marquez and I were the only two left. I had a music store in the 1980’s, and kept a

musician sign up sheet for guys looking for gigs. Actually, I scanned it all the time looking for

blues musicians. Then around 1988, I went in my guitar shop, and glanced at the sign up sheet.

The entry said; Len Rainey, From Chicago, just moved to town, played bass and blues. I almost

ripped the phone off the wall, and called Len. Victor and I grabbed some old King Biscuit

players, as Ken was always rotating musicians. I didn’t want to call the band “Cruizin” anymore,

and changed the name to “The Cruize Brothers.” Thus the beginning of our landmark name

with a top rated Blues Festival video on YouTube.

I was also a staff writer on Jude Hibler’s Jazz Link magazine. I got press passes all the time,

and I was given the assignment to cover Ingrid Croce’s new nightclub in the Gas Lamp district of

San Diego. Ingrid was the widow of the late Jim Croce, and her son was a fine jazz musician.

My article was also reprinted in the San Diego Union-Tribune and Los Angles Times covering the

club “Croce’s” and the Gas Lamp District, which I compared to Bourbon Street in New Orleans.

Today 5th Avenue in San Diego is the hub of all entertainment including the San Diego Padres

ball team. I was going through some tough times, and backed out of the Cruise Brothers for a

period of time. Len renamed the group Len Rainey and the Midnight Players. They are still a

big name blues act in Southern California, with founding members Victor Marquez and Tony

Matoian. Len Rainey and the Midnight Players became the house band at Croce’s, and I always

had an invite to come sit in and play anytime I wanted. We had some great jams.

Around 1990 I joined a famous black gospel group, “The Mighty Wings of Faith.” Talk

about going back to your roots. This was as deep as it gets. We then formed the “The Brothers

of Praise.” For a decade, I was into deep gospel full bore, and loving every minute of real deal

inspired music. Our CD that I produced is still played on black gospel radio stations in

California. In 2000, I started up “The Cruize Brothers” again. When I got the gig, Len, Victor,

and Tony along with Roy and Dominic Enjambre, would join me as the Cruize Brothers. When

Len got the gig, we would go as the Midnight Players. Then in 2005, I had the compunction to

move back to the land of my ancestry. I packed up my family, some of my adult kids and

grandkids and we moved to Arkansas. It took every last dime I had, but we are back in the real

deal, down to earth folks that love God, the United States and The Blues. Like Brother Rabbit

being tossed in the brier patch, I never felt more at home anywhere on earth. Being laughed at

in grade school for my hillbilly accent, I was now talking to people that sounded just like me,

blacks and whites alike. I was now readily able to find and eat Black Eyed Peas, Turnip Greens

with Pepper Sauce, Fried Okra, Cornbread, Fried Cat Fish, Blackberry Cobbler and gallons of

Sweet Tea endlessly.

My first year in Arkansas, I was out in my Bass Tracker boat on the Arkansas River fishing.

We had a few family reunions, and as they say; “You can’t drive anywhere in Arkansas that you

don’t pass one of my cousins or kin folk.” I played around with a few friends, and started a little

coffee house band with my youngest son, Clay Dollins, until he had a chance on a great job in

Wyoming. He is doing well, and breaks in horses for ranchers for extra money besides his full

time job in a uranium mine mak

ing

top dollar. I miss him, but he and his family are doing great.

One day Jo Ann and I were in Hot Spring, Arkansas, a major tourist city, on our anniversary. I

dropped her off at the outlet center, and said I was going back to a little music shop I saw.

I walked in Hot Spring Music, and met Mr. Guido Ciardetti. We started talking guitars,

Freddy King and blues for the next four hours non-stop until Jo Ann called, and was ready to be

picked up. I learned that Guido played with Buddy Miles in Dallas, when he lived there before

Buddy passed away. Later Guido came to my house, and we jammed for three hours, and he

knew every Freddy King, Albert King and BB King song in my bag of tunes. He said he knew a

drummer, Brad Messer, and I said we could get some gigs in Little Rock. Thus, the 2008

version of, “The Cruize Brothers,” was formed. We have Mike Fraz on keyboards, Greg

Batterton on blues harp with us at times. Occasionally the

incomparable

guitarist Joe Pitts sits in

with us when he is back off his

European

tours. We go out as a trio most of the time, and show

case the big band when we get the money, time and space to do it. I am back on my game, and

working with pro-level musicians again. When the big band is together, it is just remarkable to

me, as I am back to the level I had in the first edition of Cruize Brothers and years ago in The

Jades.

TC Webb from the Jades, had found me this year surfing the net, and we had been talking

on the phone about our old times in the USAF, and “The Jades.” TC stopped by once on his

way through Little Rock, and we got a big hug, and reminisced about our time over 40 years ago

winning the battle of the bands. To end this story, Guido and I were in Dallas, Texas at Vintage

Guitar Show this year. I called TC up, and we all met at the House of Blues, in Dallas. What a

great reunion. With the fabulous TC Webb, and the current great bassist Guido, in the Cruize

Brothers, sitting around talking old good times, I was in my element. On this Labor Day

Weekend this year the Cruize Brothers, along with the Joe Pitts Band have the honor of opening

the 2009 Spa City Blues Festival, in Hot Springs, Arkansas It doesn’t get much better than that,

now does it?

Pass the Biscuits - Chapter Three

I was attracted to blues from an early age before I didn’t even know it was called blues. We

called it Rhythm & Blues in the 50’s. I had the DNA in me, as my daddy was born along Highway

49, on a cotton plantation, just out of West Memphis, Arkansas in 1913. Now brother, it doesn’t

get any more down-home than that. We are talking Black-Eyed Peas, Fried Okra, Turnip-

Greens with Pepper Sauce, Fried Catfish in Cornmeal, Cole Slaw, a big Green Onion, and

washed down with a Big Glass of Sweet Tea. You can replace the Catfish with BBQ Ribs, Pork

Chops or Fried Chicken. Now that is pure Delta eating no matter what part, or which side of the

River you’re on.

Back in the fifties, I was influenced in music by what I heard and saw. This is pre-Rock &

Roll, which had a birthday around 1955. My Aunt Elsie Dollins was a full Choctaw that played a

big “F” Hole Guitar out of a Tweed Amp. She sang, and yodeled playing country swing and

gospel songs. My other influences were Hank Williams on the radio, and of course the Baptist

Hymnal at church; all with a roots origin of sorts.

When no one was around, I would strum the strings on Aunt Elsie’s guitar. The vibration of

the strings reverberated all through my little tender body exciting the very fiber of my being.

Later in around my pre-teen years, My Cousin Robert “Sonny” Johnson, played drums in a little

combo. They would take a smoke break at practice, and I would fiddle around with all the

instruments hoping I wouldn’t get caught. Then in 1958, at 13 years old I mowed lawns to earn

enough money to buy my first guitar. Fifty-two years later, I am still playing guitar. I just had a

gig last night, and I was just excited as the first time I ever stepped on stage in my first high-

school band decades ago.

Jumping on through the years you can find more details on this story in the tab “Newsletter”

which chronicles my life and times playing music, mostly blues. I want to move forward to this

year. I was blogging on FaceBook, and mentioned something to someone about California. I

then got a comment back from a friend that was shocked to hear, that I was born in California,

and not Arkansas. After World War Two, times was tough all over, especially in Arkansas. My

dad landed a Civil Service job with the US Government in San Diego, CA. I was born and raised

in Southern California, but came back to Arkansas every summer on my uncle’s farms as I grew

up. Arkansas was in my blood. In the Yuppie state of Sprouts and Tofu, I was teased about my

funny Southern accent in school. I was a fish out of water so to speak.

I listened to AM radio growing up, but had a great collection of R&B records and albums.

Somewhere around the 70’s when radio programming went awry in my way of thinking, I had

cassettes and would record my blues collection to hear in my trucks, instead of being forced to

hear FM radio. I lost all touch with what was popular and hip, as I was lost forever after more into

blues, R&B and jazz.

Over the years, trying to get musicians to play blues was like asking someone to sign

divorce papers, get their gums scraped, get circumcised as an adult, and all during an IRS

audit. Most folks wanted to do Top 40 cover songs. The neighborhood in San Diego, California

that I grew up in was old World War II government housing they sold in lotteries to working folks.

The suburb was called “Linda Vista, a melting pot of ethnicities, cultures and religions. Mostly

poor Southern relocated white folks like my family, and Blacks, Hispanics, Asians and Pacific

Islanders all in search for work after the Great War. R&B, jazz and blues was just about all I

heard as a young lad all throughout my neighborhood.

In High School, most of us were drifting away from Top-Pop AM radio, and was actually the

beginning of “Underground Music” movement in the United States. Rhythm and Blues was what

you heard at teen dances, not the typical “Bobby Bitchen” songs off the radio. We were into Ike

& Tina Turner, James Brown, Ray Charles, Bobby Blue Bland, Jackie Wilson, Brook Benton, Isley

Brothers, Rufus Thomas etc. The coolest R&B song that came out in my High School years was

Brooker T’s, “Green Onions.” Somewhere along 1959, I got my first BB King album, “My Kind of

Blues,” which I still have. I added Bobby Bland’s “Here’s The Man” and Freddy King’s

“Hideaway. Shortly after, I got my hands on James Brown “Live at the Apollo Theater,” and Ray

Charles’ “Greatest Hits.” I listened to these five albums endlessly in my teenage formative

years.

I had some sort of band all my life, and on my web sites, you can read all about the many

folks I played with in my younger days. Moving forward to the late nineties, I had one of the

hottest bands with the most talent that I ever assembled in San Diego. Len Rainey, Victor

Marquez, Tony Matoian, Dominic and Roy Enjambre. I called it the Super Group, and we went by

The Cruize Brothers. Occasionally Cynthia Hammond from KSDS jazz FM would bless us, and

come sing at some gigs. There are a few photos and only one video of our time-shared making

music. See video on this page.

In 2005, I packed up my family and moved to my ancestral homeland of Arkansas. Tired of

life in the fast lane of California, I was ready for a change of pace and longed for Southern

living. My Arkansas family dates back to the 1800’s, and you can’t drive anywhere in the state

without passing one of my cousins along the road. First arriving I was content to fish on the

Arkansas River, just two locks away from the Mississippi River in my bass boat. Live was grand.

One afternoon in May, I drove into Little Rock, to check out Guitar Center, just about the

only music store in the area. I needed strings and picks. I meandered into the acoustic guitar

room, and grabbed a Martin I had my eyes on. In a bit, another gentleman came in, and was

looking at Taylor guitars. He was very polite, and did not try to over play me. He was actually

listening to what I was playing. He joined in, and for the next half hour, we jammed endlessly

without saying a word.

This is a true real deal guitar player thing. It is rare, seldom comes around and not all

players get it. You either know the language, or you don’t. There is a grace and protocol to

jamming, which many never get a clue about. The two of us were the only audience, and we

were both highly entertained. We took a break, and I shook the fellow’s hand, telling him my

name. He simply replied, "I’m Joe Pitts.” He told me that he knew every picker in these parts,

and where was I from. I explained I just moved out from the West Coast. With more small talk,

Joe gave me his phone number, and said, “Let’s tag up and do something.” He was in between

bands, and such.

Unfortunately, shortly after meeting Joe, my doctors discovered I had a cancerous tumor on

my right kidney. I went in for surgery to remove the kidney at the end of May in 2005. On my

return home from the hospital, and after some convalescing, I couldn’t find Joe’s phone number.

A couple years later, I was introduced to a Joe & Rhonda Pitts, along with Michael Burks at

an Arkansas River Blues Society jam session. After meeting Joe, I reminded him about our

Guitar Center experience years earlier, and we’ve been buddies ever since. He sits in with my

bands, and he invites me to his gigs to sit in. Joe and me had the pleasure of backing up the

great bluesman, Len Rainey on headed back to California after his Chicago blues tour two years

ago. We had one great night of jamming, which still rings in my memory.

To Be Continued

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www.mikedollins.biz/Blog

1960

The Jades 1965

Victor Marquez, my High
School buddy. 20 years
jamming together.

My Hippie Days. Somewhere
in the 60's I think. Outside of
Los Angeles, I think. Who
knows? It was all a purple haze

Here with Bobby Bland. For once I
look like the Dutch Jew I have in my
DNA make up.

With my best to music buddies. L-R.
Me, Guido Ciardetti, and Joe Pitts

With my dream team. L-R. "Chicago"
Bob Lowther, Guido Ciardetti, me, and
Seasal Parker.
Their credits.
Bob, keys - Buddy Guy & Son Seals
Guido, bass - Buddy Miles
Seasal, drums - Albert King

One day on stage lost in guitar la
la land. Can you see the drool
dripping out of one corner of my
mouth?

TC Webb & Mike Dollins
Original members of the Jades.