YOU'LL NEVER KNOW ALL THE SONGS.
Our manager Kirby taught me the Nashville Number System. I asked why I needed it. His answer stayed with me for the rest of my career: you will never know every song. Learn how to follow.
Music was never just one chapter of my life. I started with a trumpet, learned bass because a band needed one, moved to keyboards because another band needed one, and spent the next four decades trying to play whatever part was missing. Along the way there were records, nightclubs, road trips, The Platters, Vegas, cruise ships—and more bands than I can remember without looking at the pictures.
Trumpet came first, followed by other brass instruments. When my first band, The Shayds, needed a bass player, I became one. When the music changed, so did the band—and eventually so did I.
Our manager Kirby taught me the Nashville Number System. I asked why I needed it. His answer stayed with me for the rest of my career: you will never know every song. Learn how to follow.
At the 1969 Memphis Battle of the Bands, 108 bands competed. Soul Transplant finished second, our frontman won Most Talented Singer, and years later I saw footage from the event turn up in a Pepsi commercial.
Pop, country, soul, disco, oldies—whatever the room needed. I learned that being a working musician wasn't about knowing one style. It was about listening, following and covering whatever was missing.
Kirby first took us into Hernando's Hideaway while we were underage teenagers. Eleven years later I returned as a professional musician for seven-hour house gigs.
In the Memphis lounge circuit, good players could often sit in with one another. The question wasn't only “Can these guys play?” It was “Can they follow?” Kirby's lesson kept paying off.
Sometimes the band existed before the job. Sometimes it didn't. Musicians changed, names changed, styles changed—and occasionally we discovered after arriving that the audience wanted something entirely different.
A musician called with a two-week job backing The Platters in Kansas City. I said yes—and then had one day to assemble Memphis Uptown Band.
Flat tires. A dead trailer. A failed transmission. U-Hauls. A birthday I didn't know about. A club that wanted country. Then the transmission failed again on the way home.
A Las Vegas musician named JoJo Clark once watched me cover the horn parts on keyboards and said, “You'd do good in Vegas or on a cruise ship.” In 1997, the pager finally went off at the right time.
Years earlier JoJo showed me a photograph of himself and two musicians playing on the top deck of the Love Boat. I told him, “I WANT TO GO!” In April 1997 he called. Two days later I was in Las Vegas—and then discovered the tickets said Los Angeles, London and Lisbon, Portugal.
“How many piano players do we have?” I proudly raised my hand. That was how a keyboard player who didn't sight-read music became a tuxedo-clad solo pianist for afternoon Tea Time. At my last one, a music teacher of fifty years told me she could never improvise without her music. That made my cruise.
On the Sky Princess, I knew something was wrong when I could see trees out the rear of the ship. The British captain soon announced that the rudder “has a mind of its own.” Three days in Skagway followed.
After a 2005 Foolish Pleasure contract aboard Carnival Pride with JoJo Clark, Tommy Howe and Doug Robinson, I began working solo for Carnival. All the earlier years—bass, keyboards, horns, sequencers, MIDI, arranging and learning to fill the missing parts—had been preparing me for it without my knowing.
After years of playing other people's music, I had also accumulated songs of my own. In 2005 I put together a studio demo of original material under a title that, looking back, fits the rest of this website pretty well.
The CD included original songs such as “Change Everything,” “Island of Love,” “Lookin' Back,” “Sometimes When You Speak,” “Chasin' Rainbows,” “Ladies & Tables,” “I Won't Close My Eyes,” “Foolish Pleasure,” “Lady of My Life,” “Rock 'n Roll Automobile” and “Vegas Is Good for Me.” Songwriting taught me that a complete story can be told in three minutes. Some stories need a little more room.
I can't lift most of it anymore, and turning down gigs has been one of the hardest things to get used to. But the keyboard rig is still sitting in my shop. I still can't convince myself to get rid of it.