The Willow Glen Resident

Rock & roll dreams come unplugged

By Deborah Taylor-Hollis

You know it's been a good party when you hurt the next morning, and the annual Labor Day bash that our goddaughter's parents throw is always a doozy. They have a home just made for company, with wide doorways, a huge kitchen table and a party room as big as a two-car garage in the back yard (right next to the gazebo and the hot tub). Not only that, but Lester is a professional party DJ and a true lover of rock & roll memorabilia, which manifests itself in everything from shrines to Jerry Garcia, Beatles collectible posters and Elton John mirrors to the more than 400 concert tickets stapled up behind the fully functional bar.

Normally at these shindigs, we schmooze with the crowd, seeing old friends and making lots of new ones. Often, more than 100 people show up for these affairs. Endless music blasts from the DJ booth, and this year started out no differently. Fifty people crowded near the fireplace chairs to watch the Niners do in the Jets in overtime, drained the keg and debated joining the kids in the pool as temperatures sweltered past a muggy 100.

I, on the other hand, drank several margaritas before the barbecued chicken made it off the grill. Then I joined the band.

Everyone who grew up with rock & roll knows the dream. Someday, you'll be a rock & roll star, the person they scream for, the guy running to the limo from the stage-door exit. At least once in your life, you entertained that ridiculous fantasy about playing in the band, speakers throbbing, the crowd egging you on to a great drum solo (which you still play on the edge of your desk at work on bad afternoons) or the perfect guitar lick (remember Tom Cruise in Risky Business?).

Lester's playroom is the perfect place to drink a bit too much and live out the smoke-filled bar scenario, and this year we had several people doing just that: pushing-40 males who were more than willing to pick up an ax, jump on the keyboards or nuzzle a mic while we cranked out every hit the '60s and '70s ever produced. And we were hot. This was, of course, because we were an air band.

Absolutely nothing but our hearts, souls and the kick-butt stereo system was plugged in. We found this works best. We never hit bad notes, and if somebody forgot the words to "American Woman," you really didn't mind. Heck, half our audience was playing ping-pong or pinball anyway, so whatever shortcomings we had were more than overshadowed by the lack of audience expectations.

I warmed up with the guys doing "background vocals" through our tribute to the Bee Gees (pre-disco, of course), and eventually worked my way up to a couple of Gladys Knight solos before we broke into a perfect rendition of Tina Turner's "Proud Mary," complete with hair flying and the pony dance. I finally left the band after our set of Jefferson Airplane (leaning into the crowd on "White Rabbit," and doing a fairly good imitation of Grace Slick at the Fillmore) because my eyes were stinging from the salty sweat pouring off my face. We gave our all for our fans. The guys went into a Santana marathon with all the guitar solos they could dream of, and I took a break.

The next morning, I woke up with my back aching, my feet swollen and my left hand in agony from beating the heck out of it with that tambourine all afternoon long (we didn't have an air tambourine, so I actually had to keep a real rhythm with the thing). I'd also lost about six pounds during the set, which explains why Mick Jagger looks like he does (well, almost).

So now I'm back from tour, living the straight life. My bandmates have scattered to the four winds. We didn't have a "Bill Graham Presents" banner behind us, and our spouses are shaking their heads at our egocentric display. We didn't start using British accents or jump on the snack tables, but we were pretty "out there." Next year, I think I'll silk-screen up some "tour" T-shirts for us. With enough liquid encouragement, I think we have a permanent Labor Day gig.

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