Quasi-autobiography

It all started back in 1964. I was six months out of high school and attending a Christmas party. The host put a Beach Boys album on the stereo. I heard it and flipped. This wasn't just any Beach Boys album, this was the Beach Boys' Christmas Album. What was up with that?? I had thought Christmas albums were for guys like Nat King Cole or Andy Williams -- not for rock'n'rollers. 

Although the Beach Boys' Christmas Album did contain its share of holiday classics, the initial five tunes were original and quirky. These numbers were not religious, inspirational, nor sing-a-longish. They captured my interest and planted a seed in the back of my mind; I thought someday, I too, would produce some fanciful words and melodies dealing with offbeat consequences of the holiday season. That "someday" finally arrived 44 years and five bypasses later.

During the summer after my freshman year in college, I would frequent a nearby playground in the early evenings and participate in hotly contested basketball games. One of the regulars at the court not only played hoops, but also guitar. A few years earlier, I had scraped enough money together to purchase an acoustic guitar (probably a Beatlemania whim) from a Spiegel catalog, but couldn't afford lessons. So I hit on my newly found jump-shooting buddy to teach me some basic chords. He tuned up my Old Kraftsman guitar, positioned my uncalloused fingertips on the correct strings and frets, and suffered devotedly through the half twang, half thud sounds I produced the rest of the summer. It was a dissonant, but life altering experience for which I will always be grateful.

Much to my sophomore year roommate's dismay, I unpacked a guitar case along with my suitcases upon arriving at our dorm room the following fall. Needless to say, my practicing of open and bar chords disturbed both his studies and his sleep those two semesters. But I think it was my singing voice back then that he hated most of all - a cross between Bob Dylan and Senator Everett Dirksen.

All the practicing paid off junior year. Some campus friends of mine who were also neophytes on their instruments and I decided to form a psychedelic band. By that time I was capable of playing rhythm guitar, which meant we needed a lead guitar player, someone who knew what he was doing and could hold the whole thing together. That turned out to be a lot easier than thinking of a name for the band. Remember, it was the late sixties, the era of disjointed names -- Strawberry Alarm Clock, Ultimate Spinach, Peanut Butter Conspiracy, etc. After days of deliberation, we were just about to settle on "The Double Breasted Cough Drop," when one of our friends who had just been to the barbershop walked in. When asked where he got his haircut, our chum replied, "Sanitary Adolf's." Bingo! We immediately forgot about the other name and dubbed ourselves "Sanitary Adolf," after the sarcastic moniker that our fellow students had bestowed upon the unknowing Adolf, our untidy local barber.

Sanitary Adolf reached its pinnacle when we opened for Question Mark and the Mysterians who at that time had the number one song in the country, "96 Tears." Our organ player had just gotten his hair cut really short, so he borrowed a coed's fall (a sixties' version of hair extensions) for the show. Now he appeared to have the longest hair in the band. Just before we went on, Question Mark arrived back stage, and which one of our musicians did the rocker behind the dark glasses feel comfortable enough with to go over and engage in conversation? The only member of Sanitary Adolf who had "longer hair" than he: our wig-wearing organist. We were so envious.

Graduation! Marriage! Children! A house! Even a day gig!

Yeah, as an eigth grade school teacher. One year our music teacher quit, and because of budgetary concerns, was not replaced. All homeroom instructors were told to set aside one period a week for a music class, which they would have to teach themselves. Many complained to the principal that they had no musical experience. These whiners were advised to have the children sing along to recordings. I figured I had a leg up on my colleagues. I brought my guitar to class and strummed as I led the students in singing traditional songs from our school system?s songbook.

My transformation from teacher to performer impressed the group -- the music classes were a hit. Everything moved along smoothly until . . . one day while browsing through the songbook, preparing for a class, I stumbled upon "The Sloop John B," the time-honored West Indies folk song that the Beach Boys covered in the sixties. But in the songbook, the lyrics, "Drinking all night" were watered down to "Walking all night," not to scandalize the innocent kiddies.

Having sung this song many times before, I couldn't get used to singing "Walking . . . ," and when it came time to sing it with the children, I sang "Drinking . . . ," twice. My keen-eared learners called me out on it both times. We started the song over, and when I realized that I flubbed it a third time, I inadvertently let out a four letter expletive from under my breath.

A female pupil, and part-time trouble maker, in one of the front seats somehow heard it and called out, "Ooh, Mr. McGarrigle, you said the 'f' word!" (In a flash, I saw my teaching certificate revoked, my children starving, and my house in foreclosure.) I put down my guitar, took a deep breath, turned toward the class, stuck out my chest, and in my best James Earl Jones (even though I'm a tenor) said, "No teacher says the 'f ' word. . . ". A majority of the class, perhaps taking into account the unreliability of the accuser and the solid reputation of their teacher, nodded in agreement.

They bought it! Why not? It was the seventies, long before the media blitz of teacher indiscretions. Out numbered and now doubting herself, even "Miss Big Ears" in the front seat came to realize that no teacher would behave in such an unprofessional manner. (Yeah, right.)

I got married in 1970, a few years before the "dawn of disco." When the dance music craze struck, I gathered my family (wife and infant daughter) and took shelter in the genre of country-rock music. I attempted to learn how to play pedal steel guitar, dobro, and banjo. But due to the time constraints of family life (which soon included a second daughter), and a teaching career, along with coaching basketball, my practice hours were limited, and I never got the hang of any of those instruments. By the end of the decade, I was back to just strumming the guitar and wishing that I could form a band once again, as I had done in college.

At some point during this malaise of longing to be back performing, my wife, who has a penchant for antiques and collectibles, dragged me to a flea market. The woman had been trying for months to convince me to start collecting something. On the way to this seemingly harmless Sunday afternoon event, she suggested that I might want to collect bells? Bells? (Every now and then, I like to keep in touch with my feminine side, but I considered the collecting of bells to be actually stalking it.) Quickly reading the look of disbelief on my face, and reacting before I could put my facial muscles at ease to retort, my other half blurted out, "How about records? You know, ones from the fifties and early sixties. You're always listening to that oldies radio station."

That made sense and touched a nerve. I was raised on 45s. It's because of those damn records that my attention span is about two and a half minutes (and not the ADD that the doctor diagnosed).

Upon entering the spacious building, my wife, a flea market veteran, pointed to an area where she assured me some guy would be selling records, and then scooted off in the opposite direction to engage in her pursuit of treasures from yesteryear.

I combed a few aisles in that general direction before I caught sight of a table strewn with 45s and LPs. The chap behind this array of vinyl was sporting a cowboy shirt. (Hmmm. Could he be a country rocker?) I dove into his abundant stacks of discs, and enjoyed every nostalgic minute, before coming up for air about an hour later with a dozen rock'n'roll gems, of which I couldn't wait to get home and spin on my turntable.

I noticed that this "buckaroo" had kept a keen eye on me as I perused his goods. Was he thinking discount, you know, the five finger kind? It was winter, and my overcoat had convenient inner pockets capable of concealing a few one hit wonders. Could this dude be looking for another dude? The shirt notwithstanding, he had a slender build and an artsy flair (not that there's anything wrong with that). Or could this curious Sunday salesman just be impressed with my "discerning" choices?

It turned out to be all three. I did get a discount: 25% off the purchase price. He was looking for someone: someone with whom he could start a band. And the vinyl vendor was impressed -- complimenting me on my rock-a-billy and British invasion selections. It also turned out to be the beginning of a musical partnership and wonderful friendship that has lasted till this day.

We communicated early on by telephone. I found out that my new pal sang and could play drums. Possible directions for the band were discussed as well as musicians who could potentially round it out. We discovered that songwriting was a common hobby and that we worked in the same city. Coincidentally, a girl that was a member of my eighth grade class also had a part-time job in the same department store where this fellow designed window displays (did I not say he had an artsy flair). This enterprising child kindly became our courier, delivering cassette tapes of our original songs back and forth.

Our song-writing styles differed remarkably. That western shirt this guy had on when I first met him totally belied the schmaltzy pop sounds that I snickered at when I first heard his recordings. On the other hand, I believe my country-rock tunes struck shit-kickin' fear in his middle-of-the-road heart. We diplomatically decided to put our original music aside and employ our shared fondness for rock-a-billy and early British invasion music as a foundation for an oldies cover band.

Now came that dreaded time -- choosing a name for the band. Since we decided to go the oldies route, I wanted something that sounded reminiscent of that period. I suggested "The Rodans," after a creature from a notorious 50s' Japanese monster flick. I think my band partner almost vomited when I told him. Once recovered from this squeamish state, he countered with "The Talk," which he informed me would be short for "The Talk of the Town." It was the early eighties, and I thought that it was a damn good name... for a new wave band, but too current for the material that we were playing. And besides, it didn't have an "s" at the end like every respected oldies band has. His sister came up with "Retro." I said, "Put an 's' at the end and we have a deal."

The Retros struggled for a few years getting work. A good portion of our repertoire was not dance inspiring. We couldn't seem to keep a steady bass player (they are a breed all their own). And top-forty bands were in popular demand.

One of our more memorable gigs was at a frat party. After a three hour drive, we pulled onto this beautiful campus at about 4 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon. We turned down fraternity row and marveled at the classic houses that adorned either side of this Greek-inhabited street. Finals were over and fraternity brothers were vigorously sprucing up their respective dwellings for their end of the year blowouts. On one front lawn, guys were in the process of erecting an above ground swimming pool.

The house that we were playing at, we were told, was situated at the very end of the road on the left. As we approached it, our wide eyes and open mouths cringed into grimaces as we gazed upon by far, the ugliest building on the block. It just didn't fit in with the ageless beauty of the homes we had just passed. We learned later that it was a converted bank.

We got over our initial disappointment, and to our surprise, had a very enjoyable evening. We rocked the house. During our last few numbers, guys and girls were rendering alcohol induced Rockettes' imitations on top of the bar. On our breaks, we'd sneak away to the wild party at the frat-house with the pool. Luckily for us, we managed to stealthily elude the ?baptism rites? that some muscular brothers were imposing upon unsuspecting partygoers before they entered.

But our elation would later sour. We were being lodged for the night in one of the dorms. The drummer and I were the last to leave the party after packing down our equipment. We loaded the back of his car, got in, and then realized that the other guys in the band who had already departed had the directions. Two mildly inebriated coeds, staggering slighty as they negotiated their way back from the campus parties, happened by. So from the passenger side window I methodically asked for assistance in finding our destination. They recognized the name as the dorm next to theirs and said that they would guide us there if we gave them a ride. I got out, held the door, and the tipsy pair plopped into the back seat, and somehow maneuvered themselves into comfortable positions between some excess musical equipment that we couldn't fit in the trunk.

"Wow! You guys are musicians," one of them excitedly inquired. "What party did you play?" "The one right here," I answered, pointing to the former financial institution turned Animal House that night. "Get out! No way," screeched the other one. I beg to differ with you upstanding, or should I say seated, young ladies, but we most certainly did. (What was going on here? Why didn't they believe me?)

The drummer steered the car out of the parking lot, and during the brief ride, these two semi-stewed doubters, save for a few slurred directions, continued their incessant expressions of disbelief, despite the driver?s and my brusque intermittent assurances. It wasn't until these babbling skeptics exited the vehicle in front of their adjacent quarters and turned to thank us that I finally got the opportunity to speak at length, "You're welcome, but why won't you girls believe that we performed at that fraternity house?"

The screechy-voiced miss exclaimed, "Because that's the nerd fraternity! They never have any parties!" And with that said, they both did an about face and raced away, cackling the entire path to the dormitory door. "Whoa!" What a putdown.

And there was more bad news awaiting us when we arrived at our purported chambers of repose. The rest of our entourage was standing in the hallway with puzzled looks on their faces. There was some kind of double booking. A visiting fencing team had first dibs on the rooms the Retros were supposed to occupy. This meant that the band was relegated to the humiliating circumstance of returning to the ex-savings & loan and sleeping on blankets on the "nerd house" floor.

In spite of the makeshift accommodations, the fellows and I managed to sleep till late the next morning, but woke up stiff and hungry. Everyone thought it'd be a good idea to visit to the nearby campus center for a hearty breakfast before we hit the road. Because of its proximity to the frat-house area, our grubby looking bunch decided to walk.

As we started our stroll down fraternity row, we noticed the inhabitants from many of the magnificent homes busily picking up beer cans, liquor bottles, paper cups, and other forms of party debris from their respective lawns. Water streamed down the gutter on the opposite side of the street as hosts of the party that we crashed the previous evening dismantled their "ceremonial" pool.

But as we passed these Greek abodes, it became obvious that a number of these industrious frat-boys were also taking an interest in us. They'd break from their tasks, point toward us, and whisper to each other. We were wondering what all the fuss was about. Was it our age difference? We were a band of thirty-somethings.

By the time we turned right for the cafeteria, we figured out the reason for all the attention. By piecing together what quasi-audible words we were able to gather from these covert collegians, and putting our syntax skills to work, we came up with: "That's the band that played the nerds' fraternity party."

The boys and I entered the campus eatery with our heads hanging in shame. The journey down the food selection aisle, then over to the register, and finally to our dining table felt like a perp-walk (you know, when criminals are paraded handcuffed for the sake of media cameras). We could sense students staring at us from other tables and imagine the subsequent snickering. Obviously, our two little partially soused hitchhikers from the night before were early risers and gossip mongers.

The Retros were now a renowned band on campus. Yes, but not for how they played, nor for what they played, but dubiously: for where we played.

On the ride home from academia, my Retros cofounder rocked my world, and it wasn't with his drum set. He apprised me of his intention to leave the group. No, it wasn't the stigma of playing the nerd fraternity party, but rather a desire to explore other musical possibilities. I couldn't blame him; the man who had banged on the drum for us has an exceptional voice and had held lead singing positions in previous bands. He was itching to get out front and do it again.

I was devastated. An assortment of guitar and bass players had done stints with the band - one even multiple stints, but the drummer and I had always been the constants.

Somehow, I managed to "cut and paste" musicians for the next couple of years, keeping the Retros alive till the mid-eighties. That's when the three remaining patchwork members decided to quit the band within a space of two weeks, leaving me, the least talented component, to ponder hanging up my rock'n'roll shoes..

But my experience with the Retros did not go for naught. I learned some important concepts. Our steadiest guitarist taught me to identify the groove of a song. Also, to make sure that signature phrases - instrumental passages that people remember about a song - are included, and not worry about the "hamburger helper." Our departed original drummer/singer enlightened me concerning the melody and timing issues of a song. I noticed what types of tunes people were reacting to. Instinctively, I found myself successfully schmoozing with patrons during breaks. I even mastered parts of recordings on the Farfisa organ to give our sixties music a more authentic air.

Therefore, I decided to flex my rock'n'roll shoes and form my own group -- a sixties band in which I would call the shots.

The first order of business was to find three people who possessed more talent than I. The bass player came from a newspaper ad, the drummer from word of mouth, and the lead guitarist, a former student of mine, from a chance meeting with his mother.

The bassist put the class in classifieds; he's altruistic to a fault. The energetic team player is also very musical and has a great ear for harmony. This character has a knack for the sick lyric, and can alter the words of songs on the fly, creating mostly risqué scenarios, and providing many moments of comic relief on stage. Because of these virtues (and the fact that he can explain string theory to me), we're still together in a band.

The drummer turned out to be a real find. Well, it was actually serendipity. While walking down a stairwell at work, I passed a teacher whom I really didn't know that well. I whimsically asked her -- for lack of anything more substantial to say - if she knew of any available guitarist. I expected a polite no. And I got it. But then the woman followed with, "But I do know a great drummer." He happened to be her new neighbor who had just moved in from Hawaii and was looking to join a part-time band. Not only that, the reason for this lad's relocation was to take over the reigns of managing editor for a prominent trade magazine for drummers. He later proved to be a player who kept a beat with the timing of a metronome, and flailed the sticks with a posture and style reminiscent of Max Weinberg. (I was not worthy.)

The lead guitarist was a proverbial blast from the past. I was still performing with my nearly departed band members. One night on our break, a middle aged lady came over and addressed me as Mr. McGarrigle. My teacher antennae immediately picked up vibes of a former student's mother. After closer scrutiny, I recognized her as someone that I?d had a few parental conferences with concerning her son's behavior. Mom told me that her boy, now in his twenties, plays guitar. Next thing I know, he shows up with his instrument just in time to sit in on the last set. To the amazement of the band, my somewhat reluctant eight grader, now a guitar slinging adult, breezed intuitively through our material with the ear and ability of a studio musician. I gave him an A+ and asked him to be in my new band.

With the personnel now in tact, and some practice under our belts, it was that time again: what to call the band. But this time around it was not going to be debated. As the leader of the band, I decided to keep the name "Retros," but spice it up a bit by adding the preface "Hot Rockin'," a phrase that a popular New York City radio station used in front of its call letter and number. Yeah, I ripped it off, but I was smitten with the alliteration: "The Hot Rockin' Retros." It sounded like our backbeat was nuclear powered.

I came up with a three-pronged strategy for playing clubs: (1) play sixties songs that people recognize (no obscure fourth cut from side 2 of an album, no matter how cool I think it was), (2) play the tune adequately, it doesn?t have to be great, but good enough so that people won't leave (nor throw things at you), and (3) after your first set, make sure you play songs that have some kind of dance quality to them, because that?s when the liquor kicks in, the girls get prettier, and the guys get hornier (and hopefully not ornerier).

Earlier, I mentioned that the Retros had difficulty finding jobs due to the popularity of top-forty bands. Well, like they say: "Timing is everything." Sometime during the mid-eighties, just as the Hot Rockin' Retros were ready to gig, a new trend in television and radio commercials developed. Clips of songs from the sixties flooded the airwaves, replacing your basic studio-made jingles. These partial tunes not only helped sell myriad products, they also familiarized a new generation with the catchy sounds created two decades ago, and gave bands like us a shot in the arm. The Hot Rockin' Retros actually had to turn down work every now and then in order to get a weekend off. But the one weekend night that I really needed off could not be foreseen.

Basketball and rock'n'roll have always been my two passions in life. Unable to break away from this duality, I accepted an assistant varsity basketball coaching position at one of the high schools in my school system, while I was playing with the new band. Little did I know that eventually these two worlds would collide.

It was a few days before the county tournament. Our team just got seeded number one, which was advantageous because it meant that we'd be matched up against the worst team in the tourney, almost guaranteeing an easy first round win. That was the good news. The bad news was that the contest was scheduled for eight o'clock Saturday night, a mere two hours before the start of a Hot Rockin' Retros' performance, which had been secured by our agent weeks ago.

After considerable thought, I decided that the only way out of this dilemma was to somehow coach the game, but yet show up on time for the gig.

I devised, which I thought to be, a viable plan. The gym and club were not too distant from one another. Barring overtime, which was highly unlikely, the game would probably last about an hour and forty minutes, leaving me twenty minutes traveling time, just about enough to make it. I also thought that for all intents and purposes, the game could be decided by halftime. Perhaps the head coach would let me leave early. But to be on the safe side, that afternoon, I would drop off my equipment at another band members' house and instruct him to tell the other guys to have everything set to go, including my guitar plugged in and tuned up, by our ten o'clock start. Since I would be dressed in a sport jacket and tie for the game, I'd have my band outfit in the car, change on the way, and make my heroic appearance on stage just in the nick of time.

As the late actor, George Peppard, used to say in the TV series, "The A Team," "I love it when a plan comes together." But of course my expectations for a first half blowout were crushed when we found ourselves trotting into the locker room at intermission with a meager lead. Our highly touted team finally snapped out of its gymnasium slumber in the fourth quarter and took control of the game.

The final buzzer sounded, and after a volley of high fives, I darted for the exit, jogged to my car, and flirted with the speed limit while shedding any piece of apparel that was physically possible to remove from behind a steering wheel. I pulled into a parking space in a dark corner of the club's lot three-quarters naked. I untied and slipped out of my shoes, wrestled my already-dropped jeans over my feet and quickly donned my performing duds. I reached the stage with thirty seconds to spare. Then a drum beat sounded. I strapped on my guitar, turned to the audience, and rhythmically counted to four, summoning the first five notes of Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman." Dahd ahnt dahnt dahnt dah.

I was feeling very proud of myself for pulling off this whole scenario. But the best was yet to come. The first set ended, and as I left the stage, a young couple stopped me. They had these incredulous looks on their faces. I assumed that these two lovebirds were going to either compliment the band or request a song, so I was quite shocked when the boyfriend asked puzzlingly, "Sir, is it our imagination, or did we just see you coaching a basketball game about an hour ago?"

By the time the final decade of the twentieth century arrived, the Hot Rockin' Retros were running on automatic pilot. The quartet never practiced, and for the past two years had performed not only the same songs, but also in the same order. I don't know how the boys and I got away with it since we were only playing a six club circuit. But the regular patrons at these establishments didn't seem to mind, and the band was never called out on it.

There were no changes in our set lists, but some changes had taken place in my personal life. I moved my family from the city to a village. My older daughter no longer serenaded us on piano; she was away at college. My younger girl, a skilled basketball player, began her high school career. Not wanting to miss her games, I decided to disband the group and also resign from my high school basketball coaching position.

I view playing a club as a form of crowd control. You need to captivate the audience, getting them to respond to your music by singing along, clapping, tapping their toes, dancing, or just applauding at the conclusion of a song. The material you choose to play is critical in getting their attention. Changing grooves from song to song keeps their attention. You dictate the tempos and they follow along. And if you look like you're having a good time performing, the enjoyment becomes infectious, and soon everybody is happy.

I was going through withdrawal from that scene. Instead of controlling a crowd, I was now part of it, whether it was spending my weekend nights going out to listen to a band, out to dinner, out to a movie, etc. My basketball "jones" was being satisfied by volunteer coaching in a recreation league, but my musical inclinations were in dire need of some form of fulfillment.

So when the original drummer of the Retros (that's right, the buckaroo from the flea market) telephoned me with an idea for a recording project, I was only too happy to oblige. So much so, I didn?t even bother to argue about the name that the caller had chosen for the band -- The Legendary Rinaldo Brothers.

The project was designed to be an alternative rock'n'roll history about three brothers from North Jersey who wrote songs for a stable of bands they managed, but were sent to prison for payola -- bribing radio disc jockeys to play their music -- in the seventies. Now it was the early nineties (which it really was at the time), and it seems that these underhanded impresarios were released from the "big house" and looking to score in the music business by recording their tainted, outdated collaborations themselves.

Phew! I thought it was a hare-brained idea, but since it didn't involve playing out, I'd be able to do it and still attend my daughter's basketball games. So I became a Rinaldo brother.

We needed a third "brother," so I suggested the bass player from the Hot Rockin' Retros (are you keeping track?). This guy could facilitate the progression of this endeavor because he had a homemade recording studio. My former band-mate threw in with us and the rest is, well: alternative history.

Our plan was to write an album's worth of original songs that sounded like they could?ve been written in the fifties, sixties or seventies. We would tap into different musical genres: doo-wop, rock-a-billy, British invasion, psychedelic, country rock, and Lord forgive us, disco. The three of us even came up with names for fictitious groups who supposedly recorded the songs under our supervision back in the day. Either side of the cassette tape, "Scandal", our finished product, contains parts 1 and 2 of an interview, with the Rinaldo Brothers spewing out the "true" story of their fabricated existence.

This undertaking lasted approximately three years. We surprised ourselves with our songwriting abilities, capturing the necessary nuances of the targeted styles of music. During the recording sessions, our voices seemed to blend naturally into a mellifluous three part harmony. The interaction among our personalities and senses of humor (along with a beer or two) livened up our rehearsals. It became obvious that we were having fun and didn't want this thing to end. So with the recording project behind us, we all agreed that the Legendary Rinaldo Brothers would be transformed into a cover band.

This was easier said than done. We all played guitar, but the bass player got the nod because he was the most talented. It was evident who the drummer was going to be. So by the process of elimination, I became the bass player, even though I'd never played the instrument before.

I finally got the hang of the bass after six months of intense fingering exercises, which were practiced unplugged while I watched "The Tonight Show," and the rest of the family slept.

The Legendary Rinaldo Brothers had developed and practiced a repertoire of sixties' music during this period and were now ready to play out. It was perfect timing for me because my older daughter was getting married, and my younger girl received a basketball scholarship to a Midwestern university, relegating my wife and me to empty nesters with plenty of time on our hands. Not surprisingly, I returned to the high school coaching ranks a short time later too.

Through the remainder of the nineties, our harmless little trio worked sparingly by design. But we practiced almost every week. This time around it was not for the money, but more for enjoyment and camaraderie. And there was a synergism taking place. Together the Rinaldo Brothers seemed to click far beyond our individual talents. People actually liked us! We were even getting hired for private parties.

One evening, such an event took place on the front lawn of a home in an upscale neighborhood of my fair village. The band plugged in at about seven o'clock. We had played other outdoor parties in the area and found out the hard way -- with the arrival of law enforcement -- that a local ordinance required the music to stop at ten. It seemed it would be a three hour gig.

Ten o'clock rolled around and the party hadn't yet peaked. The band was set up with our backs to the desolate road and facing the house. Revelers were yelling out requests in between conversation and sips of cocktails from the huge wraparound porch. Others seemed to be performing tribal dances in front of us on the lawn, aided by light flickering across their bodies from prefab atmospheric torches. We were banging out "Runaround Sue," and figured the cops would be there any minute.

Five songs later, the entertainment for this party started to panic. (Where's "Johnny Law" when you need him?) Our song list was nearly exhausted, not to mention our bodies. We shot our energy load anticipating a ten o'clock curfew. Remember, we were no spring chickens, but rather in the autumn of our lives. We needed to rest.

With the crowd at the apex of excitement, I announced, much to their dismay, that the band would be taking a short break. We needed time to come up with an idea, an honorable way out of this predicament. The Legendary Rinaldo Brothers had a reputation as a "party hardy" band. We didn't want to come off as party poopers.

Our brainstorming paid off. It was so simple. Just before we were ready to go back on, while two of us would remain mingling with the "local gentry," the other would sneak off behind one of the huge trees on the property, take out his cell phone, and call the police. That's right, we would complain about ourselves. Pure genius!

But lo and behold! Shortly before our plan was about to unfold, a squad car pulled up along side of the curb. The party's host cautiously ambled over and leaned into the passenger window to greet "our savior."

A change of plans. We hurriedly got back up and started playing a raucous version of "Louie Louie" as the homeowner and civil servant conversed. Obviously, a neighbor had called to complain about the noise coming from the residence, and though this was going to be nothing more than overkill, we were determined to let this nocturnal peacekeeper experience first hand why our blaring music should not be allowed to continue, and ensure ourselves a merciful departure.

Each member the band was guilty of sneaking peeks back at the curb during our earsplitting performance of the Kingsmen's garage band classic, half-expecting the officer to exit his vehicle and halt the tumult at gunpoint. But at the song's completion, and above the sloppy applause from the partygoers, we could hear the officer heartily inform the proprietor, "There have been no complaints, so party on!" We looked on in horror as the two shook hands through the window and the lawman's black-and-white disappeared into the night.

By employing age-old musician tactics such as extending the versions of the remaining songs on our play-list, and repeating a few earlier tunes, our tuckered out trio prevailed. And it was only when the host of the soiree came over to pay us as we were packing up our equipment that he let us in on his little secret for being able to keep the bash going for so long -- none of the neighbors complained because they were all there at the party.

I don't know if that party took its toll on the band or not, but not long after, the Legendary Rinaldo Brothers began limiting their live performances to just two or three a year. So that's why a few years into the new millennium, when I paid a visit to my doctor for a routine checkup after being recently retired, and he invited me to play bass in a Rolling Stones' cover band that he was starting, I acquiesced. Fortunately, the name of the group was already selected: "Aftermath," an eponymous selection from one of the Stones' earlier albums.

The mission of this undertaking was to raise money for a local hospital at which the good doctor held an administrative position. This meant that band members didn't get paid for performing. But it was for a good cause, and with the eye candy of hordes of groupies -- be it drug representatives, nurses, or various other women employed by the hospital -- always in attendance, we were enjoying ourselves and didn't care.

Unfortunately, my doctor, who now had become a very close friend through our interaction with the band, was stricken with cancer. This happened in the early stages of Aftermath's existence. But my upbeat physician had remarkable conviction along with intestinal fortitude, and heroically kept the group going, despite receiving chemotherapy, radiation, and experimental treatments for his enervating affliction. This situation continued for three years until the last ounce of energy drained from his body, and the band played no more.

In August, 2006, I lost an attentive doctor, talented band-mate, and great friend in one fell swoop. But we did manage to squeeze a lot of pleasant memories into the short time that we spent together. Needless to say, his passing left an untimely void in my life.

That same month, I received two disappointing bits of news from the Rinaldo Brothers' guitarist.

First, my cohort in music informed me that he was leaving the band after a December performance that we had scheduled. Two years previous, the bloke had moved about two and one half hours away, but still would show for practices and gigs. But the travel and gas expenses finally got to him, so understandably, my strumming buddy decided to pack it in.

The second news item was that his computer crashed. This detail was very frustrating.

During the Christmas holidays the year before, the Rinaldo Brothers' drummer approached me with the possibility of the band recording a Christmas CD. I felt like he had plucked the idea right out of my subconscious. I really enjoy Christmas music, and had thought about doing something like this for a long time, but didn't vocalize it because I didn't think anyone else would be into it.

It was determined that the three of us would write four Christmas songs each. Our sometime keyboard player even got in on the act and wrote a song. The timetable called for the writing to be done and the recording to start by April.

We Xmas scribes met our deadline and began recording on our guitarist's computer equipment. In the ensuing months, the band laid down basic instrumental tracks, lead vocals and harmonies. The only remaining tasks were a few overdubs on guitar and keyboard, and of course, some bells and chimes for Christmas flavor. In other words, the CD was just short of being sent out to be manufactured and packaged.

That's when I got the call. The computer was totaled, and more regrettably, we geniuses neglected to use a backup-system -- all that work gone to waste.

It was too close to Christmas to start over. So with the wind taken out of our sails, the Legendary Rinaldo Brothers abandoned the project, and a few months later, with our subsequently departing guitar player, rendered what we thought to be our farewell performance.

"Patrick, shake your fingers and your toes."

Who was uttering this unusual command? It couldn't be my mother waking me up to go to school because she had passed away. It wasn't my wife rousting me to go to work because I was retired. I didn't recognize the voice. And I was unable to open my eyes to see the face. But I reflexively complied with the stranger's peculiar request and heard her say, "Good!" before losing consciousness again.

Minutes later, I came to in response to the beckoning sounds of a familiar voice calling my name. I managed to get my eyes half opened this time and saw the visage of my wife hovering over mine. My semiconscious state notwithstanding, it was at that moment that I realized that I was on a gurney in a hospital, and had just awakened from quintuple bypass heart surgery.

I spent the following week convalescing in a hospital room. I had many pleasant chats with well-wishers who?d dropped in to see me. One of them was the part-time keyboard player for the Rinaldo Brothers who actually works full-time at the hospital. During our conversation, I told my visitor that I decided that down the road I was going to foot the bill to record my own Christmas CD, and I wanted him to play accordion on it. I had been thinking about recording the CD all week as I lay in bed. I guess because of my near brush with death, I had now felt an urgency to get it done. Why not? It was March, 2007, I was sixty years old, just given a second chance at life, and this was something that I had longed to accomplish.

Once I recovered from the surgery, the Legendary Rinaldo Brothers' drummer and I decided to keep the band going. We found a new guitar player and started practicing. When the band was ready to play out, we thought it would be a good idea to ask our former guitarist if he would like to make the long journey to our first gig and help break in the new guy. Well, the seasoned Rinaldo brother accepted. That was a year and a half ago, and guess what? That's right, he's still with us. The Legendary Rinaldo Brothers are now a quartet, and continue to carry a keyboard player whenever possible.

In 2008, the reconstruction of the band facilitated the making of my Christmas CD -- I had a pool of musicians whom I felt very comfortable with ready to help me. I also secured the services of a few local players whose work I admire. Together we were able to chant, twang, thump, tinkle, and beat our way through the sixteen whimsical songs that I had written for the album.

Now, when The Legendary Rinaldo Brothers perform at Christmastime, we not only play "Little St. Nick" by the Beach Boys, along with other holiday classics, but also selected cuts from my Christmas CD, "Christmas Is Knockin'."