Growing up a middle class white yankee in suburban America in the 60's was mostly Isaley's chipped ham and white bread sandwiches, Red Skelton on Tuesday nights performing
through a 19" black-and-white TV riding atop a rickety four-wheeled cart, strawberry pie in the backyard after the 4th of July picnic, and running zigzag across the field after Friday night high school football
games. Music was "Show Boat" or "Carousel" or maybe Henri Mancini played on a Magnavox console stereo in the living room while we picked at breaded pork chops and mashed potatoes in the dining
room. "Live" music was being dragged to my sister's high school band concerts to listen to great classical works of art sanitized down to a level that a marching band, sitting on a stage in suits and
ties and black dresses, could handle.By high school I had discovered my "own" music - Don McLean, Dan Fogelberg, Three Dog Night, and music moved from the living room to my darkened bedroom on a 15 watt
Lafayette stereo with integral turntable and detachable speakers. Here I discovered the power of music to move and to comfort, to release and to empower. But all of this was alone in a 10 x 10 self-imposed cell.
College was an awakening (as it is for all of us I'm sure). I had my first bagel and my first delivered pizza. I met people who had accents when they spoke (unlike my pure affectation-free Pittsburgheese), and I
saw and heard actual human beings make music before my eyes. No longer was music just something encoded on disks of vinyl, here were real people making those same sounds and creating those same emotions that I had
experienced in the privacy of my bedroom back home. Mostly they were frat boys with electric guitars- Jackson Browne wannabes. Occasionally, big names would come through - the Michael Stanley band made an
appearance every year (that's for you Ohio folks), and the whole campus would turn out. There were a few "folk" troubadours as well who came through. I remember being amazed at the courage it must
have taken to drive a broken-down ride from Michigan to Alliance, Ohio with the back packed tight with a personal PA system and a Guild guitar, then just set up and start singing to strangers. After 20 years I can
still hear that one chorus: "Going through the motions, I'm just going through the motions, no emotions - at all." Marriage, kids, house, job. Twenty years just disappeared. Then
I met some friends in Atlanta, and the troubadours returned. Oh, we had fun, some of us pretending we were players as well, many proving they did deserve to be on that stage. Then Vince Bell took his turn. I've never been to west Texas. Never lost a woman across the border in Mexico. Never had to
drive all night in a Chevy with the paint sand-blasted off the hood to get from a gig in southern California to one in New Mexico- but I know how that feels now. He's not rolling in money, he's not
hob-knobbing with Boo Spears or Madonna. More people probably bought "Veggie Tales" CDs than his, but that is their loss. This is what music is, and this is what music is for, and this
is how music should be heard. In a small room, on a small stage. Where the artist walks right past you to get up front. Where he just hangs out
afterwards, talks to you, and autographs your guitar with "Toke it easy!" www.vincebell.com
Kenn Lippert is a resident of the Pittsburgh suburbs, an avid amateur astronomer, and the webmaster of www.katecampbell.com
photo courtesy of Mike SmeetsVisit his Website- Lonestar North |
