I've got stuff. Lots of stuff. It fills up my home and my shop. One of the things that I've collected over the years is backstage passes. My occupation takes me to a lot of shows—sometimes two or three in a night. I've played and recorded professionally, made friends with a lot of musicians, and shared adventures with them while pursuing the "perfect" guitar. After a night out, I'd come home and throw the evening's pass, or passes into a box on a shelf in my coat closet. When the box got full, I'd put it away and start another one. I didn't think about it; I just collected those passes probably for the same reason I've collected all the other stuff—remember, I like stuff. I've also got a big box of guitar picks from those same shows, but that's another tale for the future.
Once, a while back when I had fewer passes than now, a book publisher told me that I should do something with them, and I laughed. Who would want to look at a book full of passes? "It's your stories, man," he said. I ignored him. But here we are many years and two more boxes of passes later, and I'm dragging them out in no particular order to show you all, and tell a few stories. It's something I call my "Rite of Passage" because it really does document a life in guitars and my journey as a person. Here's the first one.
Cell Phone in a Suitcase.
In February of 1991, Vernon Reid, the guitarist in Living Colour was in Chicago for a few days. It's a cool town, and there's plenty for a young man to do there. He'd rrecently been introduced to Tony Fitzpatrick, an artist whose artwork has been shown worldwide and has graced the covers of several Steve Earle releases. Tony is a colorful character who is engaging and intense. Vernon was drawn to the primitave imagery of Tony's work and wanted him to paint one of my Hamer guitars for him. The three of us were in Tony's studio, nailing down the concept for the guitar when I got a call from Jack Blades who was also in town with his wife. Jack mentioned that ZZ Top was playing in Indianapolis so even though it was snowing, I volunteered to drive; after all, it was only five hours away! After Jack made the necessary calls to secure passes, we all piled into my old Jaguar XJ6 and rolled out of town.
Jack is a ball of energy with a personality that is almost too big for one person. As we drove, he kept us all amused with stories from the road and gossip about all the people he knew—there wasn't a dull moment. To say that the banter was irreverent would be an understatement. I had one of those first Panasonic portable cell phones which was about the size of a briefcase and between stories, Jack asked to use it repeatedly to call friends or anyone he could think of like producer Ron Nevison or bandmate Tommy Shaw; "hey Tommy, it's Jack... guess where I am!"
Vernon seemed at ease in the situation, but I couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking. He is a deeply reflective musician and artist who is the antithesis of the whole "rock star" stereotype so I'm imagining this scene was like the highway to hell for him. At one point, Jack called his manager in California and asked what his band's latest single was doing on the Billboard charts. The answer was really good news, and I looked in the rear view mirror to see Vernon shaking his head, clearly amused. With that, Vernon aptly summed up this perfect cliche of almost Spinal Tap proportions, chuckling in wry disbelief, "calling the manager from the Jag to check chart position." We all laughed so hard I nearly drove off the road.
We pulled into the arena lot and headed inside. Jack's big grin and hearty "dude" opened up the backstage area like Moses parting the sea, and we were welcomed like royalty. "This is Vernon Reid from Living Colour," he told everyone in earshot, which I found funny, because Vernon was on MTV every hour and was unmistakable. "And this is Jol Dantzig," he announced. "He makes the coolest guitars in the world for me." With that, Billy Gibbon's tech gave me the pass you see above and took me onstage to check out the guitar rig.
The main sound was coming from a tiny amp that was controlled from the mixing board and returned to stage monitors—I'd seen the same thing done on the Kiss stage among others. I played a few riffs on one of Billy's guitars and listened to it echo out over the seats.Then guys in the band showed up and introductions were made by Jack. Billy remembered me from his visit to our shop when we made some guitars for him. Frank Beard, the drummer disappeared with Jack while Vernon and I engaged Billy in some guitar shop-talk. After having some dinner in the backstage catering area, it was showtime and we were escorted out to the sound board to watch the set. I don't remember much about the show other than thinking that Gibbon's tone was pretty damn good for a big arena and that the lights were awesome.
About halfway through the show, Vernon was fading fast, and Jack had seen the set a half dozen times already, so we cut out early in anticipation of the long drive home. All the way back everybody took turns sleeping or trying to keep me awake with more funny stories. By the time we got back to Chicago, I was a zombie. Those were the days when I though nothing of driving ten hours and getting home at daybreak. I don't think I could stomach it now. Of course I say that until I pull the next stunt. I talked to Jack a few days ago, and he's just the same as always – "Hey man, can you make me a bass?"
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