Rock of Ages

My stomach feels like I just swallowed a clutch of live snakes. My heart is slamming the inside of my chest like a police battering ram, and my mouth tastes like I just chewed an entire bottle of aspirin.

The last time I felt this way I was promising to love, honor and obey for the rest of my life. That was 11 years ago. Now, I’m about to get on stage with three guys I hardly know to sing and play guitar for a roomful of people who would just as soon eat a bug as hear me butcher classic rock favorites.

It’s final exam time.

Tonight, about 15 other wannabe rockers and I will earn our diplomas in Weekend Warriors, a 2-year-old program sponsored by the National Assn. of Music Merchants (NAMM) that takes you from couch potato to garage band star in just four “easy” weeks.

When I first read the press release for Weekend Warriors, it sounded like another of those ego boosters for middle-aged executives who dress up like Rambo and spend the weekend blasting away at each other with paint-ball guns.

But when I saw the words “rock ‘n’ roll band,” I was reeled in like a mackerel. This was a golden opportunity.

Weekend Warriors is a national program; the La Habra Music Center is the only place in Orange County that offers it.

I’d never had formal music lessons, but over the last 16 years I’ve toyed with the guitar--first on a Yamaha Spanish guitar that I bought in 1983 for $25, then with an Epiphone electric that my wife bought me about three years ago.

My biggest “gig” had been playing tunes like “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt” and “She’ll Be Coming ‘Round the Mountain” at my son’s Cub Scout meetings.

Still, most of my life I’ve dreamed of playing in a rock band--getting together with my pals, drinking beer and jamming on my favorite songs at parties and clubs.

But with my limited skills, age (42) and lack of time (I have two kids and a full-time job), I figured it would remain a dream.

But this program sounded hassle-free: lessons, rehearsal space, equipment, instruments and even a professional coach.

Suddenly, my fantasy had a toehold in reality. I leaned back in my chair and pictured myself a strapping rock god. My flab magically morphed into bulging, rippling muscles. My thinning hair wove itself into a regal pompadour. And as I struck heroic poses with a glittering Stratocaster slung way down low, a throng of beauties fawned at my snakeskin boots.

I dove for the phone.

It’s so easy . . .

I called in August. Karl Johnson, the La Habra Music Center’s general manager and Warriors program coach told me the next session wouldn’t start until October.

So I spent most of the next six weeks practicing, contemplating what songs I’d like to play and dreaming of rock stardom. The rest of the time I spent persuading Jim Jones, my neighbor who plays drums, to join with me.

Jim (or JJ, as he likes to be called), had a lot more experience. The 46-year-old consultant from Costa Mesa first started playing in junior high school, stealing away to a friend’s house every day to practice because his Baptist minister father disapproved of rock music. He spent his entire high school years sneaking around playing parties and clubs in his hometown of Fort Worth.

When he moved to California, he gave up playing--except for the once- or twice-a-year trips to Texas, when he’d get together with his friends and jam.

In fact, rock-band novices like me and former rockers like JJ are exactly the kind of musicians Weekend Warriors was designed for.

The idea is to provide an easy and fun way to lure these baby boomers back into music-making (and, participating retailers hope, back into equipment-buying).

It’s a casual crash course in the basics.

Warriors are placed in bands matched with players of similar skills and tastes in music.

A typical session includes three two-hour rehearsals and a concert finale where bands get to show off for their friends and family.

Johnson likes to stretch the program, which costs $75, into five weeks by bringing all the players together for an orientation session where everyone can get to know each other and do a little jamming.

Come together . . .

On Oct. 7, we met for our orientation. When JJ and I arrived, there were about 12 men and women sitting in plastic chairs in a large, cluttered performance space next to the store’s showroom.

We met Johnson, a tall, rail-thin guy with a head full of long, flowing brown hair, large, friendly eyes and an aw-shucks demeanor. He’s 34 but could easily pass for someone 10 years younger.

He’s played guitar professionally for more than 15 years and has run the center’s Weekend Warriors program since its inception in 1997. I liked him immediately. Johnson gives us the good news that instead of the usual four weeks, our session will be stretched into six because he wants us to be able to share our big finale concert with the kids from Rock Starts, a similar program for teens.

Next we go through a round robin, introducing ourselves to the rest of the group. Among our fellow students are Walker Force (with that name, he’s halfway to rock stardom already), a retired Orange County sheriff’s deputy who plays guitar, and his wife, Eola, a physician and singer. Both are returning for a second session.

There’s also Jennifer Proctor, a twentysomething voice student looking for some performance experience outside of school, and Jim Winters--(hey, the Jimmy Winters Group--sounds like a catchy name for a blues band), Winters’ wife, Wendy, signed him up as a birthday present. She would later join the program as a singer after seeing how much fun he was having.

After the introductions, we take to the stage to jam. It’s my first time playing with a drummer and other guitarists, and I’m having a ball. For the first time, I’m actually making music with other people. I realize just how deficient my playing skills are as I struggle to keep up with the others and to hit the right notes with my poorly tuned guitar.

OK, so I’m the worst player there. That just means I have the most potential for improvement.

Feels like the first time . . .

Two weeks later, our group gets together around 8 for our first rehearsal, and JJ and I finally get to meet the other people chosen in our little rock combo.

Steve Cohen, a 48-year-old photographer from Irvine, joins the group. The London-born guitarist played in a band in the late 1960s but gave it up after a few years. As a child he took music lessons, but he admits he’s forgotten nearly all he was taught. He still knows his way around a fret board pretty well, so we make him play lead.

Our bass player, Jim LoBue, is also the Warriors’ assistant coach. Apparently when they don’t get enough bass players or drummers to sign up, the Warriors get lucky and have Jim--a real pro who’s played backup for the Righteous Brothers, Sonny & Cher, Ike and Tina Turner, Louie Bellson, Wilson Pickett and Jimmy Reed--fill in the gaps.

We’re also supposed to have a singer, but she’s a no-show. I’m made the front man by default. At first, I’m secretly very pleased, as I picture myself rooster strutting around the stage a la Mick Jagger. Later, I find out, singing and playing guitar at the same time is a lot harder than it looks.

First we listen to some CDs and decide which songs to perform. My first choice is Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper,” (which I’ve been strumming and singing in my living room for years). Karl puts the kibosh on that right away.

“It’s very hard. You guys would end up spending your entire four weeks [learning] that one alone,” he warns. Crushed, but not vanquished, I suggest a country song: Faron Young’s “Live Fast, Love Hard, Die Young” or Hank Williams Jr.’s “Almost Persuaded.”

This time, I’m shot down by my bandmates; it’s my first brush with artistic differences. “No way. I can’t stand that stuff,” says JJ. “When I was a kid that’s all my parents would listen to. . . . No way in hell you’re gonna get me to play it.”

Even Karl is against me. “I can’t stand that stuff either,” he agrees. Now I know how Ringo must have felt.

Eventually, we decide on Eddie Cochran’s “Summertime Blues,” Canned Heat’s “Goin’ Up the Country” and “Sweet Jane” by the Velvet Underground.

At subsequent rehearsals, we add the Beatles “You Can’t Do That,” Buddy Holly’s “Oh Boy” and John Lee Hooker’s classic, “Hoochie Coochie Man.”

Finally we hit the stage, strap on our axes and get ready to make history. It’s going to be great to be a rock ‘n’ roll star.

Before we strike our first chord, Jim clues us in. “The hardest thing about this is getting everybody to start and stop playing at the same time. Everything in between is a piece of cake.”

He’s right. After several attempts at getting us all on track on the opening and closing of “Summertime Blues,” I begin to understand why it takes hours of studio time to get a single track recorded.

Of course, the biggest problem is my lack of experience. Karl ended up having to explain the basics of 12-bar rock, finally making a diagram of chords to play and how many beats and measures for each.

Hey, even Jimmy Page had to start somewhere.

By 9:30, Karl says it’s time to wrap things up. He’s been there more than 12 hours and has the dazed look of a roadie on the last date of an eight-month world tour with the Stones.

I, on the other hand, am having the time of my life and he has to practically drag me from the stage.

We’ve been playing “Summertime Blues” for the last 2 1/2 hours and we still haven’t got it down. I don’t care. I’m having a blast.

I’ve got blisters on me fingers . . .

On weekdays, I practice every spare minute.

It pays off. The next rehearsal, I play “Summertime Blues” like a pro--starting and stopping at the right time, counting out the breaks and staying on beat.

Now that I had the music down I could focus more on my singing. I jazzed it up with some throaty Buddy Holly-esque hiccups and emphasized individual words. It was fun and it felt natural.

It was during our second session that we decided to play “You Can’t Do That.”

From the beginning I was dead-set against playing any Beatles songs. Nothing against the Beatles, but I just figured that all the other bands would be doing Beatles tunes and I wanted ours to be different.

So when Steve suggested that we play “I Saw Her Standing There,” I bristled and braced for a showdown.

I simply lacked the vocal range to sing it. Then there was the issue of a 42-year-old geezer like me singing, “She was just 17. . . “

When we tried playing, it was painfully obvious I didn’t have those high notes. We agreed to play “You Can’t Do That.”

Three-time losers . . .

If it’s true (as Karl says) that the third session is always the worst, then ours was no exception. In short, we stank.

We started out all right, ripping through “Summertime Blues” like Keith Richards through a bottle of Rebel Yell. But on the other songs, we were really awful.

I was coming down with a cold and my voice was honking and and breaking.

Steve had not practiced “Sweet Jane” at all and had to relearn all the chord changes. JJ was having a hard time staying on beat. In true Keith Moon style, he’d spent the afternoon in a bar.

On the other hand, Karl would tell me weeks later that after our first couple of rehearsals, he’d had doubts about whether we’d be ready in time. It was only at that third rehearsal, he said, that he started thinking everything was coming together for us. Guess that’s why they called that other band Blind Faith.

Groovin’ . . .

At our fourth rehearsal, we’re back on target. We’re still having problems with “Sweet Jane,” but we’re doing all right on the other songs.

Steve and I are apprehensive; there’s only one more practice session, and we’re far from ready. We decide on a weekend rehearsal, which ends up being our best.

It’s Saturday. Steve and JJ come over to my place, and over beers, we spend the day jamming in my living room.

Because JJ doesn’t have his own drum set, he bangs away on an ice chest, and it reminds me of that scene from “A Hard Day’s Night” where the Beatles are playing “I Should Have Known Better” in the baggage car of a train, and Ringo is using suitcases for drums.

We time our songs and find that our set is about 15 minutes. We haven’t gone to all this trouble for a lousy 15 minutes of fame. We want at least 20 minutes.

Steve comes up with the idea of stretching out “Oh Boy” by segueing into a few verses and a guitar solo from another Buddy Holly classic, “Not Fade Away,” then jumping back to “Oh Boy” for a big finish. That shows we can come up with our own arrangements, and it also pushes our performance time to about 18 minutes.

We’re still short of our timetable.

All along JJ has been saying that he wants to do a blues number. So I search through my CDs and find Eric Clapton’s “From the Cradle,” which includes a great version of “Hoochie Coochie Man.”

We spin it. We all like it. So we give it a shot with me soloing on the harmonica. The harp adds another dimension to our band and gives me another chance to show off--or flub up, depending on how you look at it.

From our very first attempt, it sounds good. Now our lineup is about 22 minutes.

Of all the practices, this one has been our most productive and most fun.

But more important, we crossed the bridge from being mere acquaintances to being friends. We had a great time playing, experimenting, goofing off and it brought us closer than all the other rehearsals put together.

The next Wednesday, we meet for our final session.

We spring “Hoochie Coochie Man” and our new and improved version of “Oh Boy” on Karl and he seems impressed.

There’s a rock show at the Concertgebouw . . .

About the only thing left to do is come up with a name.

We kick around some ideas and I offer a few suggestions from my co-workers. The most popular is Stool Sample.

Steve comes up with Hoochie Coochie Men, but when the final vote is tallied, Stool Sample comes out on top. I like it. It’s irreverent. It’s funny. It’s original. It’s scatological. We may end up giving an utterly forgettable performance, but nobody’s going to forget our name.

The day of the show, I’m as nervous as a president facing an impeachment hearing.

I spend the day fiddling with my guitar, wandering aimlessly around the house, driving my wife nuts. Now I know why Rod Stewart can’t stay married.

The show is at 5:30 p.m., and we’re supposed to be there by 4:30. Usually the concert is set at a community festival, car show or other public place, but this time Karl wasn’t able to find a suitable venue, so we’re playing in the performance space we’ve been practicing in for the last six weeks.

My concert outfit is a pair of too-tight jeans and a blood-red T-shirt that makes me look like a tick ready to explode. I complete the ensemble with a black suede vest, snakeskin cowboy boots and brown fedora. Looking in the mirror, my strapping rock god fantasy morphs into a shaggy, rotund biker.

So what if I’m more ZZ Top than Nine Inch Nails. They’re gonna love my singing.

I grab my guitar and head for the car.

The center is already crowded and has the look of a nightclub. Chairs have been placed in rows in front and along the sides of the stage, which has been rigged with colored lights and stacks of sound equipment.

I spy Steve loitering in the main showroom. We find a practice booth to tune up. I’m so nervous I can barely turn the tuning pegs.

Later, I find JJ and we sneak to the liquor store next door. I try to calm my frazzled nerves by tossing back a miniature bottle of Jack Daniels, but I’m so numb I can’t even taste it.

Back at the center, I sit and wait for the show to start, my nervous leg bouncing up and down. I’m twitching like Joe Cocker and I’m not even on stage yet.

I see by the program that our name has been changed to Hoochie Coochie Men. Apparently “Stool Sample” wasn’t deemed suitable for a family audience. So just like a real band, our creative freedom is squashed by corporate overlords. Artistic differences, again.

We’re scheduled to play right after the kids from the Rock Starts program, and I callously pray that they’re not better than us. Knowing how bad we are, it would be mortifying to follow someone who’s really good. Especially if they’re practically the same age as my kids.

Start me up . . .

The show finally gets underway. The kids are alright, but at least we can follow them without losing face.

When we’re finally called to the stage, my nerves feel like they’ve been flayed and rubbed with salt. Next thing I know, Steve is jumping into “Summertime Blues”; we’re off and running.

We work our way through the first two songs without mishap. Steve would later tell me he botched up on “Summertime”; I don’t remember it.

On our third song I make what is probably the worst gaffe of our entire performance, completely mangling the intro to “Sweet Jane.”

I come within a millimeter of breaking the first rule of the musician’s code: No matter how bad you screw up, never stop playing! Fortunately, Steve steps in and fills while I whip my floundering hands back into submission and we do a pretty good job on the rest of the song.

Of course, we made mistakes on just about every number, but I think most went unnoticed or ignored by the audience. Seconds in the spotlight seem eternal.

On our final song, I redeem myself by blowing some pretty tasty harmonica on “Hoochie Coochie Man.” In fact, it was the best number we did, which is amazing because it’s the one we practiced the least.

Realizing we’re in a groove, we milk it for all it’s worth and wrap it up with a noisy finish.

I turn to Steve and give him a high five as the audience hits us with a boisterous round of applause.

Then, just like that, it’s over.

Afterward, I sit and listen politely to the rest of the bands, but I’m too amped up to pay very close attention. Maybe it is a cliche, but there’s nothing like the charge you get from the sound of the crowd.

On the way home, I feel relief but also a little melancholy. After all, I’ve spent the last six weeks building up to this.

But it’s been a great experience. Heck, I’ve fulfilled a lifelong dream. How often does that happen?

On New Year’s Eve, Steve, JJ and I got together for the first time since the show and watched a videotape of our performance. It was an eye-opener. All those gaffes and errors really show up when you know what to look for.

Still, it didn’t diminish the enthusiasm for what we had done. We all raised a glass, agreed to join up for the next Weekend Warriors session and pick up where we left off.

More cheering fans. More cranked amplifiers. More adrenaline. More set lists. More artistic differences. Ahh, it’s great to be a rock ‘n’ roll star.