When I was in my twenties, I worked in a club band with my brother Chris. Based in Boston, we worked all over New England primarily in mountain villages (to be near the ski resorts) and college towns in the winter and beach towns and surrounding mid-sized communities in summer. During the winter, our trips to the mountains were often full of adventure. The weather we traveled through, by necessity as there are no sick days when working in a traveling band, was sometimes fierce.

We traveled through an ice-storm once and when we arrived our station wagon was covered in a thick layer of solid ice that weighed the vehicle down nearly to the ground. The radio antennae was completely encrusted with ice and looked for all the world like a glistening icy rapier. It was a fascinating sight but I’m sure it didn’t do much for the shock-absorbers.

As mentioned, most of these towns were situated in the mountains. One town in particular was Littleton, New Hampshire, located just north of Crawford Notch. This featured a picturesque drive to reach when the weather was clear, which as often as not it was. The snow capped peaks of the President’s range, including Mt Washington, were auspiciously on display usually ringed with clouds arranged attractively atop the summits.

Littleton is, by most standards, a small town, at the time of approximately 26,000 inhabitants. As most small towns, it had its share of characters. Our band had a fairly sizable local following. Among these was a group of townies who counted among their coterie a deaf-mute named Jeff. Jeff loved music and always related to us how much he enjoyed us. This puzzled me but on questioning him concerning his enjoyment, he proffered an interesting explanation.

It seems that Jeff, though deaf, could still feel the music, particularly the lower register. As the bass player, he identified with me as the low tones of my instrument would reverberate in his chest. Along with the beat of the drums, Jeff could follow the music well enough that he was able to dance. Jeff had a habit of prefacing words beginning with a soft consonant with a hard consonant. He would approach me at our break with “Pwow, Steve. The music is great tonight!” He would wander off with such an expression of ecstasy that I would be at a loss to argue with him.

This place was one of our better venues. Called Jeremiah’s, it was named for one of the two brothers who were its owners and it featured a bullfrog on its marquee (a take on “Jeremiah was a bullfrog” the opening lyrics to “Joy to the World” a popular song of the day by Three Dog Night). This was a consummate rock and roll emporium. Constructed entirely of wood, its interior would reverberate with the pounding variety of music that we engaged in.

Of course today, I suffer from tinnitus (i.e. ringing in the ears) as a result of too many nights of exposure to ringing guitars and crashing cymbals. I don’t regret any of it, not even for a moment. We had great fun and brought weekends of enjoyment to those tiny towns in the middle of nowhere. There is no greater feeling than standing at the edge of the stage, rocking harder than Gibraltar, while a tightly packed room of rock and roll aficionados romps to the music that you are putting out. The sense of community, of shared experience and, yes, sex itself is indescribable. Watching a room full of fans dance to the rhythms you are providing is a glimpse of pure unadulterated joy.

There were times when I would look out across the dance floor and see those ecstatic faces atop the gyrating, sweaty bodies, knowing full well that it was our music that was providing the impetus for the exultation being played out before me and tremble with the knowledge. For me, it was the ultimate in joy transference and delivery, something I will treasure all of my days.

© Stephen Alexander 2008

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