Interviewing bassist stories

[Arthritic_Tom]

Well, here's one of my cautionary tales. Not really a bass player story, but I think it fits here.

I learned to play in the Detroit area. I was desperate to learn to play and couldn't find any one that would/could help out in the sterile white 'burbs.

Finally, at age 17, I ran away from home with a topless go-go dancer and wound up in Ypsilanti where I met and became friends with a guy who had been a veteran of the Motown scene. He sat me down and set me straight and in the end hooked me up with some great teachers in Detroit, one of which was the great Don Mayberry.

Anyway, we played in bands in the Ann Arbor area together for a while. Finally I left town and we lost touch for many years. We've reconnected and are fast friends again.

We were talking about how neither of us had "made it". He told me that, when he was in his first year of college, he was asked to join the touring band of a MAJOR Motown artist to tour Europe. This guy was a monster back then and still is a monster and major artist to this day. He turned him down 'cuz he was in school. He told me that all 9 guys that were in that band are now dead.

All of them.

And we're not.

I left Japan because it would've been easy to stay there forever in that Disneyland for Caucasian foreigners, where you were paid gigantic sums to simply talk, and you were pursued by some of the most beautiful women on earth.

My friend Steiv stayed, and he died there. I don't think he would've died of asthma here in the States. Unfortunately, Japanese medicine is years behind ours. They have socialized medicine, so the emphasis is on saving money. Steiv didn't get the treatment he needed, but he loved that playground.

Here's a brief biographical aside to illustrate the reason why I left:

I had a beautiful American girlfriend, a musician and one of the smartest, funniest people I've ever met. She was my joy. We frequented a Belgian bar run by a hilarious Walloon (the Belgians who speak French). One night a Belgian pop band touring Japan came in. They were all Walloons except for one backup singer, a Fleming (the Belgians who speak Flemish).

She was stunning, a tall blonde with a slightly nasal voice that made her sound like Al Stewart singing "The Year of the Cat."

Al Stewart - Year Of The Cat - YouTube

Since my girlfriend was gorgeous, men always flocked to her. We trusted each other, and that sort of attention was something she liked. Those of you who have dated truly beautiful women know that this is just something that is. We can pretend it doesn't exist, but beautiful women like being beautiful. If you're going to be with a great beauty, you have to be prepared for that. You can't have a jealous bone in your body.

(Once in San Francisco, after we left Japan, my girlfriend and I were walking along a cliff toward where hang gliders took off. A hang glider flew past, and she waved at him. He circled back and zoomed right over our heads, checking her out, and then he did aerobatics for her for several minutes, culminating in a James Bond landing on the cliff right in front of her. What could I say? I applauded him, and she was flattered silly because she was 33 and he was about 20, a great, handsome, muscular, wild-haired, daredevil of a boy, and it was just what she needed. It was great performance art.)

So, in the bar my girlfriend was immediately mobbed by all these handsome Belgian dudes while I sat there and watched. Sometimes she'd smile at me. I can honestly say I was never jealous. I was proud that she was with me.

The gorgeous blonde backup singer joined me at the bar, and we talked for hours. She was incredibly nice and friendly for such a beautiful woman. At some point she asked me, "Are you Belgian, by the way?"

I said, "No, I'm just fat like a Belgian guy." I have no idea what that means.

She laughed a throaty laugh, stroked my forearm, and purred, "Well, you're not fat. But I like fat guys anyway."

At the end of the evening she gave me her name, address, and phone number in Belgium, written on the back of a Chimay beer coaster. I kept it to remind me why I made the right decision to leave Japan. Not only was it easy to stay there forever, surrounded by adoring Japanese, but other foreigners--overwhelmed by the weirdness--reached out to you in ways they wouldn't in different countries. It was too seductive.

I don't think that Belgian singer would mind me revealing her first name, Virginie. That was in 1990. Here's the coaster. Another reason I kept it is to remind me of that night, in which the woman who chose me above all others was mobbed by far more desirable men but still stayed with me, and a gorgeous, talented, smart, glamorous singer told me she thought I was attractive.

And what the hell. Here's that studly young hang glider who landed at my girlfriend's feet. God bless you, man, wherever you are. You made a troubled woman happy and you gave me an indelible memory of how unexpectedly funny and joyous life can be.

See, Scott? I can't help telling STORIES. Just like you've been doing all along, too, apparently. Jeez...

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

Juicer.

Really? I looked up juicer and kept getting pictures and descriptions of these big electric devices that you ram fruits and vegetables down into, and they chop them up and dribble the liquid into your glass.

But okay.

 

[yep_scottthunes]

OK. YOU WIN. NO MORE STORIES. Whatever.

 

[hamertek98]

Really? I looked up juicer and kept getting pictures and descriptions of these big electric devices that you ram fruits and vegetables down into, and they chop them up and dribble the liquid into your glass.

But okay.

Redirect Notice

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

Redirect Notice

Okay. I was the juicer and Scott was making juice.

"What (smoosh) do (smoosh) you (smoosh) think (smoosh) about (smoosh) that, (smoosh) Pookie?"

I didn't turn tail and run, though. It was damn FUNNY! What the hell is wrong with people in this business? This is another reason I wasn't cut out to be in it. As scared and disoriented as I was over those seven days, IT WAS FUN! We were making great art together. Art is sometimes scary and disturbing.

I own several original paintings, one by someone I think is a genius. Her work is very disturbing, so you've been warned:

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I bought a painting of hers that spoke to me like Thunes's bass playing, and when I'm finally settled in my last home, I'm going to hang it where I can look at it every day.

It's FUN. It's WEIRD. It's SPECIAL.

I got sick and tired of people in the music industry either being these contrived shockmobiles whose every action is designed to provoke a reaction, or else being these dull prigs who you could knock over with a feather if you said anything they couldn't process.

It's called the "fallacy of the excluded middle." All or nothing. One extreme or the other. It's how teenagers think.

Well, to hell with them. I'm done. Some of the people who professed to be shocked and outraged by Thunes are themselves so unsocialized and abnormal without even knowing it that I'd find myself fighting hard not to roar laughter in their faces. I remember a guy with horrible body odor sneering at how weird and incomprehensible Thunes is. Well, Thunes DIDN'T STINK, PAL. YOU DID. This guy was also obsessed with saying to me "It was time you had your cherry popped" when I'd talk about any new experience.

What kind of mental patient says that to another man, much less says it over and over, like a mantra? A smelly bald man telling a 40-year-old bearded man that it was time he had his cherry popped? When we were talking about the first time I drank a certain vodka? Thunes never said anything so creepy to me in any of the conversations I had with him, ever.

For me, working in the music industry was like walking through a minefield. I never knew who I'd offend next, either for being too conventional or being too unconventional.

Marilyn Monroe was a brilliant thinker. Really. She once said, "I'm forever running into other peoples' unconscious."

Dead on. And the entertainment business ended up killing her.

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

OK. YOU WIN. NO MORE STORIES. Whatever.

Now are you going to sulk?

Christ, I DIDN'T SAY NO MORE STORIES. Can't you read? I'm no longer protesting your madcap refusal to write the book. I was just pointing out that you told me that stories are the lowest form of communication, but at the same time you want to save your stories.

Why? The only reason people save stories is to tell them. Are you now announcing with your usual fanfare that you're not even going to tell them?

So, you're not going to write the book, and now because of me you're not even going to tell the stories? I've screwed that up now, too? I've robbed the world of forever hearing these stories in any form whatsoever now?

Don't blame me if your own words are biting you in the ol' rumplestiltskin. I was just relating what you said about stories and smiling for photos. Not just what you said, but WHAT. YOU. SAID.

(Smoosh, grind, pound, thump.)

I've already conceded that my input on the book will never come about. Fine. I'd just be like a tub of cement on your feet, like what gangsters used to do to each other in the Roaring Twenties, like when Dutch Schultz put Bo Weinberg in the tub and then dropped him into the ocean. I'd just drag your creativity to subterranean depths by being involved. I get that.

But that doesn't mean you have to stop telling stories, for God's sake. I'm just whining about the massive opportunity you've snatched from my arthritic, Meniere's-stricken hands, that's all. I never said you had to stop telling stories.

Or smiling. This is a smile. It is. Sorry. Not a mouth-smile but an eye-smile. It's benign, so it counts as a smile.

INTERVIEW WITH SCOTT THUNES, 8.8.06

P.S. From that interview, you say, "The one time I tried to turn [Ahmet Zappa] on to some art was going up to his bedroom and trying to play him Plan Nine From Outer Space."

One of the most moving things I've ever read is that when Ed Wood fought his way across Guadalcanal as a marine (he enlisted after Pearl Harbor at 17), when he voluntarily plunged into that unimaginable hell of death, explosions, flame, ambushes, and disease for seven whole months, he was wearing silk stockings beneath his fatigues the whole time.

 

[geeza]

Now are you going to sulk?

Christ, I DIDN'T SAY NO MORE STORIES. Can't you read?

Maybe you should buy him a juicer.

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

Maybe you should buy him a juicer.

No, because then it'll be "Oh, I can't accept this, because every time I try to make juice I'll be reminded that it's something you gave me instead out something I created myself, and then I won't be able to ever enjoy juice again."

Watch: That's exactly what he's going to say. I've just killed his ability to make juice for the rest of his life, just like I've cut off the source of any Scott Thunes stories, in any medium, now and forever.

Well, that makes my interview book all the more valuable. Also my unpublished Thunes interview, which was even longer than the first.

Excerpt from the second interview:

TW: Okay, so we can agree on taste, and that's the elusive thing I've been searching for, for months now.

ST: [Laughs.] Where did it come up?

TW: Just now, as you were going on. The word just appeared, spelled out in the air right in front of me.

ST: [Laughs heartily for several seconds.]

TW: It's very, very strange. It's something I've been struggling with for-- And it just appeared, just now.

ST: Georgia and I together, we have impeccable taste. We agree on almost everything in art.

TW: And again, you believe that's innate.

ST: I went to the College of Marin,and I took one history of modern art class, and I loved everything I saw. I loved [painter Joseph Mallord William] Turner; I love a couple other older guys. But that's my taste. I like... spiciness in my music and my art. That's just my taste.

TW: Along with the taste, I'd like you to see how you would answer this.

ST: Fine. [Shouting.] Go for it!

TW: [Shouting.] It's very quick!

ST: [Shouting.] Don't apologize!

TW: [Laughing helplessly. Unable to speak.]

ST: [Roars wordlessly in exasperation.]

TW: Okay. So, if someone had said, just out of ignorance, "You're an unbelievable bass player. I just can't believe how good you are." They gush. They say, "How did you do that? The beauty of it all! I wanted to cry, blah-blah-blah." That sort of thing.

ST: The problem with answering something like that is nobody's ever done that to me, first off. Well... Okay, first off I would say, "Thank you very much." As for how I did it, I'd say, "I practiced. I practiced all the time. I listened to good music. I listened to good music. I loved what I did. I'm glad you love what I do."

TW: Would you terminate that line of conversation?

ST: Generally I would attempt to do so immediately, but I would definitely want to bask in my glory for at least 30 seconds. But if we don't talk about my art we have to talk about something else, and it could get too personal, so I'd much rather talk about my art. But I loved what I did; I really enjoyed playing the bass; I loved playing live; I loved performing in front of people.

 

[RoadRanger]

Maybe you should buy him a juicer.

Great for writer's block and more conventional forms of constipation I hear .

 

[RoadRanger]

I have other eye issues that prevent me from using the usual magnification devices.

Sorry to hear that - the two photographs of your models you graced us with are stunning works of art .

 

[RoadRanger]

Scott Thunes tries to divert Virgil, 1, from his drumming at the lunch table in their home in San Rafael. Hazle, 3, looks skeptical.
Invalid Link Removed

Awesome picture ! At 56 I too have a three year old "princess" and know those facial expressions well - both on her and me . No story needed .

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

Sorry to hear that - the two photographs of your models you graced us with are stunning works of art .

Thank you very much.

It was hard to give it up, but now I'm able to look back on it without anger and a sense of loss. I've got a new project, thanks to everyone here convincing me to write my memoirs.

The loss of my ability to build models, which blew up my Plan B if I didn't make it in music journalism, will figure in the memoir.

I think the moral of the story is don't count on any of your plans. Make plans, but count on your friends, family, and ability to experience joy to sustain you if and when your plans don't work.

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

Awesome picture ! At 56 I too have a three year old "princess" and know those facial expressions well - both on her and me . No story needed .

Have you seen Hazle Nova today, playing her original music?

She's only 12!

Hazle Nova - Kept In - YouTube

 

[RoadRanger]

Have you seen Hazle Nova today, playing her original music?
She's only 12!
Hazle Nova - Kept In - YouTube

Awesome!
My eldest daughter is one of them people that hangs around with musicians and hits things with sticks - in an all-girl zombie band. Ain't she cute ? :

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[Arthritic_Tom]

Awesome!
My eldest daughter is one of them people that hangs around with musicians and hits things with sticks - in an all-girl zombie band. Ain't she cute ? :

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She's a cutie, all right!

In my ten years as a music journalist, the only person I ever had to yell at was the drummer-bandleader in an all-girl outfit. I gave her band the article before I turned it in; she called me and said she didn't like the opening sentence; I explained why I wrote it; and then suddenly there was a General Electric turbofan engine screaming in my ear about sexism in L.A. and what an idiot I was.

I kept trying to break in, and finally I roared at her as loud as I could, using as much profanity as I could cram into that one sentence, and she settled down.

Once we were calm again, she started crying and told me that the label had withdrawn all support, and they didn't know what to do.

In the end they did the only sensible thing and went on a month-long bender and then broke up, right before the article was published.

The weird thing was, for the next few years I'd get a call in the middle of the night, and it would be the bassist, calling from her home country and just wanting to chat. The first time she phoned, she just used her first name: "Hi, Tom. It's ________." I knew from her accent where she was from, but I couldn't remember knowing anybody from there.

She burbled on while I was thinking, Who the hell is this? And then after about ten minutes it clicked.

I felt bad, because their debut CD was great, so I let her tell me what she was up to. She called me once or twice a year for a long time, promising she'd send me the latest thing she was working on, but she never did.

 

[Spectrum]

The weird thing was, for the next few years I'd get a call in the middle of the night, and it would be the bassist, calling from her home country and just wanting to chat. The first time she phoned, she just used her first name: "Hi, Tom. It's ________." I knew from her accent where she was from, but I couldn't remember knowing anybody from there.

She burbled on while I was thinking, Who the hell is this? And then after about ten minutes it clicked.

I felt bad, because their debut CD was great, so I let her tell me what she was up to. She called me once or twice a year for a long time, promising she'd send me the latest thing she was working on, but she never did.

That's a sad story and hits kind of close to home, Tom.

I have a female friend I went to college with; been friends with her for almost 2 decades now. She's married and living far away now, but we still make contact once in a while via text or email and when she's in town we meet for lunch or something. I once talked to her about how I hate losing touch with old friends. She told me that friends are transient and she doesn't get bothered by it, but I'm not like that. I sometimes wonder about my best buddies from grade school, high school, first band, etc., where they are and what they're doing. In some cases if they're even still alive, given their lifestyles.

But even with all the new technology we still drift apart. And when people move on it feels intrusive not to let them go. The world's a big place, easy to get lost in, especially if you don't use facebook to maintain an artificial relationship with someone who, ten years ago, you'd likely never hear from again.

But it still bothers me to think somebody out there might be wishing they had kept in touch or could use my hand to help with something. I hope the bassist in your story was able to get past her troubles.

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

That's a sad story and hits kind of close to home, Tom.

I have a female friend I went to college with; been friends with her for almost 2 decades now. She's married and living far away now, but we still make contact once in a while via text or email and when she's in town we meet for lunch or something. I once talked to her about how I hate losing touch with old friends. She told me that friends are transient and she doesn't get bothered by it, but I'm not like that. I sometimes wonder about my best buddies from grade school, high school, first band, etc., where they are and what they're doing. In some cases if they're even still alive, given their lifestyles.

But even with all the new technology we still drift apart. And when people move on it feels intrusive not to let them go. The world's a big place, easy to get lost in, especially if you don't use facebook to maintain an artificial relationship with someone who, ten years ago, you'd likely never hear from again.

But it still bothers me to think somebody out there might be wishing they had kept in touch or could use my hand to help with something. I hope the bassist in your story was able to get past her troubles.

While I share some of your wistfulness, life has taught me that you generally can't go back.

When I was in college, my best friend was a guy I'll call Mike. He was hilarious. When I got an earring, he decided to get one too, but he somehow managed to pull it out just a few minutes after the piercing, so I had to put it through the raw, bleeding hole again. We were both laughing with horror and he was shouting, "Hurry! Hurry!" because I got the peg in, but then it wouldn't go all the way through to the other side and was just sort of stabbing around the inside of the hole, getting hung up somehow.

We went out one night, and without warning he said, "Do you ever think about just crashing your car so you get killed, and then everyone will sit around talking about how sorry they are that you're dead and how they wish they'd been nicer to you, and you'll be somewhere looking down, going, 'Good! That'll fix you!'" And we both laughed hysterically because we knew that we were ridiculous, self-pitying SOBs.

He was a drummer and I was a bassist, and we were always going to start a band, but when we went to Japan on a college exchange program in our junior year, he met a Japanese girl who came back with him and they got married. The three of us lived together for a while, and it was a nightmare. They fought all the time. On my 22nd birthday, she made me a cake, and then they got into a fight and she threw the cake at him and tore off all his clothes right there in front of me until he was naked. They made up--as they always did--and we went out drinking. I got plastered on Long Island Iced Teas and we had to stop on the way home so I could throw up by the side of the road. Back at the apartment the quadriplegic neighbor downstairs called me and asked if I could help him.

I staggered down, and as soon as I opened the door, I knew by the smell what had happened. Drunk and reeling with nausea, I had to lift him out of his bed (he was 6' 4"), put him in the tub, wash him down, change his bedding, put him in clean clothes, and then wash his soiled clothes and sheets. I told him about my day, and he said, "Well, this is my birthday gift to you. Happy birthday, Tom!" So we were able to laugh about it, even though it was truly one of the worst days of my life.

Mike divorced his Japanese wife and we moved in together during our senior year. We planned to go back to Japan to seek our fortunes. Japan has a way of getting into your blood. We jammed on drums and bass sometimes, but mostly we just talked and laughed. We went to the coast a lot and barbecued hamburgers on the beach at night. He was a really great guy. Smart as hell and with the surreal, wacky sense of humor I like most.

Three days before we left for Japan, Mike told me he wasn't going to go, because he'd met a new girl. I was stunned, but what could I do? I met her; she was a dolt; I went to Japan by myself. Mike wasn't a letter writer. We wrote twice, his second letter asking me what to do with the Rickenbacker bass I'd left in his care. I told him to sell it. We had no more contact.

Fast forward 25 years, and I got an e-mail from Mike. He said he'd been looking for me for ages, and we had tons of catching up to do. He asked me what I'd been doing since the last time we saw each other. I told him, and he wrote, "Jesus, you've had an interesting life. I run a junkyard. I don't have any stories to tell you about anything." He had no recollection whatsoever of our adventures, including my catastrophic 22nd birthday. He truly had nothing to say to me, and contact with me seemed to make him unhappier, as his messages became shorter and shorter. After a decent interval I mercifully let our relationship die again.

But I still have the memories of our friendship, and they give me pleasure instead of making me sad.

Losing so much of what I loved--the person I was sure was my soul mate, the ability to build models, my career in music journalism, the ability to play the bass, and finally my freedom to leave my house whenever I want--taught me a lot. Friendships aren't transient; everything is transient. We have no guarantees, and we can lose anything at any time.

People change. People go away. People die. I adopted a crazy feral cat after he appeared in my back yard one day, starved down to skin and bones. He came looking for help, even though he hated people. It took a year to socialize him. He was afraid of toys, hoses, electric tools, all other people, and throw rugs. I couldn't figure out why he'd take so long to go in and out of his cat door, and then I realized he thought the furry throw rug was an animal. He was scared of it. When I took it away, he was fine.

He clawed the hell out of me, bit me, threw tantrums, but finally became a nice cat. As soon as he became lovable, he died of cancer. It was devastating. When he was alive I used to go out at night and call, "Where's the kitty? Where's the puss-puss?" and he'd come running, with his unique breathy meow.

He died in the afternoon, and that night I went out and called, "Where's the kitty? Where's the puss-puss?" and as God is my witness I heard a breathy meow. Later, as I lay on the sofa, I felt a weight on my chest and fur against my arms, and then it was gone. I think he's okay, wherever he is. The important thing is, he had a little over a year of safety, good food, and care, which he never would've experienced if I hadn't adopted him. His death was very peaceful. He wasn't afraid.

Loss is inevitable. It's all right to feel sad that we lose, but I've learned that it's more important to be grateful for who and what we have and had, rather than mourn who and what we no longer have. We must learn to let go, because we're not allowed to hold on forever anyway. Your mission here, I think, is to learn to overcome your sadness with your joy. Don't do what I did and arrive at that mindset only through massive loss. Appreciate who and what you have while you have them. Most of all, be grateful. Gratitude is what allows you to experience joy despite unavoidable loss.

I'm not religious, but this is the most beautiful hymn I've ever heard. It's Greek Orthodox. It expresses in music the complex feelings I have about this subject. I hope it helps you the way it helps me:

Orthodox Music

 

[pnut166]

I just spend most of my shift at work reading the first 28 pages (!) of this thread. Nothing here has hooked me like this since the GeneralElectric gift-bass thread from a couple years ago. please don`t take this the wrong way, Tom, but this has been akin to spending an evening with one`s grandfather, listening intently to tales from another time, another place. And I mean this as a great compliment, as I never knew either of my grandfathers. Now, I have 90 minutes to catch up on a 12hr shift`s worth of work !

 

[flashboom]

People change. People go away. People die. I adopted a crazy feral cat after he appeared in my back yard one day, starved down to skin and bones. He came looking for help, even though he hated people. It took a year to socialize him. He was afraid of toys, hoses, electric tools, all other people, and throw rugs. I couldn't figure out why he'd take so long to go in and out of his cat door, and then I realized he thought the furry throw rug was an animal. He was scared of it. When I took it away, he was fine.

He clawed the hell out of me, bit me, threw tantrums, but finally became a nice cat. As soon as he became lovable, he died of cancer. It was devastating. When he was alive I used to go out at night and call, "Where's the kitty? Where's the puss-puss?" and he'd come running, with his unique breathy meow.

He died in the afternoon, and that night I went out and called, "Where's the kitty? Where's the puss-puss?" and as God is my witness I heard a breathy meow. Later, as I lay on the sofa, I felt a weight on my chest and fur against my arms, and then it was gone. I think he's okay, wherever he is. The important thing is, he had a little over a year of safety, good food, and care, which he never would've experienced if I hadn't adopted him. His death was very peaceful. He wasn't afraid.

Tom, I have to comment on this because almost the exact same thing happened to me. My fiance had adopted a feral cat that was almost 13 years old when I moved in with her. She was not a friendly cat and would not let you pet her. After about a year or so, she started taking naps with me. She would lie next to me and I could rest my hand on her haunches, though I wasn't allowed to pet her. I never slept during these naps because I was terrified she would claw me for no reason. I've never been much of a cat person so I got angry when, for some reason, she started throwing up under the bed. I figured she was mad at being ignored or something and started to resent her. We would still nap together but I would spray her with water if she started retching. When we finally took her to the vet for a (long ignored) skin lesion, we found that she had colon cancer and had to be put down. That was why she was vomiting. I'm still angry at myself for blaming her for something she couldn't help.

The next day, after her passing, when I lay down for a nap, I felt her walk over me and lie next to me. I hope that means that she forgave me for being a selfish idiot. Your words above where the exact ones that I use when I think about her passing... she did not die in fear. For some reason, that is very important to me. Pardon me, I'm crying to much to type right now...

 

[flashboom]

Sorry for the hijack.

Tom, I know this thread is not about me but I wanted to let you know that I feel we are very much alike in many ways. I lived in China for two years so I understand what you mean about suddenly becoming desirable to hordes of beautiful women that would ignore you back home. I unwittingly destroyed a young woman's life because she fell "in love" with me (but that's another story). I also understand your losses. For the last 12 years I have been dealing with a disease that has killed most of my dreams to the point that, most days, I can't wait for the whole pointless thing to be over with.

I won't derail things further. I just wanted to let you know that I'm glad you are writing your memoirs. I hope that my life will one day mirror yours and that I will reach a place of peace and happiness. What you are doing is important. Godspeed.