During the winter and spring of 1972, I was touring the mid west as one half of a musical duo. I played the guitar. My partner, Al Jarreau, did the singing. We worked as an opening act for such musical groups as Three Dog Night, The Jefferson Airplane, Caned Heat, as well as comics like George Carlin, Robert Klein and Bill Cosby. The financial ethic was always the same. Al and I got 500 dollars to split and the headliner got 10,000.
On Valentine's Day of 1972, Al and I opened for Steppenwolf at Centennial Concert Hall in Winnipeg, Canada. Winnipeg... the groupie capital of the world. Steppenwolf... the most drug laden musical organization since the advent of Amplified sound.
It's 5:30pm on June 12th, 2001. I'm 22 years old and have been sitting at the intersection of 14th street and Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, DC for fifteen minutes. It's raining, hard. I'm in the first car I've ever owned, my family's old navy blue Jeep Cherokee with nearly two hundred thousand miles on it. There's less than a quarter tank of gas left and hopefully it will last until Friday because my entire net worth is rattling around the sticky change holder next to the emergency break.
A couple of days ago, the tailgate window mysteriously dislodged itself from the car's molding, and through the rear view mirror I notice that rain is now definitely entering the vehicle with ease - a pretty good indication that duct tape doesn't solve everything.