The BRFH - The Early Days

As one drives east on the curvy highway that leads to Zeandale out of my hometown of Manhattan, KS, he unknowingly pass a landmark of utmost importance to the world of music, or more specifically to my world of music. About a mile down and on the south side is a black mailbox, and nailed to its post is a weatherworn board with the name "Frank" carved into it.

In 1988 that sign resided in a different place, next to its brethren "3313" in front of my childhood home on Musil Dr. Understand, it was a certain rite of passage in those days that when young men became of age they were sent to Mr. Gobber’s middle-school shop class and came home with the ubiquitous yard sign: a concrete base, a square iron post, a wooden marquee, and a twisted iron top. The only difference was what you inscribed on it. Scott had chosen "3313" so I chose "Frank".

Since moving to Colorado I’ve spent many a conversation describing what it’s like to grow up in Kansas. My answer is always the same. It’s great; you have to invent your own fun. This never applied better than a fine fall day in 1988 when facing sheer boredom, my friends (I believe it was John Stamey and Travis Buzzell, but I do apologize if I’m wrong) livened up the afternoon by running around our front yard karate chopping everything in sight. It was more acting than hard kicking. So imagine our surprise when the fatal blow was applied to old "3313". For some reason we thought it was hilarious. All of the sudden we were real hoodlums.

So we did what any self-respecting gang would do, we terrorized the neighborhood. We fake-kicked every single Mr. Gobber sign that we saw. Up Frontier Ln. Around Givens Rd. Down Overlook Dr. The Finck’s house. The Whalen’s house. The Stamey’s house. It was a hoot.

And why am I telling you this? Because, we came up with a name for our gang that day. We were just like Hell’s Angels, but maybe not as vicious. More like Hell’s Bunny Rabbits.

The name stuck. By January our gang had softened into a volleyball team. I’d designed a logo featuring a sinister sunglasses-wearing rabbit, Sam, crushing the famous Otto ranch (west of town near Keats). We pooled our money and got a dozen or so t-shirts printed up and proudly wore them to the MMS Volleyball Fun Night. Our excitement was slightly dampened when the school’s administration deemed "hell" an obscenity and made us cover the word with masking tape. I guess it was all in a day’s work for your typical street gang. (By the way, I still have what’s left of my shirt, and I’m not sure we could have bought a cheaper fabric even if we’d tried.)

Fist Publicity Photo, circa April 1989.
(L to R) Travis, John F., Neil, Paul, John S.

So now you know the story.

Well, except for that minor detail about the band.

I suppose the idea to learn to play guitar came from Andy Van Meter. He’d been playing for several years and Travis and I were pretty much awed. Before long Travis talked his dad into a Gibson Les Paul, and I got a Yamaha RGX-112 for my second most glorious Christmas (the two tauntauns of 1980 are pretty hard to beat). And after a few weeks of practice we felt that we’d pretty much mastered the instrument. Obviously the only thing left to do was start a band.

Stamey was in on the condition that he found a guitar cord so that he could plug his dad’s Gibson EB0 bass into their infamous Kalamozoo bass amp. At some point we learned that Neil Coleman played the drums and after a couple of conversations (that had nothing to do about musical interests) convinced him to sign up. And finally it came to our attention that Paul Paukstelis could sing. He liked heavy metal. So did Travis and me. That’s about all it took to make it happen. The gang had officially become the band, The Bunny Rabbits From Hell.

That was March 12, 1989.

We started with a very ambitious schedule. Our plan was to record an album over spring break. The thought never occurred to us that it would be a problem that we had no songs. That we had never rehearsed together. That John Stamey hadn’t even been told he was in a band. The next day, March 13, we got together for the first time and started recording. Lead by our unofficial sixth member, Andy Van Meter, and minus our official third member, John Stamey (who still didn’t know there was a band), we plowed through our first song, the Trogg’s Wild Thing. After Andy went home most of the day was spent butchering various AC/DC and Metallica songs.

Click here to download the MP3s from the first BRFH rehearsal.

We quickly realized that all good bands write their own songs. And ours was a masterpiece. Hypnotize. Over the next few weeks we crafted a definitive musical statement with elements of heavy metal, rap (absolutely not), poetry, inventive vocabulary (try and find stamination in the dictionary), bagpipes, sensitive acoustic guitars, volume swells, and a speed metal guitar solo all in just over three minutes. By May (with John Stamey and guitar cord finally present) we recorded our first song. Later that month we made our public debut at the Church of Christ lock-in (more on that in future posts).

Click here to download the MP3 for the studio version of Hypnotize (note, this link goes directly to the file).


And from a handful of audio recordings emerged Monsters of Easter, our first album. Hypnotize was featured prominently and often. The rest was rounded out with a few Metallica favorites featuring Andy Van Meter on guitar. We pooled our money and bought a few packs of ALCO brand cassette tapes (you know, the ones without cases, packaged three at a time, one above the other, and hanging from a hook, altogether much like you find Wrigley’s chewing gum in the supermarket aisles today). We dubbed copies of the album and crafted an individual cover and label for each one. Of course the artwork featured our fearless rabbit, Sam.

Assembling Monsters of Easter, June 1, 1989.
(L to R) John F., Neil, Travis, John S., Paul

The following morning we set out for our last day at Manhattan Middle School with our copies of Monsters of Easter in hand. The album sold out in a few hours, which wasn’t that hard to do considering there were only ten to start with. What’s funny is none of us thought to keep a copy for ourselves.

Click here to download the the restored version of Monsters of Easter with MP3, artwork, guitar TAB and more.

Our summer break commenced with another lock-in gig, this time at the Blue Valley United Methodist Church, which was equally as incompetent as our first. And then we dedicated our summer to the heavy metal gods. Most days were an endless riff-a-rama between Travis, Paul, and me. Tons of Metallica. Plenty of Iron Maiden. A little Led Zeppelin. And finally the composition of the second wave of original BRFH songs. But that is another story...




... And for you diehards and completists out there, you can find the complete BRFH archives from 1989 here.


Misc. Notes:
For my part it is much easier to post the audio as MP3s on the server. I apologize for your inconvenience. But, on the bright side you now have to option to load the BRFH onto your iPod. Think about the joys of jogging to Hypnotize.

And finally, this must be the reason why I keep 20 year old creative writing assignments. Enjoy...

Mötley Crüe

March 2, 1990 - Bramlage Coliseum, Manhattan, KS

Probable Setlist:
Kickstart My Heart
Red Hot
Rattlesnake Shake
Too Young to Fall in Love
Shout at the Devil
Live Wire
Same Ol Suitation
Slice of Your Pie
Guitar Solo
Drum Solo
Looks That Kill
Smokin in the Boys Room
Wild Side
Girls, Girls, Girls

Encore:
Home Sweet Home
Dr. Feelgood

Opening Act: Faster Pussycat


19 years ago tonight! Ah, such good memories. Like the image of a man in thong sitting at his throne while bashing out classic rock on an electric drum set perched on platform suspended from the rafters...

On second thought, maybe they’re not so good memories. Come to think of it, I’m kinda disappointed in myself for thinking that Mötley Crüe was once cool. Let’s be honest, these guys are just disgusting. Sure, Too Fast For Love is still charming in that 80s glam rock sort of way. But, by the time Brett Scott tracked down a copy of the Tommy Lee/Pamela Anderson video I cringed with the memory that I had once seen that butt with my own eyes. Ugh.

But, do consider that Mötley Crüe’s visit to Manhattan was pretty much the biggest event of 1990. It was another one of those anyone who was anyone was there that night. And of course, I was there with Travis and Paul. And yes, it was fantastic!

Yet the most memorable images from that night were the desperately pathetic shenanigans of Tommy Lee. At one point the lights went off and a spotlight illuminated a platform hanging from the ceiling of Bramlage Coliseum. Standing on top was the gangly, semi-nude body of Mr. Lee and his portable drum kit. “F@#$ yeah! Do you motherf@#$ers remember last tour when I played the drums upside down?” (crowd) Yeah! “Well, some f@#$ers asked me, ‘Tommy, how are you going to top that?’ Well, you can’t get any higher than playing from the f@#$ing roof!” (crowd) Yeah! “So I’m gonna’ f@#$ing play some of my favorite songs for all you f@#$ers!” (crowd) Yeah!

Then there was a boom-boom-bash and he was jamming to Led Zeppelin. I think it was Custard Pie. It wasn’t the full song, and after about four bars the music from the PA abruptly switched to The Ocean. Then the platform started to move across the ceiling at an absurdly slow rate. For bars later it changed again to Kashmir. The platform started to spin at an even more lethargic pace. Tommy Lee was just pounding the skins in pure delight to the beat of John Bonham. A few bars later the theme switched to ACDC and their anthem Back in Black. Eventually the platform mercifully stopped and the drummer rappelled down to the stage where he proceeded to moon the audience.

At only just 15 years of age I thought, “Geez, it was much cooler when he played upside down.”

But don’t get me wrong, I had a great time March 2, 1990. Even as I shutter in disgust thinking about those guys.


Notes: This was in support of the "Dr. Feelgood" tour, which lasted from October 1989 to August 1990.

If you're bored you can hear the BRFH discuss the upcoming Mötley Crüe here.

And, if you're even more bored you can hear Tyler and myself try and recreate Tommy Lee's drum solo circa 1992 here.

By the way, if you want to experience the real thing click here to see the Tommy Lee solo from Kansas City a few months earlier.

January 13, 2009 - Centennial, WY

2+ weeks later and it's still there.

By the way, yesterday's weather was really crappy ... if you couldn't tell.

John

Morons

January 6, 2009 - Centennial, WY

Why do morons drive snow-closed roads during the winter? John K. and I found this Bronco last week (December 30th) on Wyoming highway 130 about a quarter-mile past the obvious "Road Closed" sign (also where the even more obvious foot-and-a-half snowpack begins). I'm pretty sure it will be stuck here until May.


Where the hell was he going? There's only about 20 more miles of snow closed highway until you get over the pass.

John

Barack Obama

October 26, 2008 – Fort Collins, CO

P = N*R*T

This is simple algebra that I learned in sixth grade. The number of people who make it through security, P, is equal to the number of metal detectors, N, times the rate at which people can pass through the metal detectors, R, times the amount of time you allow for security screening, T. Now, if N = 15 metal detectors, R = 400 people per metal detector per hour, and T = 2 hours, then P = 12,000. Now, what happens when the actual value for P = 50,000?

I knew today was a hopeless cause when around 11:00 a.m. I checked the Fort Collins Coloradoan online and saw this headline, “Line for Obama Rally at CSU over 1 Mile Long”. Ouch. But how often does a presidential candidate come to your little town a week before they make history? So, Paula and I decided to be a part of history. Ours was a case of optimization: I figured that we had no chance to see Barack Obama, so how much time did we really want to waste on this endeavor? The math was simple; the speech was at 3:30 p.m., the gates opened at 1:30 p.m. We had no chance. So, I figured I could waste two hours of my life.

Being the good Democrat, as is Paula, and the good Green Party member, as am I, we rode our bikes to the Forest Service where we started walking. We were smart enough to call our friend Brianna to find out where the end of the line was; she and David had cued up about 45 minutes earlier. With good advice in hand we headed west to Pitkin Rd. where we found the mass of humanity and took our place at the end.

But we weren’t at the end for long. It was humorous to see an incredible line of supporters walking counter to the real line as they searched in frustration for the end. After half-and-hour I followed them about half-a-mile backward to the new end, which was ironically close to the Forestry building and the entrance to the rally at the CSU Oval.

Waiting wasn’t as bad as you might imagine. This was probably because I had written off our chances of seeing Obama. So we joked with our neighbors, called Brianna (at 3:00, “No, not moving yet.”), and set very manageable goals, like reaching the stop sign 100 feet ahead of us.

We joked about what awaited us at the end. I imagined something like my trip to the National Zoo in D.C. back in the 80’s when they had the baby panda and everyone shuffled in line for a 5 second glimpse at the cute fur-ball. In a similar manner, maybe we would parade by and get our snapshot of the Obama rally. My favorite one was that we’d get there just in time to hear, “Thank you Colorado. Good night.”

We slowly worked our way towards Shields St. Every once in a while a SUV would pass with windows down, jeering and waving a McCain-Palin sign. But in general everyone was civilized.

Sometime after 3 p.m. the line finally started moving. First up to Moby Arena, then across to the Union, and around to the Forestry Building. At first it was slow, but anything was better than our 2 hour standstill. Then it was brisk. People started cutting across to different parts of campus. We could hear cheers. Eventually we heard the ‘essence’ of Obama’s voice. Then we cut a path north to the historic Oval. The words were clearer. We passed through security (what security?). Then there were lots of people. I couldn’t make sense of which structure was the podium. We walked the Oval counterclockwise. The voice was getting more impassioned. The crowd was really excited. Paula and I stopped and listenen.

“… and God bless the United States of America!”


Urgh, so what do we do now?

We hung around a bit. I still couldn’t make out any people on the stage. Hell, I couldn’t make out the stage. So we proceeded around the Oval until we got to a barricade. I stood on my toes and noticed people we still pretty excited. Maybe Obama was still there. And then I saw a figure give a wave and turn around and walk into a building. Was that him? It could have been. He was wearing a white shirt, no tie, and a dark jacket. Then the guy beside me remarked, “Did you see him? He just waved and walked into that building.”

It lasted about one-half a second. It reminded me of a drive through Shenandoah National Park and I yelped to Paula, “Look, bear!” After we got home I checked out the Coloradoan. Paula and I watched the other 34 minutes of his 35 minute speech. And yes, he was wearing a white shirt, no tie, and dark jacket.

Just think, there were probably 10,000 people in line behind us who didn’t even see that much.

October 10, 2008 – Keene, NY

Paula and I awake at 6:00 a.m. to get an early start on today’s hike. There are no alarm clocks here at the Bark Eater Inn, so when Paula asks for the time, I look through the darkness at my pocket watch and see 5 o’clock and declare that we have yet another hour of sleep. Fortunately I turn on the light and see my error; alas, our day starts too early. The inn keeper knows that we are rolling out early this morning for the summit of Mt. Marcy, so she has set out granola and muffins for us to take on the road. After a quick stop in Keene for some coffee and orange juice we are on our way.

The colors in the Adirondacks of upstate New York are breathtaking. I think the drive between Keene and Lake Placid may be among the most charming I’ve ever made. There is a series of narrow lakes that fill the crevice between two dramatic slopes covered in amazing oranges, yellows, and reds. The highway hugs the northern shore as it slices through this majestic land. We find the turn off to the Adirondack Loj, a quaint historic lodge that doubles as the trailhead to many of the high peaks of New York state. For a 7:30 a.m. on a Friday morning in October, the hiker’s parking lot is surprisingly crowded. We gather our gear, sign in, and begin our journey up towards Mt. Marcy, the highest point in the state.

Though the sun hasn’t made it into the valley yet, the birch forest nonetheless is stunning. We walk with the fresh leaves crunching under each step. This is very different hiking than in Colorado. After a couple of miles we finally get a good view from the Marcy Dam. We cross over this very simple wood structure and pass a large group of Canadians. At first I was puzzled by all their French, but then I realized how close we are to Quebec.





And then we continue to hike. And hike. And hike. I knew this would be a long day; the summit is about 7.4 miles from the trailhead. We hike up wet rocky trail. We pass a sign ‘Mt. Marcy 6.5 miles’. We hike up wet rocky trail. 8:30 a.m. We hike up wet rocky trail. ‘Mt. Marcy 5.2 miles’. We hike up wet rocky trail. 9:30 a.m. We hike up wet rocky trail. ‘Mt. Marcy 3.2 miles’.



Finally, we reach something different. I help Paula cross a stream when we see a sign for Indian Falls. We take a path to where the stream has spread out all over an exposed sheet of rock. From here we get our first view of some of the high peaks of the Adirondacks. As we get back to the trail our Canadian group has caught up, but we convince them check out the falls so that we can continue to hike in quiet.



And then we hike up wet rocky trail. 10:30 a.m. We hike up wet rocky trail. ‘Mt. Marcy 1.4 miles’.

And finally we see it. At 5,344 ft. above sea level and imposing itself above all else is the summit. We know we’ve still got 1,000 vertical feet to go, but at least we can see our destination.





It takes another hour to get up the last mile. Most of it is spent scrambling on the exposed rock. Up till now the weather has been spectacular, but at this altitude things get a bit chilly. We stop to put on our coats, hats, and gloves. The temperature is probably in the 30s with winds gusting 20-30 mph. As we rise above timberline the wind gets very annoying. But alas, we summit at noon. A mere four-and-a-half hours after we started.





The panorama from the summit is nothing short of spectacular. The fall colored Adirondacks rise and fall in every direction. To the east is Vermont and its high point, Mt. Mansfield (which three years ago we summited despite the relentless rain and sleet). North is the village of Lake Placid and its twin Olympic ski-jump towers. My favorite view is to the south. The colors are simply wonderful. So we choose to nestle beneath a ridge for some shelter and eat our lunch gazing south toward the sun.













When a large crowd begins to gather on top we know it’s time to head down. After a half-hour on the summit we start the long, tedious hike back to the car. I would like to say that Paula and I have lots of fun from miles 7.4 to 14.8, but that would be stretching the truth. Honestly, it is incredibly hard. Paula’s feet hurt most of the time. And nothing makes you feel good when your feet feel like giving out and then you see the sign ‘Trailhead 4.4 miles’. This four-and-a-half hours is never-ending.







But as 5 p.m. approaches our anticipation grows. Then we finally see it, the parking lot. We triumphantly sign out and peel our boots off. Nine-and-a-half hours are a lot of hiking for one day and we are spent.

And hour later our evening ends appropriately: sitting on the patio of our room at the Bark Eater, eating pizza, drinking a hard earned soda, and watching the day’s final hurrah of fall colors before bedtime.



Highpoint number 18 in the bag!

The Restoration of my Gibson ES-335 Electric Guitar

Okay, so this may be a bit boring for everyone (except Jeff P.). But the photos are interesting, and I hope they get alot more interesting in the near future. Here is my story of perseverance.

A brief history:

I purchased my Gibson ES-335 electric guitar from the Manhattan Pawn Shop, Manhattan, KS, on July 30, 1991. The price was $300. I paid $200 plus a trade-in on my Yamaha RGX-112 with its brand new hard-shell case. The $100 trade-in was probably out of pity; I knew the proprietor, Mark Goodnow, as an assistant scoutmaster from Boy Scouts.

Unfortunately, I have no photos of the condition of the guitar when I bought it. I remember that it wasn’t pretty. It had recently suffered a horrendous white paint job. Everything had been sprayed except the fingerboard and headstock; there were runs all over. Red automotive trim was stuck in place of the binding, down the back of the neck, and around the f-holes. On the back, a piece of crudely shaped plastic covered up a barbaric jigsaw hole created to access the electronics. The name Tommy Lane was affixed on the tailpiece. I was told that he was indeed the previous owner and was responsible for the recent paint job.

In the month that followed I completed my first restoration of the guitar. I intended to give the guitar a natural finish, so I removed all the electronics and sanded off the white paint job. On the neck and portions of the back I sanded down to the wood grain. I quickly decided that this would not work so instead I finished the guitar with black Krylon spray-paint. This all sounds horrible to me now, but consider that I was 15-years-old back then.



The 2008 restoration:

In early 2008 I decided that it was time to properly restore my classic guitar. So, I dismantled the body and stripped it down to the bare wood. This time I used paint stripped rather than sand paper. I uncovered more of the history of the guitar as I progressed through three layers of paint (my black coat, the white coat, and an earlier black coat) plus the original finish. The original orange Gibson serial number sticker was still inside the upper f-hole (unfortunately, the serial number did not survive). There were multiple tuner and tailpiece screw holes (obviously both had been replaced before). The original finish was probably a dark stain, but it was very difficult to see.





I have put considerable thought into the proper identification of my guitar. Tragically, in my haste back in 1991 I sanded off a majority of the serial number. That has made identification difficult, but not impossible.

The serial number written on the July 1991 bill of sale was 300896. At that time the number would have been visible but obscured by two extra coats of paint. In February 2008, the serial number was clearly six digits long. The specific numbers were barely visible, but they appeared to be 3?0896, with the second digit looking round.



The serial number was definitely from the 1960s. The serial number was not ink stamped eliminating 1958 to early 1961. There was no “Made in the U.S.A. stamped below the serial number, eliminating the early to mid-70s. The serial number was not 8 digits, eliminating 1977 to present.

Assuming the first number was a 3, the possible six digit serial numbers from February 1961 to 1970 were:

250336 to 305983 1965
306000 to 310999 1965 or 1967
311000 to 320149 1965
320150 to 320699 1967
320700 to 329179 1965
329180 to 330199 1965 or 1967
330200 to 332240 1965, 1967 or 1968
332241 to 348092 1965
348093 to 349100 1966
349121 to 368638 1965
368640 to 369890 1966
370000 to 370999 1967
380000 to 385309 1966
390000 to 390998 1967

Assuming the second number was round and the rest were 0896, the possible six digit serial numbers were:

300896 1965
330896 1965, 1967 or 1968
360896 1965
380896 1966
390896 1967

Other guitar characteristics were considered. The neck nut width was 1 9/16”, which was available only from mid-1965 to 1967. The peghead angle was 14o, which was only available from 1966 on. Therefore, the guitar was from 1966 or 1967. This contradicts the July 1991 serial number 300896. It also eliminates a 6 as the second number. Also, the code on the four potentiometers (CBA-811-1053 500k AT 1376720) identified them as Chicago Telephone Supply (CTS) 500 kW manufactured on the 20th week of 1967. Assuming these were original, the guitar was manufactured in 1967 and the second number must have been a 3 or a 9.

Ultimately, the second number was assumed to have been a 9. This was based on the characteristics visible in February 2008. The second digit looked dissimilar to the first, and it looked fairly round and top heavy.

In conclusion, the guitar was assumed to be from 1967, with the serial number 390896.

Other specifications from that year were:

Sunburst or cherry red finish available
A short pickguard that does not extent past the bridge pickup
“chrome top reflector” volume/tone knobs
White switch tip
Metal strap button
Small block fingerboard inlays
Wire added to the ABR tune-a-matic bridge
Double-ring tulip Kluson tuners
White nylon bridge saddles
“Patent Number” stickers on the pickups
A trapeze tailpiece
Chrome parts
Indian rosewood fingerboard
Bevel angle on pickguard changed so the b/w/b layers are less noticeable

In February 2008 I went to my local luthier, Michael Bashkin, to ask his help in painting my guitar. I was a bit dissapointed when he declined, but upon his adviced I had the names of a couple of guys in Denver that could help. So, on leap day I decided there's no better way to spend a free day than fixing your guitar.

I was surprised how both luthiers immediately were aghast at the jigsaw hole in the back. I guess I thought it would be an easy fix, I was wrong. Both of them weren't hopeful about the restoration, their estimates started rising, and I got more discouraged.

Ultimately, I handed the project over to Colfax Guitar Shop, Denver, CO. They are a father/son buisness that specializes in vintage guitar restoration (they even worked on one of Jimi Hendrix's guitars). I'd call these guys honest, yet a bit shady. Noah had dealt with them sometime ago when he was shopping for a Mossman acoustic. The father is Scott Baxendale, a longtime employee and former owner of Mossman guitars (from Winfield, KS). They're pretty thorough; we got into a disagreement as to what color to paint it considering what was available in 1967.

So, they said it would take a couple of months. That sounded good to me. So I went back to Fort Collins, and I waited. In April I was driving back from a Kansas and decided to stop by their shop. Nothing new. In June I gave them a call. Nothing new. No word in July. Nothing in August.

Then, last Friday I gave them a call. I was planning something witty like, "If this was a baby, it'd be a little bundle of joy by now." Instead, I was shocked when the son, John, said, "We got the hole patched. It looks pretty good. We'll be done in a few weeks". Oh my god. It only took nine months!

So, in my excitement I made a road trip down to Denver on Saturday. The patch looked really good.



While I was there I loaned John a set of number stamps from the Forest Service (we use them to make tags and mark trees) to create a new serial number. I was a little anxious when he asked, "Are you sure you want 390896?" I said yes. A few hammer strikes later and he remarked "Its a 9 now". Hurray, my guitar has a name!



It'll probably be a few more weeks. I'll update this post when I have more information. I'll also try and dig up some old photos of my black beauty.

Take care,
John