Carry On Wayward Son
Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.
When I was a kid I always thought I wasn’t happy because of this or that, kids at school being mean to me, or my mother forcing me to do things I didn’t want to (or preventing me from doing things I did). Claire was always on my fucking case, even when I was small-don’t touch that, don’t do that, you’re a bad boy. But she was always on Digger’s case, too, maybe that was the thing he and I had most in common.
The first time he took me out I was eleven, barely tall enough to see over the top of the bar. We snuck out after Claire was asleep, went down to Madison’s to see Nomad play, and snuck back in at two a.m. We did it every couple of weeks, we’d go see Remo play, or catch a late movie, or join some poker game in some guy’s garage. Nomad had just formed their new lineup then, with Martin on drums. Sometimes Remo played acoustic solo sets down the shore in the summer and Digger’d meet up with guys he knew for drinks. I was a quiet kid, never said much, and I felt proud somehow, that my dad wanted me along.
When I got older he started making “pit stops” he called them, at seedy motels while we were on our way to or from other places. He and whoever was driving us would go inside and leave me in the car with the keys so I could listen to the radio. Sometimes he’d go in and leave me with the other guy, and we’d sit there, not saying a word to each other, until a half hour or however long later Digger’d slide into the passenger seat, chewing a piece of gum and combing his freshly wet hair.
Read the rest of this entry »