As a youngster I dreamed of making my living as a musician and I certainly had Van Gogh’s ear for it. I showed early signs of musical promise when as a seven year old I could play our National Anthem by placing my palm in my sweaty armpit and jerking it up and down. In fact, that’s how I became known in the musical community by my nickname… Pittsy.
My family was very musical. My grandmother was the soloist for two different denominations on Sunday and sang for over half the funerals and marriages in town. She was also a great piano player and took organ lessons until the day she died from her cousin Byron who I wrote a true story about early in my career. Byron was not what you’d call “outdoorsy” or “swarthy” by any means. My grandpa called him a “sissy. He wasn’t gay and got married later in life to a rancher’s widow who could rope and ride with the best of them. Naturally she introduced Byron to the ranch life by inviting him to his first branding and when he saw his first calf being castrated he passed out cold. I think he’d have died if he’d have seen a Basque sheepherder castrating a lamb with his teeth.
As for myself, I flunked out of piano school because my version of Yankee Doodle Dandy sounded more like Achy Breaky Heart performed by steel drums and a band of bagpipes. Whenever I played the piano the number of lost dogs at the dog pound tripled and and even tom cats covered their ears. I gave up the piano and tried to teach myself to play the guitar but my first love was the saxophone, all three variations… tenor, alto and bass. I started in the sixth grade and in high school I was first chair saxophone in the school’s marching, concert and jazz bands. I was so serious about the saxophone I considered making a life for myself by becoming the sax man for a rock band, but I just didn’t have the hair for it. I also realized I wanted to eat.
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