Space Traveler: A Musician's Odyssey

By James Vincent

James Vincent is a "world class" musician. That he is not a household name is entirely by his choice, yet almost all who have seen him perform or heard his recordings have become his fans. He has written a unique, brutally honest account of his life his childhood and discovery of the guitar; his going on the road at seventeen to play in seedy dives and military service clubs; later, in famous upscale clubs across the country; then making records and playing huge concert venues. James gives us an inside look at the recording industry the studios, the performers, producers and promoters. He gives us behind the scenes insights into many famous personalities names like Santana, Garcia, Harrison and Cetera, and acknowledges some unsung heroes in the music world. His cast of characters includes the very rich and the down and out, the saint and the prostitute, the famous, the infamous and the very bizarre. This is a story about learning the hard way; about dysfunctional families, choices and consequences, lust, infidelity, despair, triumph, tragedy, friendship and betrayal. Most of all, it is a life's journey to discover the meaning of unconditional love and spiritual fulfillment. It is indeed, an odyssey. ?R.J.M.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 11, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462065448

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All Rights Reserved © 2003 by James Vincent

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the

publisher.

iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

Cover design Copyright © 2003 by BRJ Publishing

Edited by Mac Macoy

Back & Front Cover Design by Mac Macoy

Cover Photo by Darrell Westmoreland

Back Cover Photo by Steve Sandmeyer

Back cover photo concept inspired by Darin Oswald/The Idaho Statesman

Visit: <http://www.jamesvincent.net

> for a complete list of James Vincent’s CDs and other works that are available online.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

APPLIED FOR

ISBN: 0-595-28295-4 (pbk)

ISBN: 0-595-74781-7 (cloth)

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to my devoted wife Brigitte, without whose support this book would have been impossible, and to my sons Jamie and Isaiah, and my loving daughter Naomi. I give them all my love. They are my greatest inspiration.

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And just beyond the range of normal sight This glittering joker was

dancing in the dragon’s jaws.

—BRUCE COCKBURN

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INTRODUCTION

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

1 0

11

12

13

14

15

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to express my gratitude to some special individuals who have provided help in the writing of this book: To my brother Thomas Dondelinger for helping me fill in the blanks of our early years; and to Marty Grebb, my long-time friend and former band mate, whose inspiration and encouragement gave me the confidence to undertake this project. Marty is in the process of writing his own life’s story. Watch for news of its release on my web site.

My thanks to Joe Keola Donaghy in Hawaii for his longtime friendship and technical support since 1986. Special thanks to my mate John the wiz Comino from down under (Australia) for his boundless hours and extraordinary skills in the building of my web site. <http://www.jamesvincent.net

>

Thanks to my wife Brigitte for her labors in the initial editing of this book.

What can I say to my dear old friend and collaborator Mac Macoy for his contribution to this book project? Thank you from the bottom of my heart for the countless hours and the loyal dedication of your talent to the completion of this project. You went way above and beyond the call of duty, and without you the end result would have paled in comparison.

With great appreciation and affection,

James

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INTRODUCTION

P erhaps you are among the many thousands of individuals who have purchased one or more of my recordings, which range from as far back as the late sixties to the present day. Conceivably, you may be one of the hundreds of musicians that I have jammed or recorded with over the past forty plus years. If you fall into neither of these groups, you’re probably asking yourself, Who is James Vincent? and Why would I want to read a story about his life? I’ll try to help you answer those questions.

Rest assured, I was never an astronaut. The title of this book, Space Traveler, is taken from an album I recorded in the mid seventies, and it is my most commercially successful record to date. The subtitle, A Musician’s Odyssey, signifies that this book is the story of my life, which covers a lot of ground. I first heard my title cut on the radio while pouring cement for five dollars an hour on the island of Kauai, unaware until that moment that I had a Top 40 hit. But for this one event, my life would have taken a different course.

For the vast majority of musicians, even those of us who have achieved some level of notoriety, the profession does not lead to a glamorous lifestyle. For me there were some great successes as well as dismal failures, both professionally and in my personal life. Over my four decades in the music profession, I have from time to time been engaged in acerbic internal struggles, and I have often found myself weighing the balance between the forces of good and evil. The lessons I have been taught along the way have led me to a spiritual growth I may not have found were I to have chosen another path.

Before opening up my past, I want to define the whole point of my narrative. I have written this book in response to numerous requests from friends and fans. Many are simply interested in my musical life...the road, the clubs, the studios, the concerts, the celebrities, and the sex, drugs and.,—you know the rest. Others have wanted more, and I have come to agree with them that there is much more to be told here. I have opted to tell the whole story of my life.laid bare as best I can in the bright, unforgiving light of truth, with all its blemishes revealed.

I will confess that to be a professional musician requires a larger than average ego, but mine is not so great that I would attempt to simply glorify my life before the public. You will see that much of my chronicle is full of chagrin. I will make it perfectly clear that my youthful indiscretions and reprobate behavior and lifestyle, as described in some portions of this book, bring me no sense of pride. I reveal them only to illustrate the dire consequences that can result if we fail to reach deep inside ourselves when making the truly important choices in our lives. If I were not absolutely certain that the exploits and trials and errors of my life contained social and spiritual truths that might be of help to others in their journey, I would never have undertaken this project. Perhaps someone will learn from my mistakes.

We all make thousands of determinations throughout our lives.. .practical and analytical decisions, and moral, ethical and spiritual choices. By nothing more than simply making these choices wisely, I am convinced that we may all overcome our cultivated tendencies for destructive behavior. Regrettably, that is a talent which all too often requires a lifetime to master.

I have come to firmly believe that there is an order to our universe that we are all called upon to recognize at some point in our lives, regardless of our vast diversity. I am certain that each of us is put here to develop a noble character. Life is an opportunity to build, brick by brick and stone by stone; to find and correct our weak points in order to form a symmetrical structure that no tempest of trial can blow down. I have found that it is only as we take a genuine interest in the welfare of others that we can find lasting peace and pure satisfaction. By the end of my story, you will know how this principle was revealed to me. I hope that you will enjoy the voyage.

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1

1943-1960

The world is at war. One good by-product is that a struggling U.S. economy is finally turning around. The era of Hitler is in force. He and Joseph Stalin represent the two greatest evils of the 20th century. The fruit of two atheistic regimes, with no sense of accountability to God or Mankind, is very ripe.

F ebruary 8, 1943 was a very good day for my mother and me. For over three years she had desperately tried to have a child, and finally, baby James entered the world at a healthy eight pounds. I was born James Vincent Dondelinger in the south side of Chicago at Illinois Central Hospital. My mother’s maiden name was Imogene Ida Marquis, and she was of French and English descent. My father’s name was Vincent Mathias Dondelinger, of Luxembourg and of German descent. The name is quite a mouthful, one of those last names that playmates can really kick around. I was sometimes called „Dingalinger or „Donkeylicker, just to give a couple of classic examples.

My Uncle Jack used to cheer me up about the name problem by talking about his childhood friend Otis Mukinfutch. He swore Otis was an infamous nose picker who faithfully saved each trophy from his proboscis in a matchbox. Later in life, growing frustrated with the constant mispronunciations and realizing that music was to be my profession, I legally changed my name to James Vincent.

My father went off to Germany during the first three years of my life. He was a heavy artillery sergeant in the army.a huge man standing 6‘6 and weighing in at about 250 pounds. His buddies endearingly called him „Tiny. My mother said that his more „vertically challenged pals would pick fights in the taverns over in Europe, and they would always have „Tiny finish the task. During this time, my mother and I lived with my paternal „Grandma Helen." Mother later recalled to me that she hated those years. She and Grandma Helen suffered from the classic mother and daughter-in-law battle of wills.

It is a generally held belief that we humans remember little to nothing of our first five years of life, an opinion to which I don’t ascribe. Most of the people I have spoken to seem to have retained at least some shadowy images, as well as the ability to recall traumatic events. When I was under two years of age, I can remember falling on the floor in the back seat of my grandfather’s car during an accident. My mother confirmed this when I was older. When I was four years-old, I was in the family car with my mother and father, and my father was speeding through Jackson Park on the south side of Chicago’s 63rd and Stony Island area. The car door flew open, and I vividly remember hanging in space. My mother was screaming and grasping me with one arm as I hung perilously, just inches from the pavement. Thank God my mother was there that night. You can be sure that my father did not hear the end of that episode for years to come.

I have other early memories.. .of imagined shadowy behemoths in my room at night, my tonsils being removed, an operation for blood poisoning on my right arm, the arguments with my friends underneath a neighbor’s porch as to who’s father made the most money, and my first taste of one of the best foods on the planet, Chicago pizza. And of course, I remember my first crush. My first heartbreaker was a five-year-old curly haired blonde beauty named Muffy. I can tell you I was smitten, but I don’t think she even knew I existed.

My father came back from the war, and my mother decided to enroll me in Saint Cyril’s Catholic School for kindergarten. It was here that I accidentally broke a giant statue of the Virgin Mary completely in two, displaying the inherent natural physical grace that would stay with me a lifetime. Believe me, the nuns wanted my blood that day.

Directly beneath my maternal grandmother’s apartment near 63rd and Halsted was a liquor store, and next to that, a coffee shop. Grandma Marquis would take me into the cafe’, and I remember the pretty women there wearing bright red lipstick, with cigarettes in mouth and hand as they made a fuss over me. Though I hated the cigarettes, even then I had an eye for the women (my greatest weakness in later life). At about four years of age, I was carrying on my own personal crusade against smoking. My mother and grandmother would often take me downtown to the Loop as it was called, and while relaxing in a restaurant they would both light up. I used to take it upon myself to rip the cigarettes out of their mouths and hide the packs under the table. I could really be a little brat. As I reflect upon this, the realization dawns upon me that I took constant advantage of my mother’s lack of proper discipline and her unconditional love.

My father had an incredible gift for whistling, and when he sang along with the car radio I was equally impressed with his beautiful singing voice. Many years later he would use his whistling skills on one of my songs, Waiting for the Rain, from the album of the same name. My mother was a natural songstress as well, and while I am so grateful to them for this imparted genetic gift, I am saddened that as children they were never encouraged to make use of their God-given talents.

On February 28th, 1948 my brother Thomas Allen came along. I think Jimmy and Tommy Dorsey just might have had some influence on my parents when it came to naming the Dondelinger boys. Shortly thereafter, we moved to the south suburbs of Harvey, Illinois.

My folks bought their first house in Harvey for $5000. I believe their mortgage payment was about $50 a month. I am certain that our two bedroom, one bath abode was no more than 550 square feet, if that. We lived in the smallest house on the block, which was quite comical when you consider that my dad was 6’6, my mother was 5 8, and my brother and I were most assuredly destined to be tall as well.

My father worked in a Sherwin Williams paint factory as a chemical worker, and he would often come home with purple lips and blisters on his face. I can only imagine what a horrific work environment he must have endured in order to feed his family. My mother was privileged to be a stay-at-home mom, something that was certainly not uncommon in the fifties. She never did learn to drive.

I remember many family summer vacations. My father seemed to really like Mount Rushmore, as we visited there three times. One year we made a trip down into Kentucky to visit Mammoth Cave. Another summer we went to Canada. For me, the unfortunate highlight of that trip was crawling out of a lake with my body covered in slimy, blood sucking leeches. My father rescued this hysterical youngster by using the burning end of his cigarette to back them out of my flesh. My hatred of cigarettes was somewhat tempered that day.

The most memorable of all our vacations was following Route 66. The famous lyrics of that song stated, Chicago to L.A, you’re going through Saint Louis, Joplin Missouri, Oklahoma City looked mighty pretty. You see Amarillo, Gallup New Mexico, Flagstaff Arizona, don’t forget Winona, Kingston, Barstow, San Bernardino. Yes, we saw all of that, but our final destination was.. .Disneyland. I believe it was the theme park’s opening year. As on all of our vacations, we left home long before sunrise. On this trip I remember lying next to my brother in the back seat of my dad’s 1952 Chevy, trying to sleep, when, over the course of a few magic moments, I first heard the voice of Johnny Cash come over the radio. He was singing, I Walk the Line. After hearing that, sleep became impossible. That wailing voice and those rhythmic, low note leads (played by Luther Perkins on his Fender Telecaster guitar) really hooked me. That was the coolest thing I had ever heard in my life. I spent a small fortune in quarters playing Johnny’s music in the jukeboxes of every roadside cafe we stopped at along the way.

Disneyland was great, but getting there and back, driving through the Nevada desert in triple digit temperatures, really sticks in my mind. Tom and I hung our feet out the window in an effort to stay cool and try to sleep while we soaked in our own sweat. But, at the end of every four or five hundred-mile day there was an oasis, like the El Rancho Motel or its equivalent, with a swimming pool waiting. After a day like that, hitting the pool seemed like a bit of heaven. I also loved those places throughout the west that had live rattlesnake pits, and museums with two headed calves, and so on.

After two weeks we arrived safely back home in good old Harvey, Illinois. Those were the days before fast food and freeways, and I count it a privilege to have known them. I also remember coonskin hats, white buck shoes, engineer boots, Levi’s, (with rolled up cuff s) and blue suede shoes. And who from that era could ever forget the short-lived fad of hula-hoops and black slacks with pink pleats. The summer would have been perfect, but a real tragedy was about to strike our family.

My brother Tommy was seven when he was run over by a Good Humor Ice Cream truck. The driver had been drinking, and he let the neighborhood kids hang off the truck as it cruised down the streets. Apparently one of the kids pushed my brother off. I was twelve at that time. The accident was serious, and Tommy was not expected to live through the night. The rear tire of the truck had run over his torso. Several surgeries later, and after more than a month in the hospital, Tommy finally came home. I remember my little brother looking very much like one of those poor children from Hitler’s death camps that I had seen on the newsreels. His appearance really startled me, and it was then very apparent to me how close to death he had come. This accident was a turning point in our lives. The one and only time I ever saw my father cry was during the first night of that ordeal. For many months after that I felt like an outsider, as my folks understandably consumed themselves in catering to Tommy’s needs. I stayed away as much as possible. A year or so later my brother took up accordion lessons, and he was the talk of the family and the neighborhood. I must confess that I was really jealous of the attention he received.

I still loved the music of Johnny Cash, and of course Elvis Presley was making quite a commotion in those days. I asked my parents if I could take guitar lessons, and much to my joy they said yes. I went to Mitchell’s Music in Posen, IL where my brother Tom was taking his accordion lessons. They offered a six-week trial package of lessons including a free loaner guitar.

At the age of twelve I began these lessons, and I quickly found that I had a knack for the instrument. My teacher was a young fellow named Jim, and as I recall, he played very well. At the end of six weeks, Mr. Mitchell convinced my father that I had talent and talked him into buying me a Gibson Les Paul Junior. It was a sacrifice for my parents, but they made it. That was the beginning of my personal love affair with the electric guitar.

I was in heaven with that instrument. It played so easily compared to the loaner that I had used. If you can believe it, my dad actually thought that electric guitars plugged directly into the wall. It came as quite a surprise to him that in order for me to hear what I was playing he had to buy an amplifier to go with it, so a greater sacrifice was made and a Gibson amp was purchased as well. Meanwhile, it was clear to me that sight reading polkas was not going to fan my flame of interest in the guitar, so for countless hours each day I would explore the instrument as the spirit moved me. From a discovery standpoint, this approach was great, but I developed some bad habits, particularly with my right hand picking technique. By the way, I am left-handed, and I was playing a right-handed guitar. No one ever told me there was an option,—that lefty guitars, though rare, were available.

I started high school in 1956. I did not turn fourteen until February of the following year, and I found out that I was the youngest freshman in a class of over eight hundred students. Thornton Township High School was my first public school experience, as I had spent the first nine years of my education in Catholic schools. Back in that time period I was the ultimate daydreamer, showing up only physically. My mind was on a constant vacation. I’m sure that the nuns couldn’t get me out of there fast enough, and I barely made it out of the eighth grade.

I am sorry to say that high school was no exception. Seriously, if I looked out my classroom window and saw a man carrying a ladder to his truck, or men picking up the garbage, I wanted to be doing that. I wanted to be anywhere but in that class. For one thing, the sheer number of students was very intimidating to someone who preferred spending much of his waking hours inside of his own head. Playing the guitar when I arrived home was all I looked forward to. The guitar probably saved me from getting into loads of trouble. I did have a few wayward friends; but for the most part, I was a loner during this period of my life

Besides the thought of becoming a babe magnet with guitar in hand, I had one other fantasy. I wanted to be a muscle man. I guess I thought a muscle bound guitar player would be even more attractive than the skinny 6’4" geek that I was. That fantasy was short lived. A few months into my freshman year, I decided to ditch gym class and sneak into the weight room, which was restricted to senior students only, and even then, only under supervision. I was alone with a vast array of Olympic barbells and huge plates. I had seen others lift weights and felt confident that I could lift them as well. In the center of the floor was a barbell that had a 45 pound weight on both sides. Without even a passing thought about positioning, form or balance, I bent down and yanked the bar over my head, only to fall backwards. I came tumbling down with 135 pounds (which was about my body weight) in my hands, and in the process, snapped my right wrist like a pretzel.

In great pain and feeling like a complete idiot, I walked around school with my right wrist throbbing and my hand tilted up toward my elbow. I concocted a story to tell the school nurse that would describe in detail how I fell off the bleachers during gym class. Whether she believed my story or not she accepted it, and she carefully wrapped my severely broken wrist to give me some relief while on the way to the doctor’s office. Having my arm in a cast for eight weeks made guitar playing difficult, but I persevered and managed to practice anyway. I decided that maybe weight lifting wasn’t for me. To this day, the price I paid for that vain attempt to become the next Charles Atlas is a right wrist that is still somewhat impaired.

After a few years with the instrument, the accordion was losing its appeal to my brother Tom, as „rock-n-roll" was coming onto the scene. Tom decided he wanted to be a drummer. Since his near death under the tires of the Good Humor Ice Cream truck, there was nothing my father wouldn’t do for him, so a drum set was purchased and moved into our tiny bunk-bedded bedroom. Tom took to the drums in the same voracious way I took to the guitar. His playing always drove my mother and me out of the house, but my normally hot-headed father would somehow just sit stoically in front of the round screen Zenith television set.his face turning several shades of purple. Still, he never uttered a single complaint as our tiny little house shook and vibrated. I’m sure the neighbors must have loved it too.

By my sophomore year I was becoming proficient enough to play with a little four-piece combo, a term commonly used to describe a small music ensemble. I loathed the word combo as it always sounded so irreverent, as if it meant to describe a group of children playing with plastic instruments. A pretty little Polish girl on accordion named Sandy Wiltrakis headed up the group. Her mom and dad booked a wedding almost every weekend, and we played more polkas than I care to remember. Mind you that to a high school kid, the fifteen dollars I made every weekend seemed like an enormous amount of money, so I made the best of it for as long as possible.

I met another young Polish accordion player named Bill whose last name escapes me, but I do remember that his idol was Art Van Dam. For the first time in my life I found myself actually liking the instrument. He played lush chord voicing and taught me tunes like Poinciana and other great standards. We played a few bookings in local taverns, and our association was short lived, but the experience was another worthwhile step in my musical journey.

My father worked with a man named Gil Westerhoff at Sherwin Williams. Gil taught guitar lessons on the side. He would come to our home once a week and charge five dollars for a one-hour lesson. Gil looked to be around forty years-old, and he was always dressed sharply in a suit and tie. He played a 1950 Gibson ES-5, a beautiful arch topped instrument with a sunburst finish and three P-90 electric pickups. He was a smooth, serious jazz player, and I learned a lot from him. With the exception of a single lesson here or there over the years, Gil was the last guitar teacher I had. He was actually on par with players like Barney Kessel and Herb Ellis. It was through my association with this man that I first heard players like George Van Eps and Johnny Smith. At times I wonder what ever became of Mr. Westerhoff. Like so many other wonderful musicians I have met over the years, he vanished into obscurity, never receiving the recognition that he deserved.

I had a next-door neighbor named Fred Womack. He was a quirky, slightly built, bald fellow with a thick mustache, and was from somewhere down in Tennessee. Though Fred was a commercial artist, he also played some pretty good sounding bluegrass style guitar. Fred invited me over to his house one day and taught me to play Wildwood Flower, and „Under the Double Eagle." He also introduced me to the music of Chet Atkins. I was truly astounded by Chet‘s playing, and my musical tastes began to expand in new directions.

In those days, even in a city like Chicago with all of its suburbs, you would have to travel for miles before you came across another guitarist. The working players on the south side of Chicago in those days were few indeed, including the blues and country pickers. I felt unique for that reason. Today, it seems as though guitar players are a dime a dozen, but the good ones will always stand out.

Sometime during that year, I was able to buy the instrument that I had been dreaming of owning for months, a 1957 Fender Stratocaster. I also discovered the late night radio station WVON, and I would usually fall asleep listening to „Jam with Sam. Sam was the coolest d.j. I had ever heard. He would play the music of Jimmy Reed, B.B. King, The Penguins, The Dells, Jerry Butler and The Impressions. Man, that was the „stuff! I also loved listening to „Purvis Span, the Blues Man. He would play the great „soul music of the era, while simultaneously lining up dates with the women who called in to his radio show. Purvis always sweet-talked the ladies. He was undoubtedly the king and the consummate master of smoothology in his day.

My discovery of Chet Atkins, the blues and r&b, as well as the emerging jazz influences, created an eclectic fusion in my playing style that was helping me to find my own voice on the instrument, and I was only fifteen. I was excited; I knew I was advancing.

In my junior year, I hooked up with a fellow named Dale Teeter. Dale sported a d.a. (duck tail) hair cut with the long side burns. He was twenty something and a tried and true Elvis wannabe. Although he worked on the railroad by day, he had jobs lined up for us each weekend in some of the nicer toilets on the south side of Chicago, and he booked us as Dale Dee and the Demons. Dale was, for lack of a better term, what women commonly refer to as a real dog. Though he had a pretty wife and a baby at home, there was rarely a night that he did not take some woman out to his beat up old Chevy on our breaks. His immoral example was not a particularly good influence on this young man, just under sixteen years of age. Looking back on my life, I can never blame anyone else for my many indiscretions, for I take full responsibility for all my choices along the way. However, my exposure to this man’s infidelities could not have helped me in any positive way in respect to the formation of my character.

I was not yet driving, so I had to ride to the gigs with Dale. One Saturday night, on our usual half hour ride home at around 5 a.m. (what were my parents thinking?) all the tires on his car went flat. Most probably it was the act of the jealous boyfriend of some woman he was playing around with. We literally rode home on all four rims, and any conscious soul could hear us coming down the street for blocks. I am sure we woke up everyone along our path. Though I found it embarrassing, Dale thought it was funny.

Dale had a certain air about him. He exuded a sort of chicken noodle soup kind of aroma, and I didn’t think he took the time to shower as often as he should have. He often bragged about heading off to his railroad job so he could catch up on his sleep. To be truthful, Dale was not very talented as a musician, and I was anxiously waiting for a better opportunity to present itself.

Jim Loundsbury had the local TV teen show. He was Chicago’s version of Dick Clark in the mid to late fifties. He hosted teen dances all over the area that featured such stars as Dale Hawkins, the Drifters, Ronnie Hawkins, Fabian and Buddy Holly. You name them; everyone with a hit at the time would come through Chi-town and promote their records at these functions. Dale managed to get us booked at many of these events as the warm-up band, which was far better than playing those sleazy club gigs. It was kind of exciting, being on the same stage with some of the stars I was hearing on the radio.

Dale also booked an occasional inner city dance. Chicago has always been known for its clearly divided multicultural neighborhoods. Racism was alive and well in those days. There were Puerto Ricans, Blacks, Polish, Irish, Italians, Jews, and mixed European families. It seems that in the midst of every blue-collar neighborhood there were also a few families from the Deep South as well. Gang wars were a way of life in the city. I see little difference between the gang violence of the fifties and what goes on today.. .except perhaps for the drug related component, which was not nearly as prevalent then. While we were playing at one of these dances on the south side, two rival gangs opened fire on one another with sawed-off shotguns and other weapons, and much blood was shed that night. We scrambled off that stage and headed for cover like startled rabbits. I felt my heart thumping in my throat.

It seems that those of us in this still small but growing music scene stayed out of trouble. That was true for me, at least until later on in my senior year. My musical peers and I became increasingly more dedicated to playing, and this common interest broke through many racial barriers. Actually, I experienced this phenomenon many times over during the course of my life. A great bonus of having something to say with my instrument was that I was usually allowed entry into a musical world where race doesn’t matter, and all the inhabitants are color blind. These were life-enriching experiences. The universal appeal of music can sometimes break down the thickest of walls when nothing else can.

I lost my virginity near the end of my junior year. It is not a pretty story. There was a girl in high school named Jan with a rather nefarious reputation.. .in other words, she was a whore. She was not very pretty and sorely lacking in personality, but she was nicely equipped. The word around school was that for one dollar she would have sex with anyone. She had a crush on my accordion player friend Bill, so it fell upon him to approach her on behalf of himself, my pal Jim DeYoung and yours truly. (Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest) We were all virgins, and we decided to take this giant leap into manhood on the same day. It was all set up for a late afternoon at her house after school. Her parents were at work, and Jan had an attic bedroom with a hide-a-stairs, pull-down ladder that came out of the ceiling. She was all business as she asked us for the three dollars right up front. Since she liked Bill, and since he was the one who set this up, he got to climb the ladder first. While he was gone, Jim and I flipped a coin, and I won seconds. Not ten minutes later, down came the ladder and Bill descended, looking a little sheepish. I went up next.

There was Jan, laying naked on her bed. I wanted to bail out of this event right then and there, but the certain humiliation that I would get from my friends downstairs made that impossible. At least she had the sense to provide a condom, and she helped me with it. Thirty seconds after I was relaxed enough to consummate the act, it was over, much to my embarrassment. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I excused myself, but we still had to wait for DeYoung. He was up there the longest. The experience was so completely unfulfilling that I remember thinking the whole idea of having sex with a woman was a lot better than actually doing it. Could sex be that overrated? It was a major disappointment, and sad that I didn’t share the experience with someone I truly cared for.

I have heard it said over the years by people who know from experience, that when two virgins fall in love and marry, the rite of passage on the honeymoon night is the beginning of a lifetime of pleasures that build exponentially over the years, as their love matures and grows deeper. I would never get to have that experience, and my two friends and I were too young and stupid to realize what we had forfeited on that fateful afternoon. For the sake of being cool, the three of us gave up something that day that I now know negatively impacted me for most of my life.

(1959-60)

This was a milestone year for many reasons. My playing was improving greatly, and I was gigging (I don’t think that expression had been born yet, at least in my circles) every weekend. I was also making excellent money, particularly for a high school senior. I had my first real girlfriend, a good looking blonde by the name of Barbara Prince; I bought a 1955 Oldsmobile Super 88 hardtop, and purchased a new orange-colored 1958 Gretsch 6120 Chet Atkins guitar. I paid $350 for it, which was a lot of bread in those days. (One just like it, in mint condition, sold for $50,000 in 1997 at an antique auction. Who would have known back in ‘59?) That year I had the pleasure to hear and to actually meet Chet Atkins at a Gretsch guitar seminar in downtown Chicago. I eagerly carried his guitar for him going down in the elevator while we talked. What a huge inspiration! What a year! Now all I had to do was get the school thing over with.. .and graduate. If I didn’t earn that diploma, I was certain that my father would kill me.

My friend Jim DeYoung and I spent a lot of time together during my senior year. He was about 6’2" tall with blond curly hair, and he resembled a young Lee Marvin.

Jim was a year behind me in school, and he was my only close non-musician friend. We were definitely a mutual bad influence on one another. Apart, we were probably harmless enough, but together we were unquestionably juvenile delinquent material. Quite often we would skip school and hitchhike down to our favorite hangout called Maxwell Street. This was one of the most unique spots on the south side. It was a funky little neighborhood that offered clothing emporiums, most usually owned by Jewish merchants, and several junk stores, music outlets and pawn shops as well. Interspersed along the way were storefronts with gypsy women hanging out in the doorways, blatantly peddling a great deal more than just fortune telling.

There were also several food vendors, and the smell of grilled onions and Polish sausage filled the air. This place was an embarrassment for some Chicagoans, but it was a real cross-cultural potpourri, and a source of fascination for others. To me, it was the greatest place on earth at that time. I would say that the population was mostly black. By far, the best time to go down there was on Sunday afternoons during the summertime. It was not unusual to find Muddy Waters or John Lee Hooker jamming with the local blues musicians on the street corner.

If you ever wondered where the r&b bands of the fifties and sixties bought their gold lame’ and other totally outrageous stage clothing, this was the place.. .Maxwell Street. In later years the bands that I played with came here to buy the gaudiest non-traditional suits you could imagine. It was the kind of garb no one in his or her right mind would be caught wearing on the street.

There were a few dark-sided events that took place that year as well. One such event was a fist fight with the most notorious tough guy in our school. His reputation (undefeated) made him infamous all over the campus. Of course he picked the fight, and of course I had little choice but to accept his challenge or be labeled a coward. He definitely had superior boxing skills; however, his prowess was no match for all the adrenaline pumping inside me in the moment of truth. I reached deep down inside myself and exploded all over the guy. In other words.it was a fluke. I managed to wrestle him down to the ground, sit on his chest and mercilessly pummel the poor fellow until the blood from his nose flowed on the school parking lot.

Like almost any high school kid would do, I wallowed in my fifteen minutes of fame. The girls really started to notice me like never before. I received more positive attention from this one event than I did from all my guitar playing at local dances and school assemblies. While the logic in that escapes me, I suppose that the bad boy appeal to girls is timeless. It was a miracle I didn’t get killed by this guy, and that the only damage I sustained was skinned knuckles. I was thankful that it was only weeks before graduation, so that there was little time left for some other roughneck to challenge my newfound reputation.

Jim DeYoung and I pulled off many hair-raising capers throughout that school year, too numerous to mention in detail, but let’s just say that we could be a couple of punks and that the list included assault, petty theft, vandalism, illegal possession of weapons and more. Suffice it to say that had we been caught, we would have definitely done some jail time. Oddly enough, it was getting busted for one relatively minor stunt that nearly cost me my cap and gown, but my high school dean showed mercy upon me. The truth is, he was probably willing to do anything to avoid seeing me again the following year. It was a win-win situation for both of us. So, in June of 1960, much to my surprise and my father’s as well, James Vincent Dondelinger was called up with over eight hundred others to receive the coveted scroll that, without question, represented the key to my personal freedom. At least that is how this seventeen year-old perceived his immediate future at the time. I don’t remember seeing that diploma ever again after that day.

As I reflect back on this period of my life, I see that for some reason I was devoid of any life-changing electricity that could have potentially opened the doors of self-perception. It’s a common malady among teenagers, I suppose, so I shouldn’t be too self-critical. Music was the one spark that ignited the fires of my healthy imagination. I channeled this energy exclusively into my courtship with the guitar.

2

1960-1962

The cold war is getting chillier by the day as Russia shoots down an American U-2 spy plane. Russia’s Premier Khrushchev pounds his shoe on a U.N. table in anger, telling the free world, We will bury you. France enters the nuclear race, demonstrating its first A-bomb. John F. Kennedy wins the presidency and the democrats sweep the congress. The U.S. is in a state of flux. In fact, on a global scale, 1960 is a definitive year of transition.

My transition from high school into summer hardly met my expectations of freedom. Through a friend my father pulled some strings, enabling me to get my first day job in the mailroom of Allis Chalmers. This well known company manufactured tractors. Essentially, my job was sorting incoming and outgoing mail and making deliveries and pickups at the various departments over the several acres of this dilapidated old factory. I sweated my proverbial tail off that summer. Chicago summer days often reached the 100 degree mark, and sometimes with humidity to match. The Chalmers plant was a frightening and noisy place to this shy young man, and the thought of spending my working life here was completely out of the question. I might have given serious thought to joining the army, but for one bright light in my daily gloom.

My one joy and escape from the 8 to 5 daily grind was playing with a new group of musicians I met through a bass player named Jim Towns. The band was known as the Quintones. Besides Jim on bass, there was a young multi-instrumentalist named Marty Grebb. Marty was and still is a superb r&b sax player, keyboard player and singer. He also became quite proficient on the guitar as well, and our musical paths have crossed many times over the years. The drummer was Denny Ebert. He was a tall, blonde, wiry guy with an aggressive approach to playing. I also remember that he had a good-looking brunette girl friend who caught my eye. The other guitar player in the band beside myself was Bob Kittler, who left the band shortly after my arrival.

Marty had an older brother around my age named Bob. He was quite fascinated with the guitar and he struck me as being a rather bright fellow, sort of the Honor Roll type. He and I connected on a musical level that was mutually beneficial, and to this day Bob states that I inspired him to take up the guitar, which honors me, for Bob Grebb went on to become a brilliant player. Our paths have crossed many times over the years, and his discoveries on the instrument have often been a rich source of inspiration for me. In the mid-seventies Bob and I both lived in L.A., and we would frequently get together and stay up all night listening to music, playing and exploring the instrument until the sun came up. Bob never had an interest in performing, but through his association with the late and great jazz guitarist Howard Roberts, he became a superb teacher. He is presently living in Chicago, where he maintains a full roster of students.

The Quintones was a very good band, given our age, and we played a lot of the great instrumentals of the day. ..tunes like Apache, Walk Don’t Run, Ramrod, and Honkey Tonk to name a few. The band worked often and became quite popular on the south side teen circuit. Poppell’s Under Twenty-One Club was the one spot where every group hoped to play. It was the closest thing to a nightclub that we could get into, since three of our members were still in high school. It was there that I had my first mind blasting musical experience. A four-piece band came through town out of Texas, headed up by an excellent singer/guitarist, rhythm and blues playing musician named Doug Sahm. Years later in the 70’s, Doug would achieve national stardom with a couple of hit