The Lead Guitarist & The Sisterhood of the Wolf

By Gregory Drambour

Music, Spirituality, Overcoming Fear...
A book for those who have a deep love of music, spirituality and inspiring journeys of overcoming your fears. A story that will deeply touch your heart and perhaps help you finally clear the blocks and resistance to achieve your dreams!

For two special people in this story, music lives in every breath they take. One is inspired by his guitar, the other by her Wolf-Totem-Sister. Like each one of us, they have a dream but also the blocks that always come with bringing the dream to life. Can they overcome the resistance from inside themselves and from the Universe? They can if they "let" themselves follow the signs! Spirit is always trying to help us!

James Ryder, the lead guitarist, is a shaman in his own right – in the same vibe as Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison and other musicians who embodied a connection with Spirit. James has “seeing” dreams and mystical happenings throughout the book, and his fiercely soulful guitar playing embodies a deep communication with another world. But he's stuck, feels trapped, his dreams hold the key if he can solve their mysterious messages.

Then we have the maverick record producer, Char Montgomery, who is deeply bonded with her Wolf-Sister and was adopted by a Native American Crow Elder. She truly walks the path of the shaman. It’s integral to her life.

I felt it was important for me as a teacher to bring shamanism into real world situations. We want to walk the path of the warrior in our daily life. I hope this book and my first two, "The Woodstock Bridge" and "The Shaman & His Daughter" reflect that mission. ​
Come join me, brothers and sisters, on a great adventure!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gregory Drambour
• Release date: Jan 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463283257

Gregory Drambour

Gregory Drambour Master Shamanic Healer, Spiritual Teacher, Author, Owner of Sedona Sacred Journeys "If you honor them, they will honor you." A Warrior Spirit lives within each of us! As a stage four cancer survivor and with 34 years sobriety, Gregory embraced those powerful words and passed them onto thousands of clients over a 30 year healing career acquiring more testimonials than any spiritual retreat organization in North America! At 28, Gregory was deeply honored to be taken under the wing of two Northern Plains Holy Men, who passed down to him eleven generations of shamanic knowledge and the warrior code. With that knowledge, Gregory began his life's work of healing and guiding clients on their Sacred Journeys and back to their innate wisdom. His first book, "The Woodstock Bridge," endorsed by the #1 Best-Seller Richard Carlson, is considered a must read for those wanting to go deeper into the world of old school shamanism and practical spirituality. His new work, "The Shaman and His Daughter," is a parable about the unique relationship between a shaman and his 6-year old clairvoyant daughter, Angel-Girl. It's about a magical world where everything is alive—the trees, the rocks, the plants! It's about one man's dedication to parent his gifted daughter from his wisdom and in the end he's the one who's parented! For 4 years in his early forties, Gregory was challenged with stage 4 throat cancer. His success utilizing both alternative and conventional therapies to heal himself has drawn cancer patients and survivors to his powerful cellular memory work from all over the world. For 14 years in his healing practice in Sedona, Gregory's has witnessed the rapidly growing epidemic of cancer, especially in the female population. As result, he is on determined and dedicated mission to offer women between 40-52 years old, pro-active actions to combat the frightening statistics around women and cancer. His work in progress, "Draw No Conclusions," is a guide for cancer prevention and for those on the cancer journey wanting to create a definitive long lasting cure. Gregory is a passionate advocate and supporter of the National Association to Protect Children, the only lobbying organization that exists for children in the United States. For the 30 years he has sat across from an array of clients and seen how their painful childhood has shaped their adult life, so in his mind, parenting is...

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

James Ryder

We all have something special inside us; the challenge is believing in it and letting our uniqueness come out. My dad was the first person to see my talent. And since I was a kid, folks that came in and out of my life also recognized it. The gift is separated into two parts, which makes it complicated. One side, I express with joyful abandon. The other half is like a prisoner inside me waiting to be set free. I hold the cell-door shut tight like my life depends on it, and that keeps me under a dark cloud of self-judgment.

My name is James Ryder. I’m twenty-eight years old, and it’s 1986. The uniqueness inside me I do let soar free is the way I play electric guitar. There’s no way of stopping it – it’s a wild, uncontrollable force. The other gift that has been waiting to be released for twenty years is my own original music. I call them musical whispers. They started flowing out when I got my first guitar at eight years old.

For five years, I’ve lived in New York City, making my living playing guitar on the street. It’s the only place

I will let myself play – where I feel safe playing. No one can touch these musical whispers inside me there. And they do feel like whispers that are coming from somewhere deep within. I’ve only been able to describe it as a feeling like I’ve forgotten something. My dad was the one person I was able to share that strange thought with.

He’s gone six years now, and my mom passed when I was one year old – both from cancer. My dad was my best friend and my biggest fan. He was a tough-guy, worked as a supervisor on the line at General Motors. Hard-core work ethic. Respected. When he passed, some part of me left too. Of course, I want to make him proud of me. His wish for me was to show people the music that’s inside of me. But I’m not able to share it, and I can’t figure out why. So, I wait for the cell-door to open.

I live in a one-room apartment in an old brownstone building on the Upper West Side. If you walked into my apartment, you would think it was a teenager’s room from the late sixties or early seventies, with worn posters of the bands and concerts from that era covering most of the four walls in a collage – Led Zeppelin, Hendrix, Steppenwolf, Cream, The Who, The Allman Brothers, Rare Earth, The Doors. It’s like an explosion of psychedelic colors that shield me from the outside world. In one corner of the room stands a very old acoustic guitar that’s my soul. On the floor sits weathered amplifiers and microphones that feel like friends to me. An old pull-out phonograph rests on top of four wooden crates crammed with my collection of vintage records. Littered about the room are Zeppelin and Hendrix music books – my bibles. On the metal-framed bed is my Fender Stratocaster electric guitar – my brother. He’s watched over by a framed photograph of me and my dad with his arm supportively around my shoulders; we’re standing next to his baby – a pristine 1967 black Corvette. This is my sanctuary. It’s all I need, at least that’s what I’ve convinced myself.

Since I can remember, at least once a week, I wake up in the middle of the night from a recurring nightmare. It starts the same way, with images charging at me from the powerful Are You Experienced video by Jimi Hendrix – which is an intense series of flash-like scenes of Hendrix in concert intertwined with psychedelic images of Jimi. His electric guitar and voice are pushing at me from all sides, like they’re trying to pierce some deep part of me – as if the sound is trying to open a door inside me. Over and over again, Hendrix is singing the song, Are You Experienced? Then, suddenly, I’m walking through a forest shrouded in a heavy mist. I look ahead and see a small clearing, and barely visible in the fog stands a dilapidated white shack. Sitting out front are seven empty straight-back wooden chairs forming a quarter-circle. The chairs seem to be waiting. Then I’m thrust back into the Are You Experienced video – physically running through the clips of Hendrix in concert. He’s wailing on his Stratocaster with his usual focused wildness – the images of him pass by me in a rush. Then a picture of an old Native American woman flashes in front of me; she’s standing by the side of a two-lane paved road surrounded by open plains. She smiles at me as if she knows me. I hear Native drumming in the distance. And then, quickly I’m back in the woods, this time running fast. I sense someone running next to me but can’t really see them. I feel afraid as if I am being chased. A gunshot cracks in the air – something whizzes by my ear. The shock of it forces me awake. For a moment, I’m not sure where I am – I’m scared. I try to look around my room to orient myself with what’s familiar – the picture of me and my dad, my guitars…slowly, the fear fades. Not the best way to wake up. But sometimes after the nightmare, I’m inspired to pick up my acoustic guitar and write a new song, but again the thought of sharing it terrifies me.

I wrote the dream down and studied it in hopes that I could understand its meaning – nothing came to me. But I know it means something, brothers and sisters, I know it’s important. Why? Because, like many other guitarists, my teacher and inspiration are part of the dream – Jimi Hendrix. What is the mysterious connection between him and the shack in the woods?

I have spent my life studying Jimi. There is not a book written about him that I have not read or one of his songs I haven’t learned. But the answer still eludes me.

CHAPTER TWO

James Ryder

It’s Wednesday in the spring, about 7:00 a.m. Little did I know, a hard, westerly wind was coming and in a few days my whole life would change. I’m getting ready to head down to Wall Street where I will set up to play for the day. Every morning, it’s the same ritual: with great care and a sense of formality, I place my Stratocaster in its black, soft-leather guitar case, loop it carefully over my shoulder, always liking the weight of my guitar on my back, feeling a little like a character in a movie venturing out on an adventure. I pick up my small portable amplifier, take a deep breath, and open the apartment door and walk down the hallway, which hasn’t seen a coat of paint in a while.

One apartment door down, I see Robert, a ten-year-old boy that I’ve gotten close to over the last few years. No matter how bad my dreams are or how deeply frustrated I get, he makes me smile. He’s thin, with longish, straight brown hair, and has a New York City toughness and quick wit but also a deep intuitiveness that can be startling.

Hey, Robert, I call out to him.

James, can I come today? I practiced all night. The words tumble over each other, rushing to get it out. I have been giving him guitar lessons since he and his mother moved in. He’s good. Better than me at that age.

All night? I smile and exclaim in disbelief. This is our usual morning banter.

Well, until my mom locked my guitar in the closet.

What’s today? I ask to remind him.

Wednesday, he blurts out quickly, trying to suppress a giggle.

And what usually happens on Wednesday?

You got me. He shrugs his little shoulders with conviction. I see the sparkle in his brown eyes.

It’s the same thing that happens on Mondays!

Can you give me a hint? He tries to hold back a laugh. The game is to see who can break first.

Well, this only happens during the week, not on weekends, I explain, as if talking to someone who doesn’t understand the process.

It only happens during the week? He questions me with a totally straight face, his forehead farrowing as if he’s trying to understand. He’s good at this and might even have potential as an actor.

Yeah, you go to this big building, and they lock all the little kids in there till three o’clock in the afternoon, I respond like it’s no big deal.

He conjures up a look of terror and says, What do they do in there? It sounds pretty horrible. You wouldn’t let them get me, right?

I respond, giving him more information, Well, they have these groups.

Groups? he answers, confused.

Yeah, they get a bunch of people together in one room and they tell them how to do different things. I try and make it sound enticing.

What kind of things do they tell you? I mean, I don’t want to get trapped with a bunch of weirdos. A corner of his lip curls up to show his distaste for weirdos.

Well you see, that’s the problem with this place. You can’t find out unless you go.

What kind of rip-off is that? he asks, with a perfect imitation of being affronted. I feel a laugh surging up in me, but I press my lips together to hold it in.

I know it’s a bummer, but what can you do? I hear that it’s not too bad. In fact, you feel pretty good after it’s over. Why don’t you give it a shot? You know, just hang out, see what happens.

Did you hang out at this place when you were a kid? He questions me seriously, like he’s taking a survey. Total poker-face.

No, I was born a grown-up, so I was excused from going! I laugh, finally breaking our ritual morning bs session.

His apartment door opens, and his mother steps out in the hallway with us. She’s in her early forties, petite, with kind, supportive eyes. You can tell she’s seen some rough times. I’m not sure of what the history is, but whatever happened makes me admire this woman – survivor is written all over her.

Morning, James, she says sweetly. She is always nice to me, which means more than I can tell her.

Morning, Mrs. Conner, I answer, smiling.

Is Robert holding you up again? she asks, concerned.

No, no, not at all, ma’am. One thing about my dad, he might have been a little rough, but he was a stickler for politeness and formality – it was always, Yes, sir and No, ma’am.

"James, you’re going to call me Joan if it’s the last thing I do!

Sorry, I say, grinning, appreciating her need to make me feel comfortable.

Don’t see you around much. I can see the worry in her eyes.

I guess I stay in a lot, I respond, in a way I hope doesn’t offend her.

She glances down at Robert and says firmly, Time to get ready for school.

Okay, Robert says, resigned to his fate, then asks me, See you tonight, right?

You got it, I assure him. I raise my fist in front of my chest in our traditional salute, and he returns it with the utmost seriousness – the brotherhood of the guitar.

As Robert walks into the apartment, his mother shouts after him, And leave your guitar where I left it! She turns to me and says, smiling, He got a little loud last night. The windows were rattling! We laugh. Thanks for all your help with him…spending time with him. I see some pain flash in her eyes, but I’m not sure what it’s about.

No problem. I feel grateful to help this woman, even though it’s Robert who really helps me. His innocence takes me out of the darkness for a little while. Joan asks me, Where to today?

Wall Street, I say, feeling it might be good there today. Each place I play has good and bad days.

Stay safe, she says, and then adds, Will you come for dinner soon?

Absolutely. See you later. I head down the stairs to the subway feeling a little better about the world.

CHAPTER THREE

James Ryder

The subway car is crowded. I squeeze myself in an opening between folks, trying not to poke anyone with my guitar or amp. Not sure what it is about being a street musician, but people always seem to smile at me. There is a friendliness in their energy when they see me going to or coming from where I set up for the day. They want to be helpful.

To pass the time, I glance up and study the ads and see one for an upcoming Eric Clapton concert at Madison Square Garden. I hang out for a moment in my imagination, seeing Clapton on stage, 25,000 concert-goers digging on his music. That’s when I feel the familiar, severe disappointment in myself rush up deep within and, as usual, I grip it tightly, holding onto it – maybe hoping if I feel the self-judgment long enough and intensely enough, I will find an answer.

I get off the subway and walk over to the crossroads of Wall/Nassau/Broad streets. This corner is surrounded by tightly grouped towering buildings; it’s the middle of the New York Financial District – great acoustics. A silence comes into my Spirit as I begin to set up. I slowly unzip my guitar case, take out my guitar as if I were handling a sacred object, drape the guitar strap ceremoniously over my body, and then lay the case open on the sidewalk where hopefully passersby will deposit money. I plug into the amplifier, turn it on, feeling my guitar connect into the psychical space around me. I can always feel my body breathing in these moments – my consciousness moves into a stillness within myself. I scan around, absorbing the people around me, rushing to their offices. And then I begin to play, always and forever starting with a Led Zeppelin song, paying homage to my elders. On this day, it’s Dazed and Confused – not sure why, it’s just instinct. With each chord, I sense the area become congested as the stampede to work ramps up. People pour out of the subway entrances and buses, jump out of taxies – hurrying, oblivious of me. It’s okay, they never see me this early, I’m used to it. The gathering storm of notes of Dazed and Confused seems to move in rhythm with the mounting tension in the street. I’m losing myself like I have since I was a kid. The guitar and I are one. I lean my head back, close my eyes, feel the notes firing off my fingers, and then I’m finally home inside my Spirit.

CHAPTER FOUR

Char Montgomery

My name is Char Montgomery – a name I’m honored to carry. I grew up on a working ranch in Montana where pride in your work means something. Some people will tell you I’m one tough cowgirl – maybe that’s how I got to where I am in the music business at such a young age. I’m twenty-nine years old, tall and thin but strong in the bone with a dark-brown, thick pony-tail hanging down my back. I’m a fall-fledged record producer with R&R Records in New York City – a top-flight company. They hired me because they say I have the ear. When I came on board, they asked me what I wanted. It’s simple: to bring back the music that was lost. Where are the Led Zeppelins today? Where is the original voice? I’m here