Going Nowhere: One Man's Liner Notes

By Joe Donati

The world has indeed become a challenging place to find relevance and contentment. People spend hordes of money and an inordinate amount of time searching for the key to happiness. In Going Nowhere: One Mans Liner Notes, the author discovers all he needed to do to find contentment was to grab his trusty bass guitar and head absolutely Nowhere.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477103050

Joe Donati

Joe Donati has a real job but finds that writing, music and celebrating with family truly define his essence. After hearing “you should really be a writer” 674 times, he decided to give it a whirl. Joe resides with his lovely wife, four fascinating children and too many pets in a ridiculously small house in Two Rivers, Wisconsin.

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Copyright © 2012 by Joe Donati.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012907578

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4771-0304-3

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4771-0303-6

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4771-0305-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Contents

Introduction

Strange Beginnings

The Set List

1 Long Road (E. Vedder, 1995: Merkin Ball)

2 Santa Monica (A. Alexakis, 1995: Sparkle and Fade)

3 Lightning Crashes (E. Kowalczyk and Live, 1995: Throwing Copper)

4 Better Days (B. Springsteen, 1992: Lucky Town)

5 Take it on the Run (G. Richrath, 1980/1981: Hi Infidelity)

6 Paranoid (Butler/Iommi/Osbourne/Ward, 1970: Paranoid)

7 Surrender (R. Nielsen, 1977: Heaven Tonight)

8 Livin’ After Midnight (R. Halford, K.K. Dowling, G. Tipton, 1980: British Steel)

9 Kentucky Lullaby (J. Donati, M. Zietlow, 2010)

10 Pirate Looks at Forty (J. Buffett, 1975: A1A)

11 Where the Streets Have no Name (U2, 1987: The Joshua Tree)

12 Ob La Di (J. Lennon, P. McCartney, 1968: The Beatles)

13 American Girl (T. Petty, 1977: Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers)

14 Lot to Drink About (J. Buffett, W. Kimbrough, M. MacAnally, 2009: Buffett Hotel)

15 Pink Houses (J. Cougar Mellencamp, 1983: Uh-Huh)

16 What’s The Frequency Kenneth? (B.Berry, P.Buck, M.Mills, M.Stipe, 1994: Monster)

17 Pagan Soul (J. Donati, M. Zietlow, R. Miller, 1999)

18 Spirit of Radio (G. Lee, A. Lifeson, N. Peart, 1980: Permanent Waves)

19 No Matter What (P. Ham, 1970: No Dice)

20 Down on the Corner (J. Fogerty, 1969: Willy and the Poor Boys)

21 Stone in Love (J. Cain, S. Perry, N. Schon, 1981: Escape)

22 O Holy Night (A. Adam, 1847)

23 End of the Line (B. Dylan, T. Petty, G. Harrison,

R. Orbison, J. Lynne, 1988: Traveling Wilburys Volume I)

24 Crazy Little Thing Called Love (F. Mercury, 1979: The Game)

25 Ring of Fire (J. Carter, M. Kilgore, 1963: Ring of Fire—The Best of Johnny Cash)

26 Last Kiss (W. Cochran, J. Carpenter, R. Hoyal, B. McGlon, 1961: Gala Records—A side)

Encore! Rockin’ in the Free World (N. Young, 1989: Freedom)

The Legend is in the Telling

Heather

Children

Friends

And Me?

My Wish for All

Introduction

We had been sitting in the living room of the Valders farmhouse unwrapping cords and tuning the instruments when Jay, rhythm guitarist and complete link to the 80’s, quipped, So I was talking with Kathy the other night about some of the songs we were working on and she casually asked me where this was all going. I told her it was going nowhere.

I set down my shiny black Washburn bass guitar and said in my usually stoic vernacular, Holy Crap, Jay! That’s our name! Going Nowhere! From that day began the odyssey of Going Nowhere—one of Northeast Wisconsin’s greatest Rock and Roll bands and, more importantly, the day I began my journey as a budding Rock and Roll legend…

Strange Beginnings

I was probably 9 or 10 years old when the fever took hold. My brothers and I would crank the old solid state radio in the basement and transform the little living quarters into the stage at the old Chicago Stadium. I’d tune in to 94.7 WLS as they were usually rocking on a Saturday morning. Sometimes they would even be playing some sort of countdown show like Casey Kasem’s America’s Top 40. Hockey sticks became guitars, cooking spoons morphed into drum sticks, and throw pillows transformed into a kick-ass set of Yamaha drums. I would rotate the beat up air hockey table to the side so it could serve as my killer Hammond B-3 organ while the Donati boys air-jammed through classic REO Speedwagon and Styx tunes. Hell, we would even lip synch the words—we were raised Catholic so we couldn’t carry a tune, the Gregorian-comatose Sunday hymns forever destroying any latent vocal talent. Fragmented sunlight filtered through overgrown shrubbery splashed through the basement windows creating a disco-ball effect over the drab 70’s carpeting while Mom’s vacuuming upstairs sounded remotely like the din of an ecstatic audience.

It was the 1970’s and the Gods of Rock had smiled upon me. As I tickled those imaginary ivories along the air hockey table I knew that destiny was pointing its crooked finger at me, beckoning me to greatness. I soon came to understand that Mom’s continual begging to turn that goddamned music down was really her way of saying, Keep it up Joey. You’ll be playing in front of 50,000 screaming fans some day. I could wind up just like Neil Diamond! My Mom would be so pumped to do my hair. Thanks, Mom!

The 80’s arrived and I was poised to combat pre-teen angst (I’d always been a bit advanced) with the monsters of Rock. My mentors were Van Halen, Ozzy and Iron Maiden but I was also careful to glean bits of musical wisdom from bands like Europe, the Go-Go’s, and Dexie’s Midnight Runners—sort of a Come on Eileen, it’s the Final Countdown to Vacation montage of musical mirth.

There were plenty of great rock tunes in the 1970’s but it was somewhat challenging to a 9 year old. I mean, Black Sabbath sang I love you Sweet Leaf. Sure I enjoyed Sun Tea on a hot summer day just as much as the next kid, but LOVE it? Hendrix was even more of a problem. I never knew where I was going with that gun in my hand and I was completely turned off by the whole Excuse me while I kiss this guy thing. Even at 9 years old I knew that everything that glitters was gold. Did Robert Plant struggle with this concept? And was it 25 or 26 to four? There were just so many unanswered questions in the 70’s.

The music from the 1980’s smoothed all the edges and made things simple for a kid in the Windy City. As I moved into my teen years it was quite handy to know that girls just want to have fun and you could still Rock in America, all night. We all wished we had Jessie’s girl, after all she was born in the USA! Imagine the perfect 80’s day: first I get rocked like a hurricane, then I jump, call Jenny and ask her, Who’s gonna drive you home? Bingo, simple.

In the winter of 1983 we had our first 7th grade dance at St. Pascals. Our parish was comprised of lower middle class white families basking in blue collar glory. I had stood out as a first class Nerd for most of my first seven years in school so it was high time to let the world in on Chicago’s best kept secret. It was a wet, snowy day. I remember running a comb through my perfectly feathered, dish-water blonde hair and then placing that brilliant orange comb into the back pocket of my wicked gray corduroys. I threw a sweet green velour V-neck on and jumped into my hiking boots (you know, the ones with the cherry red laces).

My arrival at the tiny gym was uneventful but when the DJ cranked up Henley’s masterpiece All She Wants to Do is Dance I sauntered past those gussied-up girls on my way to the dance floor. I’m sure the half-gallon of Brut 33 aftershave I stole from my brother snapped their attention but if it didn’t, my moves surely would. I jumped, twirled and spasmed through that song. I spun so fast the change in my pocket slammed square into my nuts! I yelped and everybody screamed as they ran out onto the dance floor to join the party. Dancing, yelling, singing, limping—it was a great night but I really just wanted an ice pack and a ride home. The walk home, more limping than strutting, was quick as I expected a phone call from Mick Jagger when I arrived.

Five years later it was prom night. I was still rocking my feathered hair (why mess with a good thing?) but this night I was totally pimped out in a white tux with pink socks and matching tie. As I air-guitared, channeling my inner Angus and allowing the fumes from another overdose of my brother’s cologne to cast their spell, more than just my date were fawning over this rocking machine. I had to beat them away with a stick that night. Oh yes, it was all coming together…

The Set List

1

Long Road

(E. Vedder, 1995: Merkin Ball)

Pearl Jam sang, We all walk a long road. These words neatly summarize the path I took to Rock and Roll stardom. In the Spring of 1986 Rich Plotner, Marc Arturi and I planned the formation of a power trio. Marc already had a drum set in his parent’s basement and Plotner was planning to purchase a six-string electric guitar. It seemed completely obvious that bass guitar was to be my weapon. In those days most boys hopped-up on testosterone were air-guitaring to every song the DJ played. Not this dude—I air-bassed! From the moment I first watched Steve Harris wield his mighty bass during Iron Maiden’s Powerslave video, I was hooked. As most guys strummed imagined guitars through what seemed like mass jock-itch relief carnivals, I was coolly plucking my air-bass. You can imagine the response from all those pretty high-school girls: Hey, that guy’s different…

In March of 1996 I found myself disinterested in my marriage. I began to look for opportunities to be away from home. Marty and I started to hang out after work. We worked together as physical therapists and often worked late at the local hospital. I already knew the hum-drum routine at home so this life of going to the corner bar for beers and burgers followed by hours of loud music fascinated me. Marty would regale me with all the music he had learned at his latest guitar lessons. It was cool—for a while. Then the boredom set in. I wasn’t bored with the music. I was bored with simply listening. Sitting and watching Marty play for hours kind of left me feeling a tad groupie/stalkerish so I picked up one of his acoustic guitars and just started to pluck the E-string. I had no clue what the Hell I was doing but every so often a note I plucked would converge with a chord he had strummed and at those moments I took my first sips of the Rock Star Kool-Aid.

All of those moments of looking like a complete loser, um legend, on the dance floor with my air bass at the St. Patrick’s gymnasium seemed to be paying dividends. So I plucked away hoping these notes and chords would once again stumble into each other. And they did—not often, but often enough. Marty just kept strumming along, obviously not disrupted by my fledgling attempts at accompaniment. The music was disjointed as I heartily slaughtered Marty’s playing with ill-timed, out of tune notes; poorly placed church farts in Reverend Marty’s musical sermon. A phone call from my wife at the time shattered the symphony. The gods had provided a taste and they pointed me to a new path.

I ended up in divorce court. Marty continued his study of music. It took me a couple of years to put the wheels back on the cart but sometime in the summer of 1998, Marty and I started playing guitars again. Once again, I was in a failing relationship when Marty stopped by my little upstairs apartment with his two guitars. He would tune them both and we would have at it. No air-conditioning during those late summer jams! My musicianship stunk, Hell I stunk, but we were having a great time. After an hour or so we would take a break and I would serve up some ice-cold Guinness draughts. Truth be told, I wasn’t really thirsty. I simply needed something cold that I could wrap my blistering fingertips around. Understanding nothing of technique I worked my one guitar string with two fingers: right index finger plucking, left index finger sliding from fret to fret.

There were times I would sit for hours next to my stereo and play the same song over and over while I tried to pick acoustic guitar solos. During one of my little practice sessions the downstairs neighbor started rapping at my door. When I opened the door, Pat simply said Dude, Silver Spring is a great song but could you play something else? I couldn’t help it, that solo by Lindsey Buckingham during Fleetwood Mac’s Silver Spring was intoxicating. Each note was so crisp, so ethereal—it represented musical perfection. And I completely sucked in my attempts to duplicate it. My hands were terribly clumsy and chords just did not make sense to me. My dreams of lead guitar were dashed by a huge felon from Philadelphia who spoke with a lisp. Neighbors, not to mention reality, can be so cruel.

By the Fall of 1998, things were looking up in my world. I was dating a fascinating woman and my confidence was slowly returning. I came home from work one Thursday that Fall and both Heather and Marty greeted me at the door. Marty announced, I have something for you. They walked me into the living room and sitting on my recliner was a shiny, black Washburn bass guitar! Marty simply said, Get a tuner, tune it and learn how to play it. I was shocked. He was so tired of me butchering notes on his guitars that he bought me a bass. No one had ever bought me a musical instrument. Well that night changed everything. As Freddie Mercury chimed, Fame, fortune and everything that goes with it were awaiting my next move.

Heather and I decided to get engaged and moved out to a little farmhouse in the country. The house was falling apart, mice scurried across the floor regularly and the water source was some jimmy-rigged pump and well system but budding rock stars could see the true appeal of this little house—no neighbors and high volume!

It was about this time that Ron had joined the picture. Marty and I were feeling ready to try some songs and we thought a drummer would help us identify if we really had something worth pursuing. Ron also worked as a physical therapist within the same organization so there was familiarity.

One late summer day in 1998, the three of us gathered at the little farmhouse in Valders. We were short on equipment but heavy on dreams. I did not even have an amplifier at the time so we ran my bass and Marty’s guitar through his Fender tube amp. Ron was in the