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Rhiannon
She is like a cat in the dark, and then she is your darkness...
8-25
- The last time I saw Ack he was on a stage.
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- Effortless and invisible against the backdrop of someone else's spotlight, he burned with an intensity that seemed to make the stage lights dim around him. There was hardly any glimmer left at all of the quiet boy I had barely known.
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- I prefer to remember him that way.
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- I spent many of the early days of my youth in unsure steps. Like so many others at the academy, I was just another child walking the halls with the adults; in the way, yet not really there at all.
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- They required us to work three years in the romance languages back then, a rule linked to preparatory studies as much as it was aimed at rounding our minds. But instead of romance, we were drilled on syntax, tense, and case. As a result, many of us began to believe that the mysteries of Western Europe were not worth the trouble of unlocking.
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- I chose to study German. My father's family had heritage there, and one day I secretly hoped that it would help me to construct a novel about espionage and the cold war. My teacher was a doddering immigrant who seemed to go through life as if the music of Hayden and Strauss were playing in the air. This sort of bouncing happiness made him seem like a cartoon character at times, which might have made for interesting study had he not also brought with him a staunch hatred for children and all things American.
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- Within a year I cared less about Germany than I ever thought possible. The old man was let go, and the school chose to merge the remainder of our class with another. This group was led by an mountain of a woman from Indiana who rarely if ever looked up from her teacher's edition. Her pronunciation drills suffered from such a complete lack of passion that any remaining interest we held for learning the language quickly ebbed into ether, leaving us with a study hall of sorts where magazines were read and homework for other classes was hastily copied.
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- Ack was much like the rest of us in those days. Quiet and unsure, draped in the unofficial uniform that our parents seemed to push at us. Something about attending a prep school seemed to indicate that school clothes needed to reflect business dress. Button down collars and khaki added to the sense of alienation that the school-supplied nametags had already given us.
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- He read music magazines and biographies of famous guitar players. These were interests of mine as well, but for whatever reason I never made the initial effort to talk to him about it. Something about the way that he carried himself seemed to indicate that he was quiet not out of some fear of reprisal, but more from a desire to be left alone and not bothered.
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- It would be an upperclassman named Mortensen who broke this silence for us. A musician himself, Mortensen seemed unaware of the social boundaries that existed between the age groups. Unlike so many others, he seemed interested in the things we had to say, and talked to underclassmen as openly as he did to everyone else. Initial requests to borrow Ack's magazines turned into discussions of songs and players. I was fortunate enough to have a seat close to the both of them, which enabled me to enter the conversations myself without having to find some pretense for invitation.
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- Ack was a stocky kid, round faced with bright eyes. He spoke of Hendrix and Page as if they were old friends, and he laughed through his teeth. We knew each other by name, but rarely spoke out of class. His bond was with Mortensen, and it seemed that I was more or less an accessory to the whole thing. Still, it was nice to have someone to talk to, and comforting to know that my interests weren't mine alone.
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- A year later Mortensen had moved on, and we had another teacher. Ack returned from the summer a little thinner, with bushy hair that was beginning to approach his shoulders. As with many of us, the shells of silence were beginning to fade, and our increasing comfort with the school allowed us to become more vocal. The prep clothes gave way to more natural looks for children our age.
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- As he began to assert his personality, Ack made other friends, and we lost touch. I buried myself in novels, and eventually began to work on a manuscript of my own. It was never fully realized, but it served as a declaration of sorts. I found I liked working with words and seeing where they could take me.
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- During spring exam breaks that year the school allowed us to sit in the courtyard behind the classrooms. It was a sort of school tradition, and for many of us it became the highlight of our day. Instead of isolated cliques sitting tables in the cafeteria, a sort of picnic atmosphere arose, bringing with it a sense of welcomed community. Food was shared; friendships made.
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- Then one day a guitar appeared.
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- Another boy, Keeler I think, brought the instrument. It was the early days of music television. Classic rock was coming dangerously close to being eclipsed by big haired metal from California. Keeler knew several Van Halen chord progressions, which brought him a fair amount of recognition from the people all around. Would be players gathered, as they often do, hoping to have their own chance to shine.
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- It soon became apparent that girls were impressed with someone who possessed musical ability, so as a result several guitars found their way to the courtyard by the end of that week. Keeler's ability had been dulled to novelty, but it had been replaced with the sort of power chord caterwauling and one-upmanship that seemed to drive women away more than it impressed them.
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- After a while there were only a few acoustics left. Exams were drawing to a close, and the picnic would soon be over as well.
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- It was about this time that I first heard Ack play the blues.
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- His hands were fluid, practiced. He ran through lines methodically, as if they were memorized from a book, yet there were touches of emotion just beneath the surface. Where others were simply recreating songs that people could recognize, Ack was creating something new, something from himself. His repertoire was sixties laden, matching more the sounds you heard on the radio than the things coming from cable TV. For whatever reason, it made him seem more legitimate for me.
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- You try not to be in awe of a peer. But it's hard sometimes.
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- Ack began to bring his guitar with him most days, even after exams had finished. He played mostly for himself, which retreated him even further from social contact. We spoke at times in German class, and continued to share magazines and books, but it was hardly something that could have been called friendship.
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- That summer a hundred jam bands formed in a hundred garages. Individual talents gave way to group enthusiasms. New faces arose, and I found myself with guitar in hand, attempting to be a part of the fury.
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- Ack's name floated above it all.
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- He showed up at smaller gatherings, often with players much older than himself. Reputation moves fast in those sorts of circles, and it seemed that talk of his prowess was almost as coveted as his actual presence. His guitar pulsed under his fingers, channeling the greats of days past with an ease that others could only dream to achieve.
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- While he was still soft spoken and at times invisible in student gatherings, his presence seemed to burn when he was playing. It was hard not to watch him as he swayed back and forth on the balls of his feet. He closed his eyes when he played solos, as he had once told me that Clapton was known to do.
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- Bands formed and fizzled during the next few years, becoming more of a political environment than a musical one. Ack seemed to fade from the scene, choosing instead to play with kids from other schools who shared his tastes, and vices.
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- Ack always did had a thing about emulating his heroes.
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- A while later they opened a school for the arts, and Ack disappeared from our halls. He had never been much for the academic rat race, and it only seemed natural that someone of his talents should be at a school that offered classes in guitar.
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- He would appear at jam sessions and after school functions from time to time. Each time I saw him his hair was longer. After a while it was hard not to notice that he was growing almost unnaturally thin. You'd see him at parties, talking to girls and smoking. He rarely played, but everyone knew who he was.
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- We shared a mutual friend in a drummer named Duperault, which led to many nights sitting around drinking and talking about nothing at all. Ack would doodle on an acoustic sometimes, but there was rarely pressure for him to perform. I liked the conversation, but usually found a way to leave once the pot came out. It wasn't really my thing, and it was hard to be the only one in the room who didn't join in.
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- I remember one night at Duperault's house watching Ack struggle with a Hendrix chord progression. He'd been drinking, but he was still lucent enough to know he was messing up. After what seemed only a few minutes of frustration, Ack put the guitar on the ground and pulled at each string with his finger until it snapped in half. I'd never seen a guitarist treat an instrument like that before in my life.
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- The image of him attacking that guitar stays with me to this day.
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- Stories began to come back a few months later that he'd dropped out of school and disappeared. Others said he was expelled.
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- There was talk that he'd gotten into heroin.
I saw him once the next year at a guitar store. His hair was wild and bushy, matching the full beard that had ground around his chin and mouth. He was wearing loose fitting jeans, and a brown leather jacket with tassels hanging off the length of each sleeve.
If I hadn't known who he was I would have sworn that I was staring Jimmy Page in the face.
He didn't seem to recognize me, so I didn't force the issue. I was mostly just happy to see that he was alive. He looked very rough around the edges, though. Like he'd seen things he maybe wasn't ready to see yet. He was a year younger than I was, but he looked like an old man.
Senior year was its own whirlwind. My life was busy with friends and thoughts of the future. I had become something of a guitarist myself, enjoying what little notoriety came with that distinction.
There was a girl in my class named Aimee who sang like an angel. She had this huge thing for Stevie Nicks, and would often wear clothing that matched the styles of her idol.
I was working sound for the senior talent show that year, hassling with microphones and wiring when Aimee showed up with her band. She had brought together players from around the area, each with their own reputation. Unbeknownst to those of us who were considered musicians at the time, Aimee had formed a supergroup. Duperault played drums, and a guy named Bear played bass. He was widely disliked in our circles, but he had a way with the instrument. When Ack walked in, I hardly recognized him.
He was still thin, but the shaggy hair and clothes were gone. A hat drooped over his eyes. He set up his equipment quickly, without speaking a word.
Roland JC-120, Tobacco Sunburst Strat.
He played a few chords, one or two short lines at the most. Then he put the guitar back in the case and disappeared until it was time for the show.
When the curtain pulled back it was all about Aimee. She was like a precious stone, glittering and impossible not to stare at. Her voice breathed life into a Fleetwood Mac classic that maybe had never been there before. This wasn't homage to a favorite singer, or a cover of a recognizable song. It was something much more powerful than that.
The musicians on stage largely disappeared against the glow coming from the singer. Looking back it might have been one of the finest examples of professionalism I had ever seen from players that young.
Yet I found myself looking through the shadows for a glimpse of Ack. He was in many ways a legend, yet no one really knew who he was. With all the stories of young masters and their tragic ends, it was hard not to fear a little for him in that his talent was so complete at such an early point. Especially considering how hard he seemed to live.
The bridge came up and he stepped ahead into the light. 8 bars, maybe less. Nothing more than a restatement of the vocal melody, really. But sometimes when you share a craft with someone, it's not always the notes you hear. Sometimes it's the way the paint comes off the brush that matters more than the lines that are drawn.
He had such a feel for the instrument. Such control, restraint. Anyone could have played those 8 bars.
- But only one man did.
I never saw or heard anything else about Ack after that night, but I still think of him sometimes. I wonder about where he is, and how far he may have progressed. I also worry sometimes that he might have lost his way and been burned by his own dragons.
Yet above all, I fear that at some point along the line life caught up with him. The idea of Ack sitting in some cubicle somewhere frightens me, but it's a possibility that I know all too well to dismiss.
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After all, I saw Mortensen just last year...
and he saw me, too.
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