The Brief Rise and Meteoric Fall of the Pencil Tricks

"The young always have the same problem--how to rebel and conform at the same time."

-Quentin Crisp

For those who follow this blog, all three of you, I'm happy to report that yesterday's flight to Binghamton was blessedly uneventful. Low clouds and rain leaving KELM, alternator failure along the way (thankfully, the Columbia is equipped with two), but an easy visual approach into KBGM that ended with a greased landing on that wavy, downhill runway perched atop what out west we'd call a mesa.

Before the flight I pounded out a circuit in the weight room at the Y, with my late 70s and early 80s hard rock mix thundering in my earbuds. I say "thundering", but in truth it's at fairly low volume because of my already documented hearing loss. No use making things worse.

As I began my second set of incline reps, Van Halen's "Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love" introduced itself, the distinctive staccato guitar solo tip-toeing toward a thundering arrival.

And suddenly, my thin curly hair of 45 years ago returned, my gut effaced, and I was a sea of pimples and sweaty doubt, plucking out those notes in a bright gym full of my classmates at Vines High School, our lead singer Todd's head bobbing over my shoulder as I concentrated, concentrated, to get through the ordeal.

The Pencil Tricks had been Todd's idea, a garage band that would cover the hard rock ballads that filled FM radio, circa 1979-80. I would play lead guitar because I owned an electric guitar, a Fender Mustang my father bought for me the year before to replace the cheap starter Lyle I'd been torturing in my bedroom after school each afternoon.

Yes, that would be the Mustang. Paired with a solid-state Peavey Pacer speaker, I could shake the walls of our house until Dad would scream upstairs to "TURN THAT GODDAMNED THING DOWN!"

Todd found Steve Ader to play bass, a big, goofy offensive lineman on our dreadful sophomore football team, a nice guy who took endless sh*t from us for reasons I can't really recall besides that he was a Yankee and rich and his incredibly kind mother baked us cookies during slumber parties spent in his bedroom that was about as large as my entire house.

Because by this time Dad was long gone, the big house in Richardson occupied by the new family, and Mom, Katie, and I had moved into a small, tidy house up the road in Plano. I took advantage of the domestic disarray to sign up for football, which was forbidden by my parents because it would jostle my valuable brain, and to join the Pencil Tricks. I'd also discovered Michelob Beer by this time, the beginning of a multi-decade dance with that genetically programmed friend and adversary.

So, about the Pencil Tricks. First, I can't recall who drummed for us, although certainly we had a drummer. The name "the Pencil Tricks"? Well, all I can tell you is that it was a crude reference to writing utensils and a woman's anatomy that would only have made sense to a teenage boy who'd never seen a naked woman in person since he emerged from one, which I'm pretty sure was true about all of us. Cringeworthy, but there it is.

And our playing was equally cringeworthy. At fifteen, we struggled with the idea that hours of practice would be required before we could become the next Rush or Boston. Malcolm Gladwell's writing about repetition as the key to musical prodigy was still decades away, and how hard could it be with all this fancy technology? We practiced a couple times a week, and we sucked.

Which is why, looking back, allowing ourselves to be talked into the Vines High School Battle of the Bands seems so remarkably ill-advised.

The event was to take place during the final period of a school day, in the gym with the entire student body present. The organizers added to the humiliation by slating us to follow High Voltage, led by guitarist Evan Simmons and singer Clint Shriver.

We hated those guys. They wore matching outfits--white high collared disco shirts and denim bell bottom jeans. They played real instruments. Evan's Stratocaster was the big brother to my Mustang, the same model guitar favored by the likes of Eric Clapton. And most annoyingly, they were really good, with a gig down in town on Wednesday nights playing Shakespeare's, a dimly lit bar. How did a bunch of 15-year-olds end up playing in a place like that? Texas in 1980, baby. Res ipsa loquitur.

On the big day, I was of course terrified, pale and sweaty-palmed and sure I'd humiliate myself in front of a thousand equally insecure and neurotic teens. We'd selected "Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love" as our one piece--there was zero chance of an encore--mostly because the guitar work wasn't terribly complicated, and it allowed Todd to hop around and do his best David Lee Roth. Todd was pretty serene that afternoon as I recall, perhaps because he'd smoked a couple bowls to give him that resiny singing voice the song demanded.

For their part, High Voltage knocked it out of the park. They played Foghat's "Fool for the City", and didn't miss a note. Clint was all of about 5 foot 6 and maybe 120 pounds, his voice hadn't changed yet, and he could carry a tune like nobody's business. And so confident. So flipping confident. All of them.

Much cheering for High Voltage as they left the stage and we set up. Hell, I get nervous now just thinking of it.

Then we were introduced, the emcee-gym teacher giving a quizzical look as he said our band's name, and away we went.

The song included three transitions that presented a challenge for a mediocre lead guitar player like myself.

Here's a link if you want to hear Eddie Van Halen himself play it as it was meant to be played. Any resemblance of my performance that day to his was purely coincidental.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qtwBFz6lfrY

First there was that choppy opening, muting the first few notes before letting the last couple growl out at you. This is where Todd was hanging over my shoulder, an unplanned display of enthusiasm that only heightened my anxiety.

I got through it, however. No sense of rhythm whatsoever, but at least I didn't drop a note.

Then there was the lead solo, maybe the simplest thing Eddie VH ever composed (have you ever listened to "Eruption" on their first album--good grief!), but a major challenge for a plugger like me. I meandered to the end, but am pretty sure I dropped a note or two and wandered away from the drums and bass into my own arrhythmic jumble. No one gasped, but it was a solid C effort.

Finally there's a--what would one call it?--an intermezzo, perhaps? I was to pick through a few bars rather than strumming the usual thundering rock anthem chords, finishing with a couple harmonics that required a bit of touch that was at the far end of my musical range. Again I survived, just grateful when I could go back to filling the gym with the sort of muscular Am-G progression that makes an awkward teenage boy feel a little less inadequate.

And then, a little over three minutes from the first halting note, it was over. I'm pretty sure the kids in the bleachers cheered, but all I remember of that moment was a massive welling of relief and release of the performance anxiety that had consumed me for weeks leading up to that day.

The Pencil Tricks never performed again. Todd and I both quit football a few weeks later, in my case for the ostensible reason that I needed to work to help support the household. While that was true, the primary reason for leaving the game was that I hated it and was a terrible football player. Funny how those two attributes--how one feels about an undertaking and one's success at it-- travel together. Chicken or the egg? Todd just didn't play well with others, and although he was a great defensive end the coaches didn't much appreciate his attitude, and he was a little too outspoken in his appraisal that they were all pretty stupid. Not long thereafter came the moment my parents came together for the one-and-only time post-divorce in directing that I leave Texas to go live with my grandparents in California before my grades dropped any further. The rest is history.