…2..3..4 – An Xperience Column

…2..3..4 – An Xperience Column – by Chris Busone.

While I’m relatively new to this medium, up to this point, I’ve tried to keep my submissions humorous and in some way uplifting to the artistic community of which I am lucky enough to be a part. And while I have no plans on changing that approach, I would like to hit a bit of a more somber note this go-round and speak about loss.

If you’re in this life, you’ve experienced loss. The loss of friends, family, and significant others. So, I’d like to devote this piece to a few memories of people we’ve lost who helped shape my early life, teen years, and even earlier, both personally and musically.

I like to focus on good, fond memories of those who’ve gone on, rather than wade into the darkness of their loss. And after reading this account, if you spend some time reflecting on those types of memories of those lost in your life, well then, I guess I’ve done something right.

I met Frank Daley when we were teenagers. We were born three days apart, same year: me on June 10th, Frank on the 13th. The first thing that struck me about Frank (and I don’t think I am alone in this) was his ungodly gifts when he strapped a guitar on his back. Even in our teens, it was obvious that he was special.

The first night we met, a bunch of us jammed together, and afterward, we just hung out, as teens are wont to do. During this initial hang, we were just talking about records we liked – guitar players, themes that would follow us for the next 50 years. Then, Frank rubbed his head, gave me an elbow nudge, and asked, “Do you have any aspirin?”

“I’m 14,” I answered quizzically, “and you think I have aspirin on me? I got a dollar-twelve in change,” I said as I began emptying the contents of my pockets onto the counter,

“and a Jolly Rancher covered in lint.” We both laughed like crazy at that revelation. When we came up for air, I added, “I did sneak a couple beers out of the house in my guitar case, though.”

Frank smiled widely and said, “That’ll do!”  So, we bonded over the intoxicating brew of music and underage drinking.

We spent the better part of the next five decades being friends, sometimes roommates, sometimes bandmates, always brothers. He made me laugh – a lot of times when he wasn’t even trying to – and I’d crack him up mumbling derisive comments under my breath about people in our general vicinity that only he could hear, always at the most inappropriate of moments. I knew I had done the job well when he’d rub his nose with ferocity to hide his hysterics from puzzled onlookers and grumble, “F**kin’ Busone” into his palm.

Frank made me a better player just for being on stage with him and absorbing some of that brilliance as it sprang from his heart to his hands and drenched all in its path. Riding home from one particularly incendiary gig, we were talking about great players and whose playing we’d like to emulate. I told him that if I could play like anyone else, I think I’d want to play like him. He scanned my face for a bit, assessing whether I was having him on, and then said with all sincerity, “That’s the best compliment anyone’s ever given me.”

I love remembering that moment, but I somehow doubt that. His talent was so head-turningly conspicuous that I have no doubt that he received plenty of higher accolades from better sources than I. And not just for his guitar mastery, but for his qualities as a friend, a brother, and a father.

We lost Frank too soon and too suddenly, and I miss him every day. From time to time, I throw him a nod when I hear myself play something that I am particularly proud of, but not quite sure where it came from. Because there’s a pretty good chance it came from years of listening to him. So, thanks Frankie. For everything.

When I was in my first band at 17, we were lucky enough to have caught the eye of the preeminent manager/booking agent in the tri-state area and beyond, Bill Rezey. Bill had so many bands on his roster that he had other musicians working for him as booking agents, and that’s how I met Buck Malen for the first time.

The band was Chaser, or as Bill liked to refer to us, the “Five-Headed Monster,” because we went everywhere (including his office, which drove him a little crazy) together. During one of our periodic invasions of his work space, Bill told us he had someone special who would be handling our account, and buzzed the outer office, and asked Buck to come in. As he smoothed into the room my first thought was, “Oh my God … David Bowie is going to be booking us??!!” I swear to you, at 17, I had never been that close to anyone that cool. While most people look like posers when they wear sunglasses indoors, Buck Malen could pull it off easily, and it was just cool. No question. Just cool.

After a five-headed simultaneous gulp of awe, Buck said to us in the lowest register I had ever heard anyone speak, “Let’s go boys, I’ll buy you a drink.” And he spirited us off to Quintessence in his red, 1950s, checkered cab (I mean, come on!)

It was our first time there, so we marveled at how cool the place was. (A place that certainly only cool people like Buck could possibly know existed, we thought). After some obligatory banter and beverages, Buck nudged his shades down his nose a notch, and fixed his gaze on me. “Stick with me Daddio,” he said from behind a vodka martini, “and we’ll be hittin’ on all sixes before you know it.” My 17-year-old self had no idea what that meant, but it sounded so cool, I just went with it. In the years to come, Buck would become, at alternate times, my barber, bass player, photographer, and most of all, and always, my great friend. The years we spent together in the Jivebombers were some of the most fun I have had in music.

Fast forward a few decades. We got the news Buck was in the hospital for some undisclosed ailment. So, a couple of us got his room number and went to visit. When we found his room empty, we left thinking he was discharged, secretly dismissing any other more serious thoughts. But once outside, we heard that unmistakable baritone and followed it around the corner, down a ramp, to the loading dock area. There we found Buck smoking cigarettes with a couple orderlies, dressed in a hospital gown and his leather jacket and combat boots; an IV on wheels still in his arm. Like I said, just cool.

And that really does sum up this cat. He lived by his own rules, from start to finish, a finish that unfortunately came too soon for us all. He was a movie star that walked among us, and made every scene cooler by his presence. So, wherever you are, Daddio, I’ll bet it’s swingin’, and I know … it’s just cool.

There has never been anyone in my life like Rod Choppy. To refer to someone as a force of nature has become commonplace these days. But Rod Choppy was that and a whole hell of a lot more. He was a freaking hurricane with bulls and china shops spinning around inside of it on Fat Tuesday in the middle of Bourbon Street with all the unbridled exuberance of the French when Lindbergh landed. He was Captain America with a hangover, and like, 15 minutes late ’cause he got a flat, but still … Captain America! So, ya know, it’s cool.

He was also the most loyal, true, unwavering friend anyone could ever ask for.

When we were kids, my mother would say, “I never worry about you when you’re with Rod because he’d jump in front of a bus for you,” and I never doubted that. I would often lament that maybe I wasn’t as good a friend to Rod as he was to me. But then I realized there was no way I could be. I could try, but he was just too good, and I should just do my best and count myself lucky to know him. He would later display all these qualities as father to his daughter, which surprised no one but was amazing to watch.

I am not exaggerating in the least when I say that I would never, have ever, gotten up on a stage or have had anything resembling a musical career were it not for Rod Choppy. I had zero desire and even less confidence that I could ever play and sing in front of people. But when Rod assured me, “Oh Buzzy, it’s gonna be great. You abso-f**king-lutely can do it!” I somehow believed him. And what’s more, once I got up there on a stage and he was up there with me, I felt like not only could I do it, but that I could do anything. And I did. And I’ve been doing it ever since, in no small part due to him and his confidence in me.

We were 9 years old when we met and were the closest of friends from that day until the day we lost him. The last conversation we had, as he laid in bed, was like any other we’d had throughout our lifetime of friendship. Just talking and laughing about nonsense, old times. He was gone the next day.

My wife can attest to the fact that a day does not pass when I don’t tell at least one Rod Choppy, Frank Daley, or Buck Malen story. And also, stories about those who I met later and throughout my life who we lost, like Josh Bloomfield, John Degen, Scotty Dorrance … the list goes on. To me, telling stories – fun, funny, celebratory stories – about those we’ve lost keeps them alive and in our hearts.

Hemmingway tells us, “Everyone dies two deaths, when they are buried and the last time someone speaks their name.” And our boy Hemmy pondered profoundly the prospect of the inescapable hereafter, so I’m gonna defer to him on this one. So, let’s take this opportunity to speak the names of some of the people we’ve lost, but never want to lose.

For my part, whenever I get up on a stage to play that first song, I like to think all those cats are right there with me, giving me the cause and confidence to continue to count it off…2..3..4

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