Early Man

My very first job was at a guitar shop, Tree Frog Music, which sat directly across from the Russian Orthodox church on Geary Street. We were a small shop specializing primarily in vintage and new electric guitars. Not only did we have an incredible array of guitars and basses, amplifiers, effects units, and one Fender Rhodes Piano, but we also had a back area for guitar lessons. The agreement was that I didn’t work for money. Instead, I worked for equipment and the opportunity to hang out with some great musicians who frequented the shop. The front of the shop was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows with a glass and metal door that lay in the middle of the towering windows. Only the newest guitars were hung in the windows for all to see, and not much thought was given to their arrangement, so, for the most part, the view of Geary Street and the Russian church were obscured by Gibsons, Fenders, Silvertones, Ibanez and many other brands. We only had a small glass counter we worked from where we packed in all the effects units for customers to see, and, from time-to-time, we would cut marijuana and “other” substances after hours for post-work fun. The store was only about 5 meters wide, but stretched for about 10. All the guitars and basses were packed at the front (new in window, vintage on the wall), towards the back were all the amplifiers and ended with the lesson/practice rooms. For me, it was a home-away-from-home. Working at a music shop was my dream job, and it landed in my lap accidentally.

I had been going to Tree Frog to take guitar lessons from a musician named Joady Guthrie once per week. I didn’t know it at the time, but Joady was the son of famed folk musician Woody Guthrie (“This Land is Your Land”). Joady was an excellent teacher and taught me blues, folk, jazz, and, of course, rock-n-roll. I enjoyed my lessons and felt an hour was never enough time. After each lesson, I would mostly hang out with the two people who worked there, Phil and Billy, while I waited for my father to pick me up. Phil was from Oxford, England, and had moved to the United States a few years before. Billy was from New York and came to San Francisco in the 1960s to find his fame and fortune in music. Both were talented musicians, and Phil, mainly, taught me a lot about songwriting. They were both mentors, in a sense, but more importantly, they helped me use music as a way to heal from the traumas I experienced in Iran the year before. I look back and believe both Billy and Phil saw I was headed for a significant crash and offered me the job to “look after” me. I was on the road to ruin, and music saved me on many levels.

I had just turned 13 and was with Phil and Billy after work. This time, we got a drummer in (Al) and someone on keyboards (Marco) to come by after hours for food, a few joints, and an extended jam. I had told my dad I wanted to do this as a birthday gift, and both Phil and Billy assured him they would deliver me home safely.

The evening of my birthday was one of those wintertimes, Richmond District evenings, lots of thick, drizzly fog everywhere. We would call it “killer fog” because one could quickly lose their way, get drenched from a million tiny droplets, and likely die of hypothermia. The temperature was not necessarily freezing, it was cold, but the weather ate through every layer of clothing. It was a perfect night for food, pot, and an extended jam. Marco was the first to arrive; he was a tall, thin Italian with black hair and piercing blue eyes. Marco brought his son, Anthony, along as well, which was helpful for me because Anthony was my age and a musician as well (drums). Anthony was a no-bullshit, very sarcastic kind of kid who called it exactly how he saw it……. And was quite a wild-child as well as a true San Franciscan (but that is another story). Al, a loud and quite stocky man from Minnesota, arrived late. We helped Al haul in his drum kit, and luckily it was not a big set of drums. Everything was set up towards the back of the store.

Before our music, we ate, smoked, and discussed life. We laughed a lot, but at times the conversation grew remarkably reflective, and Anthony would level us with the most hilariously sarcastic comments on the back of our poignant philosophical pauses. The evening was turning into something special.

Music finally began at about 7 pm or so. We weaved genres together, blended styles, and never stopped for at least three hours. Somehow we managed to keep a constant flow of music with joins being sparked, drummers being changed, guitars being tuned, and intermittent toilet breaks. Finally, there was a simultaneous stop with Al saying, “I am fucking hungry.” It was decided, food break. I shut off the amp, unplugged my guitar and walked over the counter to make a sandwich. Anthony was already standing there and had a look of eager anticipation in his eyes, and I knew he had some exciting schemes he wanted my participation.

I stopped in front of the bowl of Acapulco bud to my left and sandwich stuff to my right. I started to make my sandwich when Anthony said, “dude, we have got to make a band. I know a bass player, his name is Thor. We can be a power trio like Rush.” It took me a few seconds through my stoned haze for the synapses to connect the dots, coming to grips playing with a bass player named Thor and thought, “what the fuck, why not.” I never thought I was an excellent guitarist, nor a good singer, but hell, I had no fear, didn’t give a shit what others thought and felt it could be a lot of fun. So I smiled, looked Anthony square in the eyes, and said, “as long as we practice in your garage.” It was agreed, the course was set.

Our first practice went better than I thought it would. It seemed we had been playing together for years, and it felt right — Thor was one of the most versatile bass players with incredible grooves. We played for about 4 or 5 hours through different metal, funk, punk, and rock tunes we all knew. My vocals sucked, but as Anthony put it, “dude, you suck, but I feel it. Your suckiness is genuine and passionate.” To this day, I have never had a backhanded compliment make me smile as much as that one. We took another two or three hours to discuss whether or not we would be purely original tunes, play other’s songs, or a combo of the two. Anthony and I made the argument for a combo of the two, but Thor pointed out to us that during our jam, we would sometimes blend metal, punk, and funk into an exciting medley of punk-metal with great groove. He argued that this was something truly original. Anthony and I looked at each other, and confidently nodded. 100% original it is!

We took three or four months to write songs and practice, and we were obsessed, focused, committed, fierce. When I played, when I sang, I could feel the pent up rage, despair, and fear float out of my mouth and guitar, disappearing into the sounds we made and finally dissipate into the universe. It was magical, healing and liberating. The specters of my past were being pulled from my soul and merged with a beautiful sound, turning them into light. I felt the warmth and was being freed.

Anthony, Thor, and I knew we were ready when the realization hit us…. “Fuck, we forgot to name ourselves….” We thought long and hard for a couple of weeks. Nothing. Finally, the name came, but not from us. I was with Phil at Tree Frog one day and told him about our name plight. He told me that his band, Early Man, had broken up. He felt we should use the name. Phil said, “all of you are 13-years old, and the name fits.” He was absolutely right, it made me laugh, and it was perfect. I brought the idea to the band, and Anthony said, “perfect, and I will fight anyone in the band who disagrees.” Done…. We were now “Early Man.” Armed with 15 songs, a great name, and thoughts of grandeur, it was time to gig.

Since we were 13, finding a gig was going to be impossible. Most gigs for upcoming bands were at bars, and with the drinking age being 21, there was simply nothing available to us. Feeling indeed discouraged after what seemed like 100 calls and 100 rejections, arrived for work at Tree Frog. Walking in, Billy saw that I was quite bummed out and motioned for me to head over to him as he stood by the effects counter. Arriving, he looked at me and asked what was happening. I told him about our band, our original tunes, and our inability to secure a gig. When I stopped speaking, we sat there in silence for what seemed like an eternity until Billy said, “come to the store tomorrow and audition for me. If you are good, I will help you get gigs.” The next day, we auditioned in the store, and Billy said, “13 and already pros. Damn good guys.” Billy was now our manager.

To be clear, Thor, Anthony, and I had not started this venture to make money. We just wanted to play, and it was an emotional outlet for three broken kids. There was no debate, and we knew what we would do with the proceeds from each gig — it was decided any money we make would go to Billy. Hands were shaken, and off we went.

Before the calls were made, Billy brought us into Tree Frog to record a four-song demo for him to use as a calling card. We spent two long evenings recording, screaming at one another, smoking a lot of pot, a bit of mushroom creativity, and finally capturing the magic. It was one of those moments that seemed to last forever, is a scar on the fabric of the universe, and is forever branded on our respective souls. I wish I had made a hundred copies of those recordings. I am not sure I have ever unleashed such passion, rage, light, and darkness at once, and maybe, somewhere in my journeys, I will be open to unloading such a deeply felt creative emotion.

With the demo completed, Billy called in favors to a bunch of his old music friends to get us fixed with our first gig. The first call came within a week of Billy sending out the demos, but it seemed like ten years to three rambunctious 13-year old kids. We got the Chi Chi Club on Broadway! Bottom of the bill (#4), but we didn’t care, we got our first gig, and it was in 3 days. Anthony, Thor, and I rehearsed nonstop till our fingers bled, our bodies hurt, and our ears malfunctioned. We never felt ready, and we never felt rehearsed.

The evening of the gig, Billy brought his car around to fetch Thor and me in his 1972 Pontiac Grand Prix. It was a massive car and could fit our amps and guitars easily as well as a small suburban neighborhood. Anthony had his father bring him and his many, many drums. When we arrived at the Chi Chi for our soundcheck, Billy made us wait in the car and told us he needed to speak with the club manager. Thor and I got a bit nervous, and we thought maybe the gig was a farce? Did Billy bullshit us? I grew a rotting nut of despair in the pit of my stomach thinking our day was not to be. The anger grew, and I could see in Thor’s eyes that he was feeling the same thing. All I could say was “fuck.” Thor looked at me and nodded. Just then, the door to the car opened, and there was an older man with a bad comb-over. He looked a bit like a “has been” 1970s retired B porn “actor,” with his shirt opened to the navel and absurdly tight red-polyester trousers. He yelled at us abruptly, “grab your shit and come to the back door, and Billy is waiting for you there.” We grabbed our instruments and walked to the back of the club, and we could see Billy waiting for us by the back door.

When we got to Billy, he started to laugh out loud, seeing the looks of complete confusion on our respective faces. Billy patted me on the head and said, “technically, you cannot play here. Zeek (the “B porn star,” club manager) loves the music, so we are sneaking you in.” At that point, Zeek came out with a big smile on his face and said, “welcome, gentlemen!” Billy started to laugh again as he could see the confusion on our faces turn to absolute excitement. Zeek guided us in, while Billy went back to grab the rest of the equipment. Thor and I walked behind Zeek down a dark hallway that smelled like 10,000-year old beer and tobacco that hit a small set of steps that went to the stage. Zeek stopped at the foot of the steps and motioned for us to go up and on to the stage. Filled with a sense of excitement and adventure, we both jumped the steps and on to the stage.

The Chi Chi Club likely saw its heyday in the 1940s, 50s, and possibly the 60s and was just an echo of its former glory. Some older tables and chairs scattered about, a few booths with red vinyl coverings and a bar that looked like it had last been stocked with booze 30 years before, still the smell of 10,000-year-old beer and tobacco permeated the air. Thor and I looked at one another with the biggest smiles we have ever had and did the obligatory high-five, followed by “dude!” in stereo. No sooner had we started to take out our instruments, in walked Billy with Anthony and the remainder of our equipment in tow. Anthony stepped up on to the stage carrying his bass drum and exclaimed, “what a fucking shit-hole. “This is way cool!” Thor and I erupted into uncontrollable laughter while we could hear Zeek in the background, yelling sarcastically, “I don’t need to let you play.”

We set up pretty quickly once we had all of Anthony’s drums unloaded from his dad’s van. We did a one-tune, 10-minute soundcheck and then were escorted out of the club. Once we exited the club, Anthony, Thor, and I chatted about the soundcheck, and we agreed that it sucked. The anxiety built up in us as we walked to Clown Alley to get burgers while we waited for our set.

Clown Alley was a San Francisco institution. Pretty good burgers, it was frequented by the drag queens from Finocchio’s club (a few doors down from the Chi Chi) and other musicians who were playing at different venues on Broadway, like the Mabuhay and the Stone. It was a great time for live music in San Francisco, and we were on our way to being part of it. That time at Clown Alley seemed an eternity for me where I would vacillate between total nervousness, total excitement, and complete fear, only broken by the rhythmic sarcasm of Anthony. The memory is so vivid, I can still hear the drag queens laughing, breaking out into various show tunes, the metalheads sparking up, the smell of burgers cooking, and the encroaching fog into the warmth of the night. The walk back to the club seemed a lot longer, like we were on that last walk to the electric chair. No words were spoken, only looks of confused inner panic to the unknown of what was ahead — not even Anthony could manage a single sarcastic comment on the way.

We arrived at the back door of the club. Billy had us wait as he went around to let us in. A few minutes later, the door swung open to reveal stood Billy and Zeek laughing hysterically. Maybe they were laughing in anticipation of the three-monkey show that was about to go live, and perhaps this was all just a joke about to reveal its cruel punchline? We walked in, and Billy stopped us to say, “guys, just do your best and have fun.” Then Billy turned to Zeek and asked if he wanted to say anything to us. With his back turned, walking away towards the main bar, Zeek yelled while laughing, “don’t fuck up.” The comment did make us laugh, but one of those nervous laughs just before the shit hits the fan. Up to the stage, we went, no words, just worried looks.

I remember looking out to the bar area and able to count the 27 people who were our audience. Mostly metal heads with looks of “what shit is this on the stage? I bet they suck” on their respective faces. The remainder just looked confused by a bunch of kids with instruments. We tried our best not to look at the faces and focus on getting hooked up, in tune, and ready to play, but just before we plugged in, we heard from the back, “what is this shit, the fucking Brady kids?” The three of us looked at each other in horror, the anxiety building. For me, the anxiety was about to hit a fever pitch, and it was time to play. I leaned into the microphone and said, “Hi, we are Early Man” and was met with “no shit, play you little retards.” I became frozen, not knowing what to do next when the white night came out of the shadows to kill the anxiety beast, and it was Anthony. Anthony leaned into one of the drum mics and said, “yeah, we suck cock. So sit back, drink your booze, and enjoy the plane crash.” Seeing the audience burst into laughter and the metal dudes giving the thumbs up, the anxiety beast had been slain. Thor and I walked to our amps, cranked the volume, turned them on, and I motioned to the sound engineer to crank it as well, we were ready to roll.

I don’t remember our setlist, nor do I remember much of the actual performance. Still, I do remember some of the metal dudes at the front of the stage in head-banging formation, reasonable attention from a slowly growing audience and my bloody fingers on my right hand (Zeek actually brought a bowl of whiskey to me at one point so I could dip my fingers in it to numb the pain and stop the bleeding). When we finished our set, there was some applause with a “you didn’t suck so bad Brady kids” and a high-five from one of the metal dudes. As we were about to unplug, Zeek came running up and said, “good job, you didn’t fuck up. Play two more tunes, and you earned it.” We played our final two tunes, unplugged, broke down the equipment and drums, and left. It seemed to have ended as soon as it started, but we felt elevated, lighter, freed from the weights of our life experiences. I certainly felt renewed, my soul glowed for the first time in many years, and there was a happiness within me vibrating like those delicate first few notes of the solo violin in Scheherazade.

Anthony, Thor, and I were welcomed back several times to the Chi Chi, and we also got gigs at the Full Moon, Cafe du Nord, Graffiti, and a couple of others. We never were able to headline, and the closest we came was second billing to Head On. We would always completely throw ourselves into our performances, the fingers on my right hand would always bleed, I never learned to sing, and we had a lot of fun, especially when we became jailbait for the random groupie or got free pot, free drinks and LSD. However, we were focused and dedicated to our music. We didn’t have a plan, and we just wanted to play.

Over time, we did become more “professional,” wanting to find ways to play off the audience more. It always bugged us when most of the audience simply didn’t pay attention to our songs, let alone the performance. The three of us would have band meetings to try and understand how we could “fix this.” In the end, we decided we needed a name change. More importantly, we needed a name that would make people shut up and listen (at least for the first 5 minutes). It took us a while, but the breakthrough, again, finally came from my co-worker and music mentor, Phil. The name was epic, and we will save the name for the next story.

The final gig as Early Man was at the Graffiti club, and I cannot say if it was good or bad, only that it was our last with that name. Thor and I were given a dose of LSD each before the gig by a beautiful woman with pink hair named Portia. Anthony didn’t dose with us, instead of downing quite a few mushrooms. Upon ingestion of our respective drugs of choice, the three of us with Portia and her friend in tow went to find burritos as the obligatory pre-gig meal. Early on as Early Man, we had decided we would have a pre-gig meal ritual together as a “tip of the hat” to our first gig and the Clown Alley burgers we ate. We felt it would always bring us luck and good vibes for the gig ahead. We found our burritos and had a great time cracking jokes, talking about books we liked, Anthony making wisecracks about my love of Russian composers and poetry (I was the “fucking commie”), me making wisecracks about Anthony’s obsession with comic books and, of course, make fun of Thor’s name. It was our usual banter, and pre-gig fun, and our guests were equally amused.

On the walk back, Thor smacked the back of my head and said, “dude, I am starting to tweak.” I had not arrived there yet, but I knew my destination was coming soon. Halfway back, I too started to tweak and thinking what a fucking moron I was for dosing before a gig. I stopped, grabbed Thor, looked him in the eyes, and said, “we are connected and will keep each other focused during the show. Let’s not let each other down.” Thor, looking at me with sublime confusion, nodded his head while saying, “I am connectedly tweaked,” and Anthony said in a very calm voice, “well, we’re fucked.”

I remember quite a bit from the performance. Still, it was not the music, and it was not the audience. Instead, it was seeing a sea of morphing flesh where the audience should be, my guitar trying to eat my hand, my fingers melting into the strings, and being able to see every note of music we were playing. The truth is, I can still see these things pretty vividly in my mind today, but I am unsure if they are real memories or not. Nevertheless, they feel real.

After the gig, Billy took our equipment back to his place so the three of us could go party with Portia and some other friends. We walked the streets of the Mission District watching people, seeing the grand illusions of life LSD reveals to us and laughing a lot. Maybe the gig was unmemorable, but my time with this group of people after the gig was. It was a great evening, and we stayed together until we could watch the sunrise from Twin Peaks.

Our experiences during this time, (the good, the bad and the strange), helped each of us develop a better sense of self, built more confidence and helped us see the world in a better light. I lost contact with Anthony and Thor somewhere along my journey, but they are always with me in my heart and part of my soul.