the Academy was still relatively new and a quick couple of songs would gain me a little notoriety which, in turn, would make it easier for me to make friends, I figured. “Oh it’ll be easy,” I accepted the invitation for both of us. “If somebody else around here has a guitar we can borrow, we can probably have a few songs worked up in about fifteen minutes.” I then saw Ellen look at me with an expression of surprise on her face. What—she must have wondered—was I getting her into?
“Great!” The head of our student body seemed pleased that we were willing to make the effort. “I know where I can get my hands on another guitar. I’ll be right back.” And then he vanished into the crowd of students who by now had filled in the library around us.
“It’ll be fine,” I tried to reassure Ellen. “If you can play, I’m sure we can put together a couple of numbers at least. Do you sing too?” I asked.
“Yes, I guess,” she answered tentatively.
“Well then, we’ll be fine. I sing also.”
A moment later the head proctor had returned with a six-string folk guitar which apparently belonged to the head waiter. “We’ll hold some dinner for you guys while you go get ready.”
After that I remember taking Ellen over to my dorm room and pulling out my twelve-string. (Now, in case I was just expected to say something else here, let me assure the reader that I was raised to always be a gentleman around women. Also, at this stage of my life, I was still pretty naive about matters of sex.) About ten minutes later, after some quick rehearsing, we were as ready as we were ever going to be. So we returned to the library and took our places on a raised section of the room by the windows because it seemed to make the perfect stage for us. I have no idea now what we actually played that night, but I imagine—to be safe—we did standards like “Greens Leafs” because a lot of the time, the audience sang along with us. Our performance went fine except for the fact that the head waiter kept calling up for us to play “Wooden Ships” by Crosby Stills & Nash. At the time, that song was part of a brand-new album which I hadn’t yet been able to listen to. Looking back on it now, I have decided that he was simply jealous that such a young kid like me was up there getting all of the attention instead of him. And indeed, I didn’t know it at the time, but eventually I would feel the brunt of his ill feelings toward me. And, not to blow my own horn or anything, but I was a much better performer than he was. In fact, with the exception of one fellow who was a very fine pianist, I don’t remember anyone at the Academy ever being able to match me in this area.
So we did the two or three songs we had prepared to solid applause, but the audience wanted more from us. So, after that, Ellen and I alternated solo numbers for a while until we decided we had been up there long enough.
“Here you go.” The head proctor handed Ellen and me our dinners after we had put down our guitars and rejoined the crowd. “We put these plates together for you guys. Thanks a lot for doing this for us. I think it went over really well.” And then, as an older brother might do to a younger one, the head proctor reached over and rubbed the top of my head with his hand which, of course, messed up my hair.
“No problem,” I answered with a smile. “Any time.” And then I lifted one of my hands and used my fingers as a comb to put my hair back into place.
“You’re welcome.” Ellen also sounded grateful for the praise, but I think she was just as glad to finally have the whole experience behind her.
After dinner we joined some friends and made our way down to the coffee house in the Annex. There, amid the dim lights, the posters of rock bands and the loud music of Steppenwolf, the Doors and Jimmy Hendrix, we talked and danced through a good portion of the evening. One of the funnier things I remember about Ellen was that she had
“Great!” The head of our student body seemed pleased that we were willing to make the effort. “I know where I can get my hands on another guitar. I’ll be right back.” And then he vanished into the crowd of students who by now had filled in the library around us.
“It’ll be fine,” I tried to reassure Ellen. “If you can play, I’m sure we can put together a couple of numbers at least. Do you sing too?” I asked.
“Yes, I guess,” she answered tentatively.
“Well then, we’ll be fine. I sing also.”
A moment later the head proctor had returned with a six-string folk guitar which apparently belonged to the head waiter. “We’ll hold some dinner for you guys while you go get ready.”
After that I remember taking Ellen over to my dorm room and pulling out my twelve-string. (Now, in case I was just expected to say something else here, let me assure the reader that I was raised to always be a gentleman around women. Also, at this stage of my life, I was still pretty naive about matters of sex.) About ten minutes later, after some quick rehearsing, we were as ready as we were ever going to be. So we returned to the library and took our places on a raised section of the room by the windows because it seemed to make the perfect stage for us. I have no idea now what we actually played that night, but I imagine—to be safe—we did standards like “Greens Leafs” because a lot of the time, the audience sang along with us. Our performance went fine except for the fact that the head waiter kept calling up for us to play “Wooden Ships” by Crosby Stills & Nash. At the time, that song was part of a brand-new album which I hadn’t yet been able to listen to. Looking back on it now, I have decided that he was simply jealous that such a young kid like me was up there getting all of the attention instead of him. And indeed, I didn’t know it at the time, but eventually I would feel the brunt of his ill feelings toward me. And, not to blow my own horn or anything, but I was a much better performer than he was. In fact, with the exception of one fellow who was a very fine pianist, I don’t remember anyone at the Academy ever being able to match me in this area.
So we did the two or three songs we had prepared to solid applause, but the audience wanted more from us. So, after that, Ellen and I alternated solo numbers for a while until we decided we had been up there long enough.
“Here you go.” The head proctor handed Ellen and me our dinners after we had put down our guitars and rejoined the crowd. “We put these plates together for you guys. Thanks a lot for doing this for us. I think it went over really well.” And then, as an older brother might do to a younger one, the head proctor reached over and rubbed the top of my head with his hand which, of course, messed up my hair.
“No problem,” I answered with a smile. “Any time.” And then I lifted one of my hands and used my fingers as a comb to put my hair back into place.
“You’re welcome.” Ellen also sounded grateful for the praise, but I think she was just as glad to finally have the whole experience behind her.
After dinner we joined some friends and made our way down to the coffee house in the Annex. There, amid the dim lights, the posters of rock bands and the loud music of Steppenwolf, the Doors and Jimmy Hendrix, we talked and danced through a good portion of the evening. One of the funnier things I remember about Ellen was that she had
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