I DIDN’T THINK I WOULD BE ABLE TO CONTINUE LIVING AT Bea’s after Russell’s death. If for no other reason than appearances, I felt sure Bea might prefer that I move on. Imagine my surprise when within hours after Russell’s funeral service, Bea met me in the front yard by the apple tree. All her family members were inside, congregating in the living room and kitchen the way people do after a funeral.
Bea said, “Jimmy, I believe you were sent here, and I want you to stay if you want to.”
I was surprised but relieved. “Yes, ma’am, I do. I will. I would like to stay, Bea.”
Several months went by, and Bea asked me to move into the bedroom that was next to hers. I assumed having me closer made her feel safer, but looking back, I think she may have had another reason. Every night I could hear Bea through the wall, talking aloud to Jesus. I could hear her bones cracking and the bed springs squeaking as she leaned on the bed to get down on her knees to pray and then slowly pulled herself back up, sometimes as long as an hour later. She prayed for her relatives and a lot of people whose names I didn’t recognize, and every night I heard her praying for me.
Bea still went to the woodshop every day. She kept the business going by herself for the next two years. For her, it wasn’t about making money, but Bea spent the majority of her time inside the woodshop making butter churns and weaving baskets.
Her daughter, Sandie, and her husband, James Conrad, lived next door with their son, Josh, who became my best friend all through high school. Josh and I did everything together, and Sandie and James always included me in family activities, even taking me along with them on vacation to the mountains, during my sophomore and junior years in school.
Meanwhile, Bea continued working, and the family’s concerns grew. We were all afraid that Bea was going to accidentally injure herself. Her concentration seemed lacking since Russell had passed, and we felt it was only a matter of time before she pulled that whirring radial arm saw across her hand.
But any time someone suggested to Bea that it might be time to close doors on the woodshop, she’d bristle. “No!” she’d insist.
The woodshop was where she and Russell had spent their life together and where she still felt close to him. Closing the door on the shop would be like saying a final good-bye—and after more than sixty years with him, she still wasn’t ready to say those words.
One morning I walked into the living room, and there she stood, facing Russell’s and her fiftieth wedding anniversary picture. She was stroking it softly with her hand and telling Russell how much she missed him and loved him. Not wanting to intrude, I slipped away quietly, and she never even knew I was there.
Bea continued working Mondays through Fridays. Every morning she walked out her front door, across Sandie’s yard, and into the woodshop. By noon, a glow of sawdust was hovering in the air outside the bay door.
Bea was also a pretty good musician, and she especially enjoyed gospel music. Some mornings Bea turned on the record player, loaded up a bunch of 331/3 rpm gospel albums, and sang every word along with the artists on those vinyl records. One after another, the albums played for hours. And Bea sang. Did she ever sing! She’d reach for those high notes and hold them like an opera singer. Her beautiful vibrato filled the house. Sometimes I couldn’t help but sing along with her.
The smell of air freshener let me know that it was Saturday. I’d hear the long spray from the can of air freshener and Bea’s pet black mynah bird say, “Hello, hello.” Bea answered, “Hello,” and the bird repeated her words. Bea carried on a conversation with that bird while she laid clean newspapers in the bottom of its cage. Then came more air freshener. When the house smelled like potpourri and everything was exactly the way Bea liked it, then came rehearsal.
Bea would sit down at the piano and practice each hymn she planned to play at church the following morning. It was her Saturday morning routine, and she did it every week.
Bea’s love of music and poetry was infectious. She encouraged me to pursue writing poems, and when an opportunity came for me to join a band—even though it was a rock band—Bea was supportive.
TO HELP BEA, AND TO HAVE A BIT OF SPENDING MONEY OF my own while in high school, I got a part-time job at the Osage textile mill in Bessemer City. One day while taking a break, I overheard two fellow high school students, Rob Daniels and Chad McAllister, talking about music. “I’m looking for a singer to join my rock band,” Rob said. “If you hear of anyone, let me know.”
“I sing!” I blurted out.
“Really?” Rob asked, running his hand through his long, curly, blond hair. “Well, come over around five o’clock this afternoon, and I’ll give you a few songs to learn.”
I showed up at his house on time and met with the other band members: Richard Calhoun, who played drums, and Eric Pruitt, the bass player. Rob played lead guitar and was the leader of the band. Although the band did not yet have a name, he was very serious about it.
Rob gave me a cassette tape, and I headed back to Bea’s to begin learning the songs. Because I was totally inexperienced, I didn’t realize that the two songs on the tape—“Piece of Mind,” by the band Boston, and “Modern Day Cowboy,” by the group Tesla—were incredibly difficult songs to sing, even for seasoned professionals. I worked on them, nonetheless, and several days later I went back to Rob’s house to audition.
I was nervous because this was the first time I’d ever sung into a microphone. I was clueless about everything related to music performance. I just knew I had a love for it and dreamed of standing on stage one day, singing to an arena filled with fans.
Unfortunately, the audition did not go well. The songs were pitched in the same keys that the artists had recorded them. I could barely hit the high notes, so I was turned down for the gig.
The next day at work I explained to Rob, “Hardly anyone can sing those songs in their original keys. Why don’t you give me one more shot singing something that you’ve written?”
“Okay,” Rob said, “come by the house again and get a copy of two songs I wrote.” I showed up at Rob’s house, just like before. The band members didn’t say much and gave the impression that Rob was wasting their time by giving me two of his songs to learn.
I took the songs back to Bea’s house and spent every waking moment working on them until I felt as though I could sing them with my eyes closed.
Rob saw me at the Osage mill and said, “Rehearsal is Thursday night.”
“I’ll be there,” I assured him.
When I showed up for practice again, none of the band members said much. Their attitude was, “We’ll tolerate this guy’s audition, but we know he isn’t ever going to be a singer.”
Rob plugged in his white Flying V guitar and began warming up along with Richard and Eric. After a few minutes Rob looked at me and asked, “Are you ready?”
It was time to show them what I’d come up with. I sang my heart out, and although the rehearsal didn’t go as well as I had hoped, I got the gig! I was now the lead singer in a rock-and-roll band.
I couldn’t wait to share this news with Lynn, my first serious girlfriend. I had met Lynn at school in cabinet-making class, and later we went to work at the same textile factory. Lynn and I had established a fun relationship, but for some reason, Bea wasn’t impressed with her. She told me one day, “Jimmy, don’t ever let a girl stand in your way.”
“What do you mean, Bea?”
“Just make sure she’s right; make sure the relationship is right.” Bea’s comment almost offended me because I sincerely cared for Lynn. I was in love—as much as I knew of it—and I had even thought that someday we might get married. Before long I was spending half of my time with the band and the other half with Lynn, school, and work. The band rehearsed three to four times each week for several hours at every session, so there wasn’t a lot of extra time for a dating relationship.
Bea’s intuition and misgivings about Lynn proved accurate. One day I walked into the textile factory and saw her kissing another guy in the nook, where she and I often took our breaks. That ended my relationship with Lynn, but it didn’t end the hurt in my heart.
I realized that Bea was right; she wasn’t trying to deprive me of a good relationship. But she had a spiritual perception and discernment, and I learned to trust her opinions.
WITH LYNN OUT OF MY LIFE, I POURED MYSELF INTO THE band. One day Rob and I were together when he said, “I came up with a name for the band,” as he was pumping gas into his white pickup truck.
“Really? What?”
“Fantasyche!” he said, as though it were the greatest name for a band since the Beatles.
“Fanta what?” I asked.
“Fantasyche, like Queensryche, and the fantasy of the mind,” Rob explained.
“Oh, yeah, I get it,” I replied, but I really didn’t. I mulled over the words fantasy of the mind as I sat in the passenger seat. I’m still not sure what it means, but it is a cool name for the band, I thought.
My role with the band was that of lead vocalist, carrying all the loud, screaming lead lines. I didn’t play any instruments, but I sang hard, nearly blowing my vocal cords out on the heavy metal sound we emulated. Most of our lyrics—if anyone could hear them—were about escapism.
I performed onstage in front of a live audience for the first time at Bessemer City Junior High School, playing for a job fair in the school. The enthusiastic response of the junior high girls, screaming and waving their hands high in the air as we played, was addictive, and I was instantly hooked.
We soon entered our first “battle of the bands,” hosted by Yesterday’s nightclub in Hickory, another small town nearby. Yesterday’s was a popular rock-and-roll hot spot, so when the woman in charge of the band credentials handed me a laminate, enclosing my name tag, I was so excited I almost didn’t notice the name Fantasyche right above my name. This was big time in a small town. I was so proud of that name tag; I even wore it to school the following week.
Fantasyche didn’t win the battle of the bands that night, but we did place second, and that just made us hungrier. The band practiced more. We were featured on Local Licks, a radio show where local artists might have an opportunity to have one of their songs played on the station. That was the first time I heard myself on the radio.
The second battle of the bands was held at Casper’s nightclub in Gastonia. The band played hard rock and roll, and I sang even harder. The competition was stiff, and I will never forget hearing the emcee’s words, “And the first place winner is . . . Fantasyche!”
As part of our prize package, the band got to record a two-song demo in a professional recording studio in Charlotte. This was my first experience inside a recording studio. I was amazed and impressed by all the records hanging on the wall, and I was somewhat intimidated by the engineer. He’d been in the music business a long time and obviously knew far more than anyone in the room. Or at least he acted as if he did. I was clueless about the recording process, but I was excited to learn.
ROB WAS IN CHARGE OF EVERYTHING. A FEW WEEKS AFTER we did our demo, he called a band meeting at his house in the basement, where we practiced. When we showed up, Rob handed each of us a box of cassettes. On the cassette packaging in bold letters was the name Fantasyche written on the front and back, along with the song titles “Shoulda Known” and “Keep on Dreaming,” two songs written by Rob. We were as excited as little kids on Christmas morning.
Rob explained to the band that we needed to sell the cassettes for five dollars each so we could pay back the loan his mom and dad had given us to pay for manufacturing the product. We sold the cassettes at school and at shows.
With our first two-song demo cassette, we dreamed of being rock stars. I thought that wearing purple spandex shorts, a jean trench coat, and sneakers was cool. When I walked onstage dressed like that at Peppers, a popular local club, I quickly realized that the audience was comprised completely of truckers, bikers, and rednecks—and they were all men. There wasn’t a woman in the room! There I stood, without a shirt on, and nearly got booed off the stage. I was glad to get out of that place with my life!
Fantasyche had a good run; we stayed together as a band for more than a year and a half, not bad for high school kids. But by the time I reached my senior year, things were changing in the band. Parents got involved, reality set in, and the band members began changing their minds about any long-term commitments. But unlike the other band members, I didn’t have anything or anyone to fall back on if this band didn’t work. It was the only thing I really had going on.
Performing music was my dream. Yet when I looked at the band realistically, I realized that heavy metal “hair” bands were on the decline. I knew in my heart that our band wasn’t going to make it. Any other conclusion was only wishful thinking. I folded up my microphone stand, packed up my Shure SM57 microphone, wrapped up my cord, and said good-bye to Fantasyche.
SHORTLY AFTER THAT ROB MOVED TO VIRGINIA TO CONTINUE pursuing music. I didn’t know if music was even an option for me anymore. I loved music, but I knew there was no job security in the music business. I decided it would be smart to finish high school and go to college. I tried to put the dream on the back burner, but when you’ve been bitten by the music bug, that desire doesn’t go away so easily.
Still, I might have found some form of inoculation if a criminal named Jody Lee Hager hadn’t shown up at my high school.