Now, the band was starting to gel. Andy, Paul and I all wrote songs. Paul and I generally wrote together, but sometimes one or the other of us would bring a completed song, then came the editing. The arrangements always happened collaboratively. When we first started writing, we made the decision to copyright everything as P & D Cavanaugh. The writing was so intertwined, even on those songs we wrote individually, that it made sense. Over time, we even tended to forget who originated it. But some stood out as either Paul’s or mine. “Visions of an Airplane” was definitely Paul’s. It was written over the course of many years. In 1974, he had read that a suite consisted of five distinct parts and quickly decided to take on the challenge. In 1975, he wrote the first part in Santa Cruz, California. The second part soon followed. In 1977, while back in Connecticut, we lay on our backs in the middle of a football field tripping during a meteor shower while Paul composed the third part on my nylon string guitar as bats came swooping down a little too close for comfort. The fourth and fifth parts were written in Oregon in the early 80s. Another song that Paul wrote was “Long, Long Night.” I so vividly remember that song. I had been on the other side of the country visiting family for a couple of weeks, needing a serious break from the fighting, considering whether or not I could keep living with such an angry man, and then coming home to that love song. Paul always knew how to mend our rifts.
        All of the members of the current lineup of General Eclectic had experience with psychedelics, so we were all on the same wavelength musically and psychically. We even tripped together to solidify that connection. I loved playing music on psychedelics because it dissolved all of my inhibitions around music. I reached for new heights without the fear of falling. I rarely played the piano because it brought up too many frightening memories, but I played it when tripping because nothing could hurt me in that psychedelic haze. I knew that these drugs had saved my life. You’ll notice that I don’t write a lot about my early life, just little glimpses now and then. There are good reasons why I’m not yet ready to share those dark times. LSD, mushrooms, mescaline, peyote … all healed my wounds. I still had scars, but I didn’t notice them as much. And I was convinced that it could heal others, too. Paul was in the same boat. Although he still had big anger issues, he seemed to be more grounded after tripping. He was more connected with the outer world and less ruled by his inner world. We also admired the West Coast scene especially The Grateful Dead and Ken Kesey and the Acid Tests. Because of all of these factors, we decided to put on our own Acid Test.
        The original idea was to do three of them because three was the magic number for us after finding a bamboo bong with a Chinese inscription about the power of the number three. We started organizing the first one with a musically diverse group of friends, and the idea took off. When trying to figure out how to best distribute the doses, it was decided that it shouldn’t be in actual Kool-Aid. That seemed too risky. That meant someone had to be in charge of it, and I was nominated. Everyone thought that I was probably the most responsible party. Ha! I have to laugh at that now. We made the flyer with hints about the event activities and mostly depended on word-of-mouth. Word went out that if we were booked as The Eclectic Koo-aid Band, it would be one of these unique events, and word got around fast!
        That evening, I was handed a piece of foil with plenty of hits of blotter. Paul and I immediately took one each, and I folded the foil back up. The room was set up with a liquid light show. I had borrowed an overhead projector from the school, not telling them why I wanted it. We put two Pyrex pie plates on the surface with cooking oil and food coloring that swirled around and was projected on one wall. Our friends from the band Con Demek showed black and white porn films on another wall after being asked to stop showing them on the band while we were performing. The people downstairs in the “smoking section” were blowing smoke up through the holes in front of the stage, and the place was packed! Within the first couple of hours, the neatly folded tin foil was now a ball of foil in my hand with little bits of blotter sticking out. I found a friend who was not imbibing, handed it off to him babbling something, probably gibberish, and left him shaking his head.
        We had many different musicians and bands including some impromptu jamming. There were partiers on all three floors of the building and even outside lining the sidewalk. It was an amazing event. So, we decided to do the second. This time I was smart enough to put someone else in charge of the psychedelics so that I was able to just concentrate on running the show. Mostly though, the show ran itself and I was able to enjoy the fruits of my labor. We were starting to plan the third and final test when the real owner of the Half Moon Café returned to Albany. There was a loose collective of young people running it up to then. Now things changed. When I went in for the first time to meet him, he started complaining about all of the crazy things that he’d heard went on there. “Did you know there was an actual Acid Test here,” he asked. To which I replied, “Wow! Crazy, man.” I always tried not to lie outright and didn’t then. He and I became friends, but I never did admit that we had been the ones responsible. And, although Paul and I tried to build up the energy and excitement for another one, we knew it couldn’t be there and never found another suitable and safe site.
        We continued to play at The Half Moon and possible every local bar in town. People either loved us or hated us. There was a review in The Backroom Buzz about a show we did at QE2 that described the band as “a bunch of aging hippies with a lead singer who looked like a milking cow and sang like a cat in heat.” You can imagine what that did to my self-esteem. I was devastated. I didn’t want to go out of the house let alone go on a stage again. All of our friends were horrified and encouraging but it wasn’t until Paul came up with a new poster idea that I agreed to do another show in Albany.   

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        When I was hired at Hilton Music to teach piano, I decided to work as many hours as I could to try to get ahead a little financially. We were living in section-8 housing, so we were surviving, but that was all. Of course, the more money we made, the higher was our rent, but we could still keep enough to make a difference. To get to work on time, I left home at 7:30 am to walk to the bus stop. Then, so that the family could use the car to do fun things, I took two buses to reach my job in Troy by 9 am and worked until 7 pm, getting home between 8:30 and 9. I was exhausted when I got home but also happy to be working and doing something on my own away from the house and family. Up to that point, our kids had gone everywhere with me, parties, rallies, gigs, and more. I even taught at their school. I was teaching music mostly to young people, most of whom really wanted to play.
        I was also meeting other musicians. I quickly met Rudd Young, who was also working there. He was a manager and a salesman. He was a good one, too. He was, and still is, a very friendly and likeable guy. I soon found out that he played bass. We had just recently lost our bass player, so I organized a jam. Rudd not only joined the band, but he offered the store as a practice space after hours. He set everything up, we started practicing once or twice a week. I had met enough people by then to be able to arrange for a babysitter. It was usually the teenage daughter of a friend from Rok Against Reaganomix. Cheralyn was great. She was a no-nonsense sitter, which was exactly who I needed with Justin, who was becoming a handful. She also had a brother and was able to either negotiate gracefully between my two fighting children or just nip it in the bud. It was such a relief to have someone I trusted be with them.
        We must have had a drummer, but I don’t remember who that was. We went through many musicians in those early Albany days. We had a variety of guitar players including one who was into more contemporary and heavier rock than we were at the time. He influenced the band in a good way. Danny was young and a bit flashy. Around the time he was playing with us, someone saw our cat in the window and reported it. Pets were not allowed in this complex but, as she had traveled across the country with us and was part of our family, we weren’t willing to give her up, so we snuck her in hoping for the best. My parents refused to take her, and we couldn’t find anyone else. Out of desperation, we asked Danny to take her until we could figure something else out. We also explained how attached we were to her. Poor Jessie cried as we handed her over, but we assured her that we would find another place and get her back. This was only temporary.
        We asked regularly how she was doing and noticed that Danny seemed a little nervous each time we asked. He finally admitted that he gave her away to some old lady who seemed to love her and was looking for a cat. We were angry and devastated. Autumn was Jessie’s cat, and she was broken-hearted. We insisted that he try to get her back, but he had no idea who this woman was or how to find her. He told us at the next practice that he looked and asked around to no avail. We felt betrayed. He never even checked with us before passing her on. We could see that he felt guilty, but that night we fired him. Paul had a lot of faults, but to him loyalty was an important attribute. Danny had failed at that.
        Meanwhile, I was starting to burn out on my job at the music store. The hours were draining, and the owner wanted me to push the sales of sheet music. Most of the kids were beginners and weren’t ready for much more than the standard lesson book. I’ve always incorporated ear training in my lessons as well, so they were satisfied playing some of their favorite songs by ear or with the simple arrangements I made for them. Although the other employees understood, the owner did not. Another issue was what I was coming home to after work. Paul had warned me back in 1980 when I was offered a full-time job in Portland, that he was not a reliable caregiver. I knew this and hoped that he could manage for a day, but this was not to be. The first few weeks, things went smoothly. Both kids were happy. They’d seemed to have had a good day with their dad. Then, things gradually started to slip through the cracks. I started coming home to chaos. Paul often lost track of the time and hadn’t fixed dinner. Then I would find out that the kids hadn’t had lunch either. When I realized that he wasn’t taking them out anywhere, I stopped taking the bus, shortening my travel time by a lot. However, all things considered, this extra job had stopped being worth all the downsides, so I quit.

        In addition to driving or hitchhiking to San Francisco for music, there was plenty of music right near our home in and around Santa Cruz. The center of activity was the Pacific Avenue pedestrian mall. This was the major hangout spot. There was always music there. There were always buskers (street musicians). I once saw Arlo Guthrie playing on a street corner. We hung out for a little while, and he told me that he liked to busk because it was a good reminder of where he came from. Paul and I occasionally busked there too, but he was working full-time, and we had our first baby, so our time was limited. That didn’t mean we weren’t playing tons, just not on street corners. We once went to a party and jammed with Sammy Hagar. Another time, I sat in on vocals with Don McCaslin’s band, Warmth, at the Cooper House, an old courthouse from the 1890s turned into a restaurant and café. They played there every day and night, usually outdoors by the sidewalk café. There were great clubs, too. The Catalyst was a cool, funky venue right in the hub of the action. Unfortunately, it was destroyed during the big earthquake that happened there years after we were gone. It was rebuilt but had lost its funky quality that made it so warm and welcoming.
        There was always something or someone interesting to be found on Pacific Avenue. One day, as I rounded a corner, there was a man in full combat gear, guns and all, just standing there like a statue. I thought at first that he was until he moved slightly. He was protesting “the police state.”  Another day, I was walking along when I heard a familiar voice. Back when we were living in Connecticut, just before we decided to leave on our big adventure, we had picked up a hitchhiker near Hartford and brought him to our apartment where he stayed for almost a week. His name was David. He was homeless and traveling the country by thumb. He played harmonica, so we stayed up night after night jamming and partying. When he left for the west coast, we gave him some winter gear, hat, coat and gloves, so he wouldn’t freeze. David had the most unique voice. It had been destroyed by cigarettes and alcohol but had a very melodic, though raspy, quality to it. Now, here he was, holding court on Pacific Avenue, playing his harp and regaling all the hippies with his stories. He recognized me immediately and insisted I sit with him for a while singing along.
          We were often running into people we knew. Paul randomly found a former co-worker from Connecticut, and I found out that my cousin Tommy was living in Santa Cruz. By the time I tracked him down, he was moving on the next day. He was only a couple of blocks away from our apartment, and we had a nice visit. We also ran into the woman who had given us a ride out of the blizzard in Big Springs, Nebraska. Then, there were the folks we just ran into in San Francisco. This still happens to me all the time. Five years ago, I went out to Oregon to the Oregon Country Faire, a huge hippie festival held every July Fourth weekend/week. As I was walking through the packed crowd of thousands of people, I saw an old friend from Albany who was vacationing there. Neither of us had been in touch for a while and were quite surprised to see each other there. Though, I have to admit that I’m not really surprised by much these days.
        My life changed in so many ways while living there. I was raised on fast food, TV dinners, instant mashed potatoes and Velveeta cheese. Suddenly, I found myself in an environment where there were food coops and people harvesting wild foods. There were natural healers using plants instead of chemicals to cure illnesses. There were nursing mothers everywhere of all ages, not just young hippies. I started learning all of these things, using herbs for healing, learning about vegetarianism and finding out more about nutrition than I’d ever imagined. There was a wonderful bookstore on the mall simply called “Bookshop Santa Cruz.” One day I found a cookbook in the free box on the sidewalk outside entitled “The Bread Book.” I started baking my own bread. I made bagels and pizza dough, bread, biscuits, muffins, coffee cakes, and more. I still own that book and use it often, as tattered and stained as it is. It still has the best cornbread recipe I’ve ever found. I also got the Tassajara Bread Book at that bookstore. It was in Santa Cruz that I ate my first taco and discovered my love for Mexican cuisine. I ate my first taste of Jicama at a potluck dinner in San Francisco that was a fundraiser for a Hispanic community and met Malvina Reynolds there.
        We also discovered Peyote in Santa Cruz. We’d heard of it, of course, but hearing about it and trying it are two vastly different things. We got a batch and cleaned it thoroughly, removing all of the little while strychnine hairs. It was disgusting to eat, but once you vomited, it was like entering another world of light and color. It was the opposite of mushrooms, which I always found dark and foreboding. It was worth feeling like I was going to die for those minutes, which did seem like hours, until I purged the poison. It was easy to get, and eventually, we made it into iced tea. Our favorite snack became iced tea and pot cookies. Pot was readily and easily available as well. The Vietnam War had ended in April of 1975 and California was getting Vietnamese refugees. Some of them were a little sketchy, but we were all about peace, love and acceptance, so when we met a guy who offered to sell us a pound at an unbelievable price of $100, Paul decided to take the chance.
        That was a lot of money for us back then, so we hit up two other friends to see if they wanted to get in on the deal. Of course, they did. The dealer was understandably very paranoid so they came up with a plan for Paul to walk through San Lorenzo Park and leave a paper bag with the money under the designated bridge where there would be a paper bag waiting for him there. He was not to stop but had to just pick up the bag and keep walking. When he got to the bridge, there was the bag with the dealer standing nearby. Paul picked it up and walked on. The dealer picked up the bag with the money, took a quick look inside and ran like a bat out of hell. At that point Paul looked inside the heavy bag and found a pound cake. By that time, the other guy was long gone. Paul came home a very seriously cut up the pound cake into equal portions and we all ate our hundred-dollar cake with a chaser of iced tea. Luckily, our friends were understanding, and we all chalked it up to a lesson learned.
        So, why did we ever leave?  That story is coming next.

     Wise words from an amazing man, a percussionist with the Grateful Dead who travels around the world collecting indigenous music.  I was lucky enough to meet Mickey Hart very briefly once.  This quote is so meaningful to me.  I have always tried to fill my life with sound - not necessarily music, but always some kind of sound, whether it's the sound of the wind in the maple tree outside my window as I write this post, or the sound of the birds.  The last few days and nights, I've been aware of the beautiful sounds that the rain makes.  When my daughter was 5 years old, we lived in Tillamook County on the coast of Oregon in a mobile home for a while.  She liked to put various pots and pans or plastic bowls upside down in the yard outside her bedroom window so that she could listen to the symphony of sounds that the rain made.  She even drew a picture of it with a caption about liking the rain because it makes music that, sadly, has been lost along the way.  But, I can still see it in my mind, and I think of it everytime I listen to the rain.
      Sound is so important.  I often have insomnia.  It's so frustrating to lay in bed, knowing that I have to wake early, wishing that I could just fall alsleep, and getting more and more stressed the more I think about it which doesn't help me fall asleep.  I sometimes get up and read for a while then try again, but lately I've been remembering a tip that my former partner gave me.  He told me to just listen intently to all the sounds.  He said that if we focus on the sounds, it takes our minds off of other things and relaxes us.  When I can remember to do that, it always works - unless I've had a lte cup of coffee.  Then, all bets are off.  :-)
      Because I'm a songwriter, I often don't have music playing at home.  It interferes with the music in my head.  Also, I'm a very active listener.  I find it difficult at times to hold a conversation when there's music playing.  I have to dive into the music fully.  The exception to this is music I am very familiar with.  For that reason, I have a couple of go-to CDs for when company is over.  They are CDs that are so ingrained in my psyche, I don't have to listen intently.  I listen to music when I am looking for new songs to cover or learning something new.  When I'm learning a new song, I immerse myself in it totally, listening to it over and over for hours at a time over the course of many days.  I listen to it until I can hear it in my sleep.  Then, when I go to play it, I already know it.  It's just a matter of training my fingers.  It drives others crazy, but it works for me.  Thank goodness for headphones!
     In my job, I am always trying to convince people that everyone can sing regardless of the quality of their voice or even whether or not they can sing in key.  It's about the act of sharing the music within your family or with your community.  It's the same with sound.  All sound is music, at least to my ears.  I've had friends whose music was "industrial noise".  It was creative and innovative.  I loved going to their shows and hearing how they turned "noise" what some might think of as cacaphony, into music.  It wasn't for everyone, but I admired it.   I encourage you to think about that the next time you are feeling bothered by some ambiant noise around you.  Maybe you can find the music in it.