The Call of the Wild 

Tom Williams

Tom Williams is a Marco Islander and the author of two books: Lost and Found and Surrounded by Thunder—The story of Darrell Loan and the Rocket Men. Both books are available on Kindle and Nook.

It was a cold and blustery Thursday when Michael first came to the door. The early November rain was blowing sideways, and the gray skies and chilling drizzle were not promising much in the way of excitement. The gray skies and the drizzle, however, were wrong.

Michael was dressed in baggy shorts, a purple shirt, and he was wearing purple sunglasses. In his hand, he was holding a banged-up travel case for an electric guitar. In the driveway of my parents’ house, the sporadic raindrops could not decide if a downpour was more appropriate for my older cousin, who was unloading a drum from the back of the car, or if the November weather should hold off and see what would happen next.

When I opened the den of Mother and Daddy’s big fieldstone house, which was a sprawling affair with flagstone patios guarding every approach, Michael might have blinked once before he spoke and then asked the ultimate question.

“Hey, man,” he said. “I hear you play guitar. Do you want to jam?”

The term “jam,” when Michael and I were both sixteen, simply meant to play guitars together. The fact that a drummer was already unloading a drum set in the driveway in a November drizzle was a hint the question might actually be a demand. After realizing the query at the door was an introduction, and understanding quickly that the fellow teenager might have something interesting to offer in the mysterious ways of electric guitars was something no child of the 1970s could turn down. 

After a simple “yes” was the answer to Michael’s question, a new version of the Pied Piper began—For those unfamiliar with the tale of a stranger coming into a village and ultimately charming the children into leaving their parents and leaving their town because of a mystical piping flute playing like no other—keep reading.

After the “yes” at the foyer, and a little concern for the older cousin who was the drummer in the driveway, a quick sprint through the November raindrops led quickly to the “Jam Palace.”

The “Jam Palace,” at the time, was my parents’ double car garage, and I was rather proud of the arrangement, especially for the achievement of talking Mother and Daddy into allowing the indulgence.

When the garage door opened even Michael, it seemed, was impressed. Hanging apart from the walls of a former home for motor vehicles was a very suitable acoustic barrier, which was several sets of heavy curtains procured from a vast sea of determination and finally the attic above the big fieldstone house.

Stationed as a row of sentries in front of the heavy curtains were several electric guitar and electric bass amplifiers. In the 1970s, any guitar amplifier worthy of any would-be rock star was not a small box with a tiny speaker that sat meekly on the floor.

One of the best—and most respected and admired—guitar amplifiers of the 1970s –were from England—just like The Beatles. Standing proudly beside the stacked Marshalls was the sparkling-silver brand that was Fender. Unlike the Marshall heavy metal producers from England, Fender was from California, where reverbing surf music somehow became conscripted into the role of pushing out hard rock at a volume that might be confused with an earthquake.

On many occasions—when the other musical kids would drop by, or when adult musicians who were almost famous would come over—the Jam Palace was the place to be.

The heavy curtains and thick carpet on the floor made the sound perfect—especially when loud was the norm, and a drummer had to pound like a sledgehammer just to be heard. 

Mother, of course, was curious about the activities at the Jam Palace and would always call out just as she opened the garage door. When she happened to “drop by,” as would most mothers with teenagers, the delivery of a big platter of cookies and lemonade was a great excuse to see who attended and what was going on in the building next to the house that was hosting the sounds of heavy metal seismic activity. 

“You boys are going to have trouble with your hearing if you keep playing with those loud amplifiers.” In retrospect: Mother was right.

Michael entered the Jam Palace for the first time with Cousin Jim—who had never made an appearance at the Palace because he was almost thirty, “too good,” and playing “Big Gigs” at the places Mother did not like to think about. 

Almost with preamble, the drums were set up, the bright orange eye of a Marshall Amp pilot light winked on, and Michael unpacked his Gibson Les Paul and began to shred out every known rock and roll riff that ever emerged from England, California, or any Southern Rock birthplace that ever had a hit on the radio. 

After the first song, which might have been something by Led Zeppelin, Eric Clapton, or even Lynyrd Skynyrd, everything changed after an hour of wearing out Cousin Jim on the drums. Michael simply offered, “I guess we need to form a band.”

“Our band,” on and off, lasted throughout high school and then began traveling all over. Because Cousin Jim was the senior, he was the chaperone when the band finally made it to The Marco Beach Hotel on Marco Island.

After the band played Marco, nothing was the same, because the skinny kid who played bass guitar and was the originator of Jam Palace ultimately stayed on Marco Island and began a new life as a Marco Beach Boy. Without Michael, his extraordinary talent, and the charm of The Call of the Wild, a Tennessee boy might not have a story to join with all the other stories of the folks who came to settle on Marco Island.