Showing posts with label Harmonica. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Harmonica. Show all posts

Tuesday, February 6, 2018

A fine harmonica solo from John Popper

The velocity of Jon Popper's quicksilver harmonica bluster remains, for me, just that, harmonica bluster, a machine gun's impression of someone trying to spit up a hairball. This is not to say that Popper and his   band Blues Traveler haven't distracted and surprised me with energy and innovation in their capacity as a "jam band." Or that Popper himself hasn't been able to control his conspicuous ability to step on the gas at will on that small instrument and performed turns in the spotlight that made me envious of his moment and how well he used it. But sum total, Popper is not my favorite harmonica player, and he isn't likely to ascend in my estimation. Often, harmonica improvisations resemble not so many extensions of what you can do with diatonic instruments as it does someone revving their engine after midnight to get a charge in their battery. You would swear some city noise abatement ordinances were being violated. Jon Popper is a unique harmonica player with impressive speed and verve, but he is not a good blues player. He garbles the low end, sounding more asthmatic than bracing. Predictably, he only says comfortable on the high notes, where his accuracy and intonation improve dramatically. 
Image result for john popper
Even there, he does really bring the low, middle, and high registers together; these are some sorry transitions. He is, on the other hand, an excellent blues singer, based on this sample. To be fair, though, this video is some years old, and it seems that Popper has learned something about blues phrasing, as in his recording of "Last Night" with Johnny Winter. He allows space to sculpt his solo. His fleet runs on the high end are not as frantic; they are shot, sharp bursts, and dead on target. It is a wonderfully chilling sound. Popper's low-end execution is not the best - when he plays blues, he often sounds like he's unsure where the second, third or fourth notes are. He doesn't come to them with the intuitive ease he shows with his high register riffing. Even so, his high-end escapades don't connect with anything going around him, or just barely, if at all. The solo is a mess. But he does great stuff on the Johnny Winter track--there are years between the recordings, and what Popper does throughout the improvisation is show us that he figured out how to play blues in his own style, with his signature runs, and still have it be blues. Toward the end of the solo, he gives us a masterful flurry of notes that speed by yet maintains a blues cadence. He knows what he has to do. So there is hope for this man to get his share of blues credibility.

Sunday, March 3, 2013

Pat O'Brien, harmonica and guitar double threat.

I sought out Pat O'Brien on the net and after listening to some things he's done with Priests of Love and Scott Henderson, it seems that he is another case in point in how to use speedy playing techniques usefully, musically in a blues and blues/rock context. He is wickedly fast, among the fastest I've heard, and he is precise without seeming merely technically adept. He is very fine at playing a song's head arrangements in unison with his own guitar playing and whatever harmony instrument the particular ensemble happens to have, and he is simply awesome at building solos. He has control of his tone in that he warbles, vibratos, chokes, slurs and bends without nearly a vocal fluidity, and he shares with other masters like Sugar Blue and Jason Ricci the skill at building a solo.

 Below is a video of O'Brien and the POL performing Django Reinhardt's classic gypsy swing piece  "Honeysuckle Rose",  and take note of the remarkable ease with which O'Brien performs on both guitar and harmonica. The unison lines he manages on both instruments as they state the tricky, bouncy melody has grace and swing mightily. The harmonica solo is fluid, melodic and turns around sweetly; the notes sparkle and glide through the rapid chord changes with a true sense of a tuneful, inventive jazz improvisation. Not unexpectedly, the guitar that comes after the restatement of the melody is no less agile, bluesy and true to the delicate rapidity of the Reinhardt original. Harmonica musicianship this good is uncommon even in a world that at times seems crowded with one virtuoso after another.

Tension and release is the name of the game, something the truly great blues guitarists have done pat-- BB, Albert and Freddie King, Buddy Guy, Johnny Winter, Clapton. He eschews flashy lines for good parts of his improvisations and rather offers up superb note choices from lower, middle and upper registers (his glissando skills in the high notes is enough to make me put my harmonica down for a while and get schooled), long low moans, chilling chord tremolos, short, terse riffs, building to what seems to be an instinctive instance where a cathartic onslaught of fast, crazy, exhilarating lines finally achieving release.

 I have no doubt that O'Brien's demonstrated skill as a blues/rock guitarist informs his sense of how to build a blues harmonica solo. Many, many technically adept players rely on and pat phrases and convenient power moves, too often, when they take their solos (I include myself in this category); this man strikes a player who has mastered his technique to the extent that like Butterfield and Blue it becomes something akin to a speaking. The phrases are spontaneous and individual, appropriate to the material. This is not a man who has only one solo he plays over and over. Pat O'Brien was unknown to me until now, and a big thanks to Adam for posting this. O'Brien combines technique and feeling and shows here and elsewhere a flawless sense of swing. Wild and wonderful harmonica work by someone who should be much, much better known than he already is.


Saturday, February 23, 2013

Tone is King

As regards harmonica playing, tone is technique, in my book. What's important for me isn't the amount of technique a player has, but rather the quality of what he does with it. Billy Gibbons, guitarist for ZZ Top, doesn't have a great deal of harmonica technique on their song "Waiting for the Bus", but his tone is perfect, blasting, crisp, distorted just right. The few notes he plays are punchy to say the least, precisely timed.

The same thing can be said of Taj Mahal's "Leavin' Trunk" and 'She Took the Katy"--neither are complicated, but Mahal's playing is sublime. In the solos in either song, his phrases are brief, terse, emotionally gratifying. This is a musician who, though not a virtuoso by the arbitrary standards of current thinking, still had the genius to compose memorable statements. Tone or technique isn't a real choice one needs to make, in most cases.
Tone is technique, for all reed  instruments. Technique is merely a fluent accumulation  of know-how. Tone represents the talent, the real genius to make it human, moving, worth taking note of,

Saturday, May 12, 2012

I saw the original Paul Butterfield Blues Band in Detroit, 1966 or 67 at a no age limit folk and blues club called the Chessmate in Detroit Michigan, and this was an event that changed my life forever. I bought my first harmonica soon afterward and have been playing ever since. Detroit is a fantastic town for Black music, with lots of soul, blues, jazz and rock and roll, and the exposure to these kinds of music at an early age influenced my harmonica playing. I listened to saxophone players like Coltrane and Sonny Stitt and Coleman Hawkins, I listened to guitarists like Johnny Winter, Clapton, John McLaughlin and Larry Coryell, I listened to harmonica players like Butterfield, Musselwhite, James Cotton, Sonny Boy Williams, Norton Buffalo, but mostly I just played all the time, all the time, with bands, played to records, played alone, all the time. I played until my lips bled, literally. My parents thought I was eccentrc . I didn't care. I play everyday.

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I played even at my worst drinking; i have been sober now nearly t wenty five years. I am now trying to figure out the way I play so i can do some instruction videos. I play entirely by ear and really have no idea how to convey my style to others. I would love to read or hear someone describe what is I do. I thank all of you for listening to me and your kind words. he only harmonica players I studied closely and made a concentrated attempt to sound like, ie copy, are Paul Butterfield and Charlie Musselwhite. Butterfield and Musselwhite were the first guys to introduce me to blues harmonica playing and elements of their respective styles remain in my own style 46 years later. What really helped me, though, was just listening to virtually anything I could get my hands on; in my case it was an ongoing obsession with guitar players. In fact, I picked up harmonica because I couldn;t learn how to play fast like Alvin Lee or Johnny Winter fast enough--I was just all thumbs and no patience. But it was with the harmonica that I found a voice, my voice, and it was with the harmonica that I found myself being able to duplicate riffs and effects from harmonica players and from a good number of guitarists and, especially, many, many jazz musicians, like Coltrane, Bird, Coleman Hawkins. This is not to say that I sound anything like the jazz musicians I just mentioned--their techniques and their vocabulary are certainly more sophisticated than what I currently have--but the point is that giving these guys hard, concentrated listens influenced my sense of phrasing, gave me ideas and notions as to how to skip around during an improvisation and not merely rattle off scales, how to be precise in executing my ideas, in how and where to bend, to slur, to insert chord textures, trills, triplets, octaves. I do tell others who are learning their craft to listen to as much music as they possibly can and to learn as many different styles as possible, to learn riffs from blues, country, swing, classical and to mix them all up, and to practice, practice, practice and after that, practice some more. And more after that. I place maximum emphasis on  practice and playing in live situations because for me this is the most effective means of sloughing the most copy-cat aspects of your influences and moves you toward your own style.Having never had a lesson, having never learned music theory, having never learned to read nor write music,  how I learned was by an obsessive preoccupation with listening closely to harmonica players, rock guitarists and jazz improvisors by the score and woodshedding for hours for decades on end. It's always been a one day at a time thing.  Everyday in every way I get just a little bit better. On good days I even myself when I say it.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

Jason Ricci Hits the Sweet Spot

Rocket Number 9
Jason Ricci and New Blood
(Eclecto Groove Records)

Anyone with a strong need of hearing some of very fine and blistering blues harmonica work by a player dedicated to extending that small instrument's capacity to surprise a listener, I'd recommend getting the new disc by Jason Ricci and New Blood, Rocket Number 9. Ricci is one of those musicians where you can here the influences of players he's "gone to school" on (sounding to me like a sweet blend of Paul Butterfield, Little Walter, Sugar Blue, Sonny Boy Williamson and Howard Levy , and a smattering of mainstream saxists ala Paul Desmond )who has blended what he's learned into a vigorous, original style. Rocket Number Nine is a glorious and tight blues rock album, with plenty of sharp guitar work, a rhythm section that balances tightness and an an appealing , shambling kind of looseness , all of this highlighting Ricci's serpentine harp improvisations and ragged-but-right vocals.

What becomes obvious is that young Ricci is not stuck for an idea, and it's a wonder to hear his solos rage and soar and then transform into jazzier lines; one would have a hard time to finding another harmonica player with a better grasp of his technique and imagination or who makes as much of an effort to present fresh notions, configurations and twists into his playing.

There's a naturalness to what he brings forth, a sensual joining of his lines that is remindful of Butterfield at his most prime; rather than seeming like an upstart perfunctorily playing his warm-up licks before launching his super chops too soon and too often, Ricci, like Butterfield, has a jazz-players of dynamics. There the rare skill of building and releasing tension that keeps on the edge, motivated by the band's virtuoso rhythms and the lead man's sober unpredictability. New Blood, as I said, is a tight, rocking, funkified band. Everyone, take a bow!

Saturday, May 26, 2007

BLUES HARMONICA GENIUS!! Sugar Blue Blows Them Away!!@!

Code Blue
Sugar Blue (Beeble Records)

I've been playing blues harmonica for almost forty years, and the long and short of the that statement is that I'm not easily impressed with blues harpists who come along late in the day. Sugar Blue, though, is someone I take my hat off to; best known to the general rock and roll audience as the harmonica player on the Rolling Stones' Some Girls album (that's his sweet, Paul Butterfield-like solo on the signature "Miss You" track), I've seen him a couple of times when he and his band happened through Southern California on tour, and after both concerts I didn't touch my harps for a week, after which I picked them up again and commenced to practice more than I had in years. The man is restores the legitimacy of technique and speed to the blues harmonica, traits that had been sullied by John Popper, a muddy, imprecise musician whose harmonica improvisations resemble so much audio mud.Sour-note central. Sugar is fast and crystal clear and very clean in his attack; he's been criticized, in fact, for being "too clean". As it goes, there isn't a blues harp player alive who has better execution than Sugar Blue. The added plus with Sugar's playing, rare among those players who play fast and long that his solos make melodic sense. Jason Ricci and Howard Levy are others who combine superlative technique with innovation. The man can build a solo. It's not that I'm into speed and technique for their own sake, but I do admire Sugar Blue's ability to have these aspects serve real musical ideas. The new album Code Blue, is a whirlwind of the blues harp applied to a broad array of approaches, including traditional blues motifs, Rolling Stones' style guitar rock, Mahavishnu/Dixie Dregs fusion. His solos are sleek, cutting, rapid in the musical ideas coming from the band leader. Bear in mind that a little of Blue's singing goes a long way--he is like that guy in the chorus who steps out for a solo, singing at the top of his range, slipping off key too often. That, combined with some lyrics that tend to be preachy and the lead-footedly philosophical, can make the vocalizing a bit agonizing. It does give one an embarrassing flashback, as the more Sugar stretches his vocal chords in what he assumes is maestro's knack for rhythm and blues melisma reminds me of those times , in the seventies in bands that were rally drinking associations when I was in front of the microphone, screaming and grunting and bellowing in the mistaken and drunken illusion that I sounded like a hybrid of Jack Bruce, Otis Redding and Gene Pitney. Sure enough, when tapes were played back from the frat parties and keggers we played in around the dock pilings of San Diego's beach areas, I was shamefaced and humbled. At best I sounded as if I had a sock crammed down my gullet, my mouth sealed with duct tape, trying to scream because a crazed Lobo fan threatened me with a reconditioned Trojan while I struggled against an ugly metal chair I was tied to. It was not pretty, not hardly. The best of it all was that no one was killed during my performances, and that I had fun. Or so I was told but witnesses who were not as deep in the back as I had been.Still, for Sugar Blue's part, the harmonica work is about the best one can come across, and the band is simply crack jack, nimble, sharp as a drawer full of razors.

Sunday, February 25, 2007

Harmonica Story

It was a hot, breezeless night, and there were no dry arm pits at The Javanikin, Pacific Beach, a beach town that hugs the shoreline in the San Diego area. The Grand Avenue coffee house, two blocks south from the goony bar crawl of Garnet Avenue, has a location that has the mutual benefits of being quieter and more isolated: you can actually hear the sticky roll of tires nearing the corner from a block away. The isolation isn't the best for foot traffic, but it's ideal for the music policy, as
the venue is a converted bungalow, intimate as an elevator. The
the room fills with music the way air rushes into lungs The
attraction this Friday night was Rephael Harp, a sweet playing
folk blues guitarist who additionally is a genius harmonica
player, maybe the best San Diego has.
A grand claim,, but tonight proved the point. Harp pivoted
on a stool besides the small stage while a guest guitarist played
a Delta-style blues, slow and simple. Harp had a harmonica at his
mouth, looted the archive of blues riffs. Brushing away the
microphone he'd been using, his playing full winded enough to
fill the room, the music was a revelation, a history lesson in
harmonica styles. Bar fight Chicago blues, with their punchy
notes and drum snapping changes, morphed into quick and clear
bluegrass runs and the accelerated rhythms of runaway trains
going in different directions. Harp played a rapid scale to his
highest note, twisting it until it's bends and turns slithered
down the scale.

Rephael and the guitarist took the improvisation out as far
as they could, and then brought back again to it's snaking Delta
beginnings, guitar and harmonica fading off in a trail of sad
notes. The crowd, hardly a crowd at all, offered a smatter of
claps. Rephael shook hands with the guitarist and smiled, and
turned toward the serving counter, chatting with friends who'd
come to hear him.
"Can I have my pie now, George?" he asked finally..
"Up in a minute, " said George, ringing up a coffee sale.
I walked up and stuck out my hand, which Rephael looked at
quizzically and then gripped it, mischief and exhaustion swimming
in his gray-blue eyes. Short, about five foot five, and bald with
a blond crescent of hair that rings his scalp. He gripped my hand
and gave it a shake you'd expect from some who hammers
nails. His hands were calloused, layered in dead skin,
evidence of work.
"That was a brilliant solo," I said, unable to think of a
less obvious way to start the conversation.
"Why do you think that? I was only playing old licks, I
wasn't playing anything new."
George came up a hot pie , a fork, and a napkin. Rephael
sat down , spread the napkin on his lap and stabbed the pie with
the fork.
"What key of harmonica did you bring you tonight?"
He brought the fork to his mouth , a hot slab of chicken
speared on the tines, and took a bite, his eyes looking up, a
lacy curl of steam coming from the plate.


Memories of the Mission Beach Board Walk in 1973 are the
blurry at best, but it seemed that there was often fog and mist
lingering on the right of way, in all seasons. It was usual for
me then to start my day of lounging against the sea wall in the
brightest, postcard sunshine San Diego could manage only to have
the drifting mist gather by mid afternoon, culminating in a
bleached haze that made the area look spectral.
I was hanging around the board walk and the short, congested
courts of salt licked beach houses for a year, and it was on one
of those drear nights that I ran into Boz, in front of the
Surfer Hotel at the end of Pacific Beach Drive where the Mission
Beach Board Walk unofficially started. He wore a Mexican wedding
shirt, his hair reached his shoulders, and he was in the center
of a group of young people who formed throng that pushed
itself into the narrow walk. Boz seemed to be addressing them,
his eyes calm as bath water. I saw the group ahead of me as I
walked up from the lifeguard tower, and, true to my habit, I
pulled my harp from a vest pocket and started to play a wayward
blues progression. My intent to impress them, get compliments,
take a toke of whatever they were smoking, and then move on to
the Belmont Park Roller Coaster.
Boz looked up, cupped a hand to his ear.
"Hey brother, come over here and play that thing for us" he
called, waving an arm. The harmonica was at my lips as I came
over. The group, a random assembly of earthen mellowness, parted
their circle a bit, bringing me within inches of Boz, whose head
was cocked at an angle, looking at the harp in my hand that I'd
taken away from my mouth. No one was smoking anything, nor was
there a bottle of grog anywhere. Boz smiled, his eyes widened
curiously, and nodded for me to go on playing. Hindsight tells
me that I played with the gasping hubris every beginner has,
good ideas swamped with a glottal grinding of the gears.
Boz and his entourage nodded in what looked like appreciationas if they were tuned to a silent, low key rapture. A strange
slew of smiles.
Boz held a leather wallet he was sewing together and he
placed on the sea wall when I was done playing. He gave me a
beatific smile.
"You've got some good chops there," he said, pointing at the
harp and then lifting the finger to my chin, "little rough and
messy, but you have a good tone, and you got the notes coming out
right more times than not..."
Who was this guy?
I spent a year on the boardwalk, flashing my stuff at the
the drop of an E chord, memorizing all the enclaves and establishing
myself as ”the• harmonica guy, only to have a cipher a tell me that
my notes are played "...more right than not"?
"....but you need to work on your rhythm, counting the time
to a song, you'll make it sweet and pretty, all your ideas will
come together, not come out like a rush...."
Though bristling, I gave Boz my harmonica.
"Show me what you mean," I asked, "I mean, I work hard at
getting this shit right, man..."
He took the instrument. The group rested against the
clammy sea wall, with only Boz and I standing . A late mist
crept in off the ocean , silent as shade on old brick.
"I dig it, man" he said, " your licks are solid, but the
rhythm can be smoother, like knowing where the beat is going to
go so your good ideas stay good when you play them. Like this..."
It was a revelation. Boz placed the harp to his lips and
spent the next ten minutes playing the best harmonica I'd ever
heard, the sassy sound of Butterfield meeting Sonny Boy
Williamson's graveyard moans, John Mayall crossing over to Little
Walter. It wasn't just that he was played better: within a few seconds I realized I was in the presence of a world
class player ,but that he could use only one hand much of the
time, his control of the harp being such that he could achieve his
affects with only one hand while with the other he'd demonstrate
how the beat was going. Everything I knew was wrong again.
"Like this" he said. His left hand held the harp his mouth
as he snapped the fingers of the other, illustrating the time
keeping , melody and improvisation.
The group drifted away in different directions while Boz
played leaving him alone with me as he gave me the lesson.
It was night now as the street lamps tried vainly to burn
through the fog. Boz stopped playing, pounding the saliva from
the reeds, and gave me back the harp.
"Dinner time" he said.
"You're goddamned good"
"Thank you, bro. You see how that counting time works?
Gives you something to but the songs on."
"Yeah.yeah. When are you around here, man? You hang out here
a lot? I'd like to learn some of that shit..."
"I'm around most times, you'll see me around. You got good
"You're fantastic..." I stammered.
"Thanks for letting me play your harp. Dinner time, bye
He turned and walked into the shifting murk. I felt
ambivalent about what he said. I was hungry, cold vapor poured
from my mouth and nostril.The South Mission Beach Jetty was
nearly erased where the coast line curved.And the world being a
chance operation at best,I wouldn't see Boz again, I would remain
king of my sandbox.
"Go fuck yourself" I said.
****************** ********************************************”•
The decade was a string of jobs that had nothing to do with
each other, from arts editor and free lance critic to prodigal
carnival barker, singer in occasional hard rock bands, hotel desk
clerk and ware house manager to UCSD literature geek. What I
accomplished was to acquire an over sized affinity for booze, and
I filled up book shelves with wasted harmonicas, flat and rusted
and full of sour notes, lined up like the green beer bottles
college kids stacked in their dorm windows.
Harmonicas were the running theme through the time, and
Rephael,nee Boz from the boardwalk who'd taken a new name in
succeeding years as an iniation rite for a religious sect he'd
joined, was the one I kept running into at. Whenever I thought
that there was nothing in the lexicon I couldn't utter, fluid as
tap water, Rephael turned up and confirmed my amatuer status.
I was in Pacific Beach one night looking for a bar to
tanked in when I walked into a Mexican Restaurant on Garnet
called Rudy Garcia's. Rudy I knew from high school, and that
night he hosted at the door, greeting diners with semaphore hand
gestures and a smile that looked tighter than two coats of

The smile shrank to a puckered 'o' when he saw me, vague
resentments still smarting , and offered a cursory greeting. The
smile returned to his rubbery face by degrees as the restaurant
filled with people waiting for tables. I pointed to the stage
area , a small platform, where Rephael , incidently, was playing
his harmonica in a neck rack, ala Dylan, while he played Dobro.
"Gotta bar I can sit at?" I asked.The place was full and
noisy and I just wanted to get out of the way and widen the buzz
I'd been working on since that afternoon. Rudy nodded, pointed
to the rear of the room, where there was a service bar next to
the kitchen, patting me on the back with a kind hand that turned
into firm push as I walked by him.
Rephael's playing was no one's business. This was the first
time I'd heard him play guitar, and his slide playing on "Dust
My Blues" had the sexy shimmer and strut perfectly. The
harmonica work was what I'd always remembered, fine and
Rudy was class clown during our 1970©71 senior year at La
Jolla High School, a guy quick with a quip and a punk with a
prank who prowled amongst the sweet©sixteens at weekend parties,
cracking up and busting up like a one man hysteria . He was
always on and filled the lulls in conversation with a stunt, a
joke, some funny voice . He treated his business no differently,
than the way he turned living rooms into comedy clubs in a
desire to be the After School Special.
Rephael had finished a bone tired blues when Rudy ran up
to the stage and whispered in his ear. Rephael nodded, crooked
his neck, rolled his eyes and gave a bemused smirk. He removed
his harmonica rack and took another guitar from a case laying
next to his chair . He started playing "Runaway", a schlock hit
for Del Shannon in the early Sixties. Rephael sang it gamely, the
the blues journeyman reduced to dime store bathos. I was at the
bar, sipping a long neck Bud, wondering how the cheesy,
roller rink organ solo from Shannon's original recording would sound on
the harp, but instead the crowd got Rudy, who'd raced back behind
the bar while Repheal sang and had climbed on top of the bar and
knelt, two plastic slide whistles in his mouth. Strange as it
sounded, Rudy had the solo down note per note, a double dash of
shrillness spewing over a crammed panorama of big steaming
plates of refried beans and tacos, cigarette smoke and
waitresses wedging themselves through the mere inches between
chairs to serve the orders. Rephael brought the song an end, Rudy
attempted a bow while still kneeling on the bar top, and the
diners clapped between munches of the soggy food.
Rephael put the guitar down, sorted through his brief case
of harmonicas, selecting one finally.
"How about some 'Whammer Jammer'?" he asked, referring to
the J. Geils Band hit of the time that featured their harpist
Magic Dick in a tour de force of jive, boogie and speed. There
were grunts of approval, belches, a fist pounding a table, a beer
bottle falling over.
"Magic Dick, eat your heart out" he said, and started
playing, harmonica flat on the microphone.
He essayed on the tune, double timing the tempo, whizzing
through the jump -cut changes. I was good and goosed by this
point, three empty long necks in front of me. My vision doubled
to Rephael's double tempo. Swimming in warm thoughts, I took a
harmonica from my back pocket and started to play along, elbows
on the bar, going off willy nilly, cupping the harp so no one
else could hear me, a private duet between The Muse and myself.
A roar, a protest, a laughing bellow only seconds after
Rephael played a last dazzling run up the scale and that
culminated on a piercing high note. I was drunk, shaken as
though wakened from a hard sleep. I looked at the bartender, who
pointed to the stage that was at my back. I turned around and saw
Rudy in the center of a group of tables in front of the
platform, where he was leading customers in a cheer. Rudy waved
his arms in a sing along manner, saying "One more time, let's
make sure he heard us..." He waved again, looked at me, smiling,
œRephael strapped on his guitar, giving me an embarrassed
shrug, eyes wide as terrace doors that opened to an empty field.
I don't remember much after that point, except to guess that it
involved sliding from the restaurant, buying a bottle of cheap
hootch with the nickels and dimes remaining of my mad money,
and finding an underground parking garage to play the harp
against the deep echoes of grainy cement walls, and slug from the
brew as hard as I wanted to slug Rudy.


By the summer of 1983, I graduated from UCSD by the barest
of qualifications, drank my way out of a long term
relationship, and had a job that was at risk because of my habit
of pounding three Club can cocktails on my lunch break. I was
sitting at the La Jolla Pannikin on a day off, an Anchor Steam
beer on the patio table in front of me, swimming in the eddies of
my fluid, grandiose thinking under the bright and broiling roast
of the sun,when Rephael pulled up alongside the cafe on a racing
bike. He looked healthy, I remember thinking, the son of bitch is
probably still a better harp player than I am, fuck him, I
wonder what's UP remember my mouth was dry and had the taste of
a trench.
Rephael locked up the bike at the stand in front of the cafe and
was walking up the walk to the serving counter inside the
converted cottage that served as the Pannikin Cafe proper. I
shouted his name, standing up.
"Rephael" I called, sticking out a hand to be shaken. He
looked over his shoulder , lowered his sunglasses and squinted,
crows feet branching out from the ends of the eyes.
He stared for a second."I'll be out" he said, "I need an ice
The rest of the encounter is a smudged charcoal comic strip
of images, but what is vivid is an image of an outdoor table
filled with people having conversations that overlapped one
another like strewn sections of a Sunday newspaper. Rephael,
hardly ever seeming the shy one to perform, had taken a harmonica
from a dock kit he carried with him and again played music I could
only dream of. I had no harp and sat there, getting increasingly
drunk and witless, slugging on the luke warm beer.
It was late afternoon and the sun was setting, and the patio
was clearing slowly. Rephael rose finally to leave.
"Rephael" I said,"you sound great."Rephael's grimaced, his
face tight as a drumhead.
"Thanks" said, pushing his hands into his fingerless riding
gloves, "It's, you know, something I don't know what to do
"But you're good, you can do..."
He took the empty chair next to me, leaned over, saying
almost in a whisper
"Playing music is something I don't know what to do with.
I've been living from town, from San Diego, I needed to get away
from the old places, and I'm only here doing a job of work"
He paused, looked down."I've had a bit of an alcohol problem,
and it's gotten me down, so I moved away, to try to hold it
together. I'm going to see what comes next, I don't know..."
He rose again, tugged on the gloves for a last fitting, and
waved adieu. He unlocked his bike from the rack and rode into
traffic on Girard, going south, toward Pacific and
Mission Beach.The old places he sought to get away from? What I
did the rest of that day and into the night is a vague as
Rephael's account of his then recent history. ?œ

The years from that meeting flew apace and my life , boiled
to the essentials, was a tiresome chronicle of heavy drinking,
and barflyism and rote disasters. Things were lost, opportunities
missed, talent wasted, speech incoherent. I was reduced to
sitting on the sea wall at the La Jolla Shores boardwalk, two
bottles of Spirit Shop vodka in the pockets of the grubby and
torn tweed jacket I took to wearing everyday, playing the blues
through a battered 'c' harmonica that was held together with
creased duct tape and thumbtacks, the music coarse and tentative,
the harp reeds straining through gathered dirt and hair from the
bottom of filthy pant pockets, staring up the La Jolla coastline
as the sun set and the lights of the village lit up million
dollar homes, the point and the calm water and the soft magenta
of the falling sun indicating a perspective that was farther than
anything I could imagine. Later, with half a bottle of vodka
left, I'd squat in a batch of untrimmed bushes in the park,
drinking, waiting until I thought everyone at my parents house
had gone to sleep and I could sneak in as best I could, make my
way up the condominium stairs and tread past all the closed bed
room doors to my room, where I do nothing except pass out into a
nightly abyss where there were no dreams.
The scenario repeated itself more times than not until July
of 1987, when I came home late one night, drunk again, and found
my sister waiting up for me. This was an intervention, a one
sister attempt to try to save a brother she loves, and for once
I listened. I was too drunk to come up with any answers, the
brain stalled and slurred and I just sat at the dining room table
while she read me the riot act. She got me to agree to call a
treatment center the next day, and I agreed, hoping everybody in
the house would ease back into denial and forget the whole
thing.My sister didn't forget. Late morning the following day,
she knocked on my door, and , hangover and shakes and all, we
went down stairs, drank coffee and had breakfast and then called
Rancho Mirage treatment center.

I was admitted into the Betty Ford Center July 16, 1987, the
day after my 35th birthday,, and from there spent twenty eight
days of having the burden as to how I'd get drunk that night
lifted from me. Yes, I was interviewed, diagnosed, made to go to
group encounter sessions, attend meetings of an alliterative
association whose purpose was to help others and themselves get a
handle on their problems relating to alcohol, and generally put
through the therapeutic grind in which every raw nerve of an
unresolved issue was exposed and dealt with in reams of
treatment-speak. Although I'd effected a surrender to my
alcoholism and went along with the handlers advice in a vague
hope that I wouldn't have to drink again , in truth I was gagging
on the platitudes and the peer group hectoring about having to
deal with unresolved core issues, bed checks inventories and
steps, the need to get intimate and vulnerable and peel away the
onion layers. Truthfully,sometimes I wanted to hit someone, but
at least two things kept me going, though they sound trivial in
the telling. ‰
One, the case managers did not want the patients to isolate
themselves from anyone else in the treatment group, and made a
habit of confiscating head phones, unauthorized books, magazines
and musical instruments that might distract an alkie's attention
from their recovery. I brought a harmonica with me, the usual
key of "C". For reasons that remain unexplained, they didn't
seize the harp, and, following suit, I stood nearly each night
at the dorm entrance, after the in-house twelve step meetings,
the group encounter sessions, the completion of the work
assignments, and played the blues into a night air that had the
texture of car seat leather.After half and hour, I'd go back into
the dorm, go to my room and lay on my bed and stare at the
ceiling, eventually falling asleep.
The second instance was a question asked by the last case
manager to see me. His name was Nick, eight years sober and a
member of the alliterative association. I sat in an office one
night while he looked at a forty page file on me that comprised a
week of intake interviews. He flipped through the pages like
rustling through a morning paper, scanned the data, and then
dropped the file. He looked at me over the desk, head tilted,
hand flat on the plastic folder that contained the story. ‰
"You know you can't drink anymore, don't you?" he asked
simply. No bullshit, no patronizing. The question had snapshot
I think I nodded and said "Yeah, I know".
That was the conversation that comes back to me almost nine
years later. I haven't had a drink since my first day at the
There is a line from the basic text of the alliterative
association that there are absolutely no coincidences in the
world, that everything happens for a reason that will be revealed
to us with time.
In December 1994, I was in the front row of a large Sunday
night twelve step meeting in a church hall where people shared
about there problems relating. With the customary materials read
at the start of the meeting , which outlined a suggested program
of recovery, the group came to the special occasion portion where
members celebrated sober anniversaries, a ceremony that involves
a birthday cake with the number of years being celebrated
represented by the number of candles. The meeting's secretary
would announce the number of years, the name of the celebrant,
and the name of the sober friend who was presenting it to him.
Three celebrations had already gone by, and my attention
drifted like it often does to other things I want to be doing
as over a hundred drunks and druggies sang "Happy Birthday"
and the gratitude from the podium poured forth .
"Our last special occasion tonight" announced the secretary
as he lit the candles with a palm size Bic, "is Six years to
Repheal Harp..."
This all made sense. The group applauded, sang an off key
"Happy Birthday,Rephael blew out the candles, the presenter said
some simple and nice things. I don't remember what they said.,
only that it made sense.

Rephael Harp was born with the name Mark Bosworth in 1951 in
Salt Lake City, Utah. He took a bite of the steaming pie after
he told me this, surveyed the Javanikin and noticed that more
kids have filtered in, all of whom seem to be at the end of a
long bad hair day.
"Maybe they'll get their coffee for here and listen" he
offered, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin," maybe that
thing'll get so full it'll burst." He was referring to the
oversize cognac glass at the skirt of the stage that's meant for
"Anyway" continued, "I was born in Salt Lake City in 1951,
and my family moved to Pacific Beach in 1953 after we lived in
Idaho Falls. Next stop, Loring Street. I went to Einstein Jr.
High School, and then my family and I moved to Huntington Beach.
We lived there four years.
"I think I started playing harmonica when I was 14 years old,
music was always my first love. My father introduced me to John
Mayall's music in 1968, and I went 'yeah', because I'd been
listening to the Lovin' Spoonful and the Rolling Stones and I was
ready for the next thing. Both those bands had songs with
harmonica on them that I liked, but it was Mayall's 'Room to
Move' from the 'Turning Point' album. It was classy,
unadulterated harmonica, not distorted in anyway, it was just
pure harp."
Rephael finished the pie , to the plate back to the counter
and reassumed the stage. He took his Dobro out of it's case, back
the harmonica rack around his neck and ran the slide up the neck,
a slippery coil of blues.
"I got my first harmonica in Christmas stocking" he said from
the stage, " I wanted the drums really bad, I think maybe I liked
my heartbeat, but the harmonica came in my stocking and I
thought what the hell. I liked to play it, and I thought of the
souls of deprived black people..."
Like much of what he says, Rephael's comment drifted into
silence while his eyes seemed to withdraw to study the graffiti
on the walls of his soul. The awkward finally passed and he
cracked into a waltz time version of Leadbelly's "Bourgeois
Town", a song as political as it gets. The harmonica solos were
fast and lacerating, cutting the chord changes into seeming
After the Javanikin , we ate at a Garnet taco stand next to
a 7©11, and later we wound up at his Missouri street apartment.
Rephael wanted to talk, and the tape recorder was running.
"I'd lived all over the place during the late sixties and
early seventies, but in 1971, I came back to PB to do a little
job, to clean up some houses and paint them for this friend of
mine's girl friend's mother, a real lady. I was selling acid at
the time, and I was doing too much of that stuff, and that was
when I met the Children of God family in Balboa Park.
"That was May 22nd, 1971, in front of the Zoo, and I said
I'll go with you. It was miracle kind of thing. When I was a
senior in high school up in Huntington Beach in 1969, I happened
into a coffee house where they were praying. They'd talk to you
and see how you were doing and then they'd ask 'Would you like to
pray with us?'I said 'yes,man' 'cause I was sad at home, I was
smoking a lot of pot and being down because my parents had
divorced. I never felt my Dad liked me, so I got on my hands and
knees with them and prayed 'God , Jesus, let me live my life for
"Anyway, I left there, feeling a little better, and two
years later I run into the same group of people in front of the
Zoo here in San Diego. We talked again, and they asked me if I'd
like to come live with them.Yeah, I said.
"The Children of God were real warm, like a family. We got up
in the morning and said our prayers, we sang our songs, and we
did continuous service work for the people. We got kids off of
drugs, we brought them into the communes, taught them about the
Bible and about love, and we all peacefully interacted. We got
food for people who were hungry from the market, we called it
procuring. We'd go to different businesses and say, "Look, we're
with a Christian Organization and we wanna help kids, and would
you like to help? ' They'd usually either food or money. It was
pretty good, you know, there were good hearts involved, it all
had a good motive.
"I gave up harmonica for a year as part of a vow I took with
them. If I still had the desire to play after a year, it was
thought that it was probably God's will that I should do so.
At that time, they also gave me a new name, Rephael, from a page
in the Bible. I didn't mind that.
"I started drinking when I was with them, because there were
no rules against it, really.
"The Children of God were a sincere organization, and you
have to compare the amount of good they did against what ever bad
might have been done. I mean, the main guy, who called him self
Moses David, was trying to instill a freedom in people, trying
to get them to get them to see, for example, that sex wasn't a
sin, and they he put it was something like that when a women was
witnessing to a man, she could go all the way and do the dirty
deed and she'd be doing it for Jesus, which was unheard of in the
Christian religion."

Rephael was with the Children of God for two years, and I
asked why he left the sect, which he still calls The Family.
"Why did I leave" he repeated, taking a long pause. "I
wanted to surf" he said finally, laughing.
He went on. "Finally I realized that the guy heading up the
Children of God who called himself Moses David was a fanatic,
believing in the end-of the-world thing and the downfall-of-America thing and that right there was whoop-de-doo. He thought
he was a prophet, but none the stuff he talked about came to
pass, and I was tired of it. I gave those guys $3,671 I had in a
trust account, and I still had convictions inside of me that
wanted to have a marriage and children, a family. Marriages were
okay inside the family, but what I felt and what they demanded
didn't mesh.
"I went on a horrible drunk after I left. I was out of God's
will, I thought..."
In or out of God's will, Rephael stayed in the Beach area,
becoming a fixture in the local surf culture, and had a job at
Art and Harmony, a crafts store in Mission Beach that catered to
the counter culture's interior design needs. He worked there on
and off from 1973 through 1983, during an erratic pattern of
moving between San Diego and Eugene, Oregon, perhaps attempting
a geographic cure for restlessness.
"I hung by myself, I was a loner. I played harmonica, and I
surfed, I didn't surf with the others. I was waiting for the next
drink or drug to give me some motivation.
"I met a girl in 1973 and we hung around for a year, and we
had a son together. We moved to Oregon in 1974, which is where I
really began to play music at a the coffee houses in Eugene. I
traveled around Oregon, to different a towns, playing in bars
and stuff, some of them real shit holes, but there was a lot of
hippie stuff in Oregon, restaurants and things, and I started
working on a lot songs that I had going on in my head.
"Oregon was a stab in the dark for me, but I had nothing
else going on, but I did find that the people who heard me
responded well to my playing. I played in a few bands, and I was
getting gigs, though no one could offer to pay me, though I guess
that's okay in retrospect. Music has to be for music's sake."
He rolled his eyes to the ceiling as he said the last sentence.
The music flourished in Oregon but the wallet remained thin,
although Rephael accepted the lack of coin as part of a hesitant
vow he took to not play for money, a hold over his Children of
God days. He played the coffee houses and bars, established
himself as the best harmonica player around.He picked up the
Dobro guitar in this time, affixing his harp in a harmonica neck
rack (the kind Bob Dylan modeled), and rapidly developed a
seamless technique that allowed him to perform on both
instruments at once, with his harmonica soloing retaining it's
clean tone and melodic quickness. So armed, more gigs came his
way, including an opening stint at the first annual Eugene Blues
Festival for headliner Charlie Musselwhite, and an alternative
school class teaching harmonica through a program at the
University of Eugene.

"Oregon was a fresh start" Rephael said, " I was someone
other than who I was in San Diego. I could impress people. Here,
in Pacific Beach, I was surf bum, getting drunk a lot. People
here knew that I played music, and they'd say 'SO WHAT?' They
knew me as a drunk, so I really didn't bother to try to play to
play music for people until I moved to Eugene."
Unable to stay in one place , Rephael started a pattern of
commuting between San Diego and Eugene, coming to California for
various work opportunities.
He was finally had the confidence to perform from his Oregon
experience, and, began to gig around the Beach Area during the
early Seventies, around the time I first encountered him on the
Mission Beach boardwalk.
"Me and the old Lady broke up in Oregon around that time, so
I didn't have any real reason to be up there, not as far as I
was concerned at the time, so I started coming back and forth
between San Diego and Eugene, something that made sense at the
time,and in addition to the work I got here at Art and Harmony,
I got work fixing up houses to be rented for people I knew, and I
started gigging around the area. I felt like a pioneer, playing
at Rudy Garcia's and Jose Murphy's in PB. There weren't that many
good harmonica players then. Lessee, there was Kenny in the King
Biscuit Blues Band, there was a guy named Bruce Harkinson who
made the rounds of all the parties where there was a band. I
wasn't that impressed. I was drinking a lot and was full of my
ego, and I just wanted to blow people away.
"I mean, dig this: I went to New Orleans in 1981 and played
there at Mardi Gras, and Sonny Terry, one of the guys I listened
to a lot when I was learning, was there to. I met him and I got a
chance to play for him, and he was real nice, and he told me
that I was a world class harmonica player, he said that I played
good. It was like, if this guy I listened to in high school is
telling me that I play well, then I must be all right."
Rephael's eyes were at half mast. I checked my watch. It was
late, and soon it would be early. The cassette tape ran out, and
the micro recorder snapped itself off.
"Let's say we pick up whatever we were talking about later"
he said, "I have an early construction job in the morning. I
nodded and gathered my stuff and shook his hands. Again, his
hands had the canvas bag feel of hard work, calluses and deep
"I'll call" I said.
"Just be there" he said.
"You bet".
The following Friday night was cooler, though the Javanikin
interiors were at a fair swelter. Rephael assembled his
performance apparatus of microphone, his guitars, brief case of
harps and amplifier in the short space of the stage. A table
full three young men, looking like State College business majors,
sat at the long table, exchanging what sounded like the full
range of their shared culture.
"What's your favorite breakfast cereal?" asked one , golf
shirt and short side hair.. Golf shirt smirked,
his lips thin as rubber bands.
"Ask a Miss America question" demanded the third, nasal to
the point of felony.
"Okay, okay" said Golf Shirt said, "What would you do to
stop the erosion of the rain forest?"
Reg, who lives in a bungalow behind the Javanikin where he
also has the office for his contracting business, came on and
ordered a house coffee to go. A fellow participant in the
alliterative association and harp player too boot, he's known
Rephael since he sobered up.
He spied me and slapped me on the back where I sat, sinking
into an over stuffed couch, watching Rephael untangle his cords.
"Gonna twist up some notes tonight, Reph" he asked, a wave of
his native New Jersey filling the SoCal interiors. Rephael either
didn't hear him or ignored him. Reg smiled and patted me on the
"How about you, man, you gonna get up there and twist 'em
up?"I shrugged.
He bummed a cigarette and we both went outside to smoke,
the conversation, no surprise, being about harmonica playing.
Reg had been playing harp for a lot less time than I had, but
unlike me, he was an earnest student who continued to master more
of the instrument. I'd met him five years ago outside the Alano
Club at Cass and Law after a meeting, where I heard him playing
rudimentary riffs for some other members. These days, though, he
played as well as I ever had, and I expected him to give me
lessons in short order. Not incidentally, he'd taken lessons from
"Yeah, bro, check it out" he said,"Reph gives lessons, and
they're cool. He charges twenty bucks, and you get an hour with
him where he shows you stuff, goes through stuff bit by bit, and
he also gives you a kind of philosophy of playing, or whatever.
But it's worth it, 'cause he tapes the lesson, and you keep the
tape, you know, so can listen to it later.Wanna drop by the pad
for a sec and check one of 'em out?"
I had nothing to do until Rephael started playing, so we
ducked around to the bungalows behind the coffeehouse and walked
into the apartment. At one end of the room he had his business
desk, a few pieces of furniture, and in the bedroom, a couple of
dozen harmonicas were ordered in neat rows on a cabinet of
"Check this" Reg said, jabbing the play button of his stereo.
The tape was cued half way into the lesson, so Rephael's
playing burst forth from the speakers in full gallop, a harmonica
bricolage, from shuffle to country fiddle music that went as
far as to suggest trains cutting through sprawling Southern
valleys. Reg scratched his chin, pulled a cigarette from his
shirt pocket. He pointed to the speaker. speaker.
"Check this" he repeated.
The harmonica playing stopped. "You gotta remember that
you're feeling your way through the solo" said Rephael's voice.
I imagined Reg sitting on a chair while Rephael played and
discoursed, eyes wide as the master spoke.

"You're not playing to
people to show off your licks, because you wear them out and they
bored and you get bored to, because all you've done if you show
off all the time is not play music, but only practice some
technical things that only impress other harmonica players. You
need to feel what you're doing with the melody. You have to know
the songs and invent something that's new , and carry your
audience along with you. For all the tricky licks, you have to
know where and when to use, at the right place in the playing, so
that anything you play sounds right and it sounds new, fresh..."
We listened for ten minutes, smoked cigarettes and filled
the apartment of with a gagging patina. Reg snapped off the tape.
"Whattaya think,man" he asked and I said that it made me
wanna play the blues.
"Gotcha" he said, and grabbed a harmonica from the row on
his dresser. Putting it to his lips, a billow of blue grey smoke
spewed from the back side of the harp.
"Smokin'!" he said. We laughed , traded riffs for a few
minutes, and then sanity came back to me. We pounded the spit
from the reeds in hard slaps against into our respective palms.
"I'm gonna go hear Rephael" I said.
"Right on, check you later."
At quarter past eight, the cafe had about fifteen people
scattered through out, some listening, others hustling
backgammon. The three original guys had left. The set was a
eclectic, if nothing else, strong doses of Neil Young, Bob Seger
and Hendrix interspersed with original songs that had a surreal
slant on things, and ending up with a solo harmonica of "Dance of
the Sugar Plum Fairies", an amazing, delicate rendition.
During the second set , the music got to the root of all
things. A second guitarist named Mike joined Rephael, supplying a
firm, jazzy set of chords that allowed Rephael to set his guitar
down and place the harmonica straight on the microphone, giving
him the full, warm tone of Butterfield. It was a set of pensive,
grinding blues, "Help Me Baby" by Sonny Boy Williams and others,
with Mike pushing Rephael onto more adventurous escapades, to mix
up what he knew and reinvent blues harp. It would have been a
great scene in a musician film biography, where the instrumental
genius is at last in the realm he is lord of, exposing layers of
a deep soul in sheets of sound, a wordless poetry.
on Friday night,and people cracked their knuckles and scratched
noses,people still hustled backgammon, the traffic still made
sticking noise at the intersection, and Rephael still played as
if nothing else mattered. The cognac tip glass had four dollars
in it, old bills crumpled up like used tissue.

At ten till eleven, Mike packed up his guitar and left to
could catch the waves at Tourmaline Beach in the morning. Rephael
had his guitar out again and harmonica holder back on,and asked
me what key harp I had.
"Key of 'C'" I said.
"I see" he said, and without pause blasted into Little
Walter's "Juke", a classic harmonica showcase.We exchanged solos
for a few bars, trying to top each other with each succeeding
run,and at times some of the trickiest riffs I knew worked,
pivoted by the charge of the guitar. Rephael took one more solo,
and nodded to me to take it away after he was done, but I
deferred to him, doing some Arab stereotype motion of the hand I
assumed was a tribute to my harmonica master. Rephael frowned.
Done, he thanked those who'd stayed for the night, gathered what
looked to be now ten dollars from the cognac glass, and walked
up to me.
"Don't ever do that ,man" he said. He looked to the door his eyes to the
door, where the counterman was taking town the Cinzano umbrellas
outside the cafe.
"Do what?"
"Wave me off like that. If I didn't want you play, if I
thought you had nothing I wanted to hear, I wouldn't have asked
what key your harp was in."
The next day we met at Kono's, a burger joint at the end
of Garnet street across from the Crystal Pier. Rephael was eating
a burger overflowing with onion and flora while outside roller
bladers ran intricate circles around tourists and thirsty
"What's the name of that burger I asked. He stared at me,
spoke with his mouth full. He regarded the bun like it were poor
Yorik's skull.
"Bacon burger with cheese" he said, dropping the sandwich
into the plastic basket it was served in.. He saw me write that
down in a note book I brought. He nodded.
"I see how that works, atmosphere. '...he says, over a
dripping Bacon Burger.' Right?"
"Something like that". I admitted, and then raising my voice
to rise over the noise. Why didn't he liked being deferred to by
younger harmonica players?
He took another bite and chewed the burger and the question
for a minute before answering. He swallowed, he answered.
"Getting over fear, I suppose. The way we perceive ourselves
in a certain way, the way we play, we think that it's all we
can do, and then we hear someone else something else on the
harmonica, and we automatically think that what they're doing is
better than what we can do, that it's on a higher level. In
fact, what they're doing is on the same level, it's just a
different way of approaching the same instrument.
"What I try to do to deal with that phobia is to look at other
people, other harmonica players through the filter through which
I look at myself, which is in a good light most of the time. When
people come to play with me on the harmonica, I don't get off on
people who make mistakes and stumble and then STOP and then say
to me 'Hey, you're really good, I can't do what you do.' I don't
like that, it's not fun. It's fun when they play and they play as
well as they can. You get more experience playing, and you'll
find that there's not much difference between harmonica players
after all, if you know what I mean."
The humility was real, but the unchangeable fact was that
Rephael is scads better than the average reed twister, though it
became obvious he didn't know what do with the talent until he
got sober. He was pulled apart by the competing notions that he
was worthless as well as the grandiosity that he was better than
anyone. Not a pleasant combination,the extremes of a diseased
ego. He continued his geographic cures through the seventies,
piling one drinking disaster on top another, until he landed in
Borrego Springs 1984, where began the long skid to a bottom.

"I went there to dry out, but that took longer than I thought
I was working as a carpenter, construction, using drugs to keep
going, I was getting weaker.I was invited to go out to Borrego
Springs to live by some people who thought that if I got away
from the city, I'd do better. So I worked construction, played
music, kept on drinking.
"What motivated the move was that I'd gotten drunk in Mission
Beach while I was working at Art and Harmony because my girl
friend was dealing coke. I decided not to go to work, except I
didn't have the courage to tell my boss. I didn't call. He later
came to my apartment looking for me where me and my girlfriend
were and she answered the door while I hid behind it. I
eventually came from behind door while she was talking to him and
blew him off not too kindly. When he left, there she was, I'd
just blown off my boss from a job I needed, and I was drunk. It
sounds funny coming from someone who dealt coke, but she said
'Reph, you're an alcoholic.' And the only thing I could say was
'Yeah, I'm an alcoholic, so what?'
"That was in 1984, and I have to say that I was running into
people all over Pacific Beach from the 12 fellowship (©© the
alliterative association we've spoken off) ,friendly folks from
the Alano Club at Cass and Law Streets, and now and then one of
them would say that I oughta go to some meetings.
"But I moved to Borrego Springs , where I continued drinking
and playing music, and that's where I got sober in 1988, December
"Before that, I was drinking in Borrego, having black outs
and hangovers, and getting too fucked to play. I mean,
literally, the band I was playing in wouldn't let me on the
stage, I was too drunk and an embarrassment. I had enough, I was
sick and scared."
Luckily, Rephael had made some friendships with members of
the alliterative association, whom he called and had them take
to a meeting. This was also a gateway situation for him to ease
himself back into the Beach area, the place he left seeking to be
rid of his demons.
"People in the meetings were real nice to me in early
sobriety. I realized from going to meetings how bankrupt I was
because of my addiction. People were nice, eager to help, taking
me to meetings, giving me hugs and inviting me to their
"Socially, I was still a little ant, but I went to meetings
and had a sponsor and worked the steps they talk about.
When I came back to San Diego, I was playing my harmonica and
folks noticed, and I was able to stand up behind my harmonica and
say 'Yeah, I play'. I didn't have to hide behind anything.
"A friend of my mine in the program, Reg, started to take me
around to blues bars and I started to sit in with bands, and that
was how I met Wade Preston, a fine, fine piano player. I sat in
with Earl Thomas one night Reg had to do a lot of talking with
him to let me sit in and Wade was playing with Thomas that
night. The next week, Wade had his own gig at Winstons, and he
hired me to sit in with him at Elario's in La Jolla. That gig
went on for two years, it was great. It'd be a good idea for me
to do that again. Getting out and letting people hear it."
Continuing to work as a carpenter and as a construction
worker to pay rent, Rephael became a fixture on the then
exploding coffeehouse scene, picking up regular engagements at
the Javanikin and the Inner Change as a solo artist, as well as
playing as guest artist with Wade Preston, Robin Henkel. Studio
work has also come his way, where he's added his playing to
commercials and instrumental albums.
The gifts from being a sober harmonica player have been slow
in coming, though, and he has list things he'd like to do in the
coming years, a day at a time. We've walked up from Crystal Pier
up Garnet, past Zanzibar, where the body piercers and old
bohemians are beginning to assume their positions now that the
late afternoon dark falls, and we found ourselves in front of the
Blue Guitar, a music store where Rephael get his harms and guitar
"I'd like to do my own CD, you know, play all the
instruments, harmonica, dobro, steel string, piano, and take the
time I need to record it right, play my own songs, I have a
couple of hundred that I've written. I'd like to sing and play
harmonica in a blues band, but I'd like to do things other than
blues, play a whole range of music. Most of it is in my head, I
can hear them as complete pieces of music. I've lost a lot of
what I've written down because I've traveled so much, but I
still have good stuff left, up here.
"But what I'm most excited about now is the surf movie
soundtracks we've done, one called 'Power Glide' and a newer one
called 'Liquid Sky' that's gonna be broadcast on PBS in June.
It was full group of surfer musicians, like Danny Aaberg on
guitar, John Close on piano, some guy named Murph on drums. We
call ourselves the Coastal Heros when we play together, and the
music is swell, like a wave, some thing you could ride on."
Rephael looked through the security bars of the display
window, seeming to study the guitars hanging on the wall, and
then asked "Goethe, he's a poet, right?". When I said "Yeah", he
turned and walked inside the store while I stayed outside to
smoke, wondering what the last year of hanging out with some one
who used to scare me has come to. Scare me he doesn't anymore,
but he is occasionally baffling, and I wonder why he isn't
shredding at major clubs to big audiences in sexy towns.
I'm not the only one who wonders, and at different times
over the months more than one person told that maybe Rephael is
his own worst enemy.
"I know what he says about feeling a part of it all" said
one musician ,"but he is just too sensitive sometimes, caring
too much of what others think of him. Like sometimes he'll get
something going that's great with other musicians, but he backs
away from it, thinking that he can't do whatever it takes for
whatever reason he can think of. He's getting better, I know,
but he should be somewhere farther with his music than where's at
right now. He's too good a musician not to be."
I thought of a half dozen 12 step cliches to fit our shared
condition, recovering alcoholics slowing getting back in small
increments what our disease took away from us, when Rephael came
out of the music store, handing me a small post card.
"Goethe" he said, " he wrote that and it was stuck against
the door to the back room."
One side had a pen and ink drawing of naked souls on a
mountain side who aspired to ride the trade winds,
and on the other side was this, printed in florid italics:
"Until one is committed, there is hesitating, the chance
to draw back always in effectiveness ©© concerning all acts of
iniative and creation, there is one elementary truth, that the
moment one defiantly commits oneself,then providence moves to.

" All sorts of things occur to help one that would never
have occurred. A whole stream of events issue from the decision
raising in this favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and
meetings and material assistance which no man could have
dreamed would have come his way."

"I saw that when I was supposed to see it" he said, "I
was back there screwing around with some of their new guitars
when I saw it, and it made sense..."
I cocked my head show that I was listening intently, nodding absently, taking long drags from my
cigarette and blowing the smoke away from him.
"You just have to do what you chose to do and stay out of
the results. It keeps me going...."
The breeze shifted . Smoke blew in his face.
He frowned abruptly , waved the fumes away from his face, and then
pointed at the cigarette and the smoke curling around the
"Brother Burke" he said, "you have to stop smoking that
poison. It's no good, and it just fucks up your harmonica playing.”