Patrick Combs - Stories

Wannabe

My sophomore year in college was one of the most stirring years of my life. It began with a move from Oregon to San Francisco, but it really kicked off eight days after arriving, when I stumbled upon two guys playing music for a huge crowd of students in front of the student union. Growing up in the town of Bend, I had never seen a street performance before; the idea of one had never even dawned on me. I was gripped.

They called themselves The Square Roots, a crappy name I thought, but everything else about them was exhilerating. The more I soaked in the totality of what they were doing -- they had no microphones, no amps, no speakers, no drums; just an old beat up guitar, which the tall, thin guy was strumming frenetically, and a stand up bass, which a slightly shorter but thicker guy, was practically spanking -- the more adrenaline washed through my veins. If I am anything, I am a geek for talent, because I am a wannabe -- in the most positive sense of the word. I wanna be talented more than a child wants toys. Talented people make human beings seem magic. But standing there in awe of The Square Roots, still a sophomore majoring in advertising, I had yet to figure out that I wanted to be talented. I only knew I wanted to keep absorbing these two rock stars.

The guy playing guitar was bobbing up and down, singing high on his toes, which were wrapped in red high-top Vans. I had never seen red high-top Vans before. They looked daring. He was also wearing threadbare blue jeans creased at the ankles in a tight cuff and old jean jacket over a white T-shirt. He was playing his guitar without any strap at all. And although he sustained it with his knee or elbow, he strummed so voraciously the guitar's pit guard looked like it had been sanded off. Sweat dripped like a leak from his messy brown hair. To maintain his ability to see, he had to shake his head like dogs shake after exiting water. His face had a whittled but radiant look. He sung lead on most of the songs with a high, slightly scrappy voice. And when he spoke in between songs, I heard a southern-accent. His name was Jerry Wagers. He seemed like he walked right out of a Tom Petty video.

Then there was the bass player. What he wore made him look like a typical student; a sweatshirt, sneakers and gray jeans. What wasn't typical was a giant bush of dark, curly, hair that bobbed along with the beat and the gigantic instrument he was slapping away at. He pounded the bass so much in fact that he had protected his fingers by heavily layering them with white medical tape. His sturdier, homier voice was the perfect harmony to Jerry's, and he, Tim Fuson, would grit his teeth while he played and occasionally send his station-wagon-sized instrument spinning with one mighty blow. The first time I saw him quickly spin it, I thought it maybe hadn't really happened. The second time around, I cheered.

Together they were the Beatles, The Everly Brothers and The Violent Femmes all rolled into one. They played for three hours that day and I missed my marketing class to stay for the entire show. Right away The Square Roots shot up to number two on my all-time favorite bands list, second only to my all-time favorite, The Kinks (who occupied over 40 of the albums in my collection). But The Square Roots did have something on even The Kinks. The Square Roots were taking their music to the streets. It seemed like a brilliant concept; raw, real, and unrestricted. I was blown away.

Afterwards, I stuck around to buy one of their tapes and learn anything I could about them. I guessed them to be on a promotional tour sponsored by MTV, with a hit record climbing the charts, on a world wide tour opening for some band like R.E.M.

As I stepped up to within a few feet of them it was as if I'd stepped into a vortex that exaggerated all my faults. Suddenly I was dressed entirely uncool. My hair was way too normal. And every thought in my head was now too stupid to say. It was a feat in itself that I managed to compliment them with a very stuttery mouth. Tim seemed a bit nervous about by my nervousness. Jerry seemed happy to hear my superlatives and at the same time anxious to get to the next person in line. I was just happy to have survived the encounter without tripping, and to be able to say I had met them.

Then I hung around at that awkward distance that seems appropriate when you no longer have any real reason to stand close anymore, but you still want to hear everything. I stood there trying to discern every single word they uttered. I managed to piece together that they were actually from Berkeley, just across the bay, and would probably return within the month. I was almost confused by the reality that they could be so fantastic but live so close. But in any case, the fact that they would be back was great news to me.

Even greater was the fact that I now had their cassette, a ten-song tape titled For Sale. I rushed back to my room dorm room to hear it. As it blared out of my speakers I went mad. Suddenly I was doing theatrics worthy of Children's Television. I air guitared. I air bassed. I air lyriced. I bobbed. I spun. I shook my hair, even though it wasn't long enough to shake. I couldn't stop myself. I even did some in-between songs banter, like 'Thanks, you're a great audience. We're The Square Roots and we hope you like this next song."

(The Square Roots/photo by Ivan Pastine)

I was really in a zone at nineteen. Maybe I peaked at that age because my playfulness was very high, and my motivations were perfectly natural. I wanted to enjoy my life and I knew that the best way to do that was to just do what you thought to do, because you thought to do it. Take the bush for example. There was a sidewalk leading back to the dorms, and there was a six-foot bush that next to the sidewalk. There was no reason in the world to go over that bush -- none whatsoever -- the sidewalk didn't go around the bush, so it surely wasn't a shortcut. There were, however, plenty of reasons to not go over the bush, including but not limited to, it was six feet high, you would get scratched up, and all you would accomplish is a rough landing on the lawn that graced the other side. Plus you'd make a spectacle of yourself to the many students that were guaranteed to be within the line of sight. And yet that's exactly what I did a lot over the course of a semester.

I would see the bush and start running. A few feet before the wall-like shrub, I'd drop my backpack and take a flying leap. I'd mow over the top foot of the bush every time, and keep my arms stretched out in front of me to soften the headfirst landing. I'd get up, brush off the grass and dirt, and go back around the bush to retrieve my bag of books. Usually several students, girls and guys, would be looking as if trying to discern the reason, but at most I'd smile and say hi. Then I'd proceed to the door as if I'd done nothing unusual. The first time I did it was to see if I could do it. But I kept it up because it was fun and different.

I also gave stand-up comedy a try. For a month on Wednesday nights, I told my own "jokes" at an open mic held at a bar called Ye Old Pub and Thistle. Thankfully, it took place in a dank and dim back room and the only people there were other upstarts waiting for their 10-minute turn. Trying it made me quite nervous but the fact that 9 out of 10 people doing it sucked, made it considerably easier. So did the fact that I never let anyone I knew know where I was. My material was the real joke, but I plugged along and each time at mic was a rush. I felt good on stage. I loved trying to make my audience laugh. It culminated in me doing a 30 minute "set" in a Saturday night variety show put on by fellow dormies. The campus cantina ended up packed wall to wall, and I knew everyone. A part of me begged to disappear right before going on stage but more so I wanted my chance to see what I could do. It went all right mostly because I was cracking myself up, and I actually got a lot of laughs. At least that's how I gauged it until the next guy did his act. The next guy was Rob Schneider, who became famous for his time on SNL and his movies like Deuce Bigalow, but this was at least five years before his national fame. Rob had students unable to breathe for 60-minutes straight. I'm sure anybody there that night still remembers his imitation of Elvis on a Fish hook. Picture Elvis being pulled up by the mouth with a fishhook and that's what this little guy made himself look like. Stupid but very funny.

That was the last night I did any stand-up. I was looking for something different but I didn't know what.

Once, on a Thursday afternoon, the week before Spring Finals, I dressed like a homeless clown and went down to the crowded shopping district of Union Square to rant about the day's headlines. I did it because of a guy named Stoney Burke. Stoney, little thin guy that looked like Ross Perot's younger brother, would often come to San Francisco State costumed in high-water plaid pants, clown-sized leather shoes, thrift-shop shirts and a balding head. Dressed like a fool he would plop a ratty briefcase down dead center of the crowded student plaza, take a newspaper out and start riffing off the headlines.

(Stoney Burke/photo by Rod Lamkey)

He always started off slow and picked up speed over the course of a couple hours, despite being mostly ignored by the hundreds of students just wanting to enjoy the afternoon. And he was a spitter, like Daffy Duck. He ranted with so much conviction saliva flew yards from his mouth. But so did razor smart, and often-hilarious wit.

"Hmmm, let's see what's in the news. McDonald's tries out McRibs. I bet they do, the Multizillion, commie, Pinko, Nazi, capitalist, bourgeois bastards who worship the Quarter Pound weakling, Ray Kroc, every day after they close the drive-thru. Oh Mr. Kroc, please tell us the story again of how you cleared billions and billions of acres of rainforest to create the Big Mac.... And the bedtime story about the monkey who gets tortured to make the fries taste better! ... Or the one about your ties to the CIA! ... That's right, McDonald's has ties to the CIA -- what do you think of that?! Well since none of you want to discuss it, let's see what else is in the news."

Although the topic kept changing, Stoney seemed to have a purpose that was constant. He was continually inviting students to participate in the topic at hand. It was as if he imagined he could rally an impromptu town hall meeting. But nobody was ever game, except for the occasional misguided frat guy who would try to defend Reagan, Stoney's favorite target.

Since they could never match wits with Stoney, they would either quickly back down, or threaten to beat him up. But as soon as they started threatening to smash his face in, it quickly turned into three stooges-like hilarity. Little big-eared, spectacled Stoney running in circles from a beefy frat boy. Stoney would still be yelling insults and citing his first amendment rights. When it truly got too close for his comfort, because some of them really wanted to beat the shit out of him, Stoney would grab another larger pair of glasses out of his jacket pocket and spew, "You wouldn't hit a 97-pound weakling with a pair of glasses, would you?!"

Most of the students who witnessed Stoney had zero interest in his theatrics, which led me to believe that most of them were lacking the gene for excitability. I thought he was a genius, and the bravest son-of-a-bitch I'd ever seen. I not only wanted to participate in his impromptu town hall, I wanted to try leading one myself. So I did just that.

On a sunny afternoon in April, I went down to Union Square, the heart of San Francisco's shopping district, and tried to act like Stoney. I went out there in plaid thrift shop store pants, new acquired for the occasion, along with a worn-out briefcase that contained the newspaper. I even have big ears. But that's where the similarities ended. It was so difficult to do what Stoney did.

Actually I was scared from the moment I woke up that morning. The fear got more and more real as I rode the MUNI train down town. It peaked at the moment I picked my bustling street corner and opened the San Francisco Chronicle to begin. First of all, looking through the paper, I realized I had no clue what to rant about. Where Stoney was politically intelligent, I was retarded. And I wasn't angry about anything. I had no agenda. How was I supposed to get other people riled up when I couldn't find a single article that pissed me off? Secondly, I was scared shitless to look up from the paper and begin yelling. I grew up in a town where if you were going to say anything to a passing stranger, you'd say, "Hi, have a nice day." Now I was challenging myself to look at well dressed, random passerby and spew conspiracy theory and spit. I tried it.

I kept looking up and engineering short bursts -- very short -- of inoffensive, unprovocative, unintelligent drivel, followed by a reading of an entire story out loud in a pathetic attempt to stall. People, nice people, would hear it and just keep walking. I know they noticed me because they'd have to step around me a bit. But very few looked and only one guy stopped. He offered me 35 cents because he thought I was selling papers. We were both embarrassed by the mistake. At first, people ignoring me made me feel like a jackass. But about thirty minutes into it I began to feel relaxed and alive. I liked that I was taking a chance, doing something different, and that I had beaten my fear, whether people noticed or not. The only problem left was that it was Stoney's gig, not mine. I was missing a gene for ranting. So at the end of an hour, I returned to my dorms and threw the plaid pants away.

Getting back to the band. As it turned out, The Square Roots were far from the celebrities I had initially guessed them to be. They weren't even signed. What they had was a ten-song tape, a circuit of Bay Area universities that they made regularly unscheduled appearances at, and somewhat monthly Friday night shows at a little hole in the wall pizza parlor in Berkeley called The Golden Boy. Golden Boy shows were the best because of the wall to wall intensity created by several hundred people crammed into a place most felt certain The Roots would make as legendary as The Cavern in Liverpool.

The day, as in the unforgettable day, came nine months after I first saw them. It was October 26th and they came to play our campus but an hour into their set it began to rain. They packed up their instruments and got ready to go home. I stood by close, as I always did, desperately wanting to be the last one they talked to, and expressed my disappointment about the rainout. Then it happened. Jerry drawled, "Tim, why don't we finish the set in Pat's room? We could use the practice." Tim scrunched his eyebrows together for a second and said okay. If I ever win the lotto in my life, it will pale in comparison to how lucky I felt the day The Square Roots decided to play in my dorm room.

As the two rock stars were following me into the dorms students were astonished. They'd look at The Square Roots with surprise and then they'd look at me with wonderment. Word of the happening spread like a fire through the five-story residence hall. The Square Roots were in the building following a guy who lives on the second floor. They got into my room and it was crazy. It seemed like there was just enough room for me to sit on the end of the bed, because they occupied almost all of what little space is afforded between the two single beds mounted to each wall. Playing less than two feet from my face they were Gigantic. And true to who The Square Roots were, they played no less passionately than they did on the plaza.

I invited my two closest friends into the room with me, but quickly loads of other fans started knocking on the door. Not more than six people could fit into the room, but that didn't stop the hallway from filling up. Those two made me king of the dorms for at least a good week.

But October 26th was not over yet. There was another great surprise awaiting me. As I walked Tim and Jerry to their car, for the first time not feeling geeky around them, it happened. I said, "Hey you guys are so incredible you should be signed, and playing all of SF's best clubs, and in Rolling Stone, and stuff like that." Tim replied, "You should be our manager, Pat." And before I could fully experience the flush sensation that was racing across my body, Jerry added to the sentiment. "Yeah Pat, you should. You could be our Colonel," he said referring to 'Colonel' Parker, Elvis's manager.

I'm a big dreamer, but being their manager had never ever crossed my mind as a possibility. I had dreamed about becoming one of their friends. I'd dreamed of joining their band (evens though I couldn't play a lick of any instrument). I'd even gone so far as to fantasize that they would ask me to sub for one of them if they got sick on tour. But band manager was something I'd never thought of. Hearing their invitation was one of those moments so great that heaven might be disappointing. I said yes, and from that day forth I was one of The Square Roots.

I didn't know jack about being a band manager, but my passion for what they did outdid my insecurities about failing them. I grabbed my camera and took pictures of them. I applied myself to endlessly improve their press kit. I dared sales calls and booked them into majors clubs up and down the West Coast. I even dove into completely uncharted territory for myself and designed their next album cover. I loved doing it all. Working on their stuff made me feel like one of the most important persons in the world.

It also put me smack into the middle of San Francisco music scene, in clubs like the DNA Lounge, Paradise Lounge, Berkeley Square, Plough and Stars, DV8, and Blake's. Hanging out in these dark, swanky places made me feel cool and happening. Constantly sharing the bill with great local bands like JellyFish, The Furlongs, and Model Society and big time acts like The Flaming Lips, The Silencers, and The Fall, fed my love of loud, passionate rock music. There's nothing in the world like the feeling of being five feet from the stage, swimming in music, marveling at musicians, and thinking, "that's my band." I was always proud, awed and humbled.

Jerry, Tim, myself and thousands of fans thought The Square Roots would get famous, but in the end it wouldn't be us that made it onto the pages of Rolling Stone, it would be Jelly Fish, it would be Adam, the lead singer of Model Society, later fronting a band called the Counting Crows, and it would be another guy, Chris Isaack. The Square Roots broke up over personal differences two years after I began managing them. I was prepared for the break up knowing what I knew as an insider, and it fit into that truism that all good things must end. But it closed one of the best chapters of my life, a time when I was part of something exciting, a budding entrepreneur, a beginning performer, and best of all, an unabashedly star-struck fan.

(Jerry Wagers/Tim Fuson, photos by Ivan Pastine)

Looking back on my sophomore year in college, I can see that I was working overtime to become somebody -- somebody that stood out. My urges to perform, the same urges that would later propel me to my career as a speaker, were showing. I know deep down that if I could have been in The Square Roots as a band member, I would have rather done that. But I would not only have had to get around the fact that I didn't play anything, but also that fact that I didn't see myself as an artist. I saw myself as a straight man, a normal, and a regular. That's why through all this experimenting I still thought I was going to be in advertising. I guess the absence of artists and performers around when I was growing up made me unable to see what I obviously really wanted to be. But that's what makes my sophomore year even sweeter -- I didn't even have to know what I really wanted to be --- I just had to follow my bliss. My bliss moved me forward.