Chapter 1
There have been a number of major turning points in my life. Most of them are pretty much the standard fare, birthdays, major holidays, vacations, things like that. There have been three particular events that stand out in my mind as being outside the realm of typical and pretty close to being surreal.
I suppose I should introduce myself, as well as this story. I will be up front in sharing that many of the events that I will relate may be less than accurate. I can only attest to the veracity of the events that I witnessed first-hand. As the years have passed many of those memories have softened a bit around the edges, and may have faded a bit. Many other events that I will recount have been shared with me by those who were directly involved, and are tainted not only by their own bias in the telling, but by my own biases in the re-telling. I will freely confess that I do most certainly have biases of my own and feel strongly about the actions of many of those people who were a part of the events I describe.
Finally, I have done my best to piece together many other events from a variety of sources, not the least of which are the internet, news reports, anecdotes, wild-ass stories, and vague recollections dimmed by the haze of drugs, sex and rock-and-roll. My name is Alan Council. I am the lead guitarist of Geechie Mance. I am probably the best able to piece together Tiggy's story, not because I have any particular talent as an historian, but because I am outsider enough to be objective about the founders of said band. I am also most qualified because I am the closest friend of Tiggy Anderson, renowned in rock history as the inspirational force that propelled the band he named to the heights of success.
So, where to begin? Since this is Tig's story more than anyone else's, I suppose it would be best to begin with the day I met Lesley Dana Anderson. It was 1965 and he had yet to gain the famous 'Tiggy' moniker. He was just Lesley, not Les. He was also 9-years old, almost two full years younger than me. My family had just moved to Santa Barbara, California. It was summer, and I didn't know anyone. I was just wandering the neighborhood and noticed a little girl with dark curly hair crying in the shade of a Eucalyptus tree.
I remember the first glimpse of her swollen lip and the dark imprint that covered half her face. I asked her what had happened but she couldn't respond. She sniffled and sobbed and within a few minutes I was seated beside her, my arm draped across her narrow shoulders as she began to pour out her pain. It took a while to get the whole story. There were fits and starts and gaps, but she painted a pretty vivid picture of an emotionally neglected child, an alcoholic mother, and a psychotically unstable step-father. I also learned, during the tale, that this raven-haired beauty was a boy.
I am a normal hetero guy and have never felt a hint of sexual excitement around other boys. I cannot really say why I wasn't put off by this news. I know that my own father, good man that he is, would probably have walloped me if he had seen me cuddling another boy. All I know is that we connected some way on a plane that exists outside of sexuality and gender. I was not a boy snuggling another boy. I was a friend offering what meager comfort I could to a friend in need of said comfort.
From that day until this, we were the best of friends.
Before I recount the events that led to the first major turning point in my life, I feel as if I should answer all of those who might consider my words actionable in some form. I have spoken with lawyers about what I should and what I should not say. My only reply to anyone who takes issue with my commentary is very short and pungent. Fuck Off. I am recalling events to the best of my recollection and I challenge you to prove that anything I say is a blatant falsehood. In other words, sue me and be damned or shut the fuck up.
Over the course of that first meeting, Tig shared with me a veritable comedy of errors that led to a prime beating by his step-dad. Tiggy was always quiet and shy and was never allowed to socialize with other children. In fact, his mother usually banished him to his bedroom with a cuff around the ears and orders to shut up and don't come out unless called for. On this particular occasion, Tigs was doing what he usually did, creating his own little fantasy play world wherein he acted out dozens of roles. on this particular occasion, he had the misfortune to be overheard by his step-dad whilst acting out the part of the rescued damsel in distress.
Needless to say, the bastard was less than amused when he returned home from the track to find his wife passed out drunk in front of the TV and her faggoty little son dressing and playing the part of a girl in the back bedroom. When I say dressing, I mean only that he was wearing an oversize tee shirt that hung to his knees, his hair tied up in bunches, and a bit of color on his lips. It was enough to make said father figure leave a hand-shaped imprint on one side of Tiggy's face. He then grabbed the child by the hair and dragged him in to face his mother who was barely conscious.
Her inability to answer his screaming inquisition with any semblance of coherent speech caused him to redouble his brutish behavior as he backhanded the boy and tore into his lethargic bride. As she became more aware, it became a bit of a battle royale and by Tiggy's account she gave as good as she got (being a largish woman). Needless to say, the happy couple parted for the first and last time with both sides screaming epithets to the other. After the departure of daddy dearest, the woman spent several moments focusing on the image of her only son.
With venom in her voice, she focused on the badly battered child and said, "Now look what you've done! Go away. You disgust me."
Tiggy fled to the shade of a massive eucalyptus tree down the street.
Now that we have hit the first and most influential turning point in my life, I guess we need to talk about me. I am an Air Force brat. I was born in France but have lived in England and both the east and west coast of the United States. Anyone that knows much about the Air Force has noticed that this much travel is pretty rare. Most career officers might only serve on four or five bases in a thirty-year career. My family moved to four in less than eleven. I think it probably had something to do with my dad's specialty. he was a combat systems officer, and with the cold war heating up, and Viet Nam in high gear, he spent a lot of time helping integrate new weapon systems into various aircraft squadrons.
Before you start with all the shit about my dad the warmonger, fuck off. I love my father and he has always been a rock for me. I did not believe in the war in Viet Nam, I think he was less than thrilled about it, as well, but as an officer, he did his duty as he saw it. That's all I have to say on the subject with this exception. He taught me to question any dogmatic belief system. That includes the agitators that pushed us into the war and the protestors that actively, and sometimes violently, opposed it.
My father never yelled at me, and he taught me that in a true and open debate/dialogue, the person who has to shout down his opponent is wrong. Any and all beliefs are to be challenged by reason and proven or disproven on their merits. Only the mindless drone resorts to violence or diatribe to prove a point. That was true in the 1960s and it is just as true today. He taught me to always question my own beliefs and to validate them through intelligent and cogent reason.
He was also a strong influence on Tiggy, and our friendship. This was the mid-60s with the growing counter-culture, rebellion, long hair, and free love. Most of my father's generation would take one look at Tiggy and say something unflattering about his sexuality, or become violent. My father talked to me and to Tiggy as equals. He questioned our beliefs and motivations, while also encouraging us to explore life through music. You see, my parents were accomplished musicians, and our home was always filled with music. This was the bedrock on which we built our friendship.
Mom plays the piano and organ. She also has a beautiful voice and loves to sing. Dad plays almost any stringed instrument as well as the piano. I was never taught to play so much as I assimilated it. Dad has a number of guitars and we have a very nice 50s era Baldwin Acrosonic 36 inch upright piano in a deep mahogany finish that even today has a sweet timbre that can reverberate into your very soul. We may have attended Bethel Church of Christ every Sunday, but I think I truly worshiped at the Baldwin shrine.
Anyway, music was ingrained in my genetic code. When I met Tiggy I could play most of the popular songs of the day. I loved doing Dick Dale riffs and had a 1959 butterscotch yellow Gibson Les Paul Junior. If I heard it, I would grind it out until I could play it. I copied all the greats of the era, but Dick Dale and B.B. King were my favorites. I also have to admit that even though I was only eleven years old, I was pretty cocky about my ability with a guitar.
That first day around Tiggy, I brought him home. Mom fed him lunch (homemade vegetable soup and grilled ham and cheese sandwiches. He ended up staying until almost dark. All day long, nothing was said about Tig's hair (shoulder length and curly), appearance (emaciated, pale and wearing a handprint on one cheek), or clothing (ragged and dirty). At one point we found ourselves in the family room with guitars along the wall and our Baldwin along another.
"Wow. Are these all yours?"
"No, silly. The piano is Mom's and the guitars are dad's and mine." I chuckled.
"What's this?" he was standing in front of a flat stringed box.
"That's a zither. It's like a cross between an autoharp and a steel guitar. It has a unique sound that can really fill a room."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it has a deep resonance that can make enough sound to match any three guitars. Let me show you."
I moved behind the display table and took the low seat. I strummed lightly a few times, making minor adjustments then broke into 'Wayfaring Stranger', which is one of my favorites. The sound filled the room and I could literally see goose bumps on Tig's arms as the music reverberated. His eyes were wide as the music seemed to engulf him. When I finished the song, he sat motionless for a few moments before shaking himself like a wet dog.
"That was....amazing."
I smiled as I saw the effect the music had had on him. I knew at that moment that music was in his soul and would always be. It is no slam on anyone else, and I certainly do not claim any superiority over those who do not feel that deep intrinsic connection with music, but I do feel sorry for those who don't have that bond. Music has enriched my life so much, and I cannot imagine a world in which it didn't play an integral part in every facet of my existence.
He gave me a look of mixed despair, hope, and fear as he whispered softly, "Alan....could you...w-would you teach me to play?"
I smiled at him and nodded my head. It was obvious that we were going to be kindred spirits. I picked up a lightweight Kay archtop acoustic and handed it to him, showing him how to hold it. I picked up my own Gibson LG-1 acoustic and began showing him how to tune it. I sat at the piano and was very surprised at how well he understood pitch. I played an E on the piano and he tuned the E string without having to replay the keyboard. Once he heard the note it was locked into his memory and he had no trouble remembering it.
Once the guitar was tuned, I began showing him a few basic chords. Now, I know that everyone talks about Tiggy Anderson as a guitar prodigy, like he just picked it up and played it. Well, that's a bunch of bullshit. Tiggy worked at it and learned quickly. He never forgot anything. I guess he didn't so much learn the guitar as he absorbed it.
Within a week, we were jamming together with my family or just the two of us. It was during this time that I had my second great revelation/turning point, and it was a tough one to swallow. Tig was better than me. Now I don't mean he could play Mr. Eliminator, or Three O'clock Blues better than me. I mean he was truly talented where I was just a brilliant mimic. Wow, that's still a hard nut to swallow after all these years. I mean I could play it dead-perfect spot-on exactly like I learned it every single time. I don't think Tiggy ever played the same song the same way twice in a row. He would just roll off on these wild side trips and turn a song that I had played a thousand times before into something that only barely resembled the original.
It was frightening, and I was extremely jealous. Looking back on my life, I could have easily become Salieri to Tiggy's Mozart. I could have let that jealousy burn a hole in my soul and turn into something ugly. Thank God my father was able to help me put it into perspective.
He took me aside one night after Tigs had gone home. "Talk to me about it, Alan."
I knew exactly what 'it' was. I had been struggling to hide my emotions, but music has a way of stripping off the masks and revealing us in stark cold reality. "It's just so unfair....I mean....I have worked so hard to really be good at.....well...."
"And now some strange kid that never picked up a guitar in his life comes in and blows your world up?"
I nodded my head emphatically. "YES!"
"And that is unfair?"
"YES!"
"Because you deserve more than Lesley?"
"Yes....well maybe not so much deserve as...well...I worked so hard."
"So, do you remember the day you brought him home the first time?"
"Yes"
"What was that bright red mark on his face from?"
"He said his....uhm....his step-dad hit him."
"You think Lesley deserved that?"
"Of course not!"
"So who decides when someone has paid their dues, or who deserves what?"
"I...uh....I guess we each decide for ourselves."
"I agree with you. So do you really think music owes you something that it doesn't owe Lesley?"
I shook my head, "No, sir."
"Son, I don't think you've really thought your feelings through. You taught Lesley to play the guitar. Without your involvement, your friend might have gone through his entire life without ever learning how to play. Can you imagine what your own life would be like without music in it?"
I shuddered at the thought. I had never really examined my good fortune before.
"If that had not happened, if Lesley had not learned to play the guitar, where would you be? Would your life be better? Worse? The same?"
I thought about my life over the past weeks since meeting Tiggy. "Worse. Much worse."
"You know, son. I know that you have taught Lesley a lot. It is a huge gift that you gave him, but it's a two-way street."
"What do you mean?"
"Think about it, son."
I spent that evening thinking about it....a LOT. When I woke up the next morning, it was staring me in the face. This massive truth was towering over me like a monolith. Maybe Tiggy wasn't the only one of us that could learn from the other. I had managed to share some of my technical skill with Tigs, and it had blossomed as his own technique had developed.
Why couldn't Tiggy help me to find my own creativity?
Almost every day we were in my room, my garage, my back yard, or my living room playing music, listening to music, discussing music, or writing music. Tiggy and I didn't always agree on what amounted to good music. We both loved to play, but I could never really get into the Beach Boys' Pet Sounds. To me, it was too disjointed, too radically different. Tiggy, on the other hand, just loved it. He would go on and on about the brilliance of Brian Wilson and I would just shake my head and try to change the subject. You had to pick and choose your battles with Tiggy. If he felt strongly about something he would hammer it over and over again until you either agreed or managed to distract him.
We both loved Procol Harum's Whiter Shade of Pale and the Beatles' Sgt Pepper album. I think this was where Tiggy first got into the idea of music as a bridge. I mean, we all saw how music brought people together, but I never really understood how anyone could write an entire album's worth of music around a single concept. At that time, every album had an assortment of cover songs, regurgitated hits, and one or maybe two potential hit singles. The whole music industry was built around creating a hit song with a decent B-side, then filling in the rest with fluff. What Tiggy was talking about was standing the music industry on its ear and changing it forever. He was not even 12-years old!
It boggled my mind. Here we were struggling just to write a song, how could any artist have the brains, stamina, and creativity to write 10-12 songs for a single album? Moreover, how could they find the creative vision to pull off something like that? It would be like turning a single record into a motion picture, with a beginning middle and end that told a story from start to finish. Looking at Tiggy, and watching as the gears turned, I was awed by the realization that my friend was a genius.
School for us was a bit weird, to say the least. the Beatles had made long hair fashionable, but it also created a situation where the school began to institute certain rules of dress in order to maintain the illusion of control. The war was heating up in Viet Nam. Hippies were migrating to the west coast, especially to the San Francisco area. Hollywood was also popular, and it was becoming apparent that political change was in the air. More and more, young people were becoming a force to be reckoned with.
As with all social reform movements, the government, and the media were making inroads to co-opt the popularity and bend it to their own will. The Monkees were at the height of their popularity. The Smothers Brothers were facing their first encounters with censorship. Web spent many evenings watching The Beverly Hillbillies, Gilligan's Island, Hogan's Heroes, Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie. I never noticed anything unusual about Tiggy. He just was my friend, my very best friend.
It was also a big year in history. A spark in the cockpit of the Apollo I spacecraft during a routine test took the lives of astronauts Virgil I (Gus) Grissom, Edward H. White II, and Roger B. Chaffee before they could escape from the oxygen-fueled conflagration. Despite this disastrous beginning, men would actually walk on the moon 30 months later. It was an amazing time to be alive. Change was in the air, and you could almost taste it with every breath, or maybe that was just the southern California smog. Looking back, we were only children, but we had a firm belief in ourselves and our ability to change the world.
Tiggy was often a guest in my home. He spent the night more times than I can count. We talked about everything. Sex was definitely a topic for late night discussion, and we described acts that defy reality since neither of us had any real experience. With no internet, porn was dirty magazines at the liquor store down the street, glossy magazines covers with buxom women in scanty bathing suits. These were more an unattainable goal than a fact of life for a pair of 12-year olds. Neither of us had older siblings to show us naked pictures of women, and despite the fact that all the other boys talked about getting into their fathers' porn stash, I was never able to find my own dad's.
We experimented with sex, meaning we masturbated. We never touched each other during these late night jerk-fests, we just competed for things like time, distance, accuracy, or volume. It was a way to challenge each other, but it also gave me (being almost a year older) an unfair advantage. I was taller than Tiggy. I had more body and pubic hair. I was also pretty proud of a patch of fuzz on my upper lip. I also had a larger penis, which made these minor nocturnal victories that much more satisfying.
I don't think I ever did anything to make Tiggy feel diminished in these events. I certainly never discussed them with anyone else. We were friends, and it would have been wrong for either of us to do anything to diminish the other. I was not the largest student at Rio Hondo Elementary, nor at Sierra Junior High. I was big for my age, but not unusually large. I was, however, inordinately aggressive when provoked. Growing up on military bases, I had learned very early on how to defend myself. In a foreign country, especially, Americans were not always popular. I quickly learned the basic tenets of manual combat, strike early and strike often.
I was the protector, the defender. I had a casual, laid-back demeanor that most other students seemed to appreciate. I was popular and active in school. I also made it clear that Tiggy was my best friend and anything that concerned him concerned me. I think that might have helped him early on, in those first couple years of our friendship. By the time we were entering our teens, it was almost unnecessary because Tiggy was extremely popular.
I know that it seems weird that Tiggy wasn't the quiet, mousy, introvert that would fit the stereotypical point of view. He was small, slim, had long curly hair and was so pretty that people were always mistaking him for a girl. He was the product of a broken home, never knowing his real father, and suffering physical abuse at the hands of his step-dad. His mother was an alcoholic that heaped criticism on her only child. She blamed Tiggy for her lack of a man in her life, for her loneliness, for her lack of a life. Every single problem in her life was his fault.
The only real bright side of his home life was that his mom was usually either, out drinking, or in passed out. She owned their house, as it was left to her by her parents, along with an annuity check that gave her the resources to pay for necessities, bills, and property taxes. Unfortunately, proper clothing and groceries for her only child did not constitute 'necessities' in her mind. I am sure that child welfare organizations would have been investigating if it wasn't for the intervention of others in the community. Despite all of these factors, most people never saw the real Lesley Dana Anderson.
What people saw was a construct. It was a role that he played, like an actor in a film, and he played it very well. He was bouncy, outgoing, energetic, charming, witty, and positive any time he interacted with others. His effervescent attitude quickly earned him the nickname 'Tigger' after Winnie the Pooh fame. This was quickly reduced to Tiggy or Tig. He was the life of every party. All the girls adored him, and none of the boys dare comment on his being less than a picture of masculinity.
I knew it was an act, but it was a wonderful act that I embraced along with those who never knew the abused little boy in the shadows of this larger than life character. In retrospect, I realize that Tiggy needed professional help, but all I could give him was unconditional love and friendship. My family only ever caught glimpses of that overenthusiastic alter ego. Around them, he was always soft-spoken, polite, and helpful. In return, they gave him a family, embracing him as if he were their own.