Prologue

Bob was bored to tears. There wasn't a lot to do for a professional bass player that has spent 10 years in the studio and on the road with two different bands. Though his reputation was excellent, he's considered one of the very best, there wasn't a whole lot going on that he was interested in pursuing. The music industry is like that.

He certainly didn't need any money. He had more geetus than he could use in 10 lifetimes, he just hated sitting on his ass being a TV vegetable day after day. Two hundred and fifty channels and there's nothing on.

Oh, Bob did some exercising, he walked sometimes for miles, rode his bicycle, worked out his Nordic Trak, worked out in his gym, but there wasn't a whole lot going on to stimulate his mind.

He'd built a studio to continue playing and recording and he would pull out his bass just about every day. He'd practice two to five hours, only because there was nothing else to do. His prowess with the bass didn't diminish without a band, but Bob was drifting along listlessly and just hanging out wasn't his style.

His home and studio were in northern California, near a small town named Willits. Willits is one of the marijuana growing capitals of the world, but Bob wasn't a user or a cultivator on any of his 675 acres. He'd bought the spread because he loved the area, wanted peace and quiet for a change and had a propensity to commune with nature, clothes optional. The $13 million dollar price was nearly "petty cash" and he'd spent an additional $2.5 million to build the house and studio.

The studio was 2000 square feet of emptiness. The only thing Bob had installed thus far were his amplifiers and his multitudes of guitars. He just wasn't all that sure he wanted to continue involvement in the music industry. It was too cut throat, so political that he was just plain sick of it.

He'd started a naive fourteen-year-old phenom, and made an instant splash. There wasn't anyone that could play as well as he could, and he had no place to go but up. He had the innovation of John Entwistle, the smooth of Donald (Duck) Dunn, and the drive of Tony Levin all in one package.

Then came the politics. The ass kissing, the back stabbing assholes that would lie, cheat, and connive to stroke either their own or someone else's ego to make a few extra dollars. Bob just wanted to play his music, he really didn't care about all the underlying bullshit that seemed to go along with the fame and fortune. Shouldn't you be judged by how you play? What's with all the kiss asses, ego strokers, and dick suckers?

After ten years and two bands he'd just said, "Fuck it", and retreated to his spread. Twenty-four and already burned out. Fried like an egg, sunny side up, and it wasn't from drugs. Bob had smoked a little weed once in a while, but not in the past few years. Didn't take him where he wanted to go and it seemed like only the music could get him there. Does "stir crazy" ring any bells?

In Willits there were no politics, there were no ass kissers, well except for the greedheads that always tried to see if they could fish Bob out of some of his money. Most were less than rank amateurs compared to the sharks and thieves he was used to dealing with.

When the second band fell apart because of burnout, and the politics surrounding their recording contracts, Bob was acclaimed as one of the best bass players in the business. He'd had plenty of offers to continue on, but there wasn't anything that really interested him. No offer on the table pulled his chain enough to be willing to deal with egos, greedheads and the bullshit again.

One sunny afternoon, life changed in ways that Bob could never have predicted, or expected for that matter. To say he was knocked over by the proverbial feather would be an understatement. There may be something worth the bullshit after all, but he was going to be cautious, as hard as it was going to be considering the opportunity that had fallen into his lap.

While recording an album down in the LA area a few years ago, he'd worked with some young women he'd been introduced to by one of the girl's aunt, a woman Bob had known for quite a few years. They were just in 9th, or 10th grade at the time, except for Heather, who was a senior in high school, taking college classes at the same time. She could play the guitar at 17 like she'd been playing for 40 years.

After hearing the four of them together he had made some observations and some suggestions on how they could improve, but also rained praise on them for the talent they already displayed. They reminded him of when he was their age and breaking into the music industry. They were extremely talented young ladies and with some work, direction, and tenacity could probably make a legitimate go of it.

As it turns out, he wasn't to be disappointed.

Thankfully they weren't all guitarists, excepting Heather and Maryanne. Being 17 at the time, Heather hadn't been playing seriously all that long and Maryanne at 15 had spent most of her music life playing classical violin amongst other things. It was fairly easy to steer each towards her natural talents, and they had a full spectrum, drums, bass, keyboards, and guitar. Being the eldest, Heather did a fantastic job of nurturing the other three girls and letting them be the best they could be for their age and experience.

Heather could do everything, Clapton, Gilmore, Townsend, Page, you name the guitarist and she could play their "stuff" note for note. It was a phenomenal talent to be able to match musicians like that, but all four of them developed the ability thanks to Heather's efforts and steerage.

What had come out of the experience then were four young women that could play their instruments like nobody else. It was rough, but the raw talent was there and Bob recognized it! He'd rallied Heather, and had roundtables with all of the girls talking about music, focus and direction.

Well maybe I should tell you how Bob got re-involved with the girls three years later. He didn't just pop in one day and say, "Here I am."

Chapter 1 »