Ten o'clock in the morning is not a bad time for coffee. I'd be hard pressed to imagine a more popular drug in the world than caffeine, or a more universal delivery vehicle for that drug of choice than coffee. I mean, who among us doesn't automatically reach for a coffee, espresso, or latte first thing in the morning? It would seem to be a relatively small number among the citizens of this world.
I'm having mine this morning, according to the usual procedure. I get out of bed; take that ever important morning piss, and head for the kitchen as I light up the first slim vanilla flavored panatella of the day. Out of the cupboard comes the white china cup and saucer, and in goes the morning elixir, hot, black and strong. The Irish cream that I usually add shortly thereafter makes that black color quickly turn into its present state, more of a pale caramel color. It's something I've seen for an untold number of mornings without really paying any attention. Seeing that color change, on this particular morning, makes me break routine. This morning I need an additional ingredient, so I also pull down the heavy bottle of Maker's Mark bourbon whiskey and add a healthy dollop to the cup. I leave the bottle out and uncapped, as I'm reasonably sure the next cup I have will need fortifying as well. Indeed, there may be several fortified cups before the morning is over. I also broke up a nice sticky bud into my marijuana pipe.
This is not the first morning that I've begun an all out assault on my fifty year old liver, but it's been quite a while. As a matter of fact, it's been over a year and a half. At that point in my life, I needed some major anesthesia to keep my wits together. My sweet wife of over twenty years had left with my sixteen year old daughter one morning to do some shopping and neither one had come home, courtesy of a trucker who was so wired up on "Tulsa Turnarounds" that he was hallucinating. The bastard was found to be running two log books simultaneously in an attempt to skirt the regulations on his driving hours. Of course, my shark of a lawyer had torn into the trucking company like a one man version of the Mongol horde and they paid dearly for the driver's mistake. This, of course, didn't cause the resurrection of Kelly and Katie, nor did it do much to alleviate my pain and suffering. Unfortunately, neither did the alcohol and marijuana induced fog I lived in for nearly six months. Fortunately, some of my dearest friends had a "come to Jesus" meeting with me and I realized they were right. My girls would be damn disappointed in me should they be watching what my life had become, and I turned things around. Granted, I didn't stop either the bourbon or the Mary Jane completely, but I was indulging like a gentleman, not a man trying to commit slow suicide. So I guess this begs the obvious question, why am I stirring a healthy amount of bourbon into each cup of my morning coffee today?
Of course, before we get to know the answer to that question, I need to introduce myself. I'm Thomas Lee Stuart, or as I'm know to most folks in town, "Thunderbird Tommy." Those in my inner circle just shorten it even further to "T-bird", and I'm fifty years young as I mentioned. If you walked past me on the street, you'd never guess I was more than in my late thirties, thanks to good genes and a strict exercise regimen. I'm right at six feet in height, and weigh in at a well toned 180 pounds. I've got dark brown hair that I wear long, about to the bottoms of my shoulder blades, and I'm showing no gray yet. I've got brown eyes and I wear a beard that I keep trimmed close. Most women describe me as handsome in a rugged way, but I'll readily admit I'm no Brad Pitt.
Now, let me dispel any misconceptions any of you might have about the "Thunderbird" nickname. No, I'm not known for drinking the horrible cheap wine by that name. You see, I'm a musician and singer. I'm a bass player, and my main stage axe is a Gibson Thunderbird five string, with a black finish and a custom mirrored glass pickguard. Despite my description, I'm not a rocker either. I am, quite unapologetically, a Blues man. While I appreciate nearly all forms of music, and could jam with just about any group of musicians you could put together, I was always a sucker for the Blues and Southern Rock, the latter of which is ninety percent Blues anyway. I loved the Allman Brothers Band coming up, and was particularly into Berry Oakley, their bassist who was tragically killed not long after Duane Allman, weirdly enough on a motorcycle as well. I bought a cheap Mexican Fender bass and practice amp, along with a basic instruction course manual, at the tender age of twelve with my chore money, and practiced every spare minute I had, until my fingers literally bled. Hey, you have to suffer for your art. It wasn't a great deal of time before I was getting good and within a couple years, I could play just about anything I heard, note for note. I was blessed with a kind of natural voice for the bluesy stuff, clear and strong, with just a touch of gruffness and the ability to invoke heartbreak and pain in the heart of the listener. If needed, I could just as easily do back up vocals, and I could harmonize well while doing so.
I played in several bands through my high school years, but kept getting frustrated. All the people I kept getting swept in with were rockers. There was just not that great a demand for Blues musicians in my area of the country, not surprising when you figured the Black population was so small. I was right in the heart of a Country and Bluegrass fan base. The rest were into Rock. Then that God cursed Disco thing hit. It was obvious I was getting nowhere fast, so except for playing along with records, I just quit jammin' with anybody else.
After graduating high school, I did a tour of duty in the Marines. I never saw combat, but they damn sure made certain I was ready for it. I was a forward observer for the artillery and it was my task to call in and guide artillery fire. I was stationed in California, Okinawa, Japan, and finished up at Camp LeJeune, North Carolina.
I went back to civilian life and managed to get into a job program that trained me to be a machinist. I came out and was hired within a week for a firm that manufactured compressors for air conditioning units. The job was steady, it paid very well, and I got an outstanding benefits package.
I met my wife Kelley on the job. She was a worker on the assembly line, and I saw her more than a few times in the break room. She was a tall, cute strawberry blonde with a nicely curved figure and a dynamite personality. Faint heart never won fair lady, so one day I just walked up, bold as brass, and introduced myself. We went from talking, to dating, to married within two years. She was all you could ask for in a wife. She was sexy, loving, faithful, and a great cook. We hardly ever argued, and were just as happy cuddling on the sofa in front of the television as we were out on the town. She gave me a daughter, Katie, a cute little heart breaker with a sweet pug nose and brown hair with reddish highlights. The girl proceeded to wrap her daddy around her finger in record time. Kelly and I were nearing the twenty four year mark, and Katie had just turned sixteen when they were taken from me.
It was music that kept me going, and my musician friends that helped me get back to living. Both Kelley and Katie had been after me for years to try and get back into the music scene and I finally decided to stick my toe back in the water and test the current. I found some things had changed. The popularity of Stevie Ray Vaughn, Kenny Wayne Shepherd, and others had caused resurgence in the Blues scene, even here. A few months before the accident, I began finding some like minded people to jam with, although there was a considerable age difference. They all assured me they didn't give a rat's ass how old I was. Decent bass players are hard to come by to start with, and bass players who can sing lead and backing vocals are a relatively rare commodity. In a few months, Thunderbird Tommy Stuart and Blue Velvet came to its genesis.
We were a five piece group. I, of course, handled lead vocals and played the bass. On percussion was Carnice White, our "token" black member, as he jokingly referred to himself. It wouldn't have mattered to me if the young'un had been purple with yellow spots; he was a fantastic drummer and a great guy. Our keyboard player was Lynn Stradlyn, an attractive brunette with a dazzling smile that could make her digital piano and Hammond organ talk. Our guitar duo consisted of a brother and sister from the neighboring town. Chet Everett was a slim six footer, with long blonde hair and a light colored beard. His sister, Tina, was a petite little pixie of a figure around five feet, four inches. Her peroxide blond hair was cut short and spiked on top. Both of them were talented, but Tina generally handled most of the lead guitar work. Put that red Gibson SG in her hands and I'd put her up against Stevie Ray himself. Chad would fill in on the twin lead stuff, and was content to hang back and play rhythm the rest of the time. He also did any slide guitar playing as needed. Both of them had great vocal skills. Chad did backing vocals, and Tina did several songs where she took the lead.
