A Different Drummer

Chapter 1
A Sour Note

And I don’t want the world to see me, ‘cause I don’t think that they’d understand,
When everything’s made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.
— John Rzeznik- Goo Goo Dolls’ Iris

He was born Ross Taylor. Early in his career, he flipped his first and last names and became Taylor Ross. He thought it would advance his career. As you will find, it obviously must have worked.

To my way of thinking, the word ‘legacy’ is reserved for those who make a significant positive difference while on this plane. Such was the case with Taylor. He was one of those individuals, rare as they may be, that crosses our paths and leaves behind a notable footprint upon our souls. It’s been said that as a man acquires wisdom, he can positively change his life. The truly wise man can change ours in the process.

Throughout life, certain people are called to do certain things, and Taylor answered the call. Now, I wouldn’t say that Taylor was the greatest or most important man who ever lived. He was, however, the most interesting individual I ever met.

Upon most people’s passing, a headstone is placed to mark the final resting place of that individual, and on it is recorded a beginning and ending date. In between the two is a hyphen. That small dash represents the most important part of a soul’s existence, for it’s what happens between the opening and closing of a person’s life that typically defines their character.

‘Once upon a time’ wouldn’t do Taylor’s life justice. Actually, his story didn’t take place that long ago.

I grew up with Ross Taylor, or Taylor Ross as he was known professionally. We attended the same Ohio schools from kindergarten until he eventually dropped out after our junior year in high school. It was the sixties, and there was a lot of that going on. Some left the academic world to enlist in the army— to assist in the military conflict in Southeast Asia—while others fled the area to avoid the same fracas. I served, and things worked out well for me afterwards when I utilized my G.I. Bill and eventually found employment in the business offices at the local paper mill. I retired after getting my twenty-five years in. I had to. My wife was ill and needed me.

Taylor, as some would argue, went on to bigger and better things.
As I mentioned earlier, Taylor left high school in late 1967. He hitched a ride out to the San Francisco area the day after school ended and engaged in the whole hippie thing during the so-called ‘Summer of Love.’ He frequented the traditional hip gathering sites like Haight-Ashbury, Winterland, and so on.

It was just after the fourth day of July during that year when Vincent ‘Vinnie’ Vaughn, a well-known experimental drummer in the area, introduced Taylor to John Winston, a guitarist who led the daily pick-up band in the area. His group was performing an outdoor impromptu concert in one of the area parks. While Taylor didn’t play with John’s band that evening, he joined the small audience and took it all in. He became hooked on the music, the crowds, and the whole performing atmosphere. Afterwards, he asked Winston if he could sit in with the band at their next practice; John agreed, and things rolled from there.

When the whole ‘Summer of Love’ thing started, it was all very cool, as Taylor put it—but this little peaceful happening grew like wildfire, and before long, there were thousands and thousands of people in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood and the surrounding vicinity. Despite the compassionate efforts of the sympathetic do-gooders, services for the masses became exceedingly stretched.

Taylor and the boys quickly realized that if they wanted to survive, they would have to sing for their supper, as the old adage goes. In this case, that saying was right on the money. They were eventually able to land a few weekend gigs at some of the area gathering places, and that provided them with enough money to eat on during the week.

They stayed at one of the many flop-houses for shelter, and practiced in the park during the day. What else did they have to do? Through it all, Taylor said that never once did he ask himself, “What in the hell am I doing out here?”

Anyway, it was at one of these weekenders, on October 7, 1967— specifically, at a dive called Rudy’s—where they got their big break. They were spotted by a promoter and asked to join Pink Floyd and Sopwith Camel in a benefit later that month at the Fillmore for radio station KPFA, and needless to say, they were beside themselves. It didn’t get any bigger than that. The rest, as they say, is history.

Actually, that isn’t too far from the truth, in their case. Their counter-culture band, Vulture, wowed the radio audience that evening, and was signed within the week to a record deal. Over the next nineteen years, they went on to sell something like seventy-five million albums in the US alone. That’s comparable to groups such as KISS or Van Halen in their prime. That, mind you, was when the listening audience was a bit smaller, and that was also back when they still made albums.

During their formative days, Taylor ‘Rocks,’ as he came to be known by his fans during his playing days, along with Ernie ‘Red’ Huber, John Winston, or J-Dub as they called him, Pete ‘Pops’ Dixon, and ‘Clueless’ Joe Paxton were referred to as street pickers by some of the regulars out in the Bay Area. The group accepted that idiom, and after a combination music and pot-smoking session, settled on the name Vulture for their group. They liked it, it stuck, and it made them all millionaires.


Flash ahead some thirty-five years, and Taylor found himself living alone in a massive Franklin Canyon concrete-and-marble mansion just outside Hollywood, California. That locale suited him. It was a quiet, calm, lonely area, and in the midst of the life he once lived, Taylor desperately needed some tranquility within his soul. He never did anything half way, though.

Contributing to the serenity of Franklin Canyon was the absence of nearby industry, traffic was at an absolute minimum, and it was close enough to the rat race, yet far enough for his daily escape. Taylor was especially drawn to this particular home site because the reservoir, located just a mile north of his estate, was used for the exterior while filming the opening of The Andy Griffith Show back in the early 1960s.

Taylor loved to hike down there regularly and was practically hypnotized by the sound of the gravel crunching under his feet during his nightly visits. He’d sit on a bench at the water’s edge and just listen for the crickets. When their pitch began to noticeably increase, Taylor knew it was time to leave, for darkness wasn’t far behind. When he rose from the bench, he’d skip a rock across ‘Myers Lake,’ just like Opie did during the opening of the famous TV show.

As he aged, Taylor’s visits became less frequent. Perhaps he ultimately came to the conclusion that places such as the Mayberrys of this world are merely a figment of a writer’s imagination. To be honest, this fantasy was probably no different than the mythical people Taylor sang about in his songs—but maybe he finally saw through the haze of his life and realized that a Shangri-La just doesn’t exist in this plane. It’s also possible that his increased use of recreational drugs was to blame for the sporadic visits and limited physical activity.

You see, as a boy, young Taylor dreamed of an idyllic existence in a town like Mayberry. It could have been Mayberry, Mayfair, New Rochelle, or any other fictional media-born town he was familiar with, because those places were in direct contrast to what Taylor had to deal with at home. His real life was anything but ideal.

Taylor essentially grew up without a mother. Oh, she was around, but flighty, to put it mildly. Even though she was a housewife, she was rarely home. She slept around on her husband for years before the two decided to put an end to their marital charade. Remember, this was a time when divorce was still relatively uncommon. That betrayal took its toll on the elder Taylor—and he took it out on his son. Lenny Taylor took to the bottle with added frequency as the years passed as well, and for the most part, Ross Taylor was on his own as he entered his teen years.

Getting back to Taylor and his mansion in the hills of Beverly, by the time the early 2000s rolled around, it had been well over a decade and a half since he’d performed with Vulture. The members didn’t see eye-to-eye on anything anymore. On top of that, Taylor rarely made any public appearances. He’d become a bit of a hermit and spent his days watching TV, smoking dope, and taking solitary walks along the paths of the canyon while questioning the meaning of life. Taylor had his groceries delivered, and on rare occasions, his agent would drop off some clothing, dope, or other daily necessities. He had to show something for the retainer Taylor paid him. Such was the life of this aging rock legend.

It was on a Tuesday in the fall of 2004 that everything changed. While it was a typical early October day for most involved, Taylor’s life, my life, and the lives of many of the people who lived in Hamilton would transform from the usual to the exceptional. It was the beginning to a magical year.

As per his standard, Taylor was still asleep as the clock neared the noon hour. Despite my harsh description of him and his circumstances, Taylor kept a fairly neat homestead. He was proud of that place. The hallway leading to the bedroom was lined with gold and platinum records from years gone by, and while he didn’t overdo the publicity photo décor thing–at least in the upper floor of this palatial mansion–he certainly had plenty of press-worthy memorabilia to use if he so chose. It was Taylor’s desire to have those who visited know who he was and where he came from, but at the same time he didn’t want to dwell on that fact.

I’m not sure what time Taylor would have gotten out of bed if it hadn’t been for the ringing of the telephone, but that was more than enough to break the silence in his secluded home. After the fourth ring, Taylor’s heavy hand looped over and hit the speaker phone on the end table.

“Yeah?”

“Taylor, my man, how’s it hanging?” It was Jerry Langdon, Taylor’s often-absent agent.

“Jerry, what the hell do you want?”

“Aw, come on, Tay, I come bearing tidings of great joy.”

“Yeah, right. What kind of crapola do you have for me today? And speaking of which, where the hell have you been? You only show up when you want something. So what do you need today, leech?”

“Is that any way to greet the agent who’s about to make you a bundle of money?”

“I have a bundle of money, Jer. Cash I don’t need. Give me peace of mind and maybe a little smoke, and you have a deal.”

“Then how about a gig? I have the ultimate planned for you. Get this–a reunion tour. All of the biggest bands are pulling off this retro crap. People want to hear the music, you stumble through twenty cities, a live album will be made simultaneously, and voila! You’re back in the saddle.”

Taylor righted himself in bed. “I don’t want to get back in the saddle. Hell, I’m too old to tour, Jer.”

“Don’t hand me that crap. Mick and the boys are doing it, and Aerosmith’s still going strong. I got you that week-long gig on Letterman six months ago. You were superb.”

“Yeah, that was the last time I heard from you.”

“That’s the nature of the business, you know that. We can be friends, but we’re co-workers first.”

“That’s when you work. I’m out of the business, Jer. Plus, I haven’t seen any of the other guys for years. You know the last time we were together we did nothing but argue. I think I ended that session by telling all of them to go to hell. Bunch of egotists. I was really hacked, so much so that I didn’t even attend John’s funeral. Perhaps I should have, but I didn’t. I’m done with them, man. It just wouldn’t work.”

“Don’t hand me that! You’re just pissed that the Eagles beat you to the punch. Look, the way I see it, we can get a fill-in studio musician for John, or perhaps a big-name looking for a gig, add a back-up rhythm section—”

“Then you can get a fill-in for me as well. Even if I didn’t hate those guys, at this point in my life, my nerves are shot, my hands are all arthritic, and my hearing’s about gone. Hell, I’m over fifty years old. I’ve had my last hurrah, Jer.”

Jerry wasn’t about to give up. “Come on, man, put aside your differences. Look at it this way; it would be a great way to keep your name out there.”

“It would be a great way for us to earn you a pot of money. What, did you blow all of your dough at the book in Vegas again? I don’t care about keeping my name out there anymore. I’m done, man. I’m officially retired, Jer. Beat it.”

Taylor reached over and clicked the phone off. He sat on the edge of the bed for a spell, then ran his hands through his long, thin graying hair. He stood, steadied himself, and then gathered up a handful of prescription drug bottles from the dresser top before stumbling his way towards the bathroom.

Once he was as awake as he planned to be for the day, Taylor threw on a pair of jogging shorts, grabbed a bottle of orange juice from the refrigerator and retired to the patio. He sat for a while, but not too long, as he finished his orange juice. He scooted his ashtray and aluminum box over, removed and lit up a marijuana joint, then proceeded to inhale the weed until it was too stubby to bother with. Taylor discarded the butt into a sand bucket near his feet. He prided himself on the fact that his economic stature allowed him to partake in his vice in this manner. Unlike the common man, he didn’t have to worry about saving the roaches for a desperation smoke.

After that session, Taylor just stared out over the valley for a spell at nothing in particular before determining that it was too warm to continue. He gathered himself up and returned to the living room. He plopped on the couch, picked up the remote, and turned on the TV. He surfed through the channels, not really caring whether something grabbed his interest or not. After completing a cycle through the available channels, he turned the TV off and once again stared out the picture window. Taylor was drifting through his usual daily funk when the phone on the end table rang. That ordinarily would have caused the average man to startle, but Taylor’s buzz kept that reflex in check for the most part.

“Leave me alone!” His shout echoed off the walls of the empty house. Despite his wish to remain isolated, he picked up the receiver and found it was his doctor’s office calling.

“Yes, Taylor, this is Dr. Reinhardt’s office. You were absent for your scheduled eleven AM appointment this morning. We’re going to have to charge you for this.”

“Ask me if I care.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said that I really don’t give a shit at this point.”

“Sir, please watch your language. When would you like to be rescheduled?”

“When hell freezes over.”

“What?”

“Go to hell. Look, I’m done with you people.”

Taylor clicked off the phone, then launched it across the room, striking a drinking glass that had been sitting on the half-wall separating the kitchen from the living room. The glass tumbled into the sink and disassembled. He sat on the couch for a moment, his head resting against his palm. Then, as if inspired, he reached over to the end table and opened his cell phone. He dialed Information.

“Yes…um…do you have a number for a Dave or Davis Smith in Hamilton, Ohio? After a few moments, he said, “Hold on, hold on, let me get...”, then realizing he was speaking to a recording, he snarled, “Yes, repeat, you dumb-ass,” as he hit the numeral ‘one’ on his phone, then listened again. He jotted down the number, then hung up.

Taylor took another moment to stare out towards the valley, this gaze longer than the last, then he opened his cell phone and once again dialed. After a three rings, there was an answer.

“Davis Smith, please. Oh, this is Dave? The big D! How the hell are you, guy? What do you mean, who is this? It’s me, Taylor Ross…uh, I mean Ross Taylor. Yeah, how about that? Yes, it has been a long time, something like thirty-five years or so. Wow, that is a long time. Yeah, it has been way too long. Sorry I haven’t kept in touch, dude, but…yeah, touring did take up a lot of my time, but that’s in the past.”

Straightening up a bit in his chair, Taylor continued. “How have you been? A grandfather? You’re kidding? I thought you had to become a father first.” There was a pause. “I see. I’ll be damned. It has been a long time. I guess I missed a lot,” he said while wiping his face with his hand from his forehead to his chin.

“Why am I calling? Well, I thought I’d head back to the old stomping grounds this upcoming week. Yeah, it’s been a long time since I’ve ventured back that way. Anyway, I thought if you were still in the area, perhaps we could get together. Yeah, that would really be far out. Oh cool. When? How about Wed…no wait, make it Friday. I’ll grab the earliest flight out and get there around noonish or so. Oh, that sounds great. I’m looking forward to it. I’ll let you know when my flight gets in. Great. Good to hear your voice again, Smitty. You take care of yourself. Catch you later.”

Taylor hanged up the phone and said, “Oh Lordy…what have I done?”