Sometime in 1976 or ’77 we (Harlequin) were practicing and writing new stuff in the studio we rented. We usually practiced 6 days a week anywhere from 3 to even 6 hours a day. The boys and I (Rick Elias (Hilton), Tom Jackson, Tom Schlesinger and John Prim) would go over the “set” of music that we did have already and either hone parts of the songs or rearrange them to fit what we felt would be a better sound for live performance. We also would experiment with new riffs and ideas for songs. The band was dedicated.
I was singing in a band called Oysterman, when I first met the boys. I recall the guys coming into the concert late and parading right up to the front row seating with all their rock persona in tow: big hair, tall statures and dripping with masculine musk. I had no clue who they were, but my brother Tony told me later, backstage, that they were from a prog-rock band called Harlequin. He had seen them in concert sometime before and he went on to tell me that they were incredible musicians, but had a horrible singer. He assured me they were at our concert to hear me sing.
Perhaps five minutes after this conversation, the boys were back stage, led by Tom Jackson, and they wanted to talk with me. Honestly, I did not know why they would want to do that, but there they were. I remember Tom asking if I would be interested in trying out for the HQs. He made the argument that while Oysterman had a good sound, that we had no prospects. They, on the other hand, were going somewhere with their music. They gave me a number to call, if I was interested.
My brother Tony encouraged me to call them. He told me he could see me adding to their sound and that it made sense if I wanted to make it in the industry to go with them. He was adamant about their abilities and prospects. I chose to call the band because of my brother Tony and the trust I had in him.
When I tried out for Harlequin, they were practicing downtown in San Diego. We tried to find songs that we mutually knew to see if I fit. I recall we weren’t very successful. They gave me a recording of several of their songs and asked if I could look it over and come back to sing them. I said I would.
When I heard the singing on that tape, I was shocked at how bad it was. The singer had no meter with the words and his aptitude in staying on key was hard to discern. However, the music was sublime, intricate, and chaotically deterministic. This music was going somewhere, however frenetic and non-traditional it was. I took those words, that I discovered later were penned by Luis Urrea, and made them fit the songs metrically and melodically. I practiced privately until the day came to return to the band and give it a go.
And so is life, when we stride out in faith in something bigger than ourselves.
Practicing in our rented space almost two years later, we were tired. Sometimes we tired of the wall of rejection by those who would choose our future with or without our consent and with or without an appreciation of our ability that to me was beyond measure. Other times we tired of each other. As simple as that sounds, we often, led by Rick and his fiery temperament, got into arguments that were mostly based on grumpiness.
When Rick acted out it was usually seen through his guitar playing. Where he was normally melodic and smoothly connecting lines, he would turn it into a harsh and staccato morass of unfocused notes thrown everywhere. He would take a beautiful lyrical riff and transform it to a bombastic, over the top parody of what it really wanted to be. The rest of us band members would continue playing, but sometimes it was more than we could handle. We knew the music so well, practiced so often, that to hear even the smallest mistake would cause us to cringe. When Rick went on his heated journeys we were assaulted. This was the scene when I reacted and Rick and I got into a fist fight for the first and only time.
We stopped playing that time, except for Rick. He kept right on hitting the strings of his blonde Strat in angry harmony with the sound vaulting out of his Sunn cabinet. The rest of us fled the room and went out to the parking garage of the business complex where we practiced. I remember the discussion between us was one of anger, frustration and fear of the six foot four behemoth shrieking away on his Fender. After having a smoke, I said, “We don’t have to take this,” and boldly returned to the band room.
Rick continued with his musical tirade, thrashing his guitar with a look of sardonic pleasure at my presence in the room. I tried to talk with him, but he continued playing. I asked him to stop, making an argument that he was destroying or practice. He retorted that I had no room to talk, since I was no “Bing Crosby” as a singer. His epithet was so contrary to what I was expecting, I just lost it. I grabbed his guitar which promptly fell out of my hand, hit the floor face up in front of his amp and immediately began to feed back with an unholy wail.
At seeing his baby on the ground screaming and me standing confrontationally before him, we each began to take huge swings at each other with our fists clenched and our jaws set. I am amazed that neither of us landed a punch. In fact, later I would laughingly recount that all we hit was hair. By this time, the ruckus got the attention of the rest of the band and they came into the room to see us going at it with all the vigor we could muster. We were lousy fighters: no blood, no bruises, no winner.
I remember apologizing and having Rick do the same. We walked out together into the courtyard of the complex and talked, better friends for having drawn swords with each other.
I love Rick Elias and the other members of our ill-fated band. I am going to miss his love for life, music, family and ultimately the Lord. May he rest in peace.
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