What happened a few years ago that gave me a story worth telling was that a former acquaintence of mine from my student days at UC Davis suddenly became famous. In 1984, I was a physiology student and a member of a campus fraternity. Having been a member for three to four years at that point, at some cost to my academic achievement, I spent little or no time at the fraternity house and did not have much contact with newer members.
One day, in the spring of 1984, I ran across a fraternity member who encouraged me to perform in the upcoming Greek Week talent show. He had been in the fraternity long enough to know that I had performed popular songs with guitar/vocal arrangements with past members in previous talent shows and we had done quite well. As we talked, it became clear that he was quite excited about a new member who had "made a record" in a Berkeley recording studio the previous summer.
I was a little puzzled by this description since only commercial acts generally "made records" whereas any guy off the street who could afford a little studio time could book a recording session. I imagined that the artist used this inaccurate terminology to inflate the importance of his project. At any rate, the idea was that this new member and I would perform together at the talent show because group participation was an important part of the competition and two voices would certainly be more impressive than one.
At this point, I was reminded that our fraternity was so short on "conventional talent" that they had once sponsored four or five members with sledge hammers. For its talent, the group smashed up a broken-down piano on stage. I reluctantly agreed to perform.
I was soon introduced to Adam, the fraternity's new rising star. He was a skinny kid with a friendly face and a pleasant demeanor. His hair was short and very curly and he was dressed in an Izod shirt, corduroy shorts and flip-flops, presenting a classic picture of what was then known as the preppy look. This was hardly the typical look for 1980s rock and rollers, but having always felt that image and fashion were given far too much attention in the popular music world, this did not bother me in the least.
A few days after meeting Adam, we got together and played each other a few of our songs. I was immediately impressed with his voice and his songwriting ability. Having heard a lot of amateur musicians at that point in my life, I knew that both of these talents were rare. The other thing this kid had going for him was a belief in his ability. He made it clear that he wanted to be the star of the show. Given his level of talent, along with the fact that I had gotten my chances in previous years, I had no hesitations about letting him. Over the next week or so, we got together and worked out arrangements for three songs, two of his and one of mine. We performed them at the talent show in Freeborn Hall and did quite well, placing second in the competition and receiving enthusiastic applause from the crowd. When Adam walked into the audience after the show to "give some autographs," I had to remind myself that he was only 19 years old and delusions of grandeur are pretty normal at that age.
After that night, I never saw a great deal of Adam. We had a few brief conversations when we ran across each other on campus later that spring quarter, but that was the extent of it. The next fall, I ran into a fraternity member who told me that Adam had transferred to UC Berkeley.
Over the next several years, I completed my postgraduate education and began my career as a physical therapist, maintaining a Davis residence the majority of the time. During this period, I kept in touch with a few close fraternity friends who pledged about the same time I did. In the spring of 1992, following a fraternity Picnic Day reunion that I did not attend, one of these friends told me that Adam was being signed by Geffen Records. I remembered that this was the guy who once called a studio recording "a record" and had gone to "give autographs" following a Greek week talent show performance. I quickly translated this newly gained information into possible scenarios. Maybe a kid whose sister knew David Geffen's cousin had liked one of Adam's songs. Or maybe, although more unlikely, some underling at Geffen records had some interest in Adam's music. I tried to appear impressed by the news, keeping my sarcastic smile internalized while I toyed with the possibilities of what could have spawned such a ridiculous rumor. I knew Adam had talent, but musicians, even more than those who fish, are full of stories about the big one that got away.
It was on a pleasant February day in 1994 while I was working in the campus physical therapy clinic, a half a mile from where I met Adam and half that distance from Freeborn Hall where we performed together, that the story I now relate became unlike thousands of stories with similar beginnings. I was working with a patient in the gym area when I heard the radio disc jockey say, "We just heard 'Rain King' from Counting Crows. That song was written by lead vocalist Adam Duritz." My jaw almost hit the floor. I said out loud, "I know that guy. That's Adam. I can't believe it." Counting Crows was the band that disc jockeys had been raving about for the past three months following their debut release, the band that Rolling Stone magazine praised, and the band that had gone platinum in a heartbeat. Adam had made the big time in a big way.
These days, about two years after the shocking but wonderful news, I still often find myself amazed. I always wondered where famous people came from.
I had begun to suspect that maybe they were cloned in some secluded warehouse, or predestined in some less fantastic sense. Famous people always seemed somehow unreal and intangible. Now I realize that fame can come from humble beginnings, even as humble as the UC Davis Greek Week talent show. I sometimes think about the road that leads a bright, talented young man from a quiet town like Davis to the glitter and hype of the rock music industry. The details of such a grand voyage are a mystery to me but I do know that the journey requires talent and determination, and takes about nine years as the crow flies. But, who's counting? Anyway, now I have a story to tell at parties.
Greg Johnson is the winner of the 1996 Dateline Story-Writing Contest.
