By Melissa Fossum
By Lauren Wise
By New Times
By Amanda Savage
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Troy Farah
By New Times
Cut to February 2001, when I had what alcoholics refer to as a "moment of clarity." My awakening came, not surprisingly, during a period of deep personal need. (Without getting into cloying intimate details, let's just say my problems were the result of several harrowing experiences relating to near death, heartbreak and general strain from having to listen to records by bands with names like Saliva and the Smut Peddlers.)
Pulling into Nita's Hideaway that night, the stereo was churning out a copy of Leah's Local Zone: Take One, an acoustic compilation of local bands. Among the tracks, and the one cueing up that very moment, was Satellite's "That's Rock 'n' Roll."
Maybe it was the alignment of the planets, the work of divine intervention or some sort of undiagnosed chemical imbalance, but whatever the cause, I heard Stephen Ashbrook with new ears that night. Listening to lines like "Forgive me if I'm tired/It's been rock 'n' roll at any cost," I began to draw parallels to my own life. It felt as if Ashbrook had somehow tapped into my very soul.
Overcome with emotion, the waterworks began. Tears streaming, I found myself in the midst of a catharsis, an awakening and a denouement all at once. "How could I have been blind to such genius for so long?" I wondered aloud. "How could I not have seen the glory before my very eyes?"
By the end of the song, I was pumping my fists into the air, shouting, "THAT'S ROCK 'N' ROLL!!!"
I had been touched by Ashbrook: The Phenomenon.
The next few days were spent becoming more and more obsessed with the song, wanting to find its inspiration, understand its genesis, decode some hidden meaning in an effort to understand why it had touched me so dramatically. The deeper I delved the more I became convinced the song was, as I told a musician acquaintance of mine, "a meisterwork of absolute unparalleled genius. It's like a miniature rock operetta about the Arizona musical experience. Peppered with cryptic references and symbolism, it's Tommy, Quadrophenia, Sgt. Pepper and Footloose all rolled into one brilliant, ephemeral burst of three-minute euphoria!"
"Are you out of your fucking mind, bro?" asked my friend incredulously, who, judging by the look on his face, was convinced I had plummeted into some horrifying netherworld of musical taste.
The naysayers be damned, I thought. Nothing could dissuade me.
Things began to escalate. I actually went out and bought some Satellite records. I began asking my co-workers to address me as "The Little Navigator." The next thing I knew, I was quoting Ashbrook lines in conversation. If some band called the office to complain about a bad review, my response was a terse "Hey, man, that's rock 'n' roll." I even found myself hitting on women with Ashbrookian come-ons like, "Hey, would you like to ride in the fastest car in town?" (this pattern of behavior wasn't especially alarming as it has afflicted me since childhood; I spent the entire winter of 1985 speaking in platitudes gleaned from El DeBarge songs).
Gradually, though, my mania cooled and eventually subsided. I returned -- much to the relief of family and friends -- to my normal self. Yet, that song and Ashbrook's voice lingered, always playing in the recesses of my mind.
Now comes the harrowing admission.
About a month ago I found myself at Long Wong's on a Thursday evening listening to Stephen Ashbrook. There was no need to hide behind journalistic pretenses, no "I'm only here 'cause I'm writing a story" excuses. I was there of my own free will. I wanted to be there, wanted to listen, to be swept away, perhaps to enjoy a caack-taail with the man himself. Then it hit me: I had become one of them.
I suppose there are far greater shames in life than admitting you're an Ashbrook fan, though at the moment I can't think of any. No, no, that's unfair. Truth be told, it took a long time and a lot of soul searching before admitting I was just that. But you don't have to be an Ashbrook fan to be into Ashbrook. Some people rationalize their attendance at his shows by claiming they enjoy it as kitsch, some call it a guilty pleasure. Call it what you want, but whatever you do, take this final opportunity to go see him before he bids goodbye, and actually listen to his songs -- like me, you might be surprised at what you find.
Royal Celebration: Greg Simmons, leader of the Royal Normans and widely considered the Valley's première rock guitarist, celebrates the release of his group's new self-titled CD this week with a performance at Long Wong's on Saturday, March 31. Originally conceived as a studio recording project, the Normans -- which include Simmons, guitarist Tom Post and rhythm players Steve Flores and Andy Mendoza -- evolved into a working unit over the course of the past year. In addition to this week's release party, the group will be performing as part of the April 22 New Times Music Showcase. Look for a full-length feature on the band in the coming weeks.