Heaven and Hell: My Life in the Eagles Read Online Free PDF

possession I had that was mine and mine alone.
     
    Music was the only thing I was better at than Jerry. He could just about manage a couple of chords on the piano. It was also the only activity my father positively encouraged me in. The double incentive of pleasing Dad and being better at something than my brother was enough to make me want to do it real bad.
     
    Dad seemed to be genuinely excited by my enthusiasm for something other than daydreaming. Ever the innovator, he took the back off the television and found that it had a little jack at the back where I could plug in my guitar and play out of the set’s speakers. Every Saturday morning, when my brother was playing baseball and my parents were at work, I’d plug in and watch cartoons like Mighty Mouse and Winky Dink and You and make up musical soundtracks to go with them.
     
    Dad would boast about me to people at the plant. “My youngest boy has a great ear,” he’d say proudly. “I think he could be a natural.”
     
    One day he overheard one of his buddies complain that he’d bought his daughter an electric guitar that she never played. “The damn thing just sits in her closet, gathering dust,” he moaned.
     
    “Oh, yeah?” Dad commented, knowing that I’d already outgrown the Silvertone. He came home later that night and told me about the electric guitar, but warned, “When we go over to take a look at it, act like you don’t really care.”
     
    The minute I set eyes on that guitar—a cream and gold Fender Musicmaker in a little tweed case—our cover was blown. Dad knew from the expression on my face that he’d never get a good deal now. It was probably the cheapest Fender money could buy and with its gold pick guard, it looked like a girl’s guitar, but I was in love. I wanted it so bad, especially when I saw it came with a little amplifier not much bigger than a shelf radio. I proudly took it home and played it so much my fingers bled. Dad helped me upgrade the amp to a Fender Deluxe, which was really something. Now all I had to do was improve my performance.
     
    I practiced and practiced, and as soon as I thought I was good enough, I took myself off to the State Theater movie house, where, on Saturday mornings, most of the kids in Gainesville could be found watching a twenty-five-cent movie like Creature from the Black Lagoon or King Kong . Most weeks, the theater also put on a live talent show immediately after the film. Many of the kids would go early and pay their quarter and get more for their money—a movie and a bit of amateur talent.
     
    I was just eleven years old, my white blond hair slicked to one side, wearing my best Sunday shirt and pants, when I stood up on that stage for my first public performance. A chill fear gripped my heart. I was so nervous that I had a sheen of sweat on my as yet hairless upper lip. My shirt was sticking to the skin on my back, and my face turned bright pink. Placing my fingers in the correct positions with the utmost concentration, I played the opening bars of “Red River Valley,” a seminal American country song I’d heard played by Porter Wagoner a dozen times on the Grand Ole Opry . It wasn’t exactly Elvis, but I didn’t yet have the courage to publicly perform the moves I’d practiced for hours alone in my bedroom.
     
    There were only a few people in the crowd I knew. The rest were complete strangers, and, in some ways, that made it easier. They sat hunched in their seats, talking and laughing, drinking sodas, and throwing popcorn at each other while I played.
     
    I didn’t sing or anything. I couldn’t. I had little or no confidence in my voice back then, and, in any event, I could never have generated enough saliva to lubricate my vocal cords. Nor could I stop my mouth from moving strangely while I was playing the most difficult parts on the frets. I just hoped that anyone sitting near the front would think I was mouthing the words to myself.
     
    The reception to my standing there