Radio silence
It was the 1970s, a time of change and upheaval. I was a nine-year-old girl with long hair, a life of trauma, and a completely misunderstood free spirit. Sitting on a log and listening to Billie Holiday on my portable cassette player, I heard that Lynyrd Skynyrd would be playing in a few hours to the crowd of stoners and hippies that hung out daily. It was the Almond Festival, and the one-street town I grew up in was raging with excitement.
I kicked up my chucks and sat under the shade of a huge oak tree, watching the crowd with radio silence, when I noticed a man walking towards me. He was big and burly, with a leather vest and a bandana tied around his head. He introduced himself as Jake. I looked at his patch; he was the President of the Hells Angels.
At first, I was afraid, but he soon put me at ease. He pulled out a cigar and lit it, filling the air with a sweet heady smoke that flavored the blood still pouring from my busted bottom lip. Corina Couture had caught me off guard in the alley of the Pits earlier that day and punched me so hard I was blindsided by stars. He asked if he could join me, and I shook my head yes. He didn’t ask about my black eye or how I had managed to split my lip. He just began to whisper to me about life, about how things aren't always fair, and how sometimes you have to fight for who you are. I told him that I was the gentle kind, never wanting to start a quarrel, but trouble always seemed to find me regardless.
As we talked, I realized that he was more than just a leader of a motorcycle club. They were a family, a brotherhood, and they lived by their own code. He spoke of brotherhood and taught me that loyalty and honor were everything, and that you had to stand up for yourself and those you cared about, no matter what.
He spoke about the importance of honesty and love, how they had the power to bring people together, to heal wounds, and to inspire change. He told me that Led Zeppelin was one of his favorite bands, and that their music was a reflection of the times. He reached into the pocket of his thick leather vest and pulled out a cassette tape.
He handed it to me and started to calmly carry on about how Led Zeppelin had a different approach to their song arrangements. Jimmy Page’s seminal riff-based rock guitar contributions were probably only intended to serve as an element in a much wider whole in the earliest days of Led Zeppelin, but they would quickly overshadow the more bluesy guitar work of the time and become a style in their own right. The guitar ‘riff’ was really just a way of using a repetitive lead pattern in the context of rhythm playing rather than as a solo, but no one had previously exploited the principle in the way Jimmy Page did. None of it made much sense to me at the time. I asked if the music was a reminder of the struggles that people were facing. He stared at me and softly pinched my cheek, telling me I was different, in a good way, a way that has the power to make a difference in the world.
As we talked, I felt a sense of camaraderie with Jake. He was a tough man, but he had a soft side, a kindness about him that felt like home. We sat there on that log in the park for at least two hours. My lip had stopped bleeding, and I was thankful for the company of someone who really understood me for the first time in my life. He taught me many important life lessons that day, Looking back, I realize that that chance encounter in the park was a turning point in my life. It showed me that people are not always what they seem, and that there is always something to learn from those around us. If you have the courage to shut up and listen. But the most important lesson, never judge a cassette tape by it‘s cover.